Chapter 4
He walked across the room, pivoted and walked back, then he stood in front of Nola and did a quick, shuffling dance.
"Oh, Johnny, that's wonderful!" Nola cried. "No more cane! Oh if only those terrible scars on the back of your legs would fade away, you'd be as good as new!"
The grin on his face stiffened. "Now, you know a fucking sight better than that, sis," he growled. "Anyway, you can stop bitching about the cane marks in the carpet!'
"It's wonderful, Johnny!" she insisted, and before she realized what she was doing, her arms went around his neck, and she kissed his cheek. She was deliriously happy for several reasons. Now that he could walk without the cane or even a marked limp, he might even go out past the front gate. She had suggested it a number of times but he had always growled a negative about being a flat wheel.
"I've been practicing," he said, laying one big arm over her shoulders.
"You're getting well, you're getting well!" she breathed.
He chuckled. "You ever think I wouldn't?"
"No, Johnny, no! I've always known you'd get well. It was just that it seemed so very long!"
She started to move away to fix their Sunday breakfast, but his arm tightened, and he crushed her to his chest. She heard the telltale rush of breath through his nostrils, and the fingers around her shoulder became suddenly painful. She looked up at him, apprehensive, as she always became when his unpredictable desires enlivened. "Johnny, we-we've got to talk," she murmured.
He hunched down, and his lips came hard and hot on her neck. "Talk?" he mumbled against the soft white flesh. His hips lurched, and Nola felt the rigidity of his cock through the folds of his house-robe. She hadn't been sure of what they could talk about, but she knew it did not matter. His left hand was slipping over the sateen sleekness of her buttock and his mouth was waxing greedy at her throat. Sex at nine o'clock in the morning wasn't new, but it somehow didn't seem appropriate on this revelation day. And it wouldn't be gentle nor even slightly pleasant, she thought. Nice things only enraged Johnny, as if they represented a form of mockery he could not tolerate. Now he swung her around and pulled her to the sofa. She was a little surprised at how very steady his stance and movements seemed. But then, he had admitted practicing without the cane. He pulled her across his lap and opened her housecoat. As he ruffled her tits, she let her arm tighten slightly across his back.
"They're getting awfully big, aren't they, Johnny?'
"Like a cow," he agreed. "The Viet wogs keep their cows fresh by fucking them with a stick about once a month. That's all I have. A stick!"
"No, Johnny! Oh, if you'd just quit thinking about it-quit hating! Darling, there's so much in life-without children! Oh, I'm sure if you'd just try, just relax-"
"Maybe I'd grow a new set of balls?" he demanded. Then he laughed, and his hand went down under the frill of her shortie nightgown and his fingers, three huge, hard, curled hooks, dug into her cunt. She gasped, then her legs moved out to ease the pain, and he hurt her vagina with his strength, hooking as if to tear her pelvic bone out and up. Her head snapped back as the agony shot up and through her belly. He pinched the always swollen labia and dug with a fingernail at her clitoris as if it were a scab to be removed. Writhing and panting, Nola cried inside. She dared not protest, somehow, did not want to. If torturing her gave him pleasure, she had not the will to refuse his brutality nor the courage to withstand his violence without enacting the agony he wanted from her.
Between pains, words shot through her mind-sadist, masochist, brute, madman-and equally, madwoman. She saw them as characters jerked from the most tragic of Greek tragedies; a beautiful girl lying in the cradle of her brother's arm while he abused her flesh and wounded her most private parts. Then the pain became too great and she rolled against him, moaning.
"Johnny, no, Johnny! You're k-killing me!" she wailed.
He pushed her off of his lap, and she hit the floor with a thud. Leaning, he stared down at her half-naked body, writhing on the carpet. His face was drawn with hate, but she knew it was not for her. Catching her breath, she raised a hand to one of his. He seized her wrist and thrust her hand in the front of his robe. Her fingers closed around the pole-like form of his cock, and for Nola many things changed.
She frigged him slowly, letting her mind revolve around the hard throbbing, the pulsing length that seemed to grow in her hand.
Laboriously and without interrupting her expert caress, she came to a sitting position between his knees. He sat hunched forward, his eyes turned the smoky gray-blue she had come to recognize as one of his most dangerously distant signals. She had never known where his mind went while she fondled and sucked his penis, and she supposed the same smoke occurred when he fucked her. Sometimes he would go on and on through one of his juiceless cums, only to end with a snarl and generally a fresh bruise on her soft flesh. Now she knelt up and began to jack him off, her thumb riding the top of his cock, her four fingers sliding along the thick urethral tube, from the flap of his scrotum to the soft rounds of his under glans. Her other hand crept up and lay lightly against his face, and as her own excitement grew, she leaned forward and kissed his mouth.
Caught in the mire of her own sensualism, she began to shrug off her housecoat, one shoulder at a time. When it lay on her back-bended legs, she dragged up her shortie gown and tucked the filmy hem under the press of her throbbing tits. Not once during this denuding did her fingers abandon his white-hot prick. She shuffled her knees apart until her cunt hung down, partially open amid the bushed thickness of her crotch hair. The odor of her cunt-she often bathed without washing it because Johnny liked the smell of her-came up and it was as heady to Nola as it was to Johnny. Still not seeing her, he reached down and curled his middle finger into her vagina, gentle now, searching petting, sloshing the hot flesh wetted by her pumping glands. She fucked the finger, matching the undulations of her hips to the intensifying stroke of her firm fingers.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she breathed. "Oh baby, fuck me now! Fuck me until I scream with pain and can't stand it another second!"
Suddenly he stood up out of her grasp. His cock thrust out from his hairy groin in vicious stiffness. Looking down at her, he dragged the long sash from his robe, snapping the tassle fringe as he dragged the band of cloth through his left fist. Then he moved like lightning and his right hand caught her wrist, pushed it to the other, and with the speed of a rodeo performer, he bound her two hands together, tying the wrists so tightly the throb in her hands was instantaneous.
"What-Johnny, what are you going to do to me?" she cried.
He dragged her. Once she tried to turn and get her feet under her, but he jerked her and she spun, her bottom riding hotly on the rug. At the door to the kitchen, he stooped and lifted her, throwing the end of the sash over the seven foot door. The loose end he tied around the door knob on the other side of the door. To obtain enough sash for the knot, he hoisted her feet a full six inches off the floor. When he let go of her, she hung like a slaughtered pig, her shoulders nearly pulled from their sockets, her back a smooth ripple of distended muscles. He spun her back to the door, and as she cried, her tits lifted, parted and jiggling with the struggles of her agonized body.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she pleaded.
He cursed her in Annamese. His eyes had gone almost totally gray: his mouth was like a slash in a granite block. She knew where his mind was then. It had happened before but never with the violence of now. He had skipped back and back and was once more in the jungles of Indochina. He had never once talked about the war nor himself, but in moments of sheer hate he had often cursed and blurted obscenities about the Cong. And as she stared at him, her body stretched to almost unbearable distension, she knew who she was. She was a dark-skinned Viet, a village whore, a wife and perhaps a mother of uncounted Congs. Her eyes widened with pure fear; he was taking off his robe, and his hands shook with rage. He leaned and snapped some Annamese words at her. She had no idea what he demanded, nor could she reply. Desperately, she put her heels to the door and found a tiny ledge where the panels ended. It wasn't much but it took a slight pressure off of her shoulder joints and she could draw a full breath. Sensing how near to death she was, Nola's mind worked furiously.
"That's all, Sergeant Banner," she said. "Take her down!"
He turned his head a bit and his mouth worked. "Fuck you, lieutenant! This cunt knows were they have the mortars planted, and I mean to get it out of her ass!"
"Johnny-"
He stepped forward and clutched straight into her cunt. His fingers skidded slightly, then gripped flesh and hair. His hand twisted and pulled, and her ass came away from the door a full foot as she screamed and kicked out at him. He laughed. "Look at her piss, lieutenant!"
Held so, Nola had no power. She urinated through his hand, and the desperate flow dropped noisily to the dinette floor. She couldn't think; she couldn't scream. It seemed as if her entire crotch was clamped in the bite of a giant clam. Then his grip slipped, wetted by her helpless ablution. Right and left he spanked his hand dry across her tits, and this pain was even worse than the first. Wailing now, unable to plead nor form coherent words, Nola closed her eyes and tried to die. He was laughing now, his frenzy building to some peak. Once more she tried to find the molding ledge but her own mine had splashed and trickled and the heels of her bedroom slippers were as slippery as if they'd been greased.
Suddenly he seized her ankles and raised her legs up, folding them almost to her tits. He shuffled a step forward, then sent his prick deep into her piss-wetted cunt. It hurt, every inch of its lunging, but his lift of her feet eased the strain on her back and shoulders. He crushed against her, breathing madly, spreading his heat around her like a smothering blanket. He fucked up, not in, and each hunch of his powerful hips hung her weight on the thin sleeve of her vagina. He turned, twisted, as if trying to drive his cock through her flesh at unnatural angles. He spread her legs, and her toes touched the door above shoulder level. Then he pushed his head forward and bit her nose. She felt the skin break and she screamed. He opened his bite and spat into her face, saliva and blood blurred her left eye.
She prayed for his cum; no matter his durability. Like a normal man, so had her books said, there had to be an interval between coitus. He might let her hang, release her ankles and let her suffer in peace. Then he dropped her ankles onto his shoulders, and his hands went down and under her sharply folded ass. His fingers dug, pulling her buttocks apart until she thought the skin would tear. His cock went out of her cunt and came raging back, entering her stretched anus with a rush. The angle was wrong and she felt her rectum tear and her bowel displace as his prick, rigid and burgeoning, coursed up and up. Her shoulders hurt so terribly she couldn't raise her head. His face was close, in his lunging his forehead bumped hers, knocking her head back against the oak door. His cock beat in and up, slamming her ass to the panels and the small ache in her belly turned to a gigantic agony. In vain she tried to feel, tried to find one sensation in her grotesquely-raped asshole to compensate for the pain. Her cunt was numb, battered to insensitivity, her ability to twist and arrange herself to his furious sodomy was dead. Then she heard him begin to grunt and with any remaining strength Nola had, she gritted her teeth and lapsed into tortured waiting. His orgasm was hard and quick. He staggered as his legs relaxed. Her heels dropped, sliding down his sweat-moist torso, and from her ruptured rectum came foul and well-churned excretia. Nola closed her eyes and tried to die again.
She awakened in the bathtub, the water was cold, and it lapped at her chin because her head was down. Her first thought was that he had finished his fury by trying to drown her. Then she saw the milky color of the water, and her groping hand found the half-melted bar of soap on the tub bottom. Her skin below the water level was wrinkled, and coarse. It was sometime after mid-day, by the weak sun coming through the bathroom window. She graoned and sat up, feeling every strained muscle in her body. The sash lay on the floor in three segments. He hadn't been able to untie the knots around her wrists, pulled iron-hard by her struggling weight, so he had cut the cloth bond. Wracked with agony, Nola automatically pulled the rubber plug from the drain. Somehow the gurgle of draining water was comforting. She shivered as the lowering water exposed her wet skin to the air. When the tub was nearly empty, she replaced the plug, and with a trembling hand, turned on the hot and cold to mix a stream of warming water. As the warmth attacked her chilled body, her head began to function.
What had she done, she wondered, that had set him off? She tried to remember. He had been cruel, and she had tried to direct his temper by playing with his cock, then there had been a minute or two of sweet quiet, of syrupy sensualism and monstrous shame; Nola remembered her wail of passion "-fuck me now! Fuck me until I scream with pain and can't stand it another second!"
A word, a cry, a split second of unknown meaning had turned him into a raging maniac. Even now her shoulders would not work too well. She petted her bruised cunt and felt of her lacerated anus. What had happened after she had fainted, she did not know. But there were red marks on her tits and belly, and a bruise along her ribs. Horrible, hideous, unbelievable. But when he had wearied, he had put her into a probably warm tub of water, as if he understood how terribly he had hurt her. Once the beast had fled, the man had been quick to return. Nola started to cry, her love for Johnny was almost too overwhelming to bear. Then she heard a sound at the door, and it was he.
"You okay, sis?" he asked, smiling, as if she'd only had one too many vodkas. He was fully dressed, and his beautiful hair was brushed.
She nodded. "Start a pot of coffee, Johnny. I'll be there in a minute."
"I had to fuck up that sash," he said. "I guess I tied you up with the wrong kind of knot."
Again she nodded. That was the thing; he always remembered every detail of his maniacal lapses. And like now he seemed to think she had enjoyed his tortures as much as he had enjoyed creating them. She sighed as he went to the kitchen. She had some material, and a little later, when her fingers regained their agility, she'd sew up a new sash. As she climbed from the tub and began to towel her throbbing, aching body, she decided she was hungry. Maybe he'd start the bacon frying, too.
Going to the kitchen, she hesitated to stare at the door from which he'd hung her. And as she remembered now, she was abruptly flooded with unreasonable emotion. He had put her in the tub, but he had also cleaned the dinette floor where she had fouled it in distress. When she entered the kitchen where the first sizzle and smell of bacon was coming from the pan, he turned and laid his arm over her shoulders.
"Take over," he said. "There's a ball game on the TV in thirty minutes."
"I'll bet a buck on the Giants," she said, turning the bacon.
"My sis. Hot pants for every loser she can find!"
He walked six blocks toward town before he boarded the bus. He moved steadily and without limping to a seat halfway to the rear. There were people, men and women, and outside the houses and cars and more people of Cranden went about their affairs as if he did not exist. He didn't exist. He was a fragment, a leftover, a ballless hulk of compacted hamburger. He sat down and looked at the back of a woman's neck two seats forward. Stupid fucking cunt, he thought. Her hat would have been a good hen's nest, upside down. Her hair was dyed, he was sure. Red hair, black cunt with droopy lips, and below, a dirty asshole. He looked out the bus window at the beginnings of downtown Cranden. Stores with furniture, clothes and bicycles. He saw a little girl with a short skirt and long straight blonde hair. His cock jerked.
If he could get his prick in her, she'd never like another man, balls or not. Like the blonde cunt back of the house. She'd liked his cock ... until he tried to shove it up her daughter's ass. His breath speeded. There was something about the feel of firm young flesh that was like nothing else in the world. There was something about the way they cried and squirmed and kicked that excited him. Baby-raper. He chuckled soundlessly. After the mill they'd put him through, he had a right to go any way that pleased him.
He wasn't sure what pleased him. Sometimes, when he tried to think ahead too much, he became dizzy. It was better to just do what occurred to him and not worry about what came next because something always did. Suddenly he got up and left the bus with some other people. His legs worked fine, and he was sure no one knew how cut up they were.
He didn't think much about Cranden, nor much about Idaho. The sun was warm and the air clear. The shop windows weren't very interesting until he came to a special one. It was a toy shop. One window was full of dolls in frilly dresses, and there were little tea sets in cardboard boxes. The other window was full of ... Johnny stood staring at the plastic guns and the green war toys. They were very realistic, and he squinted his eyes at a rocket launcher. There were helmets and machine guns and little jeeps with mounted fifty-caliber machine guns. Then he saw the mortar. It stood about a foot high, and the two-inch muzzle was beautifully supported on perfect replicas of deadly hardware. There was a rack beside it with toy shells. The sale sign said the mortar spring would throw the toy missiles fifty feet. Johnny's eyes blurred and his temper choked in his throat. And where, he thought angrily, do they sell the little fuckers a new set of legs or a sheet of skin for a back or a set of balls'?
He walked to a corner and turned, not seeing too clearly. The store fronts thinned and became smaller. One-horse town, forty steps off the main drag and you were in the sticks.
Then from a small building set by itself in a rather overgrown lot a woman came out and went to the awning crank. Johnny slowed as she began to wind down a rather frayed canvas overhang. She was slim and not too young. Her hair was cut short, showing a slightly corded neck. A not-much broad in a skirt and blouse but there was a certain excitement to the strain of her arms as she twisted the crank. Satisfied, she rubbed her palms together and looked both ways on the deserted street. Then she entered the store. When he got there, Johnny turned in after her, hardly seeing the buttons and patterns and balls of yarn in the small front windows. It was cool and dusky inside. He closed the door behind him and walked to where the woman stood at the end of a short counter.
"Good afternoon," she said. "May I help you?"
There seemed to be a small back room but he sensed no other person in the building. On the counter there was a rack of colored zippers, at twenty-nine cents a plastic sack. He pointed.
"I need a black one of those," he said.
"Oh, isn't there one in the rack? Dear me! They sell so fast. Wait a moment, I have some stock here." She turned and fingered across the face of several boxes on the shelves behind the counter.
She reached up with both hands for one and Johnny hit her just above the kidneys. She seemed to collapse in segments, settling to the floor in an angular heap. He went to the front door and set the heavy night lock, then he turned the dangling sign from Open to Closed. After that he dragged the woman, face down, arms trailing, into the small back room. The feel of her ankles in his hands was good. His cock began to thicken. In the room was a cot, a sewing machine, several dress racks and some storage shelves.
He knelt and finished raising her skirt. She had thin legs and a small round ass. He pulled her panties down and put his fingers between the cheeks, feeling the heat of her body in the snugness of her crotch. Her cunt was a tight slot in deep black hair.
He spread the resistless labia and felt for the hot wet. It was hot but not squishily wet like he preferred a cunt. She stirred as he fingered in her vagina. He slipped off his left shoe and brought it down on the back of her head with tremendous force. The thud brought his prick on up, and he watched her flatten out on the floor in limp surrender. He put his shoe back on and opened his fly. His cock was quickly taken out and he stood over her, stroking it with building pleasure.
He disregarded the cot and picked the body up to drape it over a table partially covered with dress patterns and oddly cut pieces of orange cloth. The woman's legs hung long and lean, the feet turned as if the ankles were broken. Her ass looked better, he thought, up and half bent. He had to squat slightly, but getting his prick into her cunt was quick and satisfying. He fucked a little, lossening and wetting the dewlaps. Then he unzipped the back of her dress and found the brassiere snaps. There was a round mole on one shoulder blade. He slipped his hands under her slender chest and felt the small soft tits. They were loose and the nipples were big. He just held her and fucked, ignoring how the puffed and blood-filled head of his prick snubbed up into her inadequate depths. Every few strokes, he reset his feet to ease the strain on his legs. The smell of her disturbed sex was good, and his prick seemed to expand to twice its normal size.
Then his fingers around her chest became sensitive. He pressed the tips half through the ungirlish tits and a chuckle escaped his slavering mouth. She was dead, he knew, because there was not heartbeat under his left hand. He had instant orgasm, rutting, grunting and hating the woman for giving up so easily. He pulled his cock out of her and grinned at the way her cunt remained open. Like the tube of the toy rocket, gaping, ready for some fucking little bastard to drop in a plastic shell, guaranteed to pop back out and sail fifty feet.
As he always did, Johnny stripped out his prick two or three times with nearly bruising fingers, but not a spot of moisture rewarded his efforts. His prick was slick and sticky from her cunt. He wiped it on her skirt and stuffed it back into his trousers.
"What a lousy bitch," he said aloud. "Couldn't hustle a fuck in a U.S.O. latrine. Shit."
He went to a door and opened it cautiously. It opened out onto a weed-grown yard. Beside the door were some cardboard boxes and a garbage can. Then he saw what looked to be an abandoned well. It had a low stone rim and some weather-beaten posts marked the place where a short rope was tied on a crossbar, ends frayed. He looked around, and the nearest building had a brick wall with no windows on his side. He stooped and went out to the well. The plank cover was half rotten. He moved it and looked down many feet into black nothing. The fetid odor of sour earth drifted up. He spat down and heard no sound of receiving water.
He carried her body out and dropped it headfirst into the blackness, panting with sudden excitement as the sound of her body hitting the bottom came as a hollow crunching thud. He replaced the well cover and went on to the back of the lot. There he stepped over a failing fence and headed back toward town on an unpaved alley. He felt good, but he was disappointed. Her skinny ass had been a nothing fuck, but he could still hear the way her body had hit the bottom of the well.
He was drinking beer and watching television when Nola came home. Now, he thought, there is a real ass, but he didn't go after her. While she was making him his usual Vodka and water, he went to the bathroom. Standing in a constricting curl, he worked his swollen foreskin and inhaled the odor of the dead woman's cunt with great savor. He remembered how her back had sagged when he'd hit her, and he could still hear the crunching thud. He urinated copiously, chuckling at the tingle of his urethral eye. Bumped it right against the underside of her fucking stomach, he mused. The best fuck she'd probably ever had, and she hadn't felt a thing.