Chapter 3

Things were no better for Bob. In fact, if anything, they were worse. Especially after the fight they'd had the morning after their last parody of sexual love. And the other fights since, the one transpiring just two nights ago still rankling strongly. And this Wednesday morning in May, alone at the shop (Aldus Wells was gone in the pick-up) there was again time for broodings.

Even more aggravating was the constant passage of comely female flesh of all descriptions, from sixteen to forty (age made no difference to Bob in his present, agitated condition) passing his shop. Dollar Day in Garrett Park, and every woman in town was seemingly right out there on the march.

By rights, he should have been inside, hard at it. There was work coming out of his ears. But he didn't have any stomach for it. Other things were nagging him.

Things like his marriage. Things like his growing preoccupation with sex. One would think that at his age the drive would be withering. But no, it got more compulsive and overpowering by the day.

Thus the monstrous hard-on in his trousers at that moment, his satyr concentration on the pretty young chicks going past. Chicks like that gorgeous, red-haired Polly McKinney, a teenage beauty who was, so far as Bob knew, unspoken for as yet. His eyes narrowed, and the pain in his gut nearly felled him as he ogled her. Her flimsy cotton dress was plastered to her skin; it showed off her tawny, lithe legs, and hard rounds of her buttocks, the material-straining cones of her boobs.

Bob actually groaned, making a sound like a male dog in rut. And God, but wouldn't he love to teach the dumb little kid what love was all about? Wouldn't he love to sample some of that? Wouldn't he love to see her eyes widen when she saw his majestic whang? Wouldn't he love to hear her whimpers of inter-mixed pain and delight as he drove himself into her virginal gash?

It wasn't just the sex part, he concluded. If he could just have someone soft and warm and lovely like Polly to love, someone who'd love him back a little. That's all he asked. If he could buy her all sorts of pretties-sexy shoes, lingerie, expensive, clinging dresses, even sparkly gew-gaws from Hotlander's jewelry store downtown. If he could dress her in the lovelies, then undress her. If he could only kiss that white, writhing body, if he could-

He turned the sex fantasies off as Polly finally faded out of sight. Suddenly he found his throat dry, his undershorts runny from his. excitation. , He thought of Ardis just then, and that killed the dream very swiftly indeed. He'd tried that with her; he'd purchased sexy gifts of underwear, shoes, sexy gowns a hundred, times prettier than Ardis ever wore 'way back When. In every instance she'd made him return the gifts, she derided them as harlot's rags. She'd spewed forth her tiresome tirades about "Vanity being the devil's own device." In time he hadn't bothered anymore.

He thought of Ardis, of the incredible change in her over these past few years. Then remembrance of their last screeching argument put the capper on it. Deliberately, lest he make a dozen more kinds of fool of himself, he quit his girl-watcher's station and lurched into the blacksmith shop.

Almost as if driven to his secret niche, as if it took on the importance of final salvation, he reached back into a corner of his old, roll-top desk, drew out the clutch of newspapers and brochures, some tattered and grimy, others spanking new. Assured that Aldus would be gone another hour at least, he moved closer to the window, studied them eagerly, pathetically.

They were swap club leaflets. Somehow, he'd got on a mailing list, and they'd started to come. He'd applied to several, and was now on their regular list, the contraband being delivered to a post office box in Yarrow, fifteen miles down the line. Judging from the tattered condition of the lot, they were his only form of escape.

Feverishly, he scanned one of the bulletins, a thin, photo-illustrated leaflet with provocative ads by the hundreds. His eyes fled to particular favorites:

KY. PR 122-Young woman of thirty wants to hear from anyone eager to swing. Husband available. Answer with photo and frank letter, and we'll get together. See photo of blue-eyed blonde.

OHIO PR 200-Attractive, broadminded couple, she age twenty-eight, tall, green-eyed brunette, interested in modern way of life, wishes to hear from other Polaroid clubs. Also couple's clubs and all kinds of wild parties.

WIS. PR 206-Modern young couple in Madison, both blue-eyed, she hour-glass figure, are interested in learning to swing with other couples. Both willing to try anything. Revealing photo a must. Let's get together.

Bob sighed heavily, putting the leaflet aside momentarily. Why did he go on torturing himself like this? The ads said couples, didn't they? And he had no partner, that was certain. Unless he bound and gagged Ardis. But the idea was tempting; it made his heart race. Dear God, to have a woman who liked to fuck again! A woman who moved and moaned and gasped with delight, instead of lying there like some damned stick.

He put the leaflet aside, took up the tabloid newspaper, and went immediately to the back where the personals ads were. It was an old issue and he knew just which ads he wanted to reread.

ATTRACTIVE BLONDE, thirty-two, green eyes, 5'7", 126 pounds, has had unhappy past. Wants to learn to love a man again. Will you help? Seeking a sincere man who wants more affection than he can stand. Object: marriage. Write Box 406.

PRETTY REDHEAD, twenty-seven, trim figure, home of her own. Husband dead. Seeks to share love unending. Will be faithful and attentive always. Send photograph and details. No phonies, please! Box 220.

The blonde seemed tailor-made, Bob thought, instantly, itchy again. It seemed so good to know that there were still women like that somewhere, women who wanted to be loved, to have a man touch them, enter them. Women who were crazy to love in return.

He put down the tabloid and took up still another swap club bulletin. Immediately his eyes fell on some very intriguing items indeed.

MO. D 213-Half a couple. Husband disinterested in sex, wife must find fun where she can. Interested in meeting men with cold wives. Photo a must. All inquiries answered.

ILL. D 128-Passionate but bored young housewife seeks interesting men and couples. Will try anything. Brunette beauty, thirty-one, 5'8", full of old Ned. Husband knows of this ad. Write soon, send picture. No fatties, please.

TENN. D 140-Half a couple. Hubby has pooped out, will give me free rein. Interested in singles, but will try couples. Am twenty-five, black-haired chesty. A tigress in bed. Soon, somebody? Can hardly wait!

These ads seemed ideal to Bob and he wished he had nerve enough to reply to them. Granted, there might be a catch; they might be out seeking to rook some dumb male. But then a person never found out until he tried, did he? Nevertheless, he was wary. He couldn't bring himself to fool with a woman in such a situation. The idea of a husband somewhere in the background instantly cooled his ardor. There was no telling what mean developments could come of a thing such as that. He'd look elsewhere.

He went back to those personals in the back part of the tabloid. There was one that particularly intrigued him. Even as he scanned the newspaper, he was reminded of the bitter showdown he and Ardis had had a few nights previous, when he'd had all he could do to keep from throttling the priggish bitch then and there.

It had all started because he'd wanted sex, of course. She'd taken it as an excuse to rehash all his other transgressions, the spiteful and foolish thing with the condom. "Sex, Bob?" she railed. "Again? After what you did to me the last time? You filthy pervert! Is that all you ever think about? Maybe if you attended prayer meetings with me more often, you'd get your mind on other things. More uplifting things." Her face was a mask of hatred.

"Don't start that again, Ardis!" he'd stormed. "I go to church with you on Sundays. I'll be darned if I'll go two, three nights a week, too. I tried, remember? I tried to please you. But when it was y'r turn to please me, what happened? You made all kinds of promises. Only you never kept y'r end of the bargain."

One-thing had led to another, and in due time they were back to the same old stalemate. What had happened to her? Why had she changed? Why couldn't she be the warm, loving woman he'd married?

And then she'd gone off on that same tangent, had tongue-lashed him for wanting a slut for a wife, a Jezebel and a hussy. She had sinned; she had surrendered to the temptations of the flesh; she must exorcise those devils from her nature once and for all. And if that was the kind of woman he really wanted, he'd best find himself some prostitute. Decent women weren't meant to act that way, to wallow, to lend themselves to their husbands' sick fantasies.

"Go find one if you can," she'd finished, that sardonic edge to her voice. "See if any of the pigs'll have you. An ignorant plowboy like you. A horny-handed redneck. You make me laugh sometimes. You and your talk about going to one of those swap clubs ... to another woman. What woman in her right mind would have you? You're my cross to bear ... mine alone!"

In the end he'd risen and left the room. Two minutes more and he was sure he'd have started swinging. And though he seldom surrendered to that luxury-once? twice?-it had happened. He didn't need it again. It sure's hell never helped.

Again Bob Birmingham's mind meandered still farther-to that time in his life when Ardis had been all the woman he'd ever wanted, all the woman any man could ever want. A strangling frustration filled him. He wanted to scream, to batter his fists against the wall. Why? Where had that good time gone?

In rational moments he reasoned that he'd done something to Ardis, something to go against her sensibilities. There, during those first weeks of marriage, when-despite their premarital experience-he'd been an insatiable boar and hadn't given her a moment's rest.

And yet Ardis had seemingly enjoyed his constant attentions; she'd never once refused him. She was always passionate and eager. At least until they returned to Garrett Park, and moved into the new home he'd bought just for her and the kids. There had been gradual changes. Within six months, he was virtually cut off. Every time he wanted sex, it had been a big deal; he'd been reduced.to begging her to submit. Baffled as he was at the swift change in her, he bargained with her, babied her, thought that eventually she'd change, become the woman he'd married-passionate and loving-again.

But it never happened. It was as if that wild version of Ardis was gone, would never return again. And he'd grown desperate. In time he came to believe that it was all part of a long-planned, carefully thought-out plot. Ardis had never really been passionate, he deduced; she'd merely been putting on a show for him in an attempt to trap him into marrying her, into taking care of her and her brood the rest of her days.

Could it have been that Ardis had seen a weakling in him? Had she actually thought that once he was chained in the bonds of matrimony that she could totally tame him, change him into some sort of a prayer-chanting eunuch? Had she believed she could turn him into an eye-rolling, arm-flailing holy roller like she was?

Those first years had been hell on earth, and little by little, imbued with a fanatic vision, Ardis had prevailed. His sex urges denied, he'd channeled his energies elsewhere. To forget the cringing, emasculated caricature of a man he'd become, he threw himself into his work. He could be a man in that respect. He could care for his family, build a mock facade of prosperity and indulgence around them; he'd have that much, anyway.

Only lately things were getting worse. The work, the growing pile of money in the bank, his many investments, weren't enough. A man's basic sexual nature can be suppressed only so long; eventually it must surface, run rampant. And that was what was happening lately. That thing at Kiwasi, his last act of defiance with Ardis, his growing interest in this swap club thing-all were symptomatic of impending disaster. If he didn't get hold of himself soon-

An ugly leer crossed his features. I sure's hell been doing that enough lately, he mused. He touched his penis through his trousers, felt it hot and hard, wondered if he should. Aldus was gone. It'd only take a minute, considering his present state. But somehow he fought the impulse. And again he thought of Ardis, of those really bad times.

There was that one night, when, partly drunk, he'd come home to demand sex from her. And not passive, stone-cold sex, either. She'd put some zip into it, or he'd kill her. But when Ardis had spitefully rejected him, all but laughed in his face, he'd gone berserk. Slapping her, flinging her against the wall, he'd systematically commenced to reduce the house-the furniture, the lamps, the pictures on the walls-to shambles. He'd cursed and howled; he'd brought the children screaming and crying from their bedroom.

And when Ardis had gathered them up, herded them back to their bedroom, had returned to plead and rail at him, he'd truly gone off his nut. Then and there, treating her like the cock-teasing garbage she was, he'd ripped her clothes off her where she stood. He'd struck her repeatedly, had eventually floored her.

Then and there, in the midst of all the wreckage, he'd dragged out his penis and wiped it all over her belly, on her arms and breasts. In a last fit of rage he'd even gone so far as to make threatening moves toward her face. His very guts had bubbled with the desire to inflict his weeping penis against her lips, force it into her mouth.

But something in her eyes, imperious and deadly, had frightened him off at the last minute; he'd fallen back in terror of what might happen to them both if he crossed that thin line of sanity. The hysteria still with him, he'd forced her legs open brutally, had jammed his tool deep into her rebellious belly like some posthole digger. He'd all but shoved himself through her. If ever there was rape, Ardis had been raped that night.

The days and weeks following had been horrible. Contrite, frightened, living in perpetual shame, he'd been put through hell on earth. Not only had there been the expense of replacing all the ruined furniture, repairing the walls where he'd slammed lamps, tables, and chairs against them, there were the nonstop tongue lashings he'd been subjected to whenever the children were out. He'd been forced to accompany her to prayer meetings every night of the week for months; he'd knelt beside her during bedtime prayers for endless hours besides.

But that hadn't been his worst breakdown. Hardly. Perhaps eight months later, his transgressions fading into the past, he'd run amok again. Once more their lovemaking sessions had gone into that forced, rationed, cold-as-stone status. Consent to penetrate her body was grudgingly, sparingly given. Twice a month. Then once a month. She was talking about every two months, eventually breaking off entirely, so they could live in pure, Christian marriage, as brother and sister, when he flipped.

There was no warning. They sat together after prayer meeting, the children long since put to bed. Something snapped. Tired of the ceaseless masturbating on the sly-at home, at the shop, sometimes even in gas station rest rooms-he wanted the real thing. It was a man's right, he'd reasoned. A husband deserved to have a wife who was responsive, who returned his love. Wasn't that in the Bible, too? Something about a woman honoring her husband, showing him love within the bonds of matrimony?

Poor Ardis never knew what hit her. One moment she was smugly seated in her chair, reading one of her tracts, the next she was writhing on the floor, her face a purplish red where he'd slapped her-entirely Out of the blue! Before she could suck enough air into her lungs to scream, he was upon her, stuffing one of her handkerchiefs into her gaping mouth.

Almost trance-like, as if he wasn't responsible for his actions, he found himself lifting Ardis off the floor, carrying her, kicking, into the bedroom. Again he methodically ripped her clothes off her body. Then he slapped her to submission again. Rummaging in her dresser drawer, he produced some of the shoddy, cotton hosiery she insisted on wearing-"harlot's rags," she called nylons-and commenced to tie her ankles and wrists to the corners of their four-poster bed.

When Ardis was firmly trussed in spread-eagle position, her legs and arms tight as a bow string, her vagina gaping in obscene vulnerability, her tits whanging up like miniature volcanoes, the nipples hard as rubber, he calmly began to undress. The sight of her helpless state further incensed him, as he was positive that tonight he'd see it through to the end, make all his middle-of-the-night eroticisms come true.

As before, he took great delight in pumping his semen up, dribbling it all over her body-her legs, belly, breasts, even her face and eyes-then massaging it into her flesh. He humiliated her body with his fingers, opening her gash still farther, fingering her hole, sticking another digit up her anus. He plucked and pulled her tits until she hissed, went red in the face with pain and outrage. So great had been her fury that she'd fainted, come to, fainted again several times.

She'd been especially infuriated when he'd crawled between her legs, had sucked and licked her there, a no-no he'd always wanted to perform. She groaned and thrashed fiercely when he began, but later, as he'd peeled back her cunt lips, had made her clitoris stand up like a ripe, red cherry pit, had affixed his lips to it, had lapped and tugged at it, she'd sunk into a docile swoon. For a moment there he thought she'd actually surrendered, that she was enjoying it. He could have sworn her torso had spasmed and humped in orgasm.

But when he began sucking her again, she fought desperately. By then it was time for the final mortification, anyway. Kneeling over Ardis' face, he'd waved his penis before her eyes, had seemingly threatened her with it. "See, damn you," he'd wheezed in pinched, sick tones, "what all your prayin', all your goody-goody ways have come to? You can deny a man jist so long and he goes to pieces. Now, you'll take y'r medicine. like a good girl. You'll do as I say."

As it had turned out, Ardis had won again.

For when he'd removed the gag, had attempted to feed his tool into her mouth, she'd snarled and nipped him so viciously that he'd been sure he'd lost an inch of his pecker. He'd slapped her again, but reading the cold fury in her eyes,, he'd known better than to try again. Instead, he'd contented himself by clamping her jaws shut with his hand, merely sliding his penis head along her lips, in the cleft, sometimes even risking the rippling play of them upon the surface of her teeth.

By then he'd been so incensed that he'd jammed the gag back into her mouth, had once more piled onto her belly, plowed his dong into her vengefully, fucked her like some bulldozer clearing brush. Once, twice, three times he'd emptied into her. At the end, drained by fury, by the exertions of love, he'd fallen upon her naked body and had slept upon her until shortly after dawn.

When he'd untied her, she'd spat in his face and had run to lock herself into the bathroom. Suddenly Bob awoke from his vile reveries to find himself trembling. Cold sweat beaded his forehead, the backs of his hands. His swollen penis was so hard and aching in his trousers he was sure it would rip the inseam any minute. And he knew that he must surrender to his base needs again. There was no other remedy for it.

A moment later he lurched up, headed for the smallish, tidy washroom at the back of the shed.

Then he was seated on the toilet lid, his pants down, his stiff cock in his hand. He thought of Ardis briefly, knew regret and maddening frustration at what he'd once had and lost. Then slowly, luxuriously, the head heavily slicked from his daydreams, he began working the skin back and forth. He applied pressure with his index finger; he fretted his penis like a virtuoso violinist. The ugly picture of Ardis tied to that bed again danced before his eyes and supercharged the dirtiness in his loins. Again his penis head was slithering over Ardis' teeth. He actually wished she were here now, so he could spit his load down her throat.

He looked down at his huge, heavily veined penis. It was stunningly hard and long and fat, the glans a magenta color, each stroke bringing forth more of his juices. He knew agony when he remembered the long-ago times when Ardis had actually held him, had pumped him, marveling at his flow, at the size. "It's so pretty, Bob," she'd exulted then. "Such a fat one! So long! Oh, quick, I can't wait to get it in.

He groaned, closed his eyes. It was an irony of ironies. He couldn't bear to remember those glorious days. The hot, spine-kinking pain backed up into his belly. Bob groaned, felt like his brain was frying, was bubbling behind his eyelids. He ached in every bone in his body; his arms felt feverish. Now his hand flowed faster, more rhythmically. That small death hovered. He sank into a mindless, helpless trance. He groaned muffledly, let fly. He felt the hot splashing on his thighs and on his knees.

He sighed heavily, slumped, savoring the total sensation. Then the letdown afterward. Finally he tore off some toilet paper and began to clean himself off.

Once more he was in his office, dressed and washed. Once more he was going through the tabloid personals columns. He had decided. He would write to this woman in northern Ohio, near Mansfield. It would be a fair stretch of driving, but if she was as good as she claimed in her ad, she'd be well worth it. His taste for blondes was still unsatisfied. Certainly that Mamie whore hadn't amounted to anything. He poured over the ad several more times, tried to visualize how she'd look. He'd ask for her picture, of course. Which one of himself would he send?

And when it was arranged, he'd tell Ardis there was a generator distributor he had to see in Toledo. Some generator dealer that'd be. And if it worked out, if they hit it off, he could go often. Every other week even. He could cook up some alibi; Ardis would never suspect. That is if she cared at all. He expected he could screw another woman in the next room, and it wouldn't faze her.

Now Bob's eyes narrowed; his brain spun faster. And still faster. He'd do it! Damned if he wouldn't!