Chapter 1
The staccato roar of a huge, particularly noisy Diesel truck rig on the freeway, not more than fifty feet away from her bedroom window brought Rhoda fully awake, again from a restless sleep, having gone back to bed after Phil had left for work. It was nine o'clock, already, she noted as she flipped on the radio on a shelf of the headboard. She had become accustomed to the almost constant, speeding hum of the automobile traffic, but the trucks still frightened her. She had a recurring vision of the horror of a rending, splintering crash as one of the behemoths lost control and came off the freeway, slicing into their apartment and . . . ! She shook the thought from her mind, but she found it would not leave her ... Her father had been a truck driver; she had not seen him for over sixteen years, and what if. . . ! With a tremendous surge of willpower, she switched off that trend of thought. It was only a big What If, she told herself.
It's my over-active imagination. . . but I do wonder sometimes. . . whatever happened to my Daddy . . . That's natural. . . I think. . .
Unfortunately, her husband, Phil was not sympathetic with her fears.
He had told her, Rhoda, more people die from accidents in their bathrooms! The possibility of a truck coming through here is pretty slim . . . Read the statistics ..."
That's just his scientific, analytical mind working! I swear. . .he's got an explanation for everything!
She stretched under the sheet and looked languidly around their bedroom, seeing it for the thousandth time and not being able to do anything about it . . . its cramped dimensions, barely able to contain the double bed and the dresser, the small closet, jammed to overflowing with their clothing and boxes of belongings that remained unpacked because there was no place to put them in the small, one-bedroom apartment and, off in one corner, on a small table, the mess that Phil had left from his work of the evening before . . . she saw it all, and shivered with revulsion. She could not understand why Phil insisted it was cheaper to buy electronic kits and put them together himself. He was always making a mess. The array of wires, switches, transistors, resistors, his soldering gun and other small tools strewn haphazardly over the table offended her natural desire for order and tidiness, especially in the bedroom. His orders to her were specific: DON'T TOUCH! She had to admit, though, the radio he had built worked well, and his present project, a stereo record player, would be a welcome addition to their drab apartment, affording them many hours of inexpensive entertainment.
I just wish Phil wouldn't leave his things in such a mess.. . ! For a scientist. . . somebody who's supposed to be neat and orderly . . . he's the messiest guy I know.
Then, she remembered how impressed she had been when she had visited his laboratory, during an open-house affair for the families of employees. His working space had been extremely clean, neat and orderly; everything was in its place and there was a place for everything. She had decided that he was a Jekyll-Hyde character - one way at his work, another, opposite way at home with his hobby.
Her eyes moved on around the dreary room, taking in the cheap drapes at the window, through a gap of which she could see that there was another smoggy day in store for her. The Greater Seattle area was solidly smogged over for the day. Then, her disgust with the color of the paint on the walls hit her, again, as it had every day of the nine months they had lived in this run-down apartment.
Beige! I hate it! Can't apartment owners think of any other color? I get so tired of looking at these blah walls I could scream!. . . not that it would do any good. . .
A couple of weeks ago, Phil had finally become tired of listening to Rhoda's complaints and had asked the owner if he could re-paint the apartment, himself. .. even offering to furnish the paint. He had been given a definite NO for an answer. There would be no amateurish painting done by the tenants!
The sounds of small children playing in the courts and in the alley drifted up to her, their treble voices fussing, whining, laughing, arguing and crying reminded her that she still did not have a child of her own, yet. There was nothing she wanted more than a cuddly baby, the fruit of her own womb, to care for, to love, giving her own life direction and meaning in the complete involvement of a mother with a helpless, dependent infant, but Phil adamantly refused to start their family, as long as they didn't have some of the other things they wanted, first. She agreed with him that their present location was not a good place to raise children; they should have their own home in a pleasant neighborhood, close to schools and shopping center.
But, Dear Lord, I've got to have something. . . something more than this! We barely get along on Phil's salary . . . How are we ever going to save enough money for the down payment on a house . . . and closing costs.. ..and insurance... and I don't know what all else? It almost seems we're in a blind alley . . . trapped!
"Damn!" she said aloud, allowing herself the luxury of the expletive to express her profound frustrations.
She kicked off the sheet, sat up, stuffed her feet into worn, once fluffy, bedroom slippers and padded into the bathroom with its aging, greying fixtures. Try as she might she had never been able to get them clean, having tried several cleansers and bleaches on them, but it was a hopeless task that forced her, finally, to give up in disgust. Now, she only cleaned the ceramic and porcelain surfaces for sanitary reasons, knowing only in her mind that her bathroom was sparkling clean, even if she couldn't see it because of the drab greyness of the horribly antiquated fixtures.
Pulling the nightgown over her head, she stuffed it into the dirty clothes hamper, noting that she would have to do the washing, today, in the coin-operated machines located in the room just below, and that reminded her of another annoyance - the sounds of the machines came to her constantly through the thin walls. It seemed to her that someone was always washing there, day or night. She told herself that some people never considered the time they chose to wash, knowing full well the noisy machines were a disturbance, especially late at night.
It'll be the happiest day of my life. . . when we can move out of this dump!
Ruefully, then, she remembered that they had moved three times before, but this apartment complex was really no better than the others in which they had to live. Maybe this one was a little newer . . . not quite so run-down .. . the clientele not quite so poor, but it was still not very desirable. No one could convince her otherwise.
Rhoda busied herself preparing for her cleansing douche. It was a ritual - always the same with her - drawing the hot water, washing the attachments, again - even though they were already clean when she put them away - filling the bag with the hot water, adding the antiseptic powder, lowering herself into the bathtub to insert the curved fountain syringe into her tight, blonde-hair-lined vaginal opening, feeling the relaxing warmth of the hot water in the coral-lined depths of her femaleness, cleansing her of the sticky seminal maleness Phil had deposited there, giving her a sense of virginal cleanliness as she watched the long strings of whitish sperm being flushed from her and ridding her of the aftermath their love-making left; she watched with relief as it was slowly sucked down the bathtub drain, almost putting the life-giving fluid in the same category, in her mind, as the coffee grounds from the last evening's dinner.
As she ran the water into the tub, this morning, waiting for it to get hot, the reflection of her nude figure in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door caught her attention. She didn't often look at her own nakedness.
Somehow, her own flesh repulsed her. Her beautiful body had brought her nothing but agony; it was too perfect, too desirable, and she could not understand why this beauty of hers had not brought happiness into her life.
On this morning, though, she felt constrained to study her body, critically, in the mirror.
She was a petite five feet five inches tall, perfectly proportioned from the top of her golden blonde hair to the tips of her carefully manicured toenails. Her small but full and firm young breasts, marbled just underneath the milky white skin with faint bluish veins, giving them a translucent quality of depth, jutted out proudly from her rounded chest, the tiny, pink nipples rising from their darker aureola, their tips turned up, slightly, and the smooth, white skin of the globular tits drawing taut as she raised her arms over her head, posing provocatively, sexily, the way Phil was always wanting her to pose for him. I don't see why he's always wanting me to parade around in front of him. . . naked like this. I almost died the time he wanted to take some pictures of me! What does he want something like that for. . . ? After all, he's got me. . . in the flesh. I'd die. . . simply die, if anybody else ever saw a nude picture of me! And, Phil seemed so hurt when I told him I'd never allow it. Worse than that, though. . . I don't know what I'd do if another man ever saw me. . . actually saw me stark naked! It - It was hard enough to get used to having Phil look at me. . . and he's my husband!
Now, her eyes ran down over her smooth flat stomach, the navel hidden in its deep, circular recess, a line of short, silky and fine, almost indiscernible golden, blonde hair pointing like an arrow to the triangle of softly curling, golden blonde hirsute adornment nestling, pristinely, atop her somewhat prominent pubic mound, the pink lips of her slit just above the enshrined clitoris peeping shyly through the light, sparse hair, her tiny waist swelling into softly rounded, feminine curving hips leading to tapering thighs, her knees linking them to the gentle curve of calf and small, trim ankle. Her feet were tiny and narrow with high, strong arches.
She turned to view the globoid protuberances of her smoothly drawn and formed buttocks, the gluteal muscles rippling under the satiny white skin as she moved about to see better, as she hollowed and dimpled prettily and her eyes were drawn to the twin hollows on either side of her spine and just above the swell of her behind.
Well. . . I certainly don't have a classic figure... I think my rump's a little too heavy. . . maybe. . . and my breasts are on the small side. Phil seems to make so much over me. . . I just can 7 understand why he goes so wild. . . telling me how beautiful I am . . . then tearing, mauling and biting at me. . . and. . . and ramming his hard penis in me! God! He's so huge. . . so long and hard! Sometimes, I think he - he wants to . . . destroy me with it! I'll never understand how I take all of him up inside of me. . .
The water coming into the bathtub was steaming hot now she noticed, finally, and went about the ritual chore of preparing her douche; then, lowering herself into the bathtub, spreading her thighs and inserting the surgically clean syringe, carefully, into her tight little vaginal orifice, and discovering in the process that she was sore and irritated in and around the tender female opening down there between her legs. Allowing the water to drain from her, she probed in and around the coral moistness with her finger to determine the extent of the havoc Phil had wrought upon her in his frenzied sexual assault of last night. In her own mind, she could think of their lovemaking, last night, in no other terms. She had been ravished!
OOOoooh! Oh! That hurts! Why did I let him do it. . . ? I should have stopped him . . . made him wait. . . like I have to do . . . sometimes. He can be so mean. . . and cruel, at times. . . And, I just don't know how to handle him . . . Things seem to get so mixed-up. . . I don't know what to do!
Probing deeper into the smooth-walled warmth of herself, she pushed against her cervix and winced with pain, again.
Oh God! Phil really did it to me, this time! I don't know when I've been so sore. . . except when we were first married. He almost split me in two, last night. . . from the way it feels! If he hadn't stopped off on the way home and had those drinks. . . he might have been more gentle with me. Dear God! Please! I wouldn't want him to start drinking. . . all the time. . . possibly become a drunk. . . I-like my Daddy was! I don't think I could ever take that!
The memories flooded back to her, and she remembered . . . remembered too much, seeing it, again, in the eyes and mind of the little girl she was, without understanding . .. without perspective.
There it was! All of it there, with its rawness and crudity rampant, and the adult, married woman could not, indeed, would not allow herself to believe that what had happened then, in her childhood, should not affect her actions and reactions, should not shape her attitudes and color her emotional life in the living present; the mature adult comes to realize this sooner or later and is happier for it when he can begin to live a new life, for himself; however, little Rhoda, a tiny girl just past five years old, was mother to the woman who was now in her twenty-first year, and the tragedy of Rhoda, the wife, was that those memories of long-ago, ingrained into the mind and neuro-reflexes of Rhoda, the moppet, were in control of the sex-life of Mrs. Phil Grey.
Phil, her husband, had hurt her, last night; he had given her pain and discomfort. .. and he had done it with that monstrous thing between his legs. . . that thing that was a punishing bludgeon... a veritable truncheon! God! Oh, God! No!
Suddenly, Rhoda hated her husband! He was a beast ... a beast of a man .. . just like little Rhoda's Daddy!
The girl-child, Rhoda, had been awakened from her fitful slumbers, again, by the sounds of loud voices, yelling and screaming, punctuated by vulgar curses and the slap of flesh on flesh. It was her Mommy and Daddy in the next room - the bedroom - and Daddy must not be feeling very good, again. Her Daddy was sick; at least, that's what her mother had told her.
Poor Daddy, she thought. Maybe he needs his medicine.
She had climbed out of her bed, groping in the darkness for her favorite dolly, finding it, finally, and clasping it to her thin, little breast, her heart banging at trip-hammer speed against her ribs, for she had been told not to get out of bed for any reason! If she needed something she was to call for Mommy or Daddy to get it for her . . . but Daddy was sick . . . her Mommy was crying.
Poor, poor Mommy . . . crying because Daddy is so sick. . .
The linoleum covered floor was cold on her tiny feet, and she crawled back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged and hugging her nice dolly to her. She was torn between two forces; she wanted to help, to love her father and mother, cuddle with them in their bed to make her Daddy feel better and her Mommy would stop crying; on the other hand, there was the fear of what would happen to her if she disobeyed. More than once her father's big hand had been applied to her tiny, round bottom for minor infractions of the strict rules he had laid down for her. Humming a little tune and rocking back and forth to the rhythm, she cooed, soothingly, to her ragamuffin doll. She could take care of her dolly and be an awfully good mother to her, for mother was a magical word to the little girl who was Rhoda Steel. If the truth were known, to her, at that time, father was just a little lower than the sun, moon and stars, for such is the worship of the girl-child for her father . . . when she is five.
There had been few sounds from her parents' bedroom for some moments, and her eyes became heavy with sleep, again, the darkened room, the lullaby she was singing to her dolly had mesmerized her. She snuggled back into the warmth of her bed, pulling the blankets to her chin and not forgetting to cover her dolly, too.
Suddenly, the still night was shattered by a loud, cracking sound . .. the sound of an open hand on bare flesh, and her mother screamed!
"Oh, God! Ray! Please . .. please, don't hit me, again!" she pleaded, her voice awful in its desperation.
Rhoda jerked, sat up wide-eyed, awake, terrified and clasped her dolly close to her. It was Mommy . . . and Daddy was hitting her!
And Daddy hits awful hard, too!
"Open your legs . . . you goddamned bitch!" her father roared.
"No!" her mother's voice, sobbing but determined.
CRACK!
"You bastard!" her mother screamed. CRACK! CRACK!
Her father's voice, gratingly, again, "bitch!"
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
"OOOOooooohhhh! Ray!" wailingly, from her mother.
Then, the mother sobbed, uncontrollably, the heart-rending sounds of defeat coming clearly to the little girl huddled in her bed, helpless, too young to understand, too little to be exposed to the sordidness in the next room; she could only absorb like a sponge, the cruel words knifing into her child's mind as she sat and stared into the darkness, fear gripping her, holding her fast, not even allowing her to cry out. . . cries that might attract attention to herself. Rhoda might then feel her father's wrath, his hand smacking her bottom until it was red and smarting. The great fear in her caused her to gasp back her own sobs.
Her mother's voice came to her again, in agony, "Please, Ray ... please ... You're hurting me!"
The child could stand no more! Terror in her, blood racing, Rhoda climbed from her bed; she had to go to her Mommy.
My Mommy's hurting, she told her doll. Daddy's hurting Mommy. . . and Daddy needs his medicine! Mommy said! 'cause Daddy's sick!
Creeping from her room to the entrance of her parents' bedroom, the little girl hugged her dolly to her scrawny chest and pushed at the slightly opened door. It swung inward, silently, revealing the scene to her childish gaze. A small bedside lamp glowed, dimly, casting enough light so that she could see quite well.
She stopped, staring, her machine-gun pulse hammering in her, and she could not understand it. Daddy was on top of Mommy!
Her father was cradled between her mother's long, tapering, white legs, pinning them wide apart, cruelly, her Daddy's pee-pee, huge, thick and long was pressed hard up against the lightly hair-lined thighs. The narrow, coral-tinged slit glistened dully in the dim light, and the mouth-shaped, slightly purplish lips of her vagina were stretched nakedly open, allowing Rhoda to gaze with terror into that secret place where Mommy sometimes had blood and had to wear a bandage to make it all well, again.
Rhoda looked and looked but she could see no blood; there was no place she could see where Daddy had hit her Mommy ... no red hand marks on her smoothly rounded bottom.
Daddy didn't spank Mommy. Why was Mommy crying so hard?
Now, her attention was drawn to her father's penis. She had only seen it once of twice before, dangling and flopping loosely as he had stood in the bathroom toweling himself, vigorously, and she, little-girl-like, had wandered into his presence, only to be sent screechingly on her way as he roughly ejected her with a chastising swat. Now, her Daddy's pee-pee lay huge and wooden in the softly pink-edged slit of her mother's hair-lined crotch, the two egg-shaped testicles hanging down in their wrinkled sac, below, the foreskin sliding back, smoothly, and the bulbous blood-filled head, shining with moisture on its satiny smooth skin, snaked out, bursting forth like some primeval monster crawling out of its evil lair. It was huge. Rhoda's eyes widened in disbelief. Fresh terror sliced into her. This was not the part of Daddy she had seen in the bathroom.
Rhoda had stood still, transfixed, unable to tear her eyes away from the horrifying spectacle. She watched, terror and fear clutching her, as her father's hand reached down to between them, his ringers curling around the long, hard shaft of lust-filled maleness and raised his slimy muscled behind high in the air, aiming the great cock straight at her mother's soft, naked and defenseless cunt, its length jerking in his hand, a small tear of clear, viscous liquid weeping from its hardened tip, as he paused there, momentarily, before the brutal assault. Then, she saw his muscles tense, heavily, his buttocks hollow, and he plunged forcefully with all his strength, stabbingly, driving the tumescent phallus deep into the tight, now moistly ready channel waiting naked and vulnerable there between her mother's milky white thighs. He had sunk his long, thick, lust-inflated cock into her as far as it would go. His balls slapped dully against her upturned bottom as pelvic bones smacked into each other with a resounding whap.
Her Mommy had moaned, chokingly, up into Daddy's face as though she had been stabbed, her knees jerking up, involuntarily, as she screwed her hips back and down into the soft mattress to escape the cruel impalement, her toes curling inward to the soles of her slim feet with the agony of it.
Rhoda didn't understand what she had just seen, but her mother's moan of anguish told her Mommy was hurting again.
Daddy will make Mommy bleed, again. Daddy's hurting Mommy there!
Then, her father had withdrawn, slightly, the thick, fleshy column sliding out for several inches before he thrust it forward and in, again, and her mother moaned, loudly, incessantly. Once more he came out of the widely spread channel, until the underside of the blood-engorged head showed redly in the moistness of her mother's coral-lined pussy. Unexplainably, then, her mother's long, full, softly tapering white legs had wrapped, suddenly, the twin-cheeked tautness of his sinewy-muscled buttocks, straining to pull the great length and breadth of him back inside her. The cords on the inside of her marble-white thighs flexed, tautly, as she shoved her golden, down-covered crotch back up over his whitely glistening prick trying to swallow the whole of it, again, her moist-walled, cuntal mouth climbed straight up his vibrating shaft, her hollowing buttocks lifting several inches off the bed as she struggled, desperately, to reabsorb, in its entirety, the thick, lusty cock her hungry cunt now demanded.
A wet, viscous sound drifted across the bedroom to the ears of the watching, listening girl-child, who stared, wide-eyed, transfixed at a segment of the adult world she could not fathom. She was too terrified to move a muscle or utter a whimper.
As she had watched, her Mommy's flexing hips began to beat, rhythmically, up and down the smooth, fleshy pole imbedded in her softly clasping love channel, the hair-covered sac of her Daddy's balls slapping in time against the tiny, faintly puckered anus below. Then, her mother was speaking, her voice choked, almost incoherent with her mounting passion.
"Goddamn it, Ray! Fuck me! That's what you want... isn't it? Come on! Fuck me . . . hard!" her mother moaned.
Rhoda had never heard the word before. It meant nothing to her.
Rhoda's Daddy on top of her Mommy had said nothing. His breath came in panting gasps, his mouth open and jaw asag.
Snake-like, her father's hand curled down under her Mommy's wildly pumping buttocks, and the tip of his middle finger began to encircle, tantalizingly, the rubbery, flexing nether ring of the tightly puckered anus nestled between the full-mounded hemispheres of her ass that slaved away so assiduously. His finger played there for a long moment, teasingly, suddenly bringing a high-pitched wail of pain from her mother's lips as it disappeared inside, her tortured body twisting and turning to escape the unnatural ravishment of her anal passage.
"OOOoooohhh! Ray! Ray! You bastard! You're hurting me! OOOoooh!" she screamed.
Her legs had kicked out as she squealed, again, in pain and torment, toes curling, and then her legs had locked tightly around him, drawing him into her, her wildly gyrating hips, uncontrollably, pumping viciously against both probing instruments ravishing her loins.
The frantic, entangled limbs of her parents on the bed commenced to move faster and faster, her father's huge, thick, fleshy rod flashing whitely in glistening dully with viscous moistness, their naked loins smashing together with a harsh, slapping sound. Now, her father's hand with its probing finger came out of her with a faint, popping sound, and he supported himself on both hands, his hips moving ever faster and more powerfully, as he drove his giant cock deeper and deeper into the female softness of her mother's loins, punishingly.
Again, her mother screamed, in agony, but the sound of it was somehow different. The watching child, of course, could not interpret it, could not tell how it was different. She knew only that her mother was screaming.
"AAAAAaaaagggghhh! Ray! OOOOoooh, Ray! I'm just.. . about ready ... to cum! It's sooooOOOoo goooood! OOOOoooOOOhhh! Ray! AAAAAAAAAaaaaggghhh!"
Her Mommy squealed out her orgasmic release, and the girl-child, Rhoda, could stand it no longer. She had to do something to help her mother. Her mother was hurting bad!
Rhoda screamed, "Stop! Stop hurting my Mommy!"
She climbed up on her parents' bed, her tiny fists beating an ineffectual tatoo against her Daddy's back.
"Son-of-a-bitch! How did the brat get in here?" her father roared, as he rolled away to his side, his hardened cock pulling from his wife, spewingly, his hot, white sperm hosing from him in forceful jets, arching to puddle on her mother's thigh and running thickly down to the bedsheet.
He sat up, grabbed Rhoda and shook her, her head flopping as he yelled at her, incoherently, his quick anger raging out of control.
"Rhoda! Goddamn you! What the hell... busting in here like this! What do you think you're doing . . . brat? Busting in ... ruining everything! I'm going to bust you!" he trumpeted.
His big hand smacked her on her tiny bottom, again and again, the pain causing her to scream ever louder and louder, but he would not stop at two or three of the powerful, flat-handed blows to her buttocks; insanely, he pounded on and on, roaring out his rage and frustration.
"This'll teach you . .. you little brat!" he yelled.
"Ray! Please, Ray! For Christ's sake! Stop! She's only a baby!" her mother pleaded with him.
"Stay the hell out of this, Clara!" he grunted.
Her mother sat up to restrain his hand, grabbing his sinewy forearm and hanging on, tightly, but he shook her off, his hard fist coming up short and fast to catch her flush on the jaw. She dropped back on the bed without a sound, unconscious, her head lolling back, forearms thrown over her face, instinctively, hair awry and her legs splayed obscenely apart. Then, he threw the child from him, giving her a violent shove out the bedroom door.
"Now, get back in bed! And, don't you ever come in our bedroom ... at night... again!" her father ground out at her.
Rhoda fell violently in the hallway, picked herself up and ran sobbing into her own room, crawling into the safety of her bed and covering herself up. Then, she remembered her dolly. She had dropped it in her parents' bedroom.
Pitifully, so sobbed out her loss, "I-I.. . want. .. m-my d-d-dolly!"
Her father had come into her room, then, the doll in his big hand. He hurled it with force toward her bed, its plastic head shattering into a thousand pieces against the wall, and he had turned and strode, naked and terrible from her life.
The following afternoon she cowered in her mother's protective arms, as she watched her Daddy put suitcases and cardboard boxes in his car and drive away without a word. She had never seen him again.
Mrs. Rhoda Grey of the here and now finished, quickly, the disagreeable business of the douche, washed down the bathtub, carefully, and drew herself a warm, luxurious bath. She soaked for a long time, trying to make her mind a blank, perhaps, symbolically, trying to wash away the stains on her mind; the emotional trauma of re-living the horrible scene of her childhood had been too much for her. She had learned, over the years, however, to blot out unpleasant memories, such as this one, at least for a time, but they always recurred. She had not learned that it was necessary for her peace of mind to rearrange her thinking .. . not letting the past affect her life. The actions of her parents in the dead past should have had no meaning for her in the living present. She had not begun to live her own life, yet; she was a half-living mirror reflecting too well a shadowy sordid past.
As she was dressing, after her relaxing bath, the telephone rang. She dashed to the living room to answer the insistent ring.
An impersonal female voice on the wire, said, "Mrs. Grey? Seattle City Schools, personnel office . . . We have scheduled an appointment for a personal interview at 1:30 this afternoon. Will you be able to keep the appointment?"
"Yes ... why yes, I can. I'll be there!" Rhoda bubbled.
She had almost forgotten that she had filled out an application form, on the spur of the moment, one day last week, thinking that if she were to go to work, the extra income would help her and Phil to realize some of their dreams and plans all the sooner. Teaching had not been foremost in her mind when she had taken her degree in Fine Arts; she had envisioned a professional career for herself in commercial art. Marriage had changed her plans. Phil had not wanted her to work. Now, she saw her potential employment as a way out of their financial dead-end.
She had not taken any education courses, but she had been assured by the secretary who had taken her application that it was possible to take those courses while she, herself, was teaching. The prospect was enticing to her.
Returning to the bedroom, she rummaged in her purse searching for bus-fare money. She found enough loose change for the bus and for lunch, deciding that she could pick up a hot dog and an orange drink at one of the small lunch stands near the downtown office of the school district.
She looked at the pitifully small amount of money in her hands and decided that the clothes washing she needed to do would just have to wait. There wasn't enough money for both; of course, the trip to the school office was the more important.
Rhoda dressed, carefully, her hair and make-up tasteful, heightening her natural beauty with understatement, and she was soon ready to leave. She felt buoyant and at ease. Happily, she thought she could very well have some good news for Phil, this evening, if the interview went well with the school people. She felt confident she could change Phil's mind about her not working. If she already had the job, he'd have to concede; she would be holding the winning ace .. . wouldn't she .. . ?
Suddenly, her train of thought was interrupted by a more urgent, annoying thought. She checked the medicine cabinet in the bathroom to make sure. She needed to buy more birth-control pills, but if she took this trip downtown to see about a teaching position there wouldn't be enough money for this all-important purchase. Oh, well, she'd ask Phil for the money and get them, tonight, before the drugstore closed. Remembering the coin bank they kept in the book case, one of the type of saver-banks that looked like a book, she checked it, shaking it vigorously. It was empty! Phil must have taken all the coins in it, she decided .. . But for what?
Damn! That's that! Ill just have to wait until tonight! If I don't get them ... Phill'll just have to wait. . . for his sex!
Her trip downtown was uneventful. The personnel office was crowded with applicants. She had to wait a long time, but her interview was short. The school district was interested in hiring her; there were several art positions open in various of the high school, and she could work with a provisional credential while she garnered the necessary credits in education. One thing Rhoda had not counted on: There was a fifteen dollar fee she would have to pay out for an evaluation of her college credits. She had to send for official transcripts relating to her degree work and send her application along with the fifteen dollars to the State Department of Education at Olympia. She hadn't realized there would be so much red tape, as she came away from the office, her head full of verbal instructions and her hands full of brochures and forms. She just had to have the money for this purpose, but the only way she could get it was to ask Phil for it. She'd ask him, tonight, she resolved; after all, she was just as good as hired, already.
Imagine! Me!. .. Rhoda Grey is going to be a teacher! I'll probably be more scared of the kids than they will be of me. .. Especially, those big high school boys!
Returning to the apartment, she went over to the brochures, studying salary schedules and employment benefits and filling out as much of the application forms as she could.
Turning to her housework, she did up the necessary chores, quickly, and at 5:30 she began to prepare a simple but nutritious meal for them; Phil was usually home by 6:00, if he didn't get caught in a freeway traffic jam.
However, Phil was not home by 6:30, and she put the food aside to warm up, again, when he would arrive. He was still not home at 8:00. Rhoda was really worried, now.
By 8:30 she was almost hysterical. Visions of flaming accidents on the freeway, of muggings or riots ... any number of violent things she imagined that could have happened to Phil passed, in succession, through her active mind. Finally, at 9:04 she heard his car as he parked it in the covered space beneath their apartment.
Rhoda met him at the door, flinging herself with tears of relief into his arms.
"Phil! Oh, Phil! I was so worried about you!" she sobbed, hysterically.
He held her close, the fumes of the alcohol on his breath drifting strongly to her. Phil had been drinking; his words were slurred, slightly as he spoke.
"Sorry .. . Rhoda . . . Stopped to have a couple o' drinks on th' way home . . . some o' th' fellas ..." he mumbled.
She heaved a sigh of relief. His drinking was rare and irregular - although this was the second night in a row he had arrived home inebriated - and Rhoda didn't like for him to drink; however, she felt that having him home safe but drunk was infinitely so much better than any one of those horrible things her imagination had conjured up while she was waiting so alone and lonely for him to come home.
Leaning into his arms, trembling, she sought there the solace she needed from her own mind-fright of the past several hours.
"I-I wish you had called me..." she started.
His reaction was different than she had expected; to her, her question was a typical, innocent female demand.
"Why the hell should I?" he bristled. "You checkin' up on me . . . all the time?"
"No . . . I-I just didn't know . . . where you were, Phil. .. and I-I..." she half-apologized stopping when she saw his dark look, not wanting to provoke an argument... then, rushing on with a happier thought, "I've got some good news..."
"Well, get the hell off my back!" he flared, cutting her off.
The cruel words stung her. She put her arms tightly around him, grinding her loins into him, feeling the instant hardness of him, there, as she tried to show him that she was concerned, really concerned for him, because she loved him.
"I-I love you .. . Phil! It's because I love you ... so much! Don't you understand .. . that?" she said, desperation in her voice.
Then, his mouth was on hers, hungrily, his tongue lashing into her mouth, probingly, his passion rising, quickly, fiercely, within him, his penis jerking in his pants, as he captured her in his arms, pressing her to him and his hands moving to her buttocks to pull her in closely, roughly to him.
"Let's go to bed, doll!" he said, huskily, into her mouth, his hands busy on her body.
"Now . . . Phil? I've fixed dinner for you . . . don't you want to eat . . . first . . . ? she asked.
"No . . . All I want's you . . . right now! Come on!" he rasped, as he grabbed her hand to lead her to the bedroom.
She resisted, pulling back from him. "Not now, darling . .. let's wait..." she persisted.
Animal sounds came from his throat. His hand shot out, flat and true to catch her on the cheek with a resounding slap.
"I said, now! Goddamn it!" he roared at her.
Rhoda cringed back and away from him, shock and terror in her eyes. Her free hand went to her smarting cheek.
"OOOOoooh! Phil!" she sobbed, her heart breaking within her as she stared at him without comprehension.
Her voice was as remote to him as if she were speaking from another world. Roughly, he jerked her by the hand, pulled her into the bedroom and shoved her sprawling to the bed.
"Bitch!" he gritted. "I'm tired of this crap . .. ! Always tryin' to put me off.. . when I want it! I want to fuck you, now!"
Phil reached for her, his fingers like talons, "You going to get those clothes off... or do I rip 'em off?!" he threatened.
Dully, dutifully, she obeyed, removing her clothing, mechanically, disbelief surging through her; it was impossible that Phil - her own husband - was acting like this . . . like an animal... forcing her to have sex with him . .. actually raping her. Yes, that's what it was . .. Phil was raping her.
Oh, Dear God! Does it have to be like this. . . ? Do I have to go through the same thing my Mommy did? I can't believe it! Phil! Oh, Phil! I love you! Please. .. please, Dear Lord. . . don't let my husband treat me like this! Sweet Jesus! I need your help . .. !
Her clothes off, now, she sat, nakedly dejected on the edge of the bed. Phil, meanwhile, had thrown off his own clothing and stood by the bed, his cock erect, standing up, proudly, like a truncheon against his hairy abdomen; then, he was on her, clamping her to the bed with one heavily muscled arm, while the other hand moved, rapaciously, over the tender, supple contours of her rigid yet unresisting young body, squeezing and kneading, fiercely, savagely, at her pure, white, fully rounded breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at the tiny, coral nipples, until they stood out firm and erect. Then, his mouth dropped, greedily, to feed, upon them, chewing hungrily at their tips, until he felt his teeth break the tender skin of them; the resilient flesh gave way before his savage onslaught and there was, suddenly, the taste of her warm, salty-sweet blood oozing into his mouth and spreading over his lashing tongue.
"OOOOOoooooh! No! NOOOOooooo! Phil. .. please . . . not like this! You're hurting me!" she moaned, pleadingly, but her words fell on deaf ears.
He held her desperate, straining body helplessly pinioned to the bed, imprisoning her with his superior weight and strength, his heavy, tensed chest weighing down upon her like a great stone. Her long, blonde hair began to thrash, as she flailed her head from side to side in agony, her lovely face twisted into a grotesque grimace of fright and terror.
The horrified disbelief registered in her eyes and face, but Phil ignored it; he was intent upon one thing only ... his own sexual satisfaction. He wanted to fuck this lovely too-sweet wife of his, now! Nothing else mattered! He was going to fuck her silly, by God!
Turning a deaf ear to her groaning, incoherent cries of pain, he bounced on top of her, his drunken mind reeling as he forced his trim hips brutally between her long, slim legs, wedging himself, heavily, between her thighs, splaying them out, cruelly, and securing her jerking, hollowing buttocks to the soft mattress, securely. She was trapped.
The soft, golden down of her crotch brushed teasingly against his hard throbbing cock, enticing him to utter unintelligible babblings of frantic, uncontrolled lust.
"I'm going to fuck you to hell and back . . . fuck you until you can't stand up . . . Goddamn, you goodie, goodie girl!" he croaked.
Rhoda moaned, not daring to speak for fear he would hit her again; she had visions of her lovely face scarred and mutilated, and the fear in her stilled her tongue.
Her husband spread her thighs even farther apart with his knees and ground his pelvis hard into her squirming, defenseless and naked loins. The hollows of her buttocks jerked, spasmodically, attempting to escape him, as he reached down between them to grasp his spasming prick and worked the blood-inflated head of it up and down in her moist, tight slit, the red cowl moving in her narrow hair-lined furrow until he found the snug portal to the velvet-lined, fleshy passage between her legs and rammed it in hard, with all his strength of back and legs, the length of him going into her with one long, agonizing plunge.
She wilted before his attack, wailing in pain, her tormented body thrashing on the bed, her hips jerking back into the soft mattress, but she was impaled on his hardened rod of flesh ... impaled like a biologist's specimen on a display card, her legs flailing out wildly in her crazed effort to escape.. . but there was no escape.
His rock-hard shaft of lust-filled maleness battered deeper into her warm, yielding flesh until his hairy pelvis crashed into hers with a resoundingly painful slap. Only a little stretch of his cock showed above her cuntal lips, as he held it there, rigidly completely submerged in the secret recesses of her quivering belly, the warm, wet walls of her unwilling cunt clasped tightly around the great length and breath of his phallus.
Phil didn't stop. He couldn't stop, then, moreover, he didn't even give her a chance to adjust to the presence of his giant cock buried so deeply, to the hilt, in her pussy. He just began to fuck, drubbing in and out of her cunt like some feral, rutting animal, his one lustful thought to shoot his hot, sticky load of waiting semen deep up inside her soft, white belly, where it belonged. After all, she was his wife!
Pounding on and on, he came to his climax, swiftly and completely, filling her with the hot, viscous fluids of his demanding loins. He collapsed, groaning, on top of her as the last pumping sensations milking his testicles of their load were gradually subsiding.
Rhoda had not reacted .. . indeed, could not react, erotically to this loathsome rape of her genitals. She could not believe that it had happened. Her own husband had just raped her! She lay dry-eyed under him, her shock draining her of all feeling ... all emotion. She felt like a husk, thrown aside, after the succulent roasted corn has been eaten.
Finally, after long minutes, Phil stirred and rolled over from on top of her, his now tumescent prick pulling from her with a sucking, fluid sound. -He had come to his senses, partially, realizing what he had really done.
He tried to apologize. Desperately, he endeavored to get even the faintest response of forgiveness from her. He told her he was genuinely sorry for allowing his unbridled lust to overcome him. It was useless. Rhoda lay on the bed, unmoving, unseeing, unhealing ... and mute.
Phil arose from the bed overwhelmed with disgust for his actions, and he asked for a final time, "Rhoda . . . sweetheart... will you please forgive me ... ?" He was contrite.
Looking at him coldly, her words like the keen edge of a knife, she said, "If you're through using me for the night.. . would you mind covering me up?"
Gently, now, he complied with her request. He tried, again, "I-I'm sorry . .. Rhoda . .. You know ... I really do ... love you ..."
But she turned her back to him, as she coldly said, "Turn out the light as you leave!"
"I'm not going anywhere..." he said, puzzled.
Her voice was flat, dull, "You're not going to sleep with me!"
Gathering his clothes and a blanket, he turned to leave the room; again, he tried, "You won't change your mind. ..?"
"Goddamn it!" she screamed. "Leave me alone!"
Her husband left the bedroom to sleep on the couch; then, and only then, did she allow herself the luxury of tears.
Oh, God! My poor Mommy! Now, I know what it must have been like for her! Men! They're beasts... sex-crazy monsters! I hate him. .. right now! . . . But, God! I do love him ... so much! Phil! Phil. . . I love you .../þ/ want to be the right kind of wife! Please, Dear Lord, help me! Help me to be the right kind of' wife. .. a good wife for him!
The morbid past and the horrifying present crowded in upon her, suffocating her, paralyzing her will.. . and it was too much for her. Only the cleansing tears were left to her.
A final clutching thought came to her before she drifted off into a fitful, restless sleep ... a nightmare sleep ... and she could not tell the difference between the dream and reality. That thought raced through her mind and stabbed a new fear into her. She had not gotten the pills!
God! What if I get pregnant.. . ?! I wouldn't want a child begotten like this. . . in rape!.. . Even if the rapist is my husband!