Chapter 6
"Come on, Ben ... you can do better than that!"
In their Hilton Hotel room Ben was balling Angela. Ben not balling Angela hard enough, apparently.
Ben was on the bottom, Angela on top. Angela was getting bitchier, he thought ... where did she pick up this take-charge bit ... oh, I'll let her have her fun for a little while longer ... then I'll straighten her out ... show her who's boss around here.
The problem was that Ben's hard-on just didn't seem stiff enough for his wife. Not after Senor Sanchez's stellar performance of the preceding evening. And, Ben was still getting over the monstrous hangover he'd gotten that same evening.
"Ben ... I want you in me, darling, all the way.
I'm your wife, not a subway station, you know."
Nagging, thought Ben. Nagging worse than ever before. All day touring Cuernavaca and Taxco, enjoying Mexico's sights and sounds. I bought her a beautiful silver brooch in Taxco, and all she could say was, "It's nice."
"Ben...."
You bitch, he thought, is this marriage worth saving? Is it? I'm beginning to wonder. The nicer I am to her, the bitchier she gets. I haven't even mentioned business for the past few days, trying to give her the best time I can ... and all I'm getting is nag, nag, nag.
"Ben!"
This time her voice was a command, not a complaining. And it almost made his eardrums shudder, because, lying on top of him with her breasts jammed into his chest and his cock jammed-he thought all the way, she thought otherwise-into her vagina, it was very close quarters indeed.
He was sweating from her weight on top of him. She was not, fitting herself comfortably on top of him. She was beginning to prefer herself on top in their sexual relationship. She thought, if he's not man enough to keep me under control, then I'll run the show myself, if I have to. Oh, do I miss Ricardo tonight!
She could feel his cock inside her vagina, touching the membranes very gently, much too gently for her. In addition, his cock was all the way in but not all the way up; in short, she still felt as if there were a few spare inches of vaginal tract that she would like to have filled. Ricardo had no trouble, she thought ... but this husband of mine ... of course, if he hadn't taken me to Mexico, I would never have met Ricardo ... I guess I can thank him for something ... but he's just not as rough as Ricardo ... I never met a man like Ricardo who could be such a gentleman and such a Humphrey Bogart at the same time ... oh, Ricardo,, I miss you!
"Angela...." Ben said, somewhat hesitatingly.
"Yes, dear?"
"Do you think you can move over a little to the left? I think I'm getting a cramp in my leg."
"Well, I think you're cramping my style, too." She spit, almost snarled, out the words, in an expellation of breath that made her voice sound like the hissing of a snake. Then, she brought her head down, and bit him on the side of the neck. He jerked back his head, and then she bit him on the upper lip, just as Ricardo had started the previous evening. She was certainly not a vampire, but Ricardo had turned her on in some strange, inexplicable way that made her mad that her husband was so docile, so absolutely bourgeois in comparison.
But, she did not realize that her husband did not like being bitten. Especially when it shocked him enough to lurch away, and in so lurching he pulled himself out of his wife and fell over the side of the bed, a tangle of arms and legs and torso hitting the floor. His skull met the floor first, and the blow was enough, not to stun him, but to shake him into some sort of awareness, some sort of knowledge that things were taking a turn for the worse, not the better, in their relationship.
She looked over the side of the bed, her facial expression reflecting the coolest sort of indifference. She did not even say she was sorry, or ask him if he was hurt. All she said was, again in a commanding tone, "Ben, please get back in bed and do your husband's duty right now ... or we'll just forget about the whole thing this evening."
Ben had had enough.
He locked eyes with hers. In hers, he saw cool blueness to the point of freezing; in his, she suddenly observed a pupil that looked very dilated, black as night, surrounded by a cornea that was turning reddish-brown, fiery in color, almost hostile in expression. Before she had sufficient time to analyze the increasing hardness in his eyes-something happened to her, something totally unexpected, something that her husband had never done to her before.
He slapped her.
He slapped her, first on one cheek, then on the other, swiveling her head back in first one direction and then the other. Anger flowed through her body; she slapped him back, right on his nose, her sharp fingernails scratching him just by his mustache.
By now, Ben was too temper-ridden, too totally disgusted with her behavior, to be in a compromising mood-or to put up with her striking back.
He balled his right hand into a fist, and clipped her right on the jaw. The blow knocked her head back by at least several inches, and the upper portion of her body followed-for a few seconds. Then, stunned, she fell face down on the bed.
"Enough of that stuff, Angela!" Ben said. He did not shout, but each word sounded as if it had been hammered out of his mouth on sheets of steel. Stunned though she was she heard every word beat into her brains.
Slowly, a trifle painfully, he climbed to his feet, and edged himself back onto the bed. She was still lying still, face down, her blonde hair splashed all over her back and the sides of her face. He grabbed her by the hair, where it met the scalp on the top of her head, and roughly jerked her head back, thrusting her face just a few inches from his. He gave her a murderous look, until her eyes registered the level of fear he was looking for. He was not, at this moment, concerned with respect-he just wanted her scared shitless enough to remember who was boss. Then he let go and her head flopped down on the bed again. He rolled her body over, grabbed her by the breasts, and squeezed her tits as if they belonged to a cow. She gave a shriek, and tried to crawl away from him, to bring her hands into attack again. He released her breasts and socked her another one on the jaw; she collapsed, half-unconscious, on the bed.
He lay there, looking at the prone body of his wife for a few more minutes when an idea struck him like a body blow. He thought, So she wants to play rough ... well, two can play that game ... and right now, I'm in charge here.
He got up out of bed, and rummaged in the clothes closet for several minutes. He returned with a couple of his less-than-beloved neckties, a few belts and sash cords from her clothing, and a large kerchief. He used the kerchief to gag her in the mouth; then, he methodically tied her arms and legs to the four corners of the bed, effectively spread-eagling her. He did not, of course, know that the same thing, only vertically rather than horizontally, had been done to her on the previous evening. All he knew was that he wanted to teach her a lesson-and show her who was the tougher of the two.
When he had finished, he looked down on her, standing over the bed. Her eyes were half-closed, so he slapped her on the ass a few times. She began to stir; he slapped her on the cheeks, short stinging slaps that brought the color of red to her flesh, the color of a bruise. She opened her eyes; she tried to speak, but the gag held firm, and all she could manage was a few muffled gasps.
Now she was awakening, like Snow White, as if from a long induced sleep. She tried her limbs, discovered that she was bound to the bed. She shook her head in uncomprehending fashion. Could her husband, Ben Brinkman, have done this to her? It was not possible. She tried to move again, tried to speak. She could not. Slowly, the information penetrated her brain. Her husband had indeed done this to her. He was not putting up with any bullshit ... not any more. He meant business ... he was boss man in his house.
Her mind became like a split TV screen. On one side, Senor Sanchez loomed, sophisticated and worldly; on the other side, Ben Brinkman, bourgeois and business-oriented. Was this possible? Was her husband becoming machismo? Was Mexico working on him in some peculiar manner, as the country was on her? Just what was happening to her husband?
"Angela ... can you hear me?" Ben asked, his voice loud enough to penetrate her consciousness. "If you can ... well, I want you to nod your head. I mean ... now!"
She nodded.
He continued, "OK, that's fine. I'm sorry I had to go to these extremes, but you've been asking for it ever since we came to Mexico. I've just gotten tired of your hang-ups, we're down here to straighten ourselves out, and all you've been doing is bitching. For all I know, you've been going out and getting yourself some extra-marital action, too. Well, I won't ask you about that ... but I'm telling you that I'm your husband, I'm running the Brinkman household, and I won't put up with any more bullshit from you. You understand?"
Still angry, he waved a fist in her face. She instinctively sensed that, for once in his life, he meant business. But not as far as business was concerned. As far as she was concerned.
She also could not remember the last time that he had used the term "bullshit." It was rare for him to swear, and she sensed that only extreme provocation could make him do so. She shuddered inwardly; her husband had picked up far more machismo, it seemed, than she thought possible. Still, that was all to the good, even though it would be a long time before he could even come close to Senor Richardo Sanchez, as far as she was concerned.
"Now, Angela, I'm going to show you some things that had better straighten you out. You just let me lead you along, and don't give me any trouble, because I won't put up with it any longer. You understand?" For emphasis, he put his fist right on the edge of her jaw, with enough pressure so that she knew he would not hesitate to sock it to her again.
She nodded, her jaw pressing hard into his fist. He felt her response, and removed his fist.
He moved his hand to her vagina, and thrust the thumb of his right hand against her vaginal lips. He toyed with her hairs for a few seconds, then jabbed his thumb inside her vagina. She was dry, dry from terror. He pushed his thumb in further, until his entire thumb was buried inside her vagina. With his free hand, he began to twist her breast, his hand gripping the nipple between his fingers. She could feel the pain, both on her breast and inside her vagina, and her body twitched and made a silent protest that he was hurting her. Which, of course, was exactly what he wanted.
He screwed his thumb inside her vagina, and began to probe her innermost recesses. He noticed that her vagina was dry; he thought, The more I work out, the faster she'll get wet. He moved his thumb inside every area of membrane that he could, one of his fingers at the same time tickling her clit, which was erect and ready for satisfaction. He could feel her body reacting, first with fear, then with acquiescence. He moved his thumb more and more, probing and pushing her vaginal membranes until he could feel her liquid begin to flow, even though slowly. Ah, he thought, it doesn't take much to get to Angela ... when you know what to do ... and now I know just exactly what she likes ... and that's exactly what she's going to get.
He jabbed his thumb deeper, until he was almost at her womb. She was palpitating like a butterfly on a pin, and her back was arching, more in protest than in pleasure. She did not like having her vagina probed with a thumb; not the way her husband was doing it. He was rough, but really too rough; Senor Sanchez, she thought, would have been much more sophisticated.
And his other hand was hurting her breast, turning it red with bruises under his grinding palm and fingers.
Abruptly, he stopped, withdrawing both hands from her body. His thumb had told him she was wet enough.
Wet enough for what?
For further probing with something else.
He left her, rummaging in his suitcases for a few moments, then returning with an obsidian statue.
Not obscene, though some would call it that, but obsidian-a hard, well-polished piece of lava that was cut in the shape of one of the ancient Mexican gods. Who happened to have a phallus that was, in many respects, far longer and stronger and more erect than most men would get in a lifetime of fucking.
He shoved the cold cock inside her vagina, and she almost jerked her way off the bed. It was cold and stiff, and the way he jammed it inside her made her feel like a machine, not a woman. Which, of course, was partially his intention.
He used the obsidian statue and phallus like a divining rod, to probe her innermost responses. He shoved it deeper until she was arching with both pain and pleasure, her body taut and in a semicircle, like a sculptured bridge over a quiet stream. He jabbed her and stabbed her until she felt her liquid flowing again ... felt an orgasm begin ... could not understand why this cold stone statue could inspire her juices to flow so freely.
Again and again, he shoved the cold stone cock inside her, watching her expression change from fear and pain to pleasure and enjoyment. He watched her come and come with that cold stone cock stuck inside her vagina. He enjoyed watching her screw a statue, for that was exactly what she was doing. He knew that he was showing her who was boss and what was what. He studied the terror in her eyes, watched it turn into desire ... then fulfillment, as she came in a great liquid onrushing of orgasmic bliss with the stone statue still jammed inside her vagina. Arched her back and tensed her body against her bonds. From beneath the gag came gurgles of satisfaction.
Ben could not help but admire her.
How many women, he thought, were ever screwed by a statue? Just look at her dig into it. She's having a ball! Unbelievable!
No reason, he further reasoned, for her to have all the fun.
He withdrew the statue, yanked it right out of her vagina and threw it on the floor. From the look in her eyes as he pulled it away, he knew that he had made his point. Hurt, anguished, disappointed ... her eyes told him that she wanted something-anything-in her vagina.
"Like some good fucking, Angela?" he said, mockingly.
She nodded.
"Think I can fuck you as good as the statue?"
She hesitated. He read it in her eyes.
He slapped her on both cheeks, never breaking the motion of his arm, short stinging slaps that made her gasp with pain.
"Think I can fuck you better than the statue, Angela?"
No hesitation this time. She nodded vigorously. "That's better."
He leaned over her, so that his mouth was just inches from her ear, and said, with no hesitation, matter-of-factly, "Honey, I'm going to give you the best fuck of your life. Now, I don't know if you've been getting any action on the side-and I don't particularly care. Right now, I'm going to give you so much great loving that you'll never want it from anyone else again. Are you ready?"
She nodded. He could not see the tears forming, for just a few seconds, in her eyes, for they were gone as fast as they appeared. In Angela's mind, the split-screen TV technique was pounding at her brain cells, showing three separate and conflicting images-Juan, Ricardo and Ben. On and off, off and on, these images would flash, with a movie montage effect, sometimes one overlapping the other. She was becoming confused; she did not know whom, or what, she wanted. Juan-a beautiful young boy who knew how to handle her with the charisma of a rock idol? Ricardo-the most sophisticated gentleman she had ever met, a man who was, in some respects, so far superior to her that she did not know if she could hold him? Ben-her bourgeois husband for the past two years, boring but steady, suddenly discovering new sexual reserves and masculine toughness that she had never brought out in him before?
Which one?
But-must she choose?
Why couldn't she have all of them-at least for the remaining week of their vacation?
In her mind, she accepted, for the moment, this dilemma. She decided, to let her husband make love to her, now, to see what he could really do. Perhaps he had really found his masculinity, his machismo; perhaps Mexico had opened him up. She would see, and, if so, perhaps a new and better relationship between them was in the offing. She would see ... she would let him fuck her ... she would fuck him back as strongly as she knew how. She had no choice.
Bound and gagged to the bed-what else could she do but submit?
He climbed on top of her.
Then, he noticed that his erection was down, his penis flaccid. He laughed; it was funny, all this bullshit about who's fucking who, he thought, and here I'm so engrossed in showing my wife who's boss that I forget about my erection and it goes away.
"Well," he said, aloud, "We'll fix this up fast. Won't we, wife?" She nodded.
He began to slap her in the face with his flaccid cock. He slapped her first on the nose, then on the forehead, then on the ears. He swung his cock like a tennis racket, hitting her head as if it were a tennis ball. He finally concentrated on hitting her cheeks, slapping her from cheek to cheek, the "splat" sound echoing through the hotel room like a mournful cry. At each "splat," he could hear her exhalation of breath, feel her body cringe-until he could detect that she was liking it, enjoying it, responding with her eyes and body. She could feel her liquid flowing again, and she thought, I can't believe it ... my own husband ... giving me an orgasm without even being inside me ... he's really getting better ... he's really giving me what I want ... maybe there's some hope for our marriage after all.
It was not long before Ben's cock was stiff and hard again. He waved it in front of her eyes like a baseball bat, and she thought, If I didn't know better I'd swear it was at least an inch or two longer.
He placed it between her breasts. She liked the feel of it there. No one had ever done that to her before, least of all her unimaginative husband. Resting in the cleft between her breasts, it felt cool and comforting to her. She moved her breasts so that, like a hand, they could fondle her husband's cock. He noticed her movement, smiled, thinking, That's much better, baby, much better.
He pressed his cock against her breasts, feeling her body respond, her skin itch with desire. He liked that.
He pulled his cock from her breasts, placing the tip between her eyes, sort of threatening her with it as if it were a gun. He watched her eyes open wider and wider in both amazement and desire. He didn't really know where these ideas were coming from, but he felt sexually secure and unassailable, totally confident in what he was doing. He was going to show her, all right!
He positioned himself over her vagina.
But not in the usual way.
He lay at right angles to her body, their two bodies forming a cross. When she saw what he was doing, she gasped beneath her gag, remembering Senor Sanchez and his crucifix. He, not knowing, assumed that it was a gasp of surprise, not of recognition.
Getting on his knees, sort of holding his body over hers, he came down on her like an oil drill stabbing into hard Oklahoma earth. He cut into her like a knife, his cock stabbing directly into her open vagina-open, because he had one finger in each of her outer lips. His first thrust got him halfway in, and she squirmed beneath him as the force of his stiff cock hit her full in the vagina.
"Like some more of that, Angela?"
She nodded vigorously, her eyes saying, "Sock it to me, Ben-sock it to me!"
He withdrew, and did the same thing again.
This time, he got three-quarters of the way in, and felt her body give like foam rubber. From the muffled sounds that came from beneath her gag, he knew that she was enjoying his thrusts. He could also feel that her vagina was wet as a washrag, and that, while he was causing her a certain amount of pain, he wasn't really hurting her all that badly either.
He raised his cock again and, for the third time, came down hard on his wife. This time, he made it all the way in, thrusting so deeply that, for the first time in their marriage, she could feel the tip of his cock all the way inside, right at the very edge of her womb. He was in all the way-balls and all.
He began his motions, moving his cock around inside her vagina, making sure that his penis touched all the walls of her membranes. He could tell by the way she was responding that it was going to be the best fuck ever of their marriage-or, for that matter, at least for him, outside of their marriage.
A recent memory came back to him, a recollection of the stewardess Maria, whom he had first fucked on the plane to Mexico City. He laughed inwardly, as he thought of making it with her in the cramped conditions of the aircraft lavatory. What a contrast-between a cubicle of a washroom and a huge hotel room like this one!
He thought, I wonder if I'll ever see Maria again?
He put the memory from his mind, and returned to the business at hand-fucking his wife.
Now, his sperm was rising to the fore. She, too, was flowing freely, her body racked by the spasms of sex. He dug his cock deeper into her vagina, using his weight, his strength-anything to penetrate, to ram and slam and jam his cock inside her, to push it out the back of her flesh and through the mattress and the floor-he was driving like a truck driver, straight ahead with no nonsense.
While she was coming and coming, orgasm after orgasm tearing her body apart, not thinking but feeling that her husband was really making her respond, making her come alive at last, at long last.
He drove deeper, ever deeper, into her, until he could push his cock no further.
His cock ached, literally screamed to be released.
He came.