Chapter 3
Johnny left the house at ten minutes to nine. Going down the front steps, he was pleased with the slight springiness of his legs. On Aden Lane he turned east, walking along the dirt street with only a trace of limp. Cool, man, he thought. The motherfuckers said I'd always be a gimp, but I knew better. Another month and he'd be ready for the high hurdles.
He walked steadily, turning once more when he came to a crossroad. From there, he could see the house. It was a nice house, painted a soft green, and the yard was well kept. Approaching, he noted the open doors of the double garage. One space was empty, the other held a Falcon sedan. She was home. His cock tightened, felt good hanging in his pants, rubbing as he walked. He left the road and walked along the row of Italian cypresses grown close together like fence posts. When he had gone a few yards, he stopped and peered at the back of the house.
Presently,, she came out, carrying a wicker basket piled high with wet clothes. Just like last Monday morning. Only this Monday she was dressed in a pink cotton dress that exposed her bare legs several inches above the knees. He could see her tits jiggling under the loose bodice. Her blonde hair was neatly coiled he knew, because, she always did it up before she took the girl to school. Her routine had been easy to figure. On Mondays she loaded the automatic washer on the back porch, then hustled her daughter into the Falcon for the trip to school. She always returned at five minutes after nine. It generally took her five minutes to change into her washday clothes, then at fifteen minutes after nine, appeared with the first load of washing ready to be hung.
Her ass was great, he mused. He watched her bend, shake out a garment and pin it to the line. Bend again. He could almost see how the cheeks tightened and spread. A white shirt. Johnny hated the man to whom the shirt belonged. He had all that good cunt and the jism to make it slippy. He had two kids, a girl of maybe ten and another of four or five. He had a nice home, two cars, a family. He had balls. With balls, a woman didn't care how big or small a man's cock was. She humped and thumped and hugged him close when he popped, so the jism would go right up and puddle in her womb. Even good-looking babes like this one liked to be bred, liked to roll her ass so the bulge of her belly told everybody her old man had balls.
She was standing back now, surveying the line of clothes. The kink of her hip was sharp, throwing an interesting turn to her ass. Johnny's fingers worked. Now, man. Why wait another week? He glanced back at the road. Not a son of a bitch in sight. Way out on the outskirts of town. He chuckled and stepped between two of the cypresses. She turned and reentered the screened-in porch. When he got to the back door, she was pouring soapflakes into the second load of wash. He knocked.
When she turned, he saw how really pretty she was. Her skin was slightly tawny, her eyes were dark. A brunette blonde.
"Yes?" she queried.
"Your load of rock, lady. Where do you want it dumped?"
"Rock? We didn't order any rock. Are you sure you have the right address? I'm sure my husband didn't order any building material."
She came forward and opened the screen door. She smelled clean, like soap. Her tits were heavy and spread. Johnny's left hand moved like a darting snake, and he grabbed a handful of soft belly-fat. She gave a short scream, then clamped both hands around his wrist. He squeezed with all of his power and twisted her down. Her mouth opened, nothing came out but a gasp of agony. The cotton dress flew high, baring her straining thighs. He looked right at her cunt, a big dark shadow under her nylon panties. She's no fucking blonde at all, he said to himself. A bleach job.
He hit her on the jaw with his right fist. Her head snapped back, then lay on one shoulder. Her body became a limp weight, still and heavy. He stepped into the porch area and set the little brass bolt. Then he grabbed the phony blonde hair and dragged her to the kitchen door. Inside, he also set that door lock. Then he reached down with both hands, and with a spreading, ripping motion, tore her cotton dress from throat to hem. The tawny skin of her belly showed the hard, red marks his first grip had left. Her tits kind of bunched in the loose brassiere. She had a deep bellybutton, and the black shadow of her cunt hair was bigger than he'd imagined. His blood pounded hard in his ears, and the rush of his breath was harsh. But there was something else to do first, he knew.
He ignored the dining room and the nicely furnished living room. Down the short hall, he came to the open door of the nursery. The little girl was cowered in one corner, her eyes huge, frightened, her lips trembling with fear. Sure, he thought, be scared, kid.
"My mama!" she wailed. "You hit her! I saw you hit her! I want my mama!"
"Don't we all! Now, you stay in here and don't open your goddamned mouth, or I'll fill it so full of prick you'll choke, get me?" She started to cry, and he walked to the windows, checking them for casing locks. They were all locked. On the way by, he leaned and smacked the girl with the back of his hand. Then he left the room, securing her with the ugliest snarl he could generate.
Using her now-loosened hair again, he dragged the unconscious woman down the hall to an empty bedroom. With very little effort he lifted her to the bed and stripped her brassiere and panties off. Holding her thighs up and apart; he stared at her cunt and let his prick harden in his pants. She was a doozy, he admitted. Her pussy was almost purple where the lips curled in together. He could see the wrinkled line of her inner labia, the higher puffed ridge would be her clit. He liked the way the hair grew in such profuse layers as to nearly blacken her skin. It also grew in an interesting whorl around her dark pink asshole. He let her legs flop down and quickly stripped off his trousers.
"Look at that one, baby," he growled. "Biggest one you ever saw, isn't it? Never mind the balls, baby. They are buried somewhere in a rice paddy, if the leeches haven't got 'em by now. Hey now!"
"Oh God!" came her awakening gasp. "My baby, my baby!"
Johnny loomed over her, staring down into her dark eyes. "You scream, and I'll stuff your kid's elbow up her ass, baby! You just got one way to go. You lay there and fuck and like it, baby! I'll say where and when and you coo like a pigeon, see?"
She was staring at his cock so he stroked it once or twice to show her its size and temper. Then she looked up at him, blinking back some slowly building tears. One hand crept down to lay spread over her cunt, the other moved across her tits, depressing their softness. He liked the way her belly rose and fell with frightened breaths. He liked scared women, and this one was properly terrified.
He wrenched her knees apart until she groaned wih the strain. Then he fell over her, his hand slapping hers away so he could jab at her cunt with his half-bursting prick. She started to twist and struggle and he sunk his fingers into her tits and turned them in opposite directions. The cry from her lips was like that of a trapped rabbit, then she stilled, least his fingers rip her flesh from her rib cage. His prick caught in her cunt, and he sent it home with a single, lunge. Her shriek made his lust expand. Her thighs tried to expel him and only succeeded in pressing hot and strong to his rooting hips. Each time she tried to turn or ease away, he stilled her with a furious thrust of his cock, and after a minute, she lay still, eyes clinched, mouth clamped, and he fucked her violently, straight through to his first vicious orgasm. As his back curled and jerked, her eyes opened in new fear. He snarled, knowing very well she thought he was pumping her full of jism. Even after his cum had faded, he humped and thrust, turning her face to a dead-white mask of fear. Then he lay heavily on her, resting, and her hands went to his chest in a firm pushing.
"You-you'll make me pregnant!" she gasped. "Please-let me up, let me wash! Oh God, mister! Do whatever you w-want! Just don't hurt my baby, and please, let me t-take care of myself!"
Johnny chuckled and raised from her vibrating body. His prick slipped free, half-expelled by her frantic constrictions. She put one hand to her raped organ and he laughed again as a look of surprise crossed her face. "That's right, baby. No jism. You're home free. Just call me Johnny no-balls. Feel, you fucking slut, and if you so much as grin, I'll kill you!"
He guided her hand under the root of his cock. Her fingers hesitated, then with slow, deliberate movements ascertained that his scrotum was nothing more than a dangling flap of skin. He waited, but her only reaction seemed to be one of total relief. Her eyes closed, her muscles relaxed. His fury at her sudden indifference was huge.
He lay beside her, pressing close, his half-hard prick lying on her belly and he began to finger-fuck her with slow, deliberate intent. He found her clitoris tight and swollen, and he used his fingers as if it were a labor of love. She twitched several times and finally covered her eyes with the back of her hand, and Johnny grinned. What he wanted to do was tear her sex out by the roots, but what he did was pet and press and flip until her toes began to curl, slowly, significantly. Once he tested the nippies of her breasts with a wet, firm tongue, and they were hard.
His technique in her cunt was ten years old, the slow insertion of two fingers and the even slower withdrawal, wiping her oozing wetness up to smear around her clitoris. Back seat make-out, he thought, and she was fighting a losing battle. She began to stir, first only one foot, then her free hand suddenly gripping. He watched her belly gradually speeding its rise and fall under the weight of his stiffening cock. A small moan escaped her lips, and she tensed, as if she knew she had revealed a hated sensation. Still he masturbated her, and presently she let her knee turn out. His own excitement augmented, but it had nothing to do with his prick.
"You want to be fucked, don't you, bitch?" he muttered. "You hate my guts. I belted you, and fucked you, and for all you know, I've clapped your ass and still, you want to be fucked! Feel it, baby? Feel the fire running up your spine? I can feel it, baby. I know when your quim spasms and your meat hardens! Never had it so good, have you, baby? A big man with a big cock and no balls to worry about. Just prick, a mile of it up your snatch and no after effects. Raw meat, no rubber, no diaphragm, no pill. Just fuck, fuck, fuck, and never see him again. Turn over!"
He rolled her over unprotestingly, and dug his fingers down under and into her cunt from the back. He lifted, making her groan, but she came to her knees, head hanging down, tits swinging, her ass upraised to his deeply plunging fingers and their alternating pressure to her clitoris. He put the ball of his thumb to her asshole and though her head jerked, causing her bleached hair to shake, she did not try to twist away. After a few moments, he kneeled up behind her and thrust his prick into her now flowing cunt. She did some comfortable shift of her knees, and when he began to stroke into her, she pumped back. He parted her buttocks with his palms and pressed them back only to repeat the spreading.
He dropped a big ball of saliva from his lips and thumb-smeared it into her rectum. It knotted and winked under his thumb and he felt a fresh tension around his coursing prick. Aha, you slut, he thought. You either never had it there but always wanted it, or you've had it up your bunghole and need it again. And when she let go and began to groan and twist, he snarled and fucked her harder. Her head began to shake and bob and her shoulders dropped so her ass could form a sharper, hunching bend. He knew when she had orgasm because her belly convulsed and little tensions seized his cock. He laughed. She seemed to be coming apart at the seams, and her asshole relaxed so his thumb nearly popped in. He hauled back, his cock throbbing but not quite hard enough. As its gleaming length slipped from the hairy sleeve, she fell sideways, gasping and moaning through clenched teeth. He got off the bed and stood leering at the agonized woman, his feelings somewhat soothed by her surrender, but his lust had only begun.
"You-you horrible, dirty beast!" she spat at him.
"Why? Because I got you, baby? Because you found out that balls don't matter, only the dick? Learn something, bitch! Balls don't make a man, do they? Sit up and suck my cock, you fucking bum!"
He seized her arm and jerked her to a huddle on the edge of the bed. One big hand pinched her jaw, forcing it open, and he stuffed his cock into her mouth so deep she nearly gagged. Her eyes rolled; her nostrils flared in a search for breath. He held her face on his penis until in desperation, she began to mouth and tongue it. He let go of her jaw and felt her throat, tensing and moving as she sucked his tingling cock. She had done it before, he was sure. Did she swallow her old man's jism, or did she catch it in a Kleenex or let it spurt down on her big tits?
"Like that, don't you, bitch?" He slapped her off of his cock, and when she fell over on her side, he mounted her from behind, his orgasm coming only seconds after his prick was buried in her quim. It was good but he hadn't really wanted to cum. When he got up, she didn't turn or look at him. Again his rage soared; she didn't care what he did to her, or what he didn't do. He was only meat, harmless, sterile meat. The more he fucked her, the better she liked it, and her liking it had left him stripped of vengeance. Then, above the whirr of the washing machine on the back porch, he heard a small, stifled whimper.
She was standing in the doorway, small hands clutched tightly to her tear-streaked cheeks. Her eyes were wide, her stance a stiff forward leaning, as if she were frozen by what she saw.
"Well, well," he said. "We've got a non-paying audience!"
The woman's naked body coiled like a spring, and she leaped from the bed, mouth agape at the horror of the situation. She fumbled, trying to cover her nakedness, trying to find some way to hide. Then she took a step toward the child and Johnny slammed her back to the bed with a swinging forearm. Instantly the child shrieked and ran to her mother.
"Now, now, baby!" the woman moaned. "It's all right, all right! Now, do as mother says and go back in your room. It's all right! Oh God, you poor darling! Please, Mary, do as mother says. Go back to your room and close the door!" She tried to force the little girl to go, but the crying had turned to near hysteria, and Mary clung to her mother's neck with all her strength.
And Johnny knew exactly what to do to make the woman suffer.
He silenced the child simply by closing his left hand around her neck from behind. The woman screamed and let go of her daughter to claw and beat at Johnny's hand and wrist. He put his other hand to her face and pushed her back on the bed, at the same time flinging the coughing, gagging girl across the room to crash against the wall. Breathless, she crumpled to a heap, squirming as she fought for air. As the naked woman leaped again, Johnny caught her, and with snarling glee, half paralyzed her with a sledge-hammer fist to the middle of her back. She sagged, trying to scream, mouthing words, and finally she folded in helpless agony.
He turned to the child, his prick again up-angled with fresh inspiration. He picked her up, thrilling to the feel of her nearly limp body, and he ripped her tiny panties off with ruthless fingers. Draping her over one arm, he stared at the little bottom and at the neat buttonhole of her vagina. He thrust a forefinger into the slit, feeling the flesh give way.
Blood surged instantly. He licked his lips as the scarlet fringe grew around his digging digit.
"No, God, you wouldn't-you can't!" She's a baby-barely four! Oh, please God, strike him dead, dead, dead! Oh, my baby!"
He kicked her in the belly as she started to rise. The girl had regained her breath, and she was screaming, her arms nailing uselessly, her legs kicking. He flipped her, his hands wrapping around her waist, pressing shortening her cries with the pressure. Swinging around, Johnny managed an awkward squat, and with the gasping mother's horrified face barely a yard away, he jammed the tiny crotch back to his jerking cock. The head seated but would not enter the bleeding slit. He screwed the child around, grunting at the impossible entry. Then he held the child, her crotch distorted by the pressure, and looked at the wailing woman. She was suffering now, he knew. Her body jerked like a chicken just relieved of its head. She could not take her eyes away, but her face lost every human semblance. And then she fell forward in a total faint.
Johnny stood up, flexing one leg at a time. He wanted to laugh and gloat, but she was senseless. He tossed the little girl to the bed, debated forcing his prick into her blood-smeared vagina or her tiny, puckered anus, but somehow, the game had lost its excitement. The girl was curled into a tight ball, crying with the tempo of a fire siren.
He stood for nearly a minute, looking down at the destroyed mother. His blood raced with the victory of having taught her about men with no balls. At last he had made somebody pay for his mutilation, and the only shadow on the moment was the certainty that he could not let her live to scream her horror to a fucking cop.
He leaned down, poised his big right hand, then swung it in a crushing chop. At the moment when the heel of his hand snapped the woman's neck, he had orgasm, dry, jerking, ecstatic, meaningless.
Reading about it in the morning paper, he was glad he hadn't bothered to squash the little girl. She had not uttered a single word between the time her older sister returned from school to the last second before press time. Anyway, killing kids was a Viet Cong first act.
Nola read the newspaper, black with indignant headlines, a half-dozen times. A mile from her front door on Aden Lane, a man, or hopefully some men, had committed heinous rape, murder and child molestation. There were no clues, no fingerprints, no cane marks in the surrounding earth. Nothing said Johnny did it. Johnny couldn't have done it. He had never left the house, other than to play at lawn and shrubbery clipping. He couldn't have walked a mile. He wouldn't have even known where the house was.
She could remember exactly how he had been last night when she came home from work. There were five cans in the garbage, his normal daily consumption. The girlie magazines had been spread around the living room. He had worked a crossword puzzle and checked off his favorite television programs. He had fucked her twice before nine o'clock, and her fingers could remember no undue swelling, as his prick often showed when he had spent a frenzy in her body.
And when all these negatives were repeated a score of times, Nola reverted to her instincts. He was Johnny Banner, her brother, and he was incapable of committing such horrible crimes. Whatever he did to her was between them. She was his sister and therefore, dedicated to his getting well. She belonged to him; he had said so a dozen times, and she had never disagreed. She even believed that his cruelty and sexual sadism were personal things, reserved for her because, from their childhood, she had held a special place in his consciousness. Just as he held a very special place in her heart. Not Johnny. Just coincidence. Murder and rape occurred in every city, large or small. She permitted her natural naivete to assist her logic. She denied him nothing. Why would he rape and murder a woman ten years her senior with her body a willing dummy to his most bizarre desires?
For a week she followed the newspaper accounts, watching the crime leave the front page and return to the smaller reports in the back sections. She even read the speculations by editorial writers-an itinerant from the highway, four miles west, a madman wandering the land, a sex fiend not yet yet tabbed by the police. Cranden's unsolved crime, and unless a miracle occurred, likely to remain a mystery for endless years.
Once or twice, because the television news spotlighted the crime for a few days, she had remarked to Johnny about the horrendous event. He had been a bit interested but no more so than about other news items, and he had never shown any pet-tishness about discussing it.
Gradually then, drugged by her own misery and complete subservience to her brother's lust and desires, Nola let the matter of rape and murder slip from her concern.
Because even as she organized their strange existence, she lost the ability to organize herself. She kept house and cooked their meals. She carried the washing to the laundromat on Tuesdays and ironed each Wednesday evening, either before he took her clothes off and played his various games with her unresisting body, or after, when he drowsed from too much vodka and all the lust he had expended. They lived like recluses, partly because Johnny wanted no outside friends and Nola was afraid to cultivate even moderate intimacies. Her job was a simple matter of typing, filing and minding the incessant telephone in an attorney's office, and her movements, at lunch or shopping or going to and from work were at patterned as if cased in iron.
There were three or four people who smiled at her. The man at the liquor store where she bought beer and Vodka, the lady who checked out her grocery list in the supermarket three nights a week and the bus driver who brought her home each night. Nola looked at people without seeing them, and she was never aware of anyone looking at her.
But she was becoming acutely aware of herself. In the beginning she had been unable to understand her bizarre investment in her brother. One thing had followed another with such rapid, headlong succession that panic and near hysteria had been her only reactions. Her faith in ultimate victory had been her bulwark against insanity. But now, there were times when she could not even define ultimate victory.
Terrible fantasies afflicted her, one brought on by the fact that the mailman thought she and Johnny were married because the few bits of mail they received came under a single name, Banner. With what she thought was sensible logic, she weighed the matter. Of course, she loved Johnny, but it was a peculiar, one-sided, sisterly love, except for the fact that she had learned to fuck him back, even when he was in one of his cruel moods. She could, by drinking some and closing her eyes to his face or his hands, imagine all sorts ol weird things. She tested herself by trying to masturbate in an effort to experience those delectable moments of pure passion, but after some moments passed, she lay in her bed, weeping at the inadequacy, the sense of loneliness. She felt doubly trapped, first by the massive sickness of her brother which had sunk her into a nearly inescapable morass, and then by her own inability to control her physical responses.
Secretly, she bought some books about sex and morbid psychology. These she read going to and coming from work or at lunch time, plain paper wrappers covering the book titles. All she learned was that all forms of mental and sexaul gymnastics were possible, and probably admissable, providing one performed the incredible sex acts with a legally and morally constituted partner. The sum total of her reading was almost too much to bear. The passages and illustrations made her cunt twitch and her tits become hard, and at these times, all she could think about was Johnny's huge, insatiable cock.
Gradually, she began to admit to herself that she liked to be twisted and turned and fucked until she was raw. She knew better than to show Johnny her physical reactions, because if he thought she was even slightly responsive, he became enraged and brutal. He wanted her passive and suffering; she learned to have her orgasms with no muscular contractions whatever, and she preferred the times he bent her over a chair and fucked her from the rear. She could hide her facial contortions and mask her cum by timing it with his thrustings.
The massive problem, no matter the small delights and little pains, was that she could not reach Johnny. Any attempt to talk seriously about anything, their living conditions, the past or the war that had crippled him, wound up being nothing more than acid exchanges of obscenities and ridicule. Twice she tried to bring up their childhood, and he slapped her senseless for mentioning their deceased parents. While she lay bruised and weeping on the floor, he tore her slacks off and fucked her in the ass with a dry prick and finished his rage by pouring a half can of beer on her bare bottom. Thirty minutes later, he turned off a basketball game so she could see one of her favorite musical programs on television.
Buffeted by these furies and rejections and vacillating moods, Nola had learned to live by the hour, so dedicated to the strange and unpredictable animal that was her brother, she could not relinquish even one of his insanities.