The twin halves of the mighty back, the spine deep between them, glistened with the sexual sweat of the big man's all-out efforts.
As he and the woman beneath him bounced and bounced, the bed springs creaking beneath their combined weight, their frantic action.
And the woman, completely covered by him, only the bottoms of her feet and part of her bent legs visible, shrieked and gasped her delight as the long, thick, hard, black salami pistoned in and out of her hot, drooling cunt.
It seemed that they were at their peak.
But it went on and on, an athletic as well as a sexual feat.
The temperature of the bedroom was at least fifteen degrees warmer than the rest of the house.
And the difference was all due to the heat generated by the couple in the bed.
"Sock it to me! Sock it to me! Oh! Ream my fucking cunt with that ramrod of yours! Oh! Aaah! Ahaha! Oh, Rufe! You don't know how much I wanted, how much I needed this!"
On and on she went, now expressing her passion in words, now in wordless exclamations.
And now, she was shrieking her pleasure, her long, keening moans echoing in the narrow confines of the bedroom.
As the big black man continued to plough away, big, dark balls locked to the base of his plunging plunger.
And the dark, wet spot that formed beneath the juncture of their two bodies, his huge cock turning her pussy into a round, sucking mouth, was spreading rapidly.
And, had anyone been there to see it, the dull light of day in the bedroom cast a soft silvery glow over the mass of black muscle, beaded now with sweat that was beginning to run in rivulets off of him.
Had anyone been there to see it.
And there was someone.
Caspar stood there in the doorway.
But he was not an intruder, had not wandered in by mistake.
It was his house.
It was his bedroom.
And that was his wife, Ramona, underneath the black stranger she had called Rufe. He could tell. It was her voice.
And he stood there, transfixed, not knowing what to do.
And so, as usual, he did nothing, waiting there patiently, silently, for the action to come to its inevitable conclusion.
And it did.
So that Caspar could see the strokes of the powerful black erection as they lengthened and became more erratic.
So that now they were irregular, drawing almost full length out of the drooling cunt.
Only to go all the way back in, creating a collar of white, creamy jism, forced out of her pussy by the size of the great organ and the volume of the sperm at each spasm of the man's climax.
As the hot pussy matched him, spasm for spasm, with the convulsions, the reflexes of her multiple orgasms.
And at last, like a mighty locomotive coming to a stop in the station, the muscular buttocks and broad, strong back, the hefty, corded mass of the black thighs ceased their motion, coming to a rest on top of the woman.
And Caspar saw her legs go slack, out to both sides of the powerful black hips.
And Caspar remained there, watching in silence, as the black man slowly got up off her.
So that now he was on his knees at the foot of the bed, still panting and sweating, facing her.
And she, smiling up at him, sat up, her big boobs hanging massively from her chest, her hand reaching for his cock, still huge, detumescing slowly now, its surface slimy with jism and pussy juice.
And she looked at it as she hefted its wet mass in the palm of her hand.
"You were terrific!" she said. "That was just what I needed.
"I could take tha-well! Look who's here!
"And just how long have you been standing there, you little creep?"
And the black man's close-cropped head whirled suddenly, alarm showing in his wide white eyes.
And he saw Caspar.
And sprang off the bed, prick hobbling, huge and wet, before him, as he towered over Caspar.
"Hey, listen, man, like, ah'm real sorry, unnastan'?
"But I mean, like, it wasn't mah idea, see?
"I mean, I was jus' inna supermahkit doin' some shoppin', an' she-"
"Forget it, Rufe!" Ramona said. "You don't hafta tell numbnuts there a fuckin' thing.
"Ignore him!
"Relax!
"Shower's right through there. "Help yourself."
Eyes warily remaining on Caspar, Rufe said, "Gots ta hab me a shar, all right.
"Cain't be goin' home ta da waf an' keeds smellin' an' lookin' lak 'is.
"Hey, man, lak ah tole ya, ah'm real sorry.
"Ah be takin' ma shar now.
"Y'all-whatevah!"
And he ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
The sound of the shower running made a dull hiss in the background.
"So," Ramona said, eying him coolly, "You're home early."
And she hefted her big boobs in both hands, scratching herself underneath them, not rising from the bed.
"It's not early," he replied. "This is my regular time to come home."
"Hmmm," she replied, looking at the clock radio on the night stand. "So it is, so it is.
"How time flies when you're enjoying yourself.
"And, as you can see, I was enjoying myself.
"With a real man.
"Again.
"You got anything to say about that?"
"What am I supposed to say?"
"Any fucking thing you want to.
"Not that it'll change anything."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you do it, Ramona?
"I'm potent. I can get it up. I don't neglect you."
Ramona threw her head back, laughing bitterly.
"You don't neglect me," she mocked. "I've got news for you, creepo!
"Since I married you, life neglects me!
"Life, Caspar! You do remember life, don't you?
"Even you were alive at one time, presumably. "But then, I guess that would be long before I met you."
Caspar removed his glasses, looking down, feeling his eyes begin to itch, to water.
"Aaw!" Ramona said, pursing her lips in mock sympathy, "Idum widdle baby gonna cwy now?
"Didum nasty big bwack man stick hims gweat big dicky-wicky inums wifey's cunny-wunny?"
"It's really not amusing, Ramona."
"Not ... amusing?
"I didn't intend it to be ... amusing, you little worm!
"Not for you, that is!
"But I wanna get my jollies off as often as I can.
"This is what it's down to, Caspar!
"This!
"My own body.
"The only amusement, the only entertainment I have left!"
"But I take you to nice restaurants, to movies-
"When's the last time you took me anywhere decent, Caspar?
"When's the last time we went anywhere on vacation?
"Where are my furs, my diamonds?
"Where is life, Caspar?"
The shower shut off.
There was a pause while Rufe dried himself. And then he was hastily dressing himself from the stack of work clothes on the dresser.
And putting his shoes on.
"Gots ta be on ma way," he mumbled.
And stood there, looking uncertainly at Caspar.
Who realized that he was blocking the doorway.
"Oh!" he said. "Sorry."
And stood aside, letting Rufe by.
Who looked at him oddly as he passed, echoing, "Sorry?"
And shaking his head as he slammed out the back door.
And Ramona laughed bitterly.
"At last we are alone, my darling!" she emoted, sarcastically.
And laughed again.
"Shit," she said, getting out of bed, stretching her voluptuous body sinuously, then cupping a hand at her crotch to catch the flow of melting jism that was oozing out.
"What a load," she said. "Wanna hold the bag while I douche?"
And she laughed again, going into the bathroom.
And letting go of bladder and bowels.
So that her wastes thundered into the bowl.
"How about that," she said. "Rufe really did fuck the shit out of me."
And she laughed.
And Caspar stood there, watching her as though this was some kind of a dream.
"My, my ... supper wouldn't happen to be ready, would it?" he asked.
"Not unless ya want some of this," she replied.
And laughed again.
"Sheesh, what a load!" she said, getting up off the toilet and studying its contents before flushing it down.
"You can help yourself to whatever's in the fridge," she said. "I did pick up a few things at the supermarket.
"Veggies, steaks, chicken, fish, Rufe-stuff like that."
And she laughed again.
"I,I ... guess I'll fix myself a steak."
"Oh yeah? Well, fix me one too, while you're at it.
"I seem to have worked up an appetite."
And she laughed again as she ran her shower.
And Caspar turned around.
And went downstairs.
And into the kitchen.
That's what he would do, he told himself.
He would fix his supper, their supper.
And he took two steaks, not yet frozen solid, out of the freezer.
And turned on the broiler.
And put on an apron and took out lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, vinegar, oil, basil, pepper-and realized that he was actually going to fix them quite a nice supper.
And he did.
"My, my, my!" Ramona said, knotting her bathrobe as she padded into the kitchen in her fuzzy slippers.
"This looks simply scrumptious!
"I wish I could cook like that!
"Maybe you should become a regular house husband.
"And I'll go out and get a job.
"The way I've been fucking my brains out lately, I should turn pro.
"At least then I'd get paid for it.
"If one must be a douchebag, one might as well be a douche bag of independent means."
"Please, Ramona.
"Sit down. Eat.
"And don't talk about yourself that way."
"I'll talk about myself any way I fucking well please, jerko.
"Why not?
"I mean, it's not like there's anybody around to hear me."
I am.
"What's that?" Ramona asked, putting her hand to the back of her ear, turning her head this way and that, as though listening hard.
"Funny," she said, at last. "I thought I heard something.
"Musta been the wind.
"Because I know I'm all alone here."
"You're a sick person, Ramona," Caspar said, eating.
Or trying to.
Forcing the food down past the lump in his throat, hoping that it would stay there, that he would not throw up with aggravation.
She acted as though she had not heard him, merely eating ravenously.
"You really should see a doctor," he persisted.
And she looked at him.
It was no fun ignoring him if he was going to nag her.
"A doctor?
"And just why should I see a doctor, Caspar?
"Don't you find me ... healthy?"
And she stood up, peeling off her robe, throwing out her large chest with its even larger mammaries, hands on her narrow waist, then tracing the flare of her belled hips.
And Caspar felt it, the thrill in his gut which never failed him at the sight of her spectacular voluptuousness.
"Poor Caspar," she said, swaying her hips as she walked over to where he was seated, eating, or trying to.
And pressing his cheek against one full, firm thigh, inches from her ample thatch.
"Poor, poor, Caspar.
"Got himself lined up with too much woman for him to handle.
"Luckily, I know where to get him all the help he needs.
"And I do.
"Every day."
"You don't," he sighed, pulling his head away, trying to eat again.
"Oh yes I do," she replied. "It's a helluva lot more fun than aerobics."
"No, Ramona," Caspar sighed, "you don't. You know you don't."
"All right then, have it your way.
"I don't.
"But I could.
"And, starting tomorrow, perhaps I will.
"Gonna try and stop me?"
"No."
"Wimp.
"Fucking little wimp, is what you are, you know that?"
"Just a guy, tryna get along, is all," he said.
"A guy!
"Don't flatter yourself, you gutless wonder!
"What you saw in the bedroom before, that's a guy!
"That's what a guy looks like!
"That's what a guy's got between his legs!
"Look at you, for heaven's sake!
"Shrimp man, from the planet Wimpo!"
He continued to eat.
And she put her robe back on and joined him, much to his relief.
Because much more of that and he would become aroused.
And she would know it.
And dance around him, putting on a show.
Backing up to him, spreading the cheeks of her ass, showing him her ass hole.
Getting him all hot and bothered.
And helpless beyond his usual helplessness.
So that he, who could never control others, would be unable to control even himself.
And she would tempt him.
And lead him, drooling, barely able to swallow the flow of his saliva, upstairs, into the bedroom.
And lay down on her back.
And raise her legs and spread them.
And he would feel the heat rise in his face.
And know that he was turning red as a beet.
And not bother to take his clothes off, not even his vest.
And find his face drawn to her crotch, to where the pink lips of her pussy were shining through her thatch.
Temping him, drawing him to it.
And she would laugh with derision and contempt as he lowered his face.
Not because he was eating her but because of what she knew was in there.
Still.
Because she would have showered but not douched out.
So that it was still in' there.
It.
The load of her latest daytime visitor.
Whatever did not overflow or run out.
Preserved, kept warm, waiting.
Waiting for Caspar to "take care of it".
Meaning seal his lips to her pussy.
Meaning find her clit and roll his tongue around and around on it.
Meaning feel her hot pussy begin to drool on his chin, to wet his little moustache.
And know that it was not just pussy juice on his face, in his mouth.
And know that she knew and that she knew that he knew.
So that she had not only betrayed him, she had literally made him wallow in it, in the residue of that betrayal.
And he would.
Because he could not help himself.
And he would feel himself fumbling his cock, straining painfully against his underwear, out of its confinement, to flop, stiff and long and vibrant, onto the bed.
And he would jerk himself off.
Not vigorously, but hanging on, giving it the occasional tug.
Which would be good enough.
And more than good enough.
So that he would come, careful to catch it in his hand.
Just as she did.
Just as her voluptuous contours writhed with the sensations of her multiple orgasms.
As she grabbed his head, scrubbing her crotch with it while he stuck out his tongue, using him as a sponge, a washcloth, a rag to clean her crotch.
And then, as though that were not enough, then and only then would she actually load her douche bag with a vinegar solution and douche herself out.
Telling him that she objected to the foul presence of his saliva where she had harbored a stranger's sperm undisturbed.
Because she would not let him fuck her "regular".
Meaning in bed, with the lights on, before they retired.
No, normal sex with her was to be had only in the wee hours of the morning, with her asleep, barely awake, too tired, too relaxed to object.
So that she could hold him to her ample breast as he did his thing.
And pretend that it was some dream lover of hers, taking her as she slept.
So that it was never "right".
But that would not happen tonight.
This, this ... Rufe she had picked up had done the job for her quite well.
So that she did not even feel the urge to humiliate him.
More than she already had, that is.
So that she would not turn him on to put him down.
He was safe from that, at least tonight.
And perhaps, for that, he reflected, he owed Rufe a debt of gratitude.
At least, he told himself, she had shown some taste there.
Because the man was obviously some kind of an athlete.
He was well built and well hung.
And a family man.
And had shown more than a little disturbance and remorse at Caspar's having discovered them together.
So that it might not be so bad, if she were to-
No.
She would not.
For whatever reason, she would not repeat.
At least, he did not think she would.
So that it was not a question of her having a lover.
Or even several.
No, the problem here was that, for reasons not entirely clear to him, she insisted on picking up strangers.
This was not the first time he had caught her in the sack with another man.
Caught was perhaps the wrong word.
It implied that she was trying to hide something.
She was not.
She hid nothing from him.
He even knew about her battery-operated vibrator, the one she kept in the drawer of the night-stand on her side.
Which she had gone to apparently great lengths to make sure of.
Whipping it out in the middle of the night, inserting it into herself, turning it on.
And sighing in ecstasy as it did its thing with her.
"I can do that for you," he had said.
"You wish!" was her reply.
And he had to lie next to her, hard-on throbbing, and listen to her moans of delight as they rose higher and higher.
Feeling the bed shake, rattle, and roll as she climaxed, multiple orgasms wracking her this way and that.
Telling him that she preferred the battery-operated version to his.
And pulling it out when she was done.
And throwing it on the floor, so that he could hear the dull thud when it hit.
And know that he was lower than something that she would treat like that.
And he would lie there, fuming, insulted, and helpless.
What could he do?
What the hell can I do? he asked himself.
And he would fall asleep in the morning, telling himself that she was a sick person.
Except that she was not.
And he knew it.
Mean, yes.
But only to him, so far as he knew.
Cruel, insulting, inconsiderate, she drove him crazy.
Did he love her?
He was not sure, not any more.
But he knew that the old thrill was there, unabated, when he saw her body.
No matter what it was doing at the moment.
And perhaps that was all there had ever been to his feelings for her.
But what had ever possessed her to marry a wimp like him, he would never know.
Whatever their history, he wanted her as much as ever.
But things could not be allowed to go on in this fashion.
Chapter Two
The mall.
And she wanted nothing.
She needed nothing, but that did not usually stop her.
Clothes.
Caspar got a break on her clothes.
She liked the cheap, the sleazy.
Only that type of garment was sufficiently revealing for her tastes.
For example, a t-shirt of just the right fabric to show the bounce as she moved.
And the outline of her big nipples.
So that tips and aureole would be revealed by contour.
So that she could see, could feel the eyes of the men on her as she walked by.
Not that most of them would do anything about what they were seeing.
Most of them were little better than Caspar.
Wimps, and those studying for the wimp-hood.
And phonies.
There were a lot of them.
Men who would give her the eye, signaling their interest.
Until she turned to face them, head-on.
Only to see the look come over them that said there was a battleship bearing down on their raft.
And she would laugh as they turned aside quickly, flustered.
She did not want to waste her time with them.
Wasting her time.
That was the problem.
It was all such a waste of time.
She had nothing to do.
And nobody to do it with.
Not exactly a thrilling existence.
But she was free.
She was not tied down.
Not to a desk or a cash register or a CRT.
And she did not have a boss, someone to report to, someone to whom she would be accountable.
Yes, she was free.
But free to do what?
Perhaps she could get a hobby.
She went to the toy store.
"Can I help you?"
"Uh, no. No, thanks just ... looking."
What could she say?
"Yes. I'd like to see something to do."
Right.
Basket case.
Still, she could paint, or draw, or knit-no.
No, she couldn't.
These things, all of them, had their rules, their disciplines.
Things you could and could not do.
And the materials and the techniques?
They cared nothing for her.
They did not care that she had a beautiful face.
Or wore a D-cup bra.
Or had legs that would give a man a hard-on just watching her walk.
Paint was paint, clay was clay, yarn was yarn.
And all of them had one thing in common-they would resist her.
They would frustrate her.
She had no creativity within her.
She knew that, knew it for a fact.
As for aerobics, athletics, health clubs, she did not need them.
She was in great shape.
Not, perhaps, Olympic condition, but perfect health.
And she did not envy the instructors their wiry legs, their small breasts.
Woman was supposed to be sexy.
To the extent that she was woman, she was sexy.
Ramona was the sexiest person she knew of.
So that, as long as sexy was the test, she was the hands-down winner.
As though to confirm this in her own mind, she looked for the experts, the geniuses, those who would guide others.
They were not hard to find in the mall.
She went to the hobby demos.
And to the aerobics demos.
And she looked at the experts, the masters of their craft.
A fat old man who painted.
A stringy-haired harridan who worked with clay.
A beady-eyed, bouncy fanatic who would sign her up for the health spa.
These were the experts, the models to which she was supposed to asire?
Forget it!
And she wandered aimlessly. And returned home.
To look at herself, her face, her body, in the mirror.
And think, how beautiful, how voluptuous, how sexy I am.
Maybe, she thought, a vacation.
Alone of course.
No sense taking the twerp along.
For one thing, she was half ashamed to be seen with him.
But perhaps she would take him along, as she did on other occasions, for contrast.
So that people would look at her, at them.
And say to themselves. What is that gorgeous creature doing with a zero like that?
Or words to that effect.
But she did not do that too often.
Because it could work the other way.
She knew how men thought, some of them.
Guy must have a wang on him that just won't quit.
Or words to that effect.
And it was not true.
Caspar was ... adequate in that department.
He would do.
That is, he would if he were not Caspar.
She could not say why she felt about him and treated him as she did.
Maybe because he was like the representative of the world.
The world, which used her neither ill nor well.
The world, which had endowed her generously and then given her no outlet for the fruits of that generosity.
Perhaps it was her fault, she told herself.
With her attributes, she would have had no problem getting a man who was rich and handsome.
But she had not.
Why?
Because in that case, instead of having attributes, she would have become one.
This is my yacht.
This is my house.
This is my car.
This is my wife.
Good for you, stud!
But where would that have left her?
In the lap of luxury?
Sure!
But she would have been one of the luxuries, his luxuries.
And perhaps he would really have loved her (whatever that was supposed to mean).
In which case, she would have become-what?
A part of him.
That was all.
That was the long and the short of it, pure and simple.
And she did not want that.
Not lounging on the deck of his (their) yacht.
Not lounging by the pool of his (their) home.
Not behind the wheel of his-et cetera, et cetera.
Because that was living death.
That would make her furniture.
And she did not want that, for all the wealth and privilege that went with it.
Whores were better off than that.
The good ones, anyway, the ones who commanded top dollar.
What they got was theirs, the fruit of their own labors.
And they did not have to decorate the arm of some rich guy, as though they were some exotic, expensive bauble.
But she could not do that, either.
Because what would a fair price, an adequate price, for her services?
She knew it was probably ridiculous, but she considered herself priceless.
And besides, what would she do with the money?
Caspar did not make a lot as a manager at the meat packing company, but what he made, he put at her disposal, and it was more than enough for her needs.
In fact, perhaps that was her problem with him.
He tried to turn her into something she was not.
He tried to put her on a pedestal.
He wanted her to be his living doll.
An oxymoron, a contradiction in terms.
There could no more be such a thing as a living doll than there could be a human robot.
And she was not about to become anybody's windup toy.
If she had wanted that, then she would have been into rich and handsome.
Perhaps that's why she despised him.
For his thinking that he could provide her with anything like what she deserved, on that basis.
Because he stood no chance of surrounding her with the lifestyle which her beauty, in and of itself, merited.
Big deal, he fed her steak.
On a yacht, off Bermuda, prior to setting sail for the Med he could feed her steak, wearing his little apron.
And not steak that she had bought at the supermarket, either (even though with his money).
Couldn't he see that his feeble attempts at providing for her were insulting?
If he were not so complacent.
If he did not act as though everything was perfect.
If only he would admit his dissatisfaction.
The house is a dump and we have nothing.
That was what she wanted to hear.
From him!
Admit that we have no lifestyle, we have no life!
Come up with a plan!
What do you want to do?
What do you want me to do?
But that was an idle fantasy.
He was not dissatisfied with the house with their life.
His only dissatisfaction was with her.
He was the hapless and innocent victim of her senseless and wanton behavior.
She knew that that was what he believed.
That, and that she was mentally ill.
The ass hole!
Is life with you so perfect that in order not to admit that this is paradise on earth I have to be crazy?
The arrogance of this zero, this nothing, this twerp!
Well, she would not have it.
She would provoke him until he could take it no longer.
She would raise holy hell until he did something.
Even if he fucking kills me! she thought.
Not that he would.
Not that he would so much as raise a hand to her.
She was bigger than him, for one thing.
And stronger.
He had never been in good shape and did nothing to change that situation.
So that his only recourse would be legal.
And she grinned.
Because she could imagine his lawyer discussing the facts with him.
Facts.
Like Rufe, yesterday.
Not that he would allow the lawyer to do it that way.
No, it would be something general, something to do with "mutual incompatibility".
And she would even receive an abundant alimony.
So that she would be even freer than she was right now.
No, that was not true.
She could not possibly be freer than she was right now.
She had all of his money, no expenses of her own, and no other obligations of any kind that she cared to acknowledge.
This was it, as far as freedom went.
Because this was as far as freedom went.
That part of it did not get any better than this.
If only she knew what to do with it.
She returned once more to the vacation idea.
And rejected it at once.
It would be pointless.
She would lounge on a beach somewhere.
And some man would pick her up.
Or perhaps a series of men.
And she did not have to go on an airplane and check into a motel and spend hours basting herself so that she would not burn in the sun.
Not just for that.
She did not have to go to where it was at.
She was where it was at, the center and the focus of her own universe.
Which could only find its interest piqued, its senses stimulated, when she was being sexy.
And sexy is as sexy does.
That was her rule.
And right now, all her potential was going to waste.
Caspar was right about one thing; she did not pick up men every day.
Or even every other day.
The potential was simply not there, most of the time.
She was not a nympho, for heaven's sake!
The guy had to have something on the ball, something that said that, if she let him plug into her joy box, the magic would happen.
And she gave herself at least that much credit; she was seldom wrong when it came to picking a man out of the crowd.
Whoever she picked would not, did not disappoint her.
Except that, right now, there was nothing.
The crowd was sparse on this lovely weekday morning.
Or was it afternoon?
That was another thing.
Her sense of time itself seemed to be slipping lately.
So that she did not really know what time of day it was at any given moment.
Oh, she knew that when Caspar got up it was early morning.
And when he came home it was early evening.
But, other than that, except for occasional hunger, the passage of time was within either her interest or her apprehension.
For one thing, she had no reason to care what time it was.
And she did not, would not wear a watch.
Although she had a couple of very expensive ones, one she had bought on a whim one day, for lack of something better to do, another purchased for her by Caspar for her birthday (another piece of time information she could just as well have lived without).
He never forgot her birthday.
Or their anniversary.
Which was another annoying thing about him, his incessant attempts at being ... nice.
The nicer he was to her, the more rotten she treated him.
But he did not seem to make the connection.
Or making it, did not seem to care.
Perhaps, she thought, it was because of his stature.
He lacked the means to be mean.
Of course, there was always the off chance that one day he would bring home a gun and blow her fucking head off.
In which case, she told herself, my troubles will be over.
So that she would not have to wander the malls and streets, looking for something to do.
Waiting, waiting, waiting for events to befall her.
Waiting for something to happen in her life.
And finally, in impatient despair, making it happen.
Like Rufe at the supermarket.
Who had given her-what?
An hour, hour and a half of cheap thrills?
And a couple of hours of pleasant aftermath, making Caspar suffer, watching him try to justify what had happened, to come to terms with it, to rationalize it, to reason it out of existence.
It didn't happen.
But it did.
It wasn't what it looked like.
Oh no?
She was sick.
Wanna see ten fast push-ups? How about a race around the block?
She was mentally unbalanced.
Two and two is four. My name is ...
She actually thought about taking his advice.
Maybe she would go and see a shrink.
Why not?
It would be his money. Not even that.
His insurance from work would probably cover most of it.
Who knows?
It might be fun.
Getting a third view (added to her own and Caspar's) of what was going on inside her head.
Yes, that was it!
She would do it!
The only downside feature of it was how happy it would make Caspar.
Oh well, she thought. One can't have everything.
And besides, it was something to do.
* * *
What to do, what to do? Caspar asked himself.
He could not concentrate on his work.
Fortunately, his work did not require all that much concentration.
He did not really have to look at the papers he signed.
This was nothing but a mere formality.
The drivers were responsible for their own tallies.
All he really had to worry about was time in and time out.
That, and seeing to it that everything ran on schedule, that, if a route man did not show up, he would have someone cover.
But even this was automatic, reflexive, cut and dried.
The meat got delivered.
Driver and helper, two by two, as though the loading dock were some kind of specialized, modern day Noah's ark, he got them loaded and on the road.
And handled their problems from the road.
Who was broken down, whose refrigeration unit was out, who weighed out wrong at the troopers' truck scales.
But upper management liked him.
And so did the drivers.
He was absolutely non-threatening.
So that, no matter what the problem might be, it was not solved on a macho basis.
"Hey, Caz ma man! What it is, babe! Gittin' you much lately? Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk!"
Or, "How's it goin', Caspar? Goin' out for the team tonight? Heard the fullback slot is open, so I know you got a shot!"
Or, "Geez, Caz! Got a bulge in my shorts won't quit! Don't know if I'll be able to do this run or not."
They were all a swell bunch of fellows, given to fun ribbing.
And Caspar enjoyed such camaraderie.
He could take it, these innuendo's concerning his manhood.
Because he knew that what he had at home was something most of them could only have in their wildest dreams.
They had the muscles, the size, the drive.
But he had the goodies.
And, knowing that, he could take anything.
From them.
No, what was hard for him, and becoming harder by the day, was what he had to take from her, from Ramona of the wild body.
He tried to feel sorry for her, as for someone with a great problem or an illness.
But that was becoming harder and harder to do.
And he did not see any way out, any end to it.
It was driving him crazy.
And he must not let that happen, he told himself.
It was bad enough that she was off her rocker, without his joining her.
No, he would be her saving grace, her rock.
Or at least her pebble.
And Caspar smiled in self-deprecation at the thought of his being someone that anyone would consider leaning on for anything, for even a brief instant.
So that he did not have the means to help her.
Nor the will to harm her.
Yet.
Although, forming in the back of his mind was a notion, foreign to his nature.
But persistent, for all its vagueness.
She had wronged him.
She was wronging him.
She would continue to wrong him.
Not herself, a thing he constantly preached to himself, as though she were somehow a kind of epileptic, her seizures taking the form of sexual promiscuity, but him.
She had made him a target.
He, who could not even rate as a full man by common standards, so small and weak was he, was a symbol of something she felt compelled to attack.
What no man would think of doing to him, she had made a preoccupation.
Only she seemed to feel that he was something worth shooting down.
With her infidelities and the way she talked to him and acted toward him, humiliating him gratuitously at every turn.
And, like yesterday, having some stud fuck her in front of his face.
And it was wrong.
It was so wrong that even the man knew it and was embarrassed for him.
And, it seemed to Caspar, even a little ashamed.
Maybe even a lot ashamed.
As, he was sure, any man with a shred of decency would be in a situation like that.
No, only she had no shame, no decency.
Yes, perhaps he was wrong to find excuses for her.
Knowing, coming to realize that what she had done, was doing, was inexcusable.
Even if she charged them for it, there might be some excuse.
Bullshit! he thought, startling himself by his expletive.
Because he realized that that would not be valid either.
She lacked for nothing.
He saw to that, and their bleeding checking account proved it.
No, there was no excuse, no valid defense.
She was an out and out bitch; it was just that simple.
And something would have to be done.
Chapter Three
"And you say there is no dysfunction."
"Pardon?"
"Your husband is able to perform adequately."
"Oh, that.
"Yes, for what it's worth, he is."
"But there is, perhaps, inadequacy, as opposed to impotence."
"Uh ... I'm not exactly clear on what, uh-"
The doctor smiled.
"Size. He lacks size, perhaps."
"Oh. No, no, his, his ... thing is ... average, I would say."
"Three to five inches limber, six to eight when erect?"
"About that. Yes."
"And his general appearance and physique?"
She smiled.
"Guy's a wimp," she said.
"Meaning generally small or underdeveloped overall, I take it?"
"All the above," she giggled.
"I see."
And the doctor scribbled on his pad.
"Tell me."
And he looked straight at her, into her eyes, forcing her to look right at him.
"Why did you marry him?"
"Why, why," she hesitated, "because I needed ... someone."
"Someone."
"Yes. I mean, uh, I wasn't getting any younger, and, uh-"
"So. You needed ... someone.
"And yet, you wanted-nobody."
She seemed to think that one over.
"That's absolutely true, isn't it, Ramona?" the doctor persisted, his voice sharp, tough cop questioning murder suspect.
"You needed someone, but you wanted nobody.
"You wanted a nobody.
"You wanted a nonentity, a nothing! Right, Ramona?"
Leaning forward, expression intense, challenging her to deny it, daring her to disagree with him, somehow menacing her.
So that she had no choice except to tell the truth, a truth she herself did not understand.
"Yes!
"Yes, yes, yes!
"I wanted a fucking zero, all right?"
And she sat back in the leather-covered, thickly upholstered chair, insisting with her body that this admission defuse the tension.
And it did.
As the doctor, once again the cool, detached professional, sat back in his chair.
"Because you were so sexy, so voluptuous, so generously endowed," he continued.
And they were not compliments, his tone cynical, mocking.
"You wanted nothing to detract from that, did you?
"You had it all and there was none other like you.
"You were complete, in and of yourself.
"A total package.
"And you were not about to waste it on some nothing job, where the boss would find you attractive, irresistible, to the point of making you put out just to keep working.
"He would do that, right, Ramona?
"Any boss, any man in a position of authority over you would do that, wouldn't he?"
Leaning forward again.
But this time, Ramona turned her head to one side.
"Yes," she sighed, "they would have ... used me."
"Exactly," the doctor said, leaning back again.
"And of course, that must not happen, must it, Ramona? No man can be permitted to ... use you."
She said nothing.
"But you had to be supported.
"And your aging parents couldn't do it, not any longer.
"And, with no skills and no experience, and this, this ... hypothetical figure of a boss hanging over you, you certainly couldn't do it either.
"And yet, it had to be done.
"You had to be supported somehow.
"Which meant marriage.
"As a way to be supported.
"So what was to be done?"
"Dating service."
"Ah, yes! The dating service.
"Given the requirement for a nobody, you went to the source of nobodies.
"Looking for somebody who was a nobody and knew it."
"Yes," she said, surprised for the first time since the visit had begun.
"And you got lucky."
"He got lucky."
"Oh, excuse me. Forgive me, a momentary lapse.
"Yes, absolutely correct. He got lucky.
"He had been willing to compromise, to accept something, anything that would not make him gag at the sight, and he got-ta da!"
And the doctor gestured expansively toward Ramona.
Who smiled and nodded her head, bowing acknowledgement.
"Whereas you got everything you were looking for.
"He had money in the bank, no obligations, a steady and responsible job-and the personality of a boiled potato.
"But somewhere in this nonentity, this zero of a man, was a spark of courage, of daring, of belief in a merciful and benevolent higher being who had brought him-you.
"And so, to make a long story short-please don't hesitate to interrupt me if I'm wrong-he proposed. And you, of course, accepted.
"The deed was done, he purchased a house, you moved into it, and the fairytale ended."
"What?"
"You know-the fairytale.
"How does a fairytale end, Ramona?"
"' ... and they all lived happily ever after'?"
"Exactly!
"Exactly, but strictly from his point of view!
"He had married the beautiful princess.
"Or perhaps he was merely Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, putting you in his pumpkin shell where he could keep you ... very well.
"Whatever.
"The fact is that, as far as-what's his name?" looking through his notes, "Oh, yes. Here it is.
"As far as ... Caspar was concerned, you and he had blissfully retired to the happy ending."
"Why, yes," she said, a light dawning, "I suppose that is how he looked at it."
"Hey," the doctor shrugged, voice and expression that of eminent reasonableness, "why not?
"Man's got himself a gorgeous woman, a good job, money in the bank, a secure future-the American dream.
"Except he overlooked one thing.
"This is not the last page of Mother Goose.
"We're talking real life here.
"Which has this nasty habit of going on.
"And on and on."
"You know it!"
"Oh, I do indeed!"
And he paused a moment before continuing, "Tell me, Ramona-because I know that Caspar, great provider that he is, would not leave you on foot-have you had any accidents with your car lately?
"Nothing, nothing ... big, you understand, but little things."
"You mean, like, bumping into the other cars when I park?"
"That, or maybe bumping into the curb really hard.
"Or ploughing through a chuck hole that you knew was there.
"Or not even an accident, but something that could have been.
"Racing through an intersection.
"Pulling out into traffic before you should."
"Uh, yes.
"But I don't see what that's got to do with-"
"Please, please," he said, holding up a hand.
"Your husband's paying for this, so let's at least give him his money's worth.
"Had any home accidents lately?
"Cut yourself preparing food, perhaps.
"Or bumped into a coffee table or something else in the house, even though the furniture hasn't been rearranged."
"Matter of fact," she replied, "I got such a bruise on my thigh-"
And she began to lift her skirt.
"That, uh, that won't be necessary. I believe you. I just wanted to know if it was happening."
"Yeah, it is.
"And the thing with the car. "Why?"
He smiled at her.
"That is part of what we're here to try and find out.
"Well," he said, standing up, "I see our time is almost up.
"I'll see you next week at the same time, all right?"
"Sure, but, uh-no ... words of wisdom?"
"I have some definite ideas, Ramona.
"And I'm getting a pretty good picture of the pattern here.
"But the key term here is wisdom.
"And I don't have quite enough of that just yet to start saying the right words."
And he saw her to the door, past the receptionist.
"The next-"
"Yes, hold off on that about three minutes, will you, Angie?
"I just want to make some notes."
But he did not.
He sat there, behind his desk, feet up, leaning back in his great, black, leather-upholstered swivel chair.
And thought, You did it again, Doctor Brown.
Knowing the patient's thoughts, what she would say and think next, better than she herself.
You are some kind of genius, Doc!
* * *
He had not called her wrong!
He did not tell her to stop!
He was not even shocked at what she told him.
True, he did not join her laughter in any of the right places.
But he did not gasp, did not express disapproval or condemnation of any of her actions, no matter how graphically she described them.
A part of her was disappointed.
A part of her had been looking for an excuse to call him a quack and not return.
But that did not happen.
He had given her no opening.
It was not at all as she thought it would be.
She was as free, as unrestricted coming out as when she had gone in.
He had given her nothing.
Not even guilt.
Yes, she would be back next week, to see where all this was leading.
But for now-
"Hey, bay-bee!"
She was driving her convertible.
She looked up at the driver of the van and smiled.
He kept his arm pressed hard on the window sill, emphasizing his large, if somewhat flabby, bicep as it showed under the rolled up sleeve of his t-shirt.
She looked at the side of the van.
Ace Carpets.
"You must be Ace," she said.
"I ain't Ace, babe, but I am an ace, fer sure."
"At what? Laying carpets?"
"Layin' every'thing I can get my hands on, babe!"
The light changed.
The cars behind them honked.
They glided to the next light, a red.
"Why tell me about it?" she asked.
And he looked at her, startled that she should have resumed what he now realized was a conversation.
"Hey, if you gotta ask, what can I say?"
"You all mouth, or can you back it up?"
"Try me!"
"Okay, why not?
"Follow me home, if you have the nerve."
"Try an' lose me!"
The light changed.
She moved out.
And heard the squeal of tires and the honking of outraged horns as he was suddenly tail gating her.
And she laughed.
And drove carefully.
So that he would have no excuse to disappear from behind her.
And he did not.
But, as he pulled into the driveway behind her and got out, the door on the passenger side of the van opened and a hispanic dude got out.
The big driver, beer belly sagging over the belt of his dirty jeans, said, "Hey, Manny, wait in the van, will ya?"
"Fuck you, Tone-ee! I don' wait een no steenkin' van while joo ge' joo wop ashes haul, mayn!"
"Hey, Manny, don't take it so hard, man!
"Stay on the porch, then.
"Knock on the door or ring the bell if the old man comes."
And she did not know why she said it, but, "Why don't both of you come in?
"You too work together, don't you?"
The two men looked at each other doubtfully.
"Uh, not on ... ever'thin', babe."
"Don't you mean ... until now?" she asked.
The two men looked at each other, grinned, and shrugged.
"But I ain't takin' my shower with you, pal," Tony said.
"Fine weeth me, chingo. But een tha' case, I'm goin' firs'!"
And he bounded up the stairs, laughing, quickly looking for the bedroom, finding it, and locking himself in the bathroom.
"Kid stuff," Tony said.
Ramona laughed and said, "Follow me."
She led him up the stairs to the bedroom, where they could hear the water running from the shower head.
She began to undress and Tony followed suit, careful to keep his gut sucked in as he removed his red bikini briefs.
"Like the shorts," she said.
"Yeah, like you never know, you know?" he observed, shaking out his long, thick cock.
As Ramona removed the last of her clothing.
"Wow!" Tony exclaimed, his cock twitching to life at the sight of her naked. "You got some fantastic pair on you, lady!"
"You're not so bad yourself," she replied, playing with his balls.
And bringing him to full erection.
"I really do need a shower," he said. "But ... fuck it!"
And he surprised Ramona, tripping her backwards, so that she fell on her back on the bed.
And he was on top of her before she could raise and spread her legs.
He did that for her.
Or rather, to her.
So that this seemed more like a rape.
Because it was true that she had invited him-them, actually-in for the purpose of having sex with them, but it was not happening that way, exactly.
She was calling none of the shots, controlling none of the action.
He was treating her like a piece of meat.
He was not making love to her, he was attacking her, assaulting her with his cock.
And, but for the drool of her pussy's preliminary, anticipatory excitement, he could have actually hurt her, jamming his huge, hard erection into her as he did.
And there was no technique, no expertise, no smoothness, no casualness here.
Tony was fucking her all out, balls-to-the-wall, as he put it in his mind.
As though none of this were her idea.
As though, if it was, he had to do it to her before she changed her mind.
So that now, his huge meat piston was ploughing away hard inside her, the pad of his soft belly seeming to make him weigh less as he pounded away.
And her legs, bent at the knee, thighs spread to accommodate his bulk, flapped loosely, bouncing with the rest of her, as he pounded away.
"The fuck ees thees?" Manny asked, emerging from the shower.
And she twisted her head back to see him, dark, slender, his cock incongruously long and thick for the rest of him, standing there.
"The fuck's it look like, grease ball?" Tony panted, not for an instant interrupting his action.
And Ramona found it strange, how they were actually ignoring her, holding a conversation, complete with banter, as though she was not even there.
But if Tony's face was towards Manny, his cock was otherwise focused.
He was banging into her, his hot, vibrant monster hard as a rock.
And there was nothing, nothing, nothing that she could do for or with or to the situation except to lie there and take it.
Because he was pressing down on her, engulfing her with his presence, hands roughly kneading her big boobs as he pistoned in and out of her cunt.
"Chee go' more dan one hole, man!"
"Hey, I don't want choor fuckin' skinny ass in my face when I'm fuckin', man!" Tony said.
"Like I care wha' joo wan', mayn!"
"If I can reach it, I'm gonna bite it!" Tony warned.
As he kept right on fucking.
Manny laughed.
And went over to her vanity.
And picked up a jar of cold cream.
He shoved it in front of Tony's face.
"The fuck's that for?" he asked.
"Joor choice, mayn.
"Either her ass hole or joors.
"'Cause this lover ain' gonna stan' aroun' watchin' some other dude pop his nuts."
"Ya know, Manny, you can be a real pain in the ass!"
"Not eef I joose enough of thees!" he said.
And they laughed.
"Okay, okay!" Tony said, continuing to shaft smoothly in and out of Ramona's cunt. "Hang on a second.
"Luckily, the both of you are in the presence of an expert!"
And he scooted both of them, her and himself, to one edge of the bed, still managing to keep up his stroke.
"Straighten your legs," he told Ramona.
And she lowered them as he raised his thick thighs one at a time, putting himself completely on top of her.
And rolled over, so that she was on top of him now.
And straddling his cock.
As Manny unscrewed the lid on the cold cream jar.
And put a dollop on the fingers of one hand.
And put the jar back on the vanity.
And spread her cheeks with his dry hand.
So that he could see the round mouth of her pussy, surrounding Tony's thick shaft.
And the large, puffy, pink star of Ramona's ass hole.
And he put a cream-coated finger carefully into her ass hole.
And began to move it around.
"Hee, hee, hee!" Manny laughed.
"What's so fucking funny?" Tony asked.
"I can feel joor cock movin' up an' down weeth my feenger!"
"How'dja like ta feel it with yer fuckin' mouth, cocksucker?"
"Later, perhaps, but don' coun' on eet.
"For now, I thin' ma baybee has foun' a cozy new home!"
And Ramona moaned in discomfort, as a second finger joined the first.
So that Manny's fingers were fucking her in the ass as Tony fucked her from below.
"Pull up a leetle," Manny said.
And Ramona, realizing that he was talking to her, braced herself with her knees on the bed and raised her hips.
So that only the broad head of Tony's prick was still inside her pussy.
"Unnnh!"
And she realized that she had made that noise, that it had been forced from her lungs as Manny's long, thick erection shafted into her ass hole, filling her bowels with its hard, throbbing presence.
And, as he pressed down on her hips, forcing them back down, Tony's mighty shaft oozed back into her vagina, under pressure.
So that she was filled fore and aft with big, hot cock.
And now, Manny was fucking her in the ass, pumping in and out, moving his hips from side to side, to the rhythm of a latin beat inside his head.
And they were bouncing, both huge cocks ploughing her deep, deep, deep.
And she felt it!
It!
The coming of the pleasure, of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which began as a small point in her innermost self and spread through her abdomen, radiating to her breasts, turning her nipples firm and rubbery.
As the two hot bodies sandwiched her, their external heat adding to her mounting internal temperature.
So that her face and body were flushed with the heat of flesh on flesh and the rising heat of her own passion.
Hotter and hotter they became, all three of them.
And she was not a person, she was an animal, all sexuality and heat and sensation and lascivious, sensual urge.
And this, this, this! was the feeling she had been seeking.
Which was so intense, so complete, so all-encompassing as to be a truth.
But it was a truth of the flesh, of the body, of that part of her which was outside intelligence and reason and even thought.
Because she was knowing this truth with her body.
And knowing that it did not come from within her, but from without.
Completely, without effort or urging on her part, it came to her.
From the lust, the drive, the animal passion of those who were fucking her.
So that here was a truth, and so simple that she marveled at her own stupidity in not having seen it, not having realized it sooner.
All she had to do-all she ever had to do-was to lay these marvelous gifts of face and gland and body open.
And the male principle would do the rest.
It would drive them, these animals, to do the instinctively, naturally right thing.
To her and with her and in her.
This feeling was everything.
And the rest was bullshit.
Chapter Four
The supper was on the table.
Caspar could not believe it.
And it was not just some last minute, thrown together deal, either.
And his thoughts of revenge, his anger, his repressed rage melted.
Perhaps the past few years had .been a nightmare, an aberration.
Perhaps his first impulses, his long-suffering tolerance had been correct after all, the right way to handle her.
Of course stormy marriages were not the best kind.
But the best of ships sometimes found itself tossed about in stormy seas.
And the best thing, the only thing the ship could do was to ride it out.
And that was what he had done.
He had endured much, had suffered much.
But it had been in a good, a worthy cause.
And this supper proved it.
"I took your advice today," she said, as they dined.
"What ... what advice was that ... dear?"
"I saw a psychiatrist."
"I see."
"We'll be getting a bill."
"No problem."
Silence.
Did he dare ask her anything about it?
Was she going to keep him dangling like this?
What is this shit? he thought, suddenly flaring up, angry, suspicious.
Because perhaps this was her latest game with him, her most recent cruel sport.
Keep him off balance.
Throw him off his guard.
So that he would not be crouched, shielded, prepared for the next blow.
"I really don't have anything else to tell you right now.
"I mean, the first session was all background, finding out about the historical me."
Me.
Not us, me.
Was that it, then?
She was taking their troubles public.
Who knew what she was saying about him to the doctor?
Was she, perhaps, laying the groundwork for some messy divorce?
Was she creating some kind of expert witness who would testify heaven only knows what when she took him into court?
Yes, that had to be it!
He had seen it coming for a long time.
People who felt about other people as she apparently felt toward him did not stay together.
And yet, they had.
Why?
He thought it was because she had no responsibilities and no restrictions.
But how long could even that satisfy her?
Not forever, certainly.
She was setting him up for the big one.
"He's, he seems to be-helping me quite a bit."
Yeah, right.
By taking down your so-called personal history?
By organizing your foul-mouthed lies, your betrayals of your marriage, and turning into weapons for use against me, the victim?
And what's with the great spread?
The last supper?
"I feel much better today."
As opposed to what?
Yesterday, when the big black guy ploughed you while I stood there and watched?
That didn't make you feel ... good?
Or not good enough?
So that you wanted more, more, more?
How about two black guys next time?
That way, you can feel twice as good, okay?
"I'm going again next week."
For what?
Sex therapy.
And that horrible thought came over him.
He had heard of such things!
Sexual surrogates, people you went to bed with under medical supervision to straighten out sex problems.
That's what she was up to!
Getting boffed and making him pay for it!
And he felt like laughing at himself in contempt and derision.
The ultimate humiliation.
Not only cheating on me, but making me pay for it into the bargain!
And he looked across at her.
And wondered, How could she?
How could one human being treat another who had never harmed her in any way like he was some kind of garbage?
"He's quite reasonable," she said. "The sessions are only seventy-five dollars for a whole hour."
And Caspar smiled at her, relieved.
So the play for pay theory, at least, was wrong.
It had to be one of the other games.
Or perhaps some head game that he had not yet imagined.
But then, he caught himself.
Wait a minute! he said to himself. Just what is going on here with me?
Because he had taken the worst, the most blatant abuse from her, things no other man would take from a woman, things perhaps no other man in history ever had.
And yet, now that everything seemed to be straightening out, now he was turning paranoid.
What was with him?
But he thought he knew.
He had made up his mind.
Almost.
He was almost ready to actually start actively seeking revenge.
On the surface of it, by actual historical reckoning, he had much to pay her back for.
Much.
And he would do it.
Perhaps even with interest.
Yes, vengeance was to be had.
It would take some thought, it would take some doing, perhaps even some expense, but it was there for the taking.
And she deserved it, the fucking bitch!
She had it coming in spades.
Whatever "it" was.
But now, this.
And it seemed so unfair.
That he should have finally built his resolve to this point, only to have her wipe it out.
Although even now, the apparent new situation was probably not real.
One word from him that she considered out of place and the mask of civility would be removed.
And the cynical, leering, cruel face of the woman who so utterly despised him would be once more revealed.
But he would not press her, would not question her, would not provoke the revelation he so dreaded.
He was tired.
He was not up to it.
Not tonight.
But then, he reminded himself, I'm always tired.
Perhaps if, just once, in the early stages of their relationship, he had not been tired.
Perhaps back then, if he had mustered the energy to confront her, to have it out with her, on the spot, she would have seen that, within his slight frame, there nevertheless dwelt a creature that was every inch a man.
But he had not.
Not then, not ever.
So that she remained absolutely free to treat him however she saw fit.
And she used and abused that privilege to the max.
But whose fault was that, if not his?
Yes, that was the worst part.
In that sense, it was all his fault.
Like when he had caught her in bed last time.
And not, as on other occasions, sneaked back out of the house, to wait a convenient amount of time, until he was sure that the intruder she had invited into their home was gone.
No, he had stood his ground.
For what that was worth.
If only he had not tolerated it.
If only he had stomped into the room with a shout, scaring the big guy out of his wits.
And clobbered the bitch.
And what would it have mattered if the guy beat him to a pulp?
Or if she did?
At least he would have shown her that he would not take it anymore.
Except that there was no way he could stop her.
Not really.
She could simply schedule her affairs earlier in the day.
If she chose to even bother making that lip service to his so-called honor.
More likely, she would laugh at him.
And the stud, encouraged by her attitude, would join her.
But now (dare he hope?) those days were possibly behind them.
She was seeking help.
Legitimate help, for all he knew.
So that what was past was past, leaving only a bitter, unrevenged bad taste in its wake.
If.
If it were true.
And not a recess or a trick.
"I'll help you load the dishes into the dishwasher," he volunteered, when they were done eating.
"Oh, that's okay. I'll get them. You just go into the living room, read the paper, watch TV, relax."
Moving slowly, carefully, keeping an eye on her, he did as she suggested.
But he could not concentrate, not on the news in the paper, not on the news on the screen.
What could she possibly be up to?
* * *
Ramona started the dishwasher.
And went up to the bedroom.
She just stood there, the way a tourist stands at a place where nothing was happening at the moment, but where history of some kind had once been made.
As though the ghost of the event was still lurking there, if only one had the vision to perceive it.
Here was where Tony had taken her.
Where he had taken over.
So that he was not under her invitation and direction, her control.
No, he had come in and taken over.
He had raped her.
He had suddenly ceased to become her dildo of choice and sprung free of any influence she may have had over him.
He had used her.
He had made concessions, but they were all to his partner.
Who had fucked her in the ass.
Which was an event beyond her imagination, let alone invitation.
They had used her, keeping up their banter with each other the whole time.
She could actually have been a carpet they were laying, instead of a woman.
They had been both casual and excited, the whole time.
They had shown her.
They had shown her what it was really about.
Body to body.
And the attitude and the scenario and the this and the that-all bullshit.
It was flesh.
And flesh and flesh and flesh.
Meat.
She qualified as prime beef and they were aficionados of same.
They were animals, just like her.
Large-brained beasts.
That was where it was at, what it was all about.
She had gone to the doctor, expecting to hear things she had not heard of, aspects, dimensions of her problem, of the problem of life of which she had no clue.
Instead, he had played Sherlock Holmes.
Or the Amazing Kreskin.
He had brilliantly deduced exactly what was going on with her, what she and her marriage were all about.
Of course.
Man was an animal.
And the doctor had learned how the animal thought, what the beast would do under a given set of circumstances.
Nevertheless, he had shown her a great truth.
And, like all great truths, it was itself many-faceted.
Tony and Manny were one aspect of it-the big- brained beast performing its prime and primal function.
They were naturals-her and them.
And they had done the natural thing.
The male was the aggressor.
Hers were the powers of attraction, of equipment, of performance.
They had one kind of strength, she its complement.
Hers was the greater strength, of course.
She could wear them down, two of them.
Or five or ten.
But she would not.
Because there would be no point.
She had no axe to grind, nothing to prove.
And neither had they.
One good fuck and they were gone.
Repetition would prove nothing.
And Caspar?
Yes, what to do about Caspar?
Nothing.
That's what she would do about him.
There would be no more abuse, no more humiliation.
Because there was no point to that, either.
Not any longer.
Now that she knew what she wanted, now that she was no longer driven by a vague hunger, a nameless dissatisfaction, she knew that he could never, never satisfy her, no matter how much she harassed him, no matter how hard or how often she put him down.
Yes, the doctor had helped her, and more than what he knew.
Yes, she would keep her appointment with him next week.
Together, they would work out a plan to keep Caspar happy, to keep her source of economic freedom content.
Let him wonder why she no longer wiped her ass with his existence.
She would never explain.
She was not about to let the pendulum swing the other way, to take him into her full confidence.
Because that would be just another put-down, gratuitous, unintentional.
He had nothing to contribute to the physical aspect of her life.
Which was all there was, really.
He could never be the male equivalent of her femininity.
He could never be what she was looking for, now that she knew what that was.
And so, in a manner of speaking, he was off the hook.
Progress of a sort, she thought. Enjoy it for what you can get out of it, dear Caspar, because I surely will.
* * *
"Ah! Ah! Ah! Aha!"
Each powerful hump forced the sound out of her.
She had taken the easy, the obvious, the consistent road this time.
Hanging around a health club.
Patrolling up and down, without being too blatant. So that it would look as though she were out for a casual stroll, on the beautiful warm day.
In her short shorts.
With her see-through blouse.
Until he emerged.
Short and broad.
So that he too had known frustration.
He would never know what it was to be tall.
So he did what he could, to become the best beast that he could.
And it was good enough, what he had done.
Because she was beautiful, voluptuous, and inviting.
Inviting to him.
Inviting him.
So he had gone with her.
And now, he was fucking her.
And her fingers explored the mass, the separations of his shoulder muscles.
And the bulk of his upper back.
And she knew his power, which was communicating with her own.
Driving in, in, into her, his thick tool with its powerful, blunt, battering ram head.
Let it happen! she shouted to him in her mind.
Let it come forth, the beast within you!
And it was, overwhelming her with its power.
She felt the surges of raw sexual energy, emanating from his mighty prong.
And now, he was gathering her thighs from the rear, doubling her up, his massive, corded arms-holding her legs up, his mouth seeking her breasts.
Yes, yes, yes! she exalted in her mind. Suck those tits!
Make them hard as a rock!
Squeeze them with your powerful hands!
Focus me, focus me, right down on that big salami of yours!
And he was.
He was driving into her, again and again, his thick, sturdy body almost mechanical in its efficiency.
He was made to order for her.
Her body had found his, had made contact with it, had attracted it.
And was even now enjoying the fruits of its effort.
Which had not been an effort.
Which had been almost dreamlike, floating, instinctive.
As though she had known all along that he would emerge from that particular door at that particular time, gym bag in hand.
Which was assured by nature, guaranteed.
Because it did not have to be him.
She had not been there that long.
On her third pass, he had shown up.
If it were not him, it would have been someone else.
The beast was within him, as it was within all men.
Except that he had recognized it, had brought it out.
By building his body.
By saying to it that it was important.
By proving to it that he meant what he said.
By not letting it down so that it would not let him down.
As it did not and was not.
And it was not that he was putting on a show for her or for himself.
He was not.
Like her, he was reveling in the flow of sensations, of lascivious voluptuousness, of intimate erotic delight.
There was no pretense of any kind here.
It was not necessary.
The feelings were genuine and unrestrained.
As they were meant to be.
As only people of their sexuality could know, understand, appreciate.
And she did not have to make suggestions, to prompt him, to tell him what to do.
He knew what to do.
That is, his body knew what to do.
Because there was nothing contrived here, no demonstration of so-called amatory skills.
And now, he was driving both of them up the rainbow of their shared pleasure.
Lunge by lunge he was driving them, his powerful, rounded, protruding buttocks flexing and unflexing as he drove in, in, into her, arms holding her legs in place, hands hooked now over her shoulders.
So that he was driving her down onto his prong even as he drove it into her.
So that he was surrounding her with his sexual power.
So that it was not only inside her streaming, sucking, pulsating, grasping, hot, juicy cunt.
It was around her legs.
It was on her shoulders.
It was in full contact with the front of her body, the washboard of his abdominals pressing on her stomach.
And it was right, right, right.
It was complete.
It was perfect.
It was, had to be, the ultimate experience being undergone by any two people on the face of the earth at that particular moment.
There was nothing more beautiful, more exquisite, more important.
And now, he was popping his rocks.
He was shooting his climax into her, wad after wad of his thick, hot jism injecting itself deep into her vagina.
As she writhed within his powerful grasp, her body responding to the thrills of sexual electricity surging through her, radiating out beyond her, the sexual sweat oozing from every pore.
To fuck and fuck, not in defiance, not to prove anything, but to reach in, in, in for the pleasure beyond pleasure.
So that even now, her body was answering his.
She was alternating the spasms of her multiple orgasms with the discharges of his load within her.
So that her pussy was devouring and sucking his cock.
They were coming and coming together.
And yet it was not they as individuals who were experiencing the pleasure beyond pleasure.
They had reached both within and beyond themselves.
So that they were both supremely individual and, at the same time, the repositories of the archetypes of male and female.
And when, at last, they had both finished their climaxes, their shared climax, and separated, bodies polished to a glistening sheen with their sexual perspiration, they looked at each others' bodies and knew that this was the best.
And they showered together, eyes still taking in each other, from the neck down.
She did not want to know his face.
She did not want to be able to recognize him on the street if she saw him.
For the first time, she thought. How much nicer it would have been had he been wearing a mask.
Or better yet, a hood.
Removing the illusion of his individuality.
Making his head as powerful, as mysterious, as anonymously perfect as the rest of him.
But it did not matter, really.
She would not see him again.
And he, if he had the same feelings as her, would not ask, would not try.
As he dressed again in his sweat suit, he did not look at her or speak to her.
And she knew that he would not.
And he left in silence, his eyes averted.
Chapter Five
"This is, uh, not along the lines that I had planned to proceed," Doctor Brown said.
"Oh?"
He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable.
"Let me, uh, put that another way.
"First of all, let me clarify that my function is neither to approve nor condemn.
"What I fear has happened here is that you have mistaken silence for agreement.
"Specifically, I suspect, from the way you are talking, that you feel that I approve of your promiscuity.
"And now, you are inviting me into a conspiracy with regard to your husband."
"But doctor, it's for his happiness, for his own good."
And to keep him out of the way, she added to herself.
"I don't have the data available to me to reach such a conclusion."
"Well, can't you take my word for it?"
Brown got up from his chair.
He paced the room, rubbing his chin, then the back of his neck.
"I'd like to do one of two things with you this session," he said, at last, turning to face her.
"Either put you onto the track indicated by my analysis of your needs, or discontinue our relationship."
"Isn't the expression, 'My way or the highway'?"
"Well put," he said, drily.
She laughed.
"What is it that you find so amusing?"
"You.
"I'm makin' ya show your hand."
He shrugged, resuming his seat behind his desk.
"What you are making me do, in all probability, is to give up on you.
"You came to me, presumably, because you had a problem.
"I agree.
"There is a definite problem here.
"Several areas we could beneficially work on, work out."
"But now you return, a week later, suggesting, a, that you no longer feel that you have a problem and b, that we work out what is, in essence, a code of conduct, a set of rules, a script for your relationship with your husband.
"In other words, that we abandon the original premise on which you came here and embark upon a new, completely different, and for all intents and purposes unrelated project.
"And this new project is not what I do.
"Not at all.
"If you want acting lessons, you should join a theater group."
"My, my," she said. "We do seem to have reached a crunch point."
"No, no.
"You have reached a crunch point, as you put it.
"Help is available here for you.
"But only if you want it.
"It is becoming increasingly evident that you do not."
"Oh, but I do, I do!
"Isn't there some way that I can get what I need from men, something that my husband can't provide me, without causing a div-I mean, a disruption in our marital life?"
He smiled at her slip.
"Your basic concern about your husband has nothing to do with his happiness, his welfare, does it?
"It is strictly financial.
"You merely wish to avoid killing the goose that lays the golden eggs."
"Eggs of which you are getting your share, doctor."
"I really don't need this, Ramona.
"Rest assured that my practice is quite sound without the addition of yourself and the money from your husband accruing thereto.
"Therefore, if there is nothing else-"
"Oh, I see! Just like that!
"I have problems, but I'll never hear about them.
"Areas where I need help, I think you said.
"But I come up with a proposal you don't like, and all bets are off.
"Well, they may be, since you apparently intend to wimp out on me.
"But since this is goodbye, you at least owe me an accounting of what you found out."
"That's not the way it works.
"My, uh, discoveries are my own, as are my opinions concerning them.
"What you get, what you are entitled to, is a recommended course of action based on my findings, and not the findings themselves.
"For one thing, the validity of my contentions can only be shown by your response to treatment."
"Okay, doc, let's put it another way.
"What, uh ... treatment were you going to recommend?"
"Even that is an over-simplification.
"This was to have been a voyage of mutual discovery, in which we work together to resolve your problems."
"Okay, doc, since it's still my quarter, how would we have begun."
"We would have begun with why you have no social life, no personal friends."
"How did you-never mind.
"You're great with the parlor tricks, doc, I gotta give ya that."
"Suppose you answer the question."
"Because I don't need a social life, personal friends."
"Ah, but the social scientists tell us that you do, that everyone does.
"What you mean is that you don't want these things.
"Which, with your face and figure, your outgoing personality, is the only reason you don't.
"Men, women, couples, groups, organizations-all of them, all of us, are looking for people just like you in our active circle of acquaintances."
She laughed.
"That a proposition, doc?"
He smiled, shrugging.
"Under other circumstances, the proposition would be forthcoming, rest assured of that."
"Oh, I do, I do!"
"Exactly. You do not lack self-confidence.
"Or intelligence or the ability to analyze people and situations.
"You have an excellent view of the world, from the standpoint of reality, the ability to see things as they are."
"Sounds like I'm getting a clean bill of health."
"Oh, you're very healthy, for the most part, so far as I can tell.
"And I have more good things to say about you.
"You are powerful, attractive, and you use these attributes to manipulate others."
"Yeah, so?"
"For example, you are manipulating me right now, drawing me out, making me, as you put it, 'show my hand'."
"So if you know this and you don't want to, why are you, doc?"
"Because I believe that you are in danger."
"Danger? Like, I might crack up?"
"That is one possibility, crudely put.
"But there is a far greater danger as well.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you to beware of strangers when you were little?"
"Of course."
"That was excellent advice.
"And frankly, very early on in your treatment, my objective would have been to get you to the point that you would no longer pick up strange men."
"Because of the physical danger?"
"Exactly.
"Because I see a pattern developing within you, as is common in such cases.
"You are spoiled.
"You are self spoiled.
"And a part of you is rebelling against this.
"A part of you is seeking discipline.
"That, and punishment.
"You know that your behavior is aberrant and wrong, and yet you persist.
"You are absolutely free, and that freedom is driving you up the wall.
"You are looking for life.
"Which is the opposite of death.
"You feel that you are dead, in all except the most fundamental, biological sense of continuing to eat, sleep, breathe.
"More and more, you are being drawn to test yourself.
"The dead don't bleed, or bruise, or feel pain or know fear.
"The dead also don't know sexual arousal, stimulation.
"And so you have your little accidents, your little affairs.
"But there's a problem, a problem of degree.
"That little accident wasn't all that serious.
"And that last pickup wasn't all that great of a fuck.
"You felt it, but you felt it the way maybe a vegetable feels a sunny day.
"So that you want more.
"You want more evidence, more proof that you're really alive, that you're not an egg plant or a fungus.
"Which is about the level of existence you assign to other people.
"You don't want to know them because they're the living dead and they don't even know it.
"So that you end up facing several levels of danger.
"The first, your isolation, your being alone for hours and hours, you're feeling of being alone even when you're with your husband, you're feeling of being alone in the world.
"The second, related to the first, you're feeling of absolute freedom and nothing to do with it, of floating aimlessly in the world, a balloon tossed on the wind.
"The third, related to the second, you're feeling of panic at not being really alive, so that you have to prove it to yourself with the only intense feeling of which you consider yourself capable, which is sexual arousal leading to climax.
"And the fourth, as a result of the third, you're feeling of the need for discipline and punishment in your life for its vague but all-pervasive sense of wrongness.
"All of which is leading you down the path of self destruction."
"You mean ... suicide?"
"No, I don't think so.
"At least, not in the direct sense that you are thinking of.
"No, what you will do is to place yourself, to an ever-increasing degree, in harm's way.
"Until you are seriously injured or even killed.
"By accident.
"Which will be no accident.
"Which will be the direct result of your getting closer and closer to the edge.
"You'll crash your car taking one chance too many.
"Or you'll pick up the wrong man, some psychotic personality, either homicidal or into kinky games, so-called rough sex.
"Or the more traditional forms of sadomasochism, bondage and discipline.
"Beware of these last especially.
"The human body is far more fragile, in many ways, than you might think.
"And these people are not experts, in any sense of the word.
"These are the forms of suicide I see you attempting, should you continue as you are at present."
"You don't make it sound all that unattractive, doc."
"I was rather concerned that you would think something like that.
"It more or less proves my point, validates my concern for you.
"And I think that you can see now that your husband's continuing support of you is the least of your problems.
"I see a fatal attraction at work here
"And I feel that unless you overcome it, unless you fight this vortex into which you are being drawn, combat it with or without my help, you are not long for this world."
"Which just might be all for the best."
He sighed.
"I have to believe that there is still some part of you that doesn't believe that for a moment."
"Yeah, but it's getting smaller and fainter every day."
He smiled.
"You are manipulative, aren't you?
"The ever-popular cry for help, is that it?"
"Say I am and it is.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I can't very well turn my back on you."
"I know."
And her eyes were laughing at him.
"All right," he said. "You win."
"What do I win, doc?"
He stood up.
"You win an appointment next week.
"See the receptionist on the way out."
And he sat down and turned away from her in his swivel chair, fingers tented under his chin.
She got up uncertainly, started to say something, changed her mind.
And went out of his office, to see the receptionist.
* * *
She did not feel like going anywhere.
Or looking at TV.
Or reading a magazine.
She felt numb and depressed, as though she had just returned from the dentist's office, only to be told that she would have to return again, for more work.
She sat there, alone, in the living room.
And did not feel like moving.
And did not move.
She had felt so good this morning.
There was no reason why she should not fuck her brains out with one stranger after another.
Except that now there was.
Now there was danger.
Oh, it had been there before, and she knew it.
But to have Doctor Brown point it out to her like that, to have him show her what it was that a part of her was up to, well, that changed things.
Because now there was no spontaneity to it.
Gone was the sense of adventure.
With the fun and the games and the oh-so-important possibility of danger lurking unrecognized (because she chose not to see it).
It would be cut and dried.
"Hey, wanna fuck?"
Yes, it would be little better than that.
So that she would be nothing but a free street walker, giving away the goodies for the thrill of it.
And more his than hers, if the truth be known.
Because she realized now that she wasn't really getting all that much out of it now.
The short muscle man would be her last enjoyable fuck.
Now that she knew.
Now that she knew why she did what she did, what it was she was looking for.
And the danger she was running.
Except that she was not, not really.
Because she knew about that too.
The danger.
She could tell if a guy was threatening.
But still, the carpet creeps and the muscle man had not been so much threatening as self-propelled.
She had not been in control of either situation.
They had been free to do as they pleased and there had been nothing there to stop them from doing exactly as they pleased.
So that, had they wanted to hurt her, they could have.
But they did not.
As she had known, as she had somehow sensed they would not.
But what if?
What if some guy, some psycho, or some Jekyll and Hyde type, were to come with her?
Nobody was home during the day but her.
Even the neighbors on either side were out from eight until after five.
Yes, there were no two ways about it-what she was doing was dangerous.
And now it was a danger which she could not hide from herself.
Not anymore.
She had to face it now.
She had to face-why not?
And a shiver ran up her back.
That's right!
I do indeed have to face it!
And face it she would, dammit!
She was not going to sit here alone in the dark, afraid to move.
That was life, life with its risks, its dangers, its chances, beckoning to her!
What the hell was she hiding from, anyway?
You lived until you died.
That is, if you had the courage!
And if not, well then, tough shit.
Because you were dead already, and too stupid to know it.
But not me, dammit! she told herself.
She was free, free, free!
And she would not be held here, captive in a dungeon of her own devising, paralyzed by fear, and not even by fear of a certainty, but of a chance.
Sure, she could have bad luck, she told herself.
But better bad luck than no luck at all.
And if she did have bad luck?
If she did run into some maniac?
She deserved it.
Good old doc.
He had some of the answers, but by no means all.
Because at no point had he said, "On the other hand ..."
He could not.
Because that would make him judgmental, unprofessional.
Yes, he could not say it.
But she could.
On the other hand, if I do get hurt, I'll have it coming to me.
And yet, had he not implied it, with his pointing out to her her perceived need for discipline, for punishment?
He certainly had.
But that was what was missing from their discussions, the two they had had so far, anyway.
They had not spoken of justice.
Just exactly what did a person deserve by way of penalty and reward?
And it would not have called for judgments from him.
He could speak in general.
He was very good at that.
She could approach him on a hypothetical basis.
"Hey, doc. Say this. Say that. Say the other. Then what?"
She shook her head.
Because she knew what he would say, what he would do.
He would not answer the questions; not directly, anyway.
Rather, he would ask her why she was asking the questions.
Or even why she thought she was.
He was some piece of work, she thought, was the good Doctor Brown.
He had genuine concern for her, if she could believe it.
Maybe he's got the hots for me, too, she thought.
His pecker couldn't have a professional attitude, after all.
And he had to know he was looking at the best of nature's bounty.
Yeah, maybe that could be another little project she could work on.
Not that she wanted him for any reason other than to prove that she could do it.
He had said she was manipulative.
Did that mean that he really wanted her to manipulate him?
Because then that would mean-
"Ramona?"
"What? Oh! You surprised the shit outta me!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Caspar replied. "It's just that you were sitting there so still.
"And with the lights off."
"Yeah, well, I had a lot to think about."
"How did it-never mind."
He could hardly ask her about how things went at the psychiatrist's.
The mere fact that she was going there was sign enough of progress.
That, and the way she was treating him lately.
And now, this.
Actually sitting still, thinking.
Because he had always considered her more of a reacting type, not given to introspection for an instant.
"I, uh ... didn't realize what time it was getting to be.
"I didn't get anything ready for supper."
And that sounded almost apologetic.
As though she had actually acknowledged doing something wrong.
"If you like, it won't take me very long to-"
"No, no.
"I have it!
"Why don't we go out to dinner?"
"Well, I'm not really dressed, and-"
"Nonsense! We could go to Burger King!"
"We could at that," she said.
* * *
It was no good, she thought, no fucking good at all.
Losers.
The world was full of fucking losers.
Hunched over their burgers, slurping their sodas-this was not living.
All these corpses, animated like some elaborate Christmas store window puppet display, only uglier.
She did not hate them.
Or hold them in contempt.
Indeed, she almost felt something akin to compassion.
Some of them looked like they worked hard for a living.
Others looked as though they had given up.
The young mother with the bratty kids, letting them suck the life, the youth, the beauty from her with their horseshit antics.
The old couple, trapped in bodies that were no longer fully functional, in a place they did not want to be, in a world that no longer cared if they lived or died.
If it ever had.
And she thought, You wanna talk about thinkin' something's wrong, doc? I'll show ya wrong. Not a winner in the bunch.
And that included the little twerp sitting across from her, munching away contentedly, dabbing at his little moustache.
And she wondered, and not for the first time, if there were not some way she could make it financially without him.
Chapter Six
The phone was ringing.
They heard it from the driveway.
But they did not hurry, both of them thinking that it would surely stop by the time Caspar got the door unlocked.
It did not.
It persisted.
Caspar picked it up.
"Hello?"
A man's voice asked, "Can I speak to your wife, please?"
And Caspar felt his face turn beet red, the anger, the outrage mounting within him.
"Who is this?" he asked, his voice a threatening growl that he himself did not recognize.
"This is, this is-Doctor Brown.
"Your wife is a patient of mine.
"I trust that you are aware of that.
"I mean, I did recommend that she tell you that she was seeing me."
"Oh! Oh, yes, Doctor.
"And I'm, uh, sorry. I thought-never mind.
"Here, here she is."
And he handed her the phone.
Puzzled, Ramona took it from him.
"Hello?"
"Ramona! I've been trying and trying to reach you!"
"Yes?"
"Yes. This is my golf afternoon, as you know. Well, perhaps as you didn't know. After all, why should you?
"Anyway, that's not important.
"The fact is, the situation is, uh-to make a long story short, my office was broken into this afternoon."
"Oh. I'm really sorry to hear that.
"Was there much damage?
"You want me to reschedule, is that it?"
"No, no, no," he blurted, his voice taking a tone she had not heard from him before.
"Then I don't understand. What-"
"Shut up and listen!" he practically shouted.
"Oh, oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to sound that way to say-whatever.
"It's just that I'm in such an agitated state.
"We shrinks are entitled to be that way on occasion, just like everyone else.
"And I do thank you for your concern.
"But there was no damage to the office.
"And we'll be just fine for next week.
"No, the reason I'm calling is that, well, the files were broken into."
"The files? Was anything taken?"
"Oh, no, no. Everything was left as it was.
"Well, not exactly as it was.
"I mean, it was a bit of a mess, with the folders strewn all about and-enough of that.
"I shall come right to the point.
"The fact is," he sighed, "your file was, well, looked at."
"Looked at," she repeated.
"Uh, yes. Yours and a number of other female patients.
"I mean, they were stacked together on my desk.
"And the police tell me that whoever it was used one of my legal pads to make notes."
"Notes."
"Uh, yes. Could be names, addresses, phone numbers, the works.
"Or not.
"They took the pad, but they don't expect to know for sure what was written. Seems several sheets were taken."
"How-how many women's files did he, did they, whoever, get a look at?"
"About twenty.
"And since the identity and. intent of the intruder are unknown, the police refuse to provide any protection.
"I mean, I did try, you understand, but twenty women on speculation-they simply don't have the resources.
"Or so they said.
"Still, I felt obliged to notify you.
"And if you yourself were to talk with the police, perhaps-"
"No, no. That won't be necessary."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry you feel that way."
"What?"
"Ramona, you can put on whatever act you like in front of me, but don't play games with your life, okay?"
"I'm sure I don't have the foggiest idea of what you're talking about."
Sigh from the other end.
"Yes, Ramona, you do.
"I think you should call the police and tell them that you feel particularly threatened by this situation."
"Oh? Then why didn't you?"
"Professional ethics."
"Then I'd say you'd be better off worrying about your ethics than me, wouldn't you?"
"There need be no conflict if you would simply call them.
"But you won't, will you?"
"No, doc, I won't.
"I think I had best hang up now and let you get on to your other female patients."
"You were the first and the last.
"And the one I kept calling in between all the others.
"That should give you some indication as to the degree of my concern."
"Yes, well, thank you, I suppose.
"But I feel that you're being an alarmist."
"No, Ramona," he sighed, "that isn't what you're feeling at all.
"I'm very good at this, remember?"
"So you are.
"See you next week."
And she hung up.
Caspar, who had been watching TV in the living room, saw her hang up.
"Problems?" he asked. "Of course, if you'd rather not-"
"No, no. Nothing to do with me.
"His office was broken into and he just wanted to assure me that it was nothing serious, in case I saw it in the media."
"Well, that was very considerate of him, I must say."
"Yeah, guy's a regular prince."
Ignoring her sarcasm, he said, "He certainly sounded pleasant enough on the phone."
"He is, he is."
"Perhaps someday I could go over there with you and meet him."
"Yeah, right."
"And I'm really quite glad that you found someone in whom you repose such confidence."
"I do?"
"Well, you're seeing him on a regular basis, so I thought-"
"Enough with the shrink already, okay?
"I don't want a fucking medal for seein' 'im, aright?
"And I'm sorry somebody broke in on him but that's got nothing to do with me.
"And on that note, could we drop the whole fuckin' thing?"
"Whatever you say."
So, he thought. It was still there, just beneath the surface, her hostility, her contempt for him.
Progress, if any, was being made slowly with the psychiatrist.
And his call had not helped.
She was nervous.
She had looked to the doctor for stability, and now this.
A setback.
He could not look at it otherwise.
She had bordered on civility for almost a week now.
True, she had not given him any.
And she had pushed him away when he tried to eat her, a thing she usually permitted whenever they were in bed together.
But there had been no deliberate humiliation.
And no other men that he knew of.
Perhaps, he told himself, I'll have a talk with this Doctor Brown.
The doctor would not necessarily be willing or able to discuss Ramona's case with him, but he could possibly have some useful suggestions as to how Caspar should behave around her, things he should be doing for and with her.
The doctor more or less owed him that much, in view of this disruption, which was very clearly upsetting Ramona.
He would love to ask her about it, but she would tear his head off if he did.
He knew that.
"Is there anything that I can-"
But she pulled away from him, eyes glued to the TV screen.
And Caspar suddenly felt very tired.
He would take a shower and go to bed.
Perhaps she would join him, perhaps not.
Because there was always the brass bed in the attic that she used, whenever the mood struck her.
Caspar often thought about twin beds, his thinking being that at least they could share the same room, if not the same bed, all the time.
Never did he feel so inadequate as when he knew that she was over his head, preferring the dust and cobwebs of the attic to his company.
As though he had committed some great wrong.
As though his existence offended her.
He, who had done nothing to offend her.
Except, perhaps, to exist.
What was it with her?
Had she wanted looks, muscle?
With her face and body, those would have been no problem.
But she had married him.
And they had never really hit it off.
Never.
But it had taken two years before she had begun her campaign of outrages against him.
Or rather, outside him, ignoring him, their marriage.
And only paying attention to him when it served her unknown, mysterious purposes to go out of her way to insult and humiliate him.
And he looked down at his prick as the water pelted him.
Maybe, he told himself, maybe it is my fault.
If I had a little something to go with this, maybe she wouldn't have strayed, she wouldn't be having to see this ass hole doctor who was too fucking cheap to put in a decent security system, so little regard did he have for his patients.
Yes, maybe even that was his fault.
So that now some creep was out there who knew all about Ramona, more than he himself knew about his own wife.
Things could never go right between him and her.
It was just hopeless.
Still, it was not really his fault.
All right, so he was a wimp.
But she knew that when she married him.
And at least, he was not a wimp who put on airs.
He was not a macho man, he never would be, and he did not pretend that things were otherwise.
He provided for her to the full extent of his resources.
Whatever she wanted to do with him, they did.
The problem was, she didn't want to do all that much with him.
He offered her vacations, but she was not interested, preferring instead to go off by herself, on her own.
And coming back tanned, relaxed, radiant-until she saw him.
And giving him that what-is-this-cockroach-doing-in-my-house look.
And taking up right where they had left off.
Caspar shook his head, drying off.
He did not understand it.
He did not even understand his feelings for her, hating her part of the time, for which he had good cause, pitying her part of the time, for which there was no real foundation, and, most horrible of all, siding with her against himself.
And when he hated her, that was what he hated her for the most.
Hell, any man, even the most perfect, did not like himself all the time.
But most often, it was a constructive kind of dislike, more a well-founded dissatisfaction than anything resembling hatred.
No, it took her to bring that out in him, to make him want to turn time itself back twenty-five years, to make his physical self the focal point of his life, to build himself up.
So that, in the re-run of reality, perhaps he would be one of the studs she would pick up, use once, and move on.
Putting the horns on some other weak, unfortunate wretch.
And yet it was not some other wimp, but he himself who was lucky enough to be married to her.
Yes, lucky!
Despite it all-the cuckolding, the harassment, the insults, lucky.
So that, in the middle of the night, he could burrow into her snatch with his mouth open, tongue hanging out.
And suck her clit.
And strum it with his tongue until it stood up, hard and big and rubbery.
As her hot pussy juices flowed down his chin.
And the body, the fantastic, voluptuous body, writhed with pleasure.
And the pleasure was from his tongue.
And it would be his tongue that caused her to spread and raise her thighs.
Inviting him to enter her streaming cunt with his throbbing cock.
Inviting him, inviting anyone, inviting the image in her mind.
But he would not care.
Because it was himself and nobody else whose cock, throbbing with anticipation, was finding its way in the dark toward the target.
And when he shafted into her and she moaned with ecstasy, he did not care that it was some beefcake stud her mind's eye saw mounting her.
Because it was the million nerve endings on his stiff, hot baton of tumescent flesh that were receiving the warm, smooth, wet, pulsating caress of her fevered pussy.
And that imaginary stud, for all his male splendor, felt nothing, could feel nothing, because he was not real, for all her wishful thinking.
Whereas he, he, he! was humping away on her, each thrust, each lunge sending fresh thrills of sexual electricity coursing through the two of them.
And it did not matter who else had had her or, for that matter, who would have her.
The fact was that reality was right here and now.
And reality might lead to fantasy, but sensation was itself.
So that he was able to work out his hostility by fucking her.
So that each thrust was a bludgeon blow.
Take that, you fucking bitch!
And that! And that!
And he was giving her pleasure rather than pain, but that made no difference.
He was getting through to her.
And she might go through all manner of wild gyrations in her mind; they did not matter.
Part of her had to know who and what was socking it to her at the moment.
Oh, she could despise him all she wanted.
The fact was, at this particular moment, regardless of any and all other considerations, he was on top of the world.
And she was too far gone, getting too much pleasure, too much pure sexual excitement to dislodge him.
Because that would hurt her much more than it would him.
He was used to the pain, the frustration and heartache of rejection.
But she, who denied herself nothing, would hardly shaft herself in midstream to prove some esoteric point.
She loved herself more than she hated him; that was the long and the short of it.
So he was secure.
He would ride all the way.
If a bomb hit, he would ride all the way.
If the world came to an end, he would ride all the way.
And there was no magic, no mystery at work here, for him or against him.
There was only the lascivious, intimate, exquisite reality of hard cock in hot, wet pussy.
Which caressed his cock as she never had and never would him.
Which sucked it, as her mouth never had and never would.
Which squeezed and fondled it, although she would never touch it with her hand.
Which made love to it and adored it, givingly, unselfishly, completely.
As she would never do with or to him or any other person.
And he knew that sex with her was nothing but a celebration of her body, herself.
And even that was all right.
He could accept and live with that.
He could take her on that basis.
Because his love making (he never merely fucked) was a giving process.
He took nothing from her, although he greedily absorbed all of her, taking her in from the beautiful face (which he could not see, since it was totally dark) to her large, firm, heaving breasts (which pressed against his face and lips, so that his mouth knew them better than his eyes ever could) to her sensuous, writhing, voluptuous body with its narrow waist and belled flaring hips (which his hands could speed over in the dark, memorizing their luscious contours) to her long, shapely legs (which he knew would bicycle in the darkness, as she abandoned herself to her arousal).
All, all, all of her was his.
He was getting by giving.
And there was no pride, no macho involved.
Because the bitterness of (the other, regular, daylight) reality would leave him.
Oh, he would brutalize her with his cock!
But with each thrust, the tension would melt away from him.
So that, within the depths of his mounting sexual excitement there arose a great peacefulness, a great calm.
Which relaxed him even as it inspired him.
So that at times like this (and only at times like this) he was strong.
And he might not be the envy of any man, but no man was his equal.
Because he had her, even though she did not willingly give herself to him, even though, in her mind, it was not he to whom she gave herself.
Still, she could not deny him his existence, his reality.
Much as she might like to.
And then too, there was the bed.
She had never suggested double beds.
Probably because that would deprive her of the right to sleep elsewhere in the house.
But she did not usually, as she would tonight, no doubt, avail herself of the bed in the attic.
So that it would not happen, the ceremony of physical acceptance and mental denial or substitution.
Not tonight.
But that was okay.
It had happened before and it would happen again.
Just as the other would happen again.
So that most of his days and nights would be drab, lifeless.
But on rare occasions, in the wee hours of the night, he would rule the world.
And now, as he prepared to go to bed alone, he folded the covers back on his side only, not prepared to violate her space, kept empty, reserved just for her.
And she came into the room.
And he paused, sitting on the edge of the bed, naked.
Had he misread the situation?
Was she actually going to sleep with him tonight?
And if she did, would she allow him to do his thing?
She looked at him and actually smiled.
And his neck swiveled, following her into the room, around the bed.
And she reached into the drawer of the night-stand on her side of the bed.
And pulled out her vibrating dildo.
"I just wanted to get it out before you turned off the light, so I wouldn't disturb you," she said.
Swiftly, not daring to look at her, he folded himself under the covers, only afterward reaching a hand out to put his glasses on his night stand.
And his teeth were gritted so hard he was getting a headache.
As he flushed in his anger and frustration.
And he fumed and raged in silence.
And thought, where does this shit come from?
What kind of a mind could think up something like what she had just done?
Not in his most hateful, vicious, brutal thought would he have conjured such a put-down for anyone.
To go out of her way to tell him that she preferred masturbation by herself to his company.
And this was the woman he had tried to comfort because of what had happened to her file at her psychiatrist's office?
This was the woman he had bent over backwards to sympathize with, to understand?
This was the woman over whom he had wrestled with himself for hours to forgive?
It was all too much!
He was going to crack, to go crazy.
He knew he was.
And when that happened-what?
The hot tears flooding his eyes, he lay there in the dark, whimpering.
He would kill himself.
He would kill her, then himself.
He would kill her and take the consequences.
He would, he would-not do anything.
And he broke out in fresh sobs, narrow shoulders shaking under the covers.
Because this last was only too true.
He would do nothing.
And now, he could hear her walking around over his head.
The floor of the attic creeked as she moved back and forth, emphasizing her size, her heft, relative to his.
Idly, in the midst of his emotional turmoil, he realized that he could walk in the attic without straining the floorboards.
And, for just a wild instant, he thought about sneaking up there and joining her when she was all settled down.
And he smiled at the thought of her outrage.
Which would almost be worth the beating she would undoubtedly give him.
Chapter Seven
Doctor Brown was sweating.
And it had nothing to do with the air conditioning, which was working perfectly.
His worst fears were about to be realized.
He was certain of it.
And the fact that these fears were of such recent vintage, having been born when he got the call on the golf course about the break-in, made them especially poignant.
Because Ramona would not cooperate.
As he had known she would not.
She would not call the police to explain her special situation.
And it was partially his fault, he supposed.
For not telling her what he had put in his notes concerning her.
So that she would be a prime target.
To the right kind of horny sicko, an irresistible target.
Because of his detailed physical description of her.
Which, combined with her promiscuity, also described by him in perhaps fuller detail than was necessary, revealed her as a hot number, by any standard.
If she had a brain in her head, she would get out of the house, at least during the day.
Listen to yourself! he said.
If she had a brain in her head.
This is a thing a psychiatrist would say?
Bullshit!
But he was panicky.
And that was something it was all right for a psychiatrist to say.
Admitting that there is a problem was half the solution.
That's what he told certain of his patients, anyway.
Except that, unlike many of them, he had very real reasons for being in a sweat.
This fucking hot pants bitch was about to get herself killed.
And there would be an investigation.
And a scandal.
And, if they caught the guy and the whole truth came out, he would be ruined.
Nobody would ever trust him again.
He could even get sued.
By her loser creep of a husband, of all people.
The file!
He would destroy it!
He knew what it said, after all.
And he pulled it from the cabinet.
And opened it up on his desk.
And-
He did not dare touch it.
Because that would be tampering with evidence.
Of a crime which, admittedly, had not yet been committed.
But it was germane to what was about to happen.
And he looked at the offending pages, at once repelled and fascinated.
That his words, his findings, should have the dark power to persuade someone he had never laid eyes on to commit a major, undoubtedly spectacular crime!
It was frightening, it was revolting, sickening, it was-absolutely fantastic!
No, these were words of power, phrases of evil magic.
To destroy them would be a kind of sacrilege, committed against himself.
Besides, there would be time enough to make a decision like that once the deed was done.
A cold way to look at it, perhaps, but then he had done as much to prevent it-whatever "it" was-as professional ethics, common sense, and personal concern would allow.
More than that, he could not do.
And the fact that her file was on top of the stack, and that the pages were stained with what appeared to be saliva, well, it-would hardly do to make too much of such coincidences.
New rule, he told himself.
If she makes it in here for her next appointment, alive and in one piece, I'm over the hump.
And, in a demonstration of the power of positive thinking, he put the file back in the drawer.
And her out of his mind.
* * *
Vengeance! Caspar thought.
It was coming.
It would be his.
He knew it would be.
And he would not have to do anything.
He would not have to lift a finger.
A monster had broken into the doctor's office.
And lifted Ramona's file.
And he knew that the doctor would not have been calling her out of casual concern.
And he wondered if the file said what an absolute bitch she was.
He would really have liked to know what it said, what she had told the doctor, how she saw herself, how the doctor, a supposedly objective professional, saw her.
He hated her.
It was an effort, hating her without waivering, but at last, in the wee hours of the morning, he managed it.
So that now he was willing to take his chances with her life.
She would be killed.
In which case she would have get just what she deserved.
And he would have to do nothing.
It would be taken care of for him.
The monster would never know, would never even suspect, that he was acting in his, Caspar's, behalf.
Or perhaps he would, depending on what the file said.
Or she would not be killed.
In which case, he would have her body again and again.
And every fuck would be a triumph over a hated enemy.
Or she would not be killed right away.
In which case, he could use her while looking forward to the day she would.
She was an unmitigated bitch.
He was irrevocably convinced of that now.
And now, he was ready to leave for work.
And if she had a brain in her head, she would get out of the house.
But she was still in her bathrobe.
The bitch.
For all he knew, she was going to have one of her boyfriends over.
Or perhaps hang around, waiting for one of them to call her.
Or-no.
Not even she could be that hare-brained, that totally driven by her libido.
Unless-no!
Absolutely not!
He was not going to rethink his position.
Not again.
She was far too manipulative, her insults to him too ingeniously contrived, her campaign against his peace of mind, his self respect, his existence, far too consistent for her to be insane.
She was, as she herself was at pains to point out to him, if only to contrast herself to him, perfectly healthy.
His sympathy for her had been totally misplaced, a mere defense mechanism to justify not killing her with his bare hands.
As though he could.
As though she could not put him through the wall, if she was so inclined.
But somewhere out there was someone, some-thing, a faceless, hulking monster, a subhuman, super-powerful brute, against whom she would stand no chance.
If she were idiot enough to stay home.
For whatever reason.
And he hoped that she would be.
So that his surrogate, the monster he had willed into being, would be able to do that for which it had been created.
"Well," he said, ready to go to work, "you have a nice day."
And he ignored the resounding fart which constituted her reply.
* * *
"Come on, Randolph, lemme up!"
And Jerome struggled against the ropes that tied him, naked, hand and foot, to the bars at the head and foot of the bed.
But Randolph only laughed, looking down at him.
"Just be glad I tied you face up, old buddy," he said. "Otherwise, you'd have you a problem with Junior here!"
And Randolph idly fingered his long, thick, heavy dong, standing at the foot of the bed, naked, looking down on Jerome.
"Stop squirmin', will ya? You gonna cut cher wrists like that.
"You know we gotta practice.
"First, we tie 'er down.
"And then, I do ma thing!"
"No! No!" Jerome shouted.
As Randolph, laughing, climbed on top of him, resting his cock on top of Jerome's, pumping his hips, and saying, "Fucky, fucky, fucky!"
And rolling off the bed, his large, heavy body striking the floor with a heavy thud, breaking up with mirth.
"Okay, okay, you proved your point, dammit!
"Untie me, you dumb motherfucker!
"I swear, sometimes you act like a fuckin' fag, Randolph!"
"Now, now, Jerome. Don't choo go gettin' yourself all riled up."
And, sitting on the edge of the bed, his cock half erect, Randolph began untying Jerome.
"You know we hadda practice," Randolph said, reasonably.
"Yeah, well, save yer fuckin' fucky-fucky for the broads, will ya?
"Lookit choo, gettin' all excited there!
"You sure you ain't gay?" Randolph laughed.
"You just wait an' see what I can do to a first class cunt, pal!
"You just axe ole Ramona if I'm queer, I get done with her."
"We get done with her," Jerome corrected, sitting up, rubbing his wrists.
"That's what I meant."
Jerome got up and went into the bathroom.
"How much longer we gonna hafta stay holed up in this fuckin' remake of Motel Hell?" he asked, pissing into the sink.
Randolph walked over to him.
"I toldja, we'll hit a couple liquor stores in a few days.
"But first things first.
"We got some lost time ta make up for.
"That's why we gotta take care of ole Ramona.
"We ain't doin' too bad, ya know.
"Three days outta the joint an' already we got us one helluva date lined up!"
And they laughed.
But Jerome cut it short as Randolph grabbed the cheeks of his ass.
"Knock it off, Randolph! We agreed on no more of that, once we was out, an' you been messin' up the sheets ev'ry mornin', rubbin' on me!"
"Don't choo worry none, ole buddy!
"Tomorrah mornin', things're gonna be back ta normal.
"Ole Ramona gone straighten the both of us right out!
"Anyways, you got a cute ass, Jerome, but it's a mite hairy for my taste."
"Yeah, well, you're the body of this outfit, I'm the brains, remember?"
"Yeah, right. Just 'cause you remembered your old shrink had a loose office.
"Who made it happen?
"Just like who's gonna make what comes next come out right?"
"Hey, I'm impressed," Jerome said, brushing Randolph's hands off his buttocks and moving back into the room. "Just like I was impressed with you sittin' behind Brown's desk takin' fuckin' notes.
"The hell was that all about?"
"Oh yeah, right, like I was supposed ta take files outta the place, right?
"How about a trail of confetti?
"Or a sign on my back sayin' come get me?"
"Okay, okay.
"Hey, you gonna put some clothes on or what?"
"Yeah, sure, why not?
"I just wanna take another look at them liquor tores today.
"Tomorrah, the main event, right?"
"If you axe me, which you obviously ain't, I'd say we go for the money first and celebrate with ole nookie after."
"Ya know, Jerome, that's why you're always gonna get caught.
"You gotta have a cool head when you're makin' withdrawals.
"You cannot see well enough to do a job when your fuckin' jism is up over your eyeballs blockin' the view, unnerstand?
"And three years of boy-boy fun and games has not hit the spot."
"You seemed to have a good enough time of it."
"Because I'm always fuckin' horny, is why.
"This, this fuckin' thing we do, you think it 'es relief?
"Bullshit!
"'It just says, 'Hey! I ain't dead yet!'
"'It says, 'It still works.'
And that's all it says, pal.
"I'd fuck a snake if somebody'd hold it up for me."
"Thanks a lot!"
"Hey, nuthin' personal, but you get the point.
"There's nuthin' like nookie but nookie.
"Or am I wrong?"
"No, no, you're absolutely right."
"Aright, then.
"What say we go somewhere, have a steak, pick up a bottle, come back here, toast tomorrah, and get a decent night's sleep?"
"Hey, whatever, if that's the program."
* * *
He was coming!
He was coming for her!
She could not see what he looked like, of course.
Except that he was big.
And very, very strong.
So that she would stand no chance of resisting him.
But she would, as much as she dared.
If she was not totally paralyzed with fear.
Because he would be scary.
He would frighten her as no man had frightened her before.
She could see him in her mind's eye, a shadowy figure in a slouch hat and raincoat, a flasher's costume.
Except that he would not show up merely for shock effect, for a sick sight gag.
No, he would appear on her doorstep ready for serious business.
And she would let him in.
She knew that she would.
All he had to do would be to ring the bell.
And she would answer the door.
And know that it was him.
Right away, she would know.
He would be a huge outline, filling the doorway with his bulk, backlit from the street, from the ordinary light of day, from the ordinary world behind him, now separated, removed, remote from her, from her life.
And she felt it, felt the thrill of shivering anticipation in her abdomen.
Where the butterflies of her sexual excitement were barely stirring, their soft, warm, thick wings fluttering gently against the walls of her innermost self.
Yes, he was coming!
He was on his way!
And she could feel it.
And when he came, knowing that it was him, she would let him in.
She would admit him.
To avoid destruction of the screen door.
To avoid making him have to crash through it.
To avoid making him angry.
Except that he would be angry anyway.
He would have the pent up anger, the frustration of one who could never be satisfied.
Not by her, not by any woman, not by anything in this world or out of it.
So that there would be no compromise, no reasoning with him.
And any attempt to talk to him would be met with an increase in the level, the intensity of his inner rage.
And he would be naked beneath his raincoat, his trench coat, with its epaulets and wide, wide shoulders, which he would fill completely.
She would know this already.
And on his feet?
Boots.
Combat boots, paratrooper's boots, boots that could stomp and maim.
And his face, when he took off his slouch hat and threw it aside?
Brutal, heavy-jawed, perhaps needing a shave.
And his hair?
Close-cropped.
Or maybe he would even be a skin-head. So that nothing, not even hair, would stand between his meanness and the world.
And certainly nothing would stand between him and her.
And it would not even matter if the authorities were hot on his trail, for whatever reason.
There could be wailing sirens coming closer and closer and that would not save her, would not deter him.
However close they might be, they were already too late.
He was coming!
Closer and closer he was drawing to her.
And driving.
He would not be on foot, a Frankenstein's monster stalking through the village.
No, he would not be a public spectacle, but a private one, invisible to all except his target, herself.
Like some kind of guided missile, he was homing in on her.
And she felt the fear rising inside her, terrifying, delicious.
Oh, she could escape, if she wanted to.
Her car was right outside, in the driveway.
In perfect working order.
She had but to run upstairs, put some clothes on, dash back out, and she would be on her way to the mall.
But she would not.
Because a part of her had been looking for him for a very long time.
Because he represented the fulfillment of her darkest urges, her most fundamental needs.
Because, without him, she would be forever unsatisfied, forever incomplete.
It was as though he were not a man, but some kind of unholy test, his handling by her as necessary to her soul as the comforts proclaimed by the sisters of her early schooling.
And yet, she did not welcome him.
Rather, it was the confrontation she sought, she needed.
Because she feared him.
With a very real, very genuine fear.
And yet, he was the demon who haunted her memories.
Exorcism!
Yes, that was something the sisters had mentioned.
The casting out of the demon.
She would cast him out.
She would be free of him!
She would strip him of his aura of mystery and terror.
She would ultimately triumph over him.
But there was danger.
And pain.
Dangerous pain, not the kind that would merely bruise.
Because he was powerful.
And she had not the strength to restrain him.
Her only hope would be to exhaust him.
And there was only one way to do that.
Yes, she would work her way through him.
She would penetrate his anger, his potency, his danger.
She was built as she was for a purpose (something that Doctor Brown had pointed out in his notes; the abundance of her voluptuous charms was something that she found mirrored in the attitudes of others toward her).
And that purpose was about to be fulfilled.
For the first time in her life, she felt the possibility, the presence of the mystical element of existence, the separate reality that floated, invisible, alongside this world.
And she remembered the song some wimpy group with guitars and soft voices crooned on TV-to everything (turn, turn) there is a season.
And this was her season, the season of the magic of her fulfillment, the end of the search, its culmination.
Because he was coming!
She could feel him now, a blip on the radar of her anticipation.
Beep, beep, beep, homing in on her.
She wanted to go up to the bathroom, to fix her makeup, her hair.
But she did not dare move from the living room.
Because it would not do to keep him waiting.
Because the ceremonial aspect of all this did not escape her.
And it would hardly do to be out of position.
That would mess everything up.
She could have done with a last-minute touch-up.
But that did not really matter.
He would not be interested in the details of her appearance.
He was after the realization of the idea of her, the idea that was drawing him closer and closer to her, to here, minute by minute.
He was on his way!
* * *
Doctor Brown's hand hovered over the telephone.
He had just seen his first patient of the day and the next was not due for another ten minutes.
Perhaps he could talk to the police again.
Not to tell them everything he knew, of course.
Professional ethics, doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.
Maybe they would accept, as an educated guess, as a professional hunch, the likelihood that Ramona was in clear and present danger.
No!
That would be stupid.
What if they ignored him until it was too late?
Surely they would somehow seek to blame him for their own failure.
And that was certainly not fair.
Why should he be a scapegoat for their incompetence?
Still, there was a human life at stake here.
But an old saying, a rather clever couplet, came to him.
Thou shalt not kill, but need'st not strive.
Officiously to keep alive.
And he waited in idle silence for his next patient to arrive.
Chapter Eight
"No, no, Ralph.
"That's okay, we'll cover for you.
"Everybody else showed up, so I'll have George and Paul split your route between them.
"You rest up, take care of yourself, okay?
"And thanks so much for calling in.
"'Bye now."
Caspar hung up the phone and sat back, relaxed.
He had already split Ralph's route when Ralph did not show up on time.
It would not have been a big deal to reload, if he were a few minutes late, but he knew Ralph, as he knew all the men.
And Ralph was never late unless he was sick.
It was just such knowledge, such efficiency, that made Caspar the model middle manager.
And he was happy today.
Today, the bitch gets her comeuppance.
Today, her years of giving him all manner of shit were going to catch up to her.
He could feel it!
The monster was loose!
Everything that he was not, he had projected, he had willed, out into the world.
And the world had responded, had formed the monster out of the bitterness, the frustration, the ugliness, the meanness of itself.
And set it loose.
And gave it direction.
And now, it was on the way!
And Caspar looked forward to all of it, the whole nine yards.
The sympathy of family and fellow workers.
The commentary by the media.
But most of all, he looked forward to the tabloid press.
So that he could see the grainy black and white pictures of the chalk outline, running through the pools of (copious) blood.
And the intimately detailed account of the rape and vicious murder, as only the tabloid press 'could cover it, red-faced with the sexual excitement of their outrage, tumescent in their shock and revulsion, almost coming with the thrill of their disgust.
And he would feel-clean.
He would no longer be soiled by his contact with her.
And his mind would no longer descend into the lascivious mud of helpless lechery as his body took over and he adored her once more with his tongue and prick.
Because she could no longer overwhelm him with her fantastic body.
He would be free!
And he actually hummed to himself as he punched the inventory adjustment macro instruction into the keyboard of his CRT.
And he laughed to himself.
A packing house.
And his job?
To account for dead meat.
* * *
Ramona looked at the clock on the bookcase.
Nine-thirty.
A little after, actually.
Maybe he was not coming after all.
Maybe all her senses were wrong, deceived by her fearful, wishful thinking.
Maybe-
Bing ... bong!
With a space between bing and bong.
Unhurried but inevitable.
The hand of fate.
And the front door chimes.
And she is disappointed.
There are two of them.
A big guy in a leather jacket and baseball cap and a smaller one, similarly attired.
A delivery man and his helper, with a pencil over one ear and a package in his hand.
And she was angry, furious.
Today of all days, the mundane has to rear its ugly, boring head!
"Yes." she said flatly, opening the door, too disgusted by this turn of events to show any emotion.
Besides, it was not their fault.
They were only doing their jobs.
"Uh, this the residence of-lessee-Caspar and Ramona-"
"Yes. Yes it is. What have you got?"
"We got this here package you gotta sign for, lady."
"Oh, very well, let me have it."
And she opened the screen door.
Whack!
He back-handed her into the room.
And had the baseball cap, which had covered his face, off and a ski mask on before she stumbled over the coffee table and fell onto the couch.
As his "helper" pushed in right behind him, also putting on a ski mask.
"Check the place out!" the big man growled, holding her on the couch by the wrists, his body pressing on hers.
Quickly, the other man ran through the first floor, then up the stairs to the second, and then up to the attic, before coming back down.
"Nobody," he said.
"Ja check the basement?"
"Uh-lemme take care of that."
He did so, returning to say, "Nothing."
"Okay, okay!
"Lock the front door."
The other man complied, as the big man ripped off Ramona's robe.
"Holy shit! Will ya lookit them fuckin' bazooms!" Jerome said.
As Randolph picked her up in his arms and headed for the stairs.
And threw her onto the bed.
"You fuckin' move an' I'll kill ya!" he warned.
And both men quickly stripped completely naked, except for the ski masks.
Jerome fumbled in his jacket pockets, coming up with some pieces of plastic clothesline, handing them to Randolph.
Who looked at the bed, puzzled.
Because it had neither foot nor headboard.
So that there was nothing to tie her to.
"The fuck am I s'posed ta do now?" Randolph complained.
"There's a brass bed upstairs in the attic."
"Let's go, then," Randolph said.
And picked her up, his dong hobbling half erect and huge below her as he walked.
He had relished this fantasy for three long years and he was not going to have it fucked up because of the wrong furniture.
"Stuffy up here," he said, as he threw her onto the bed. "Open some fuckin' windows, will ya?"
Jerome complied, gingerly padding over the dusty floorboards on bare feet to open the windows at both ends of the attic.
As Randolph deftly tied her hands and feet to the brass bars of the bed.
Ramona stared at Randolph's face, made particularly brutal and frightening by the ski mask, obviously terrified.
"Ja bring the fuckin' gag? This one looks like a screamer to me."
"Forgot."
"It figures.
"Get me a rag. Some fuckin' thing, okay?"
Jerome tore off two strips of sheet from one corner of the covers.
Randolph took them from him, wadded one up and stuffed it in her mouth, then tied the other through it, around her head.
"Take a good look, buddy," Randolph said, spreading the lips of Ramona's pussy with the fingers of one hand.
"Been a long time, huh?"
"Long time," Jerome agreed.
"I'd letcha have a taste, but I don't wanna wait no longer."
"Later, maybe." Jerome said.
"Whatever."
And Randolph was on top of her.
And in her.
And she could not move, as the plastic clothesline stretched and held.
And he was fucking her with his throbbing, rampant intruder.
And there was nothing, nothing, nothing she could do about it.
She had thought about this for a long, long time.
But she had not seen the restraints in her visions.
She had thought that his strength alone would be sufficient to restrain her.
So that she could raise her legs.
And bicycle in the air in helplessness and delight as he transported her on bat-like wings to a lascivious, infernal paradise.
But it was not that way.
He was a heavy, grunting animal, ploughing away at her.
And she was a piece of meat, providing warmth and moisture and pressure to massage and service his massive prong.
And the ropes were hurting her.
And the gag was making it hard to breathe.
And she could not see what was going on.
Still, it was there, his overwhelming power.
And her pussy was responding, her clit getting hard, her juices flowing.
And she found herself resenting this.
Because she was being denied participation.
She could do absolutely nothing.
She was completely helpless.
You would think that he wanted responsiveness, partnership.
He did not.
As he roughly kneaded her breasts, his cock strokes powerful but unimaginative, mechanical.
No, the intimacy, the sexuality was not there.
But the terror certainly was.
He could do anything he wanted to.
And it was not confined to sex, either.
She could be-no!
No, she told herself, I will not think about those things. I dare not.
Relax, she told herself.
Relax. Enjoy it, as best you can.
Play for time. Keep them sexually interested.
Keep them fucking.
Play for time.
Help will come.
Caspar will be coming home.
He'll see their clothes in the bedroom, realize something is wrong, and call the police.
Caspar will save her.
And years of her negative thoughts of him pushed to the front of her mind.
So that, despite her terror, she found herself cynically laughing at herself.
But then, she thought, there was no better, no other plan.
It was Caspar or death.
And she was not yet ready to die.
She forced herself to relax.
And he was quite strong, quite potent.
And he was going for it, all the way.
So she tried to lead her mind away from him, away from the action.
So that her cunt would not betray her, would not snap at his cock, would not cling to it, sucking it at each backstroke, devouring it, sucking it in at each lunge.
But it had been too long for Randolph, too long since he had not had to-make do.
So that it made no difference, her degree of participation.
He himself wanted to hold back, to make it last, to wallow in his sexuality, his performance.
But there was too much pressure there.
It felt too damn good, his cock, the woman, the whole scene.
He came.
And came and came, part of him vaguely alarmed, lest he drain himself completely, all in one shot.
But he stopped at last.
And pulled out.
"All yours," he said to Jerome. "I gotta go downstairs an' wash up for the next round.
"And maybe find us a little Vaseline or some-thin', so's we kin you-know-what, har, har."
"You do that.
"Take your time.
"'Cause I intend to with this sweet thing," Jerome said.
And Jerome watched as Randolph padded down the attic stairs, making sure that he was out of sight.
And Ramona, who had wondered at his hesitation, understood.
Because Jerome's face was right down there, mouth open, tonguing her clit, licking her pussy, exciting her-and devouring Randolph's fresh load.
Hastily, he lapped at her.
And she could not tell which was his objective-to lap up Randolph's discharge or to stimulate her.
But Jerome managed to accomplish both.
Ramona had to admit to a residue of excitement from Randolph's efforts, on which Jerome built, first with his tongue, and now with his cock, as he shafted into her and ploughed away enthusiastically.
And Jerome seemed to have more technique than Randolph, his equipment not as large, but much more expertly applied.
Randolph had been a simple, two stroke piston engine, in and out, a pile driver.
But Jerome's motion was more oiled, more gliding, a continuous, smooth motion of his hips, circulating round and round toward her and away from her.
Randolph was a fucker, but Jerome was a lover.
Or could be, under other circumstances.
So that she was enjoying him much more.
And Jerome seemed to have more staying power.
Because he was actually bringing her along nicely, bonds or no bonds.
And he was still going strong when Randolph, cock freshly washed, jar of Vaseline in one hand, returned.
And watched the action on the bed.
And quickly became excited.
So that he stood there, cock hobbling stiffly before him, waiting for Jerome to finish up.
And waiting and waiting, sighing in exasperation, as the rounded buttocks, flexing and unflexing, continued to drive his lusty cock into Ramona's hot, juicy cunt.
"Need a hand there, buddy?" Randolph asked, at last.
And ran a finger lightly up and down the crack of Jerome's working ass.
"Hey, man, don't, be, doin', that," Jerome panted, persistently fucking.
"Can't have you wearin' it out, now, can we, buddy?" Randolph asked, the finger resting now on Jerome's pumping ass hole.
And Jerome was in no position to prevent him.
As Randolph moved the finger in a circular motion against the knot of muscle.
"Dammit, I, told, you, not, to, to ... aaah, shit!"
And Jerome was coming into her, his conversation masking Ramona's multiple orgasms, which provided all the additional stimulation needed to put Jerome over the edge.
And Randolph's finger remained faithful to the end, riding Jerome's ass hole all the way home.
"C'mon," Randolph said, impatiently, smacking Jerome on the butt. "Let's turn 'er over an' play the flip side."
Jerome helped him untie her, then retie her face down, legs spread.
And Jerome went to wash up, first watching as Randolph began fucking her in the ass with a lubricated finger.
"Old habits die hard, huh, buddy?" Jerome asked.
But Randolph merely shrugged and kept working.
"Important thing," he said, "is ta have a good time."
Jerome did not reply as he went to wash up.
And Randolph inserted a second finger.
"You gotchoo a nice, big ass hole, lady. I don't see no problems atall."
And there were none, as he mounted her.
And rode, his legs together, his body weighing her down.
"Mmmm!" Randolph crooned to himself, as his bulging baton moved smoothly up and down inside her rectum.
And again, Randolph rode her simply, powerfully, all the way.
As Jerome returned.
And played with Randolph's ass hole as Randolph ploughed Ramona's.
"Turnabout is fair play," Jerome said.
But Randolph was too far gone, his face and body flushed with the heat of his passion, to reply.
Because now he was coming and coming, his jism injecting itself deep in her bowels, long, powerful spurts that belied the copiousness of his previous discharge.
And when he was done, he pulled right out.
And held the cheeks of her ass apart, studying her distended ass hole, the come oozing up out of it.
"Your turn," he told Jerome.
"Uh, I say we turn 'er back over. I wanna get me some more of that pussy."
"Suit yourself," Randolph shrugged.
And they untied her, turned her over, and retied her in the original position.
And Jerome, aroused at the sight, mounted her again.
But this time, he sealed his lips to her breasts, alternating, sucking now this one, now that one, kneading them with his fingers, feeling the nipples go firm, rubbery under his tongue.
As Randolph went downstairs to wash up, returning to watch the scene.
And this time, he let Jerome take all the time he wanted, not interfering with him or "helping" him, not touching him.
So that, by the time Jerome had reached his climax, Randolph was ready once more.
And he plugged in as soon as Jerome pulled out, Jerome's sperm and her pussy juice combining with the residues of previous action to lubricate the way.
And he ploughed away on her, quickly building up to his climax.
As Jerome returned from washing up.
"You 'bout ready ta take off, pal?" he asked, when he was finished.
"Uh, seems ta be something missing here, mathematics-wise, old buddy," Jerome replied.
"Oh, well pardon the shit out of me! I had three so you gotta have three, to even the score.
"The fuck is this, hockey?"
"Tell ya what, pard," Jerome said, smoothly shafting into Ramona's flowing cunt as he spoke, "what say we stick around an' we quit when I'm one up on you?"
"You just get done with yer fuckin' bidniss there and we'll be on our way, smart-ass.
"An' don't be takin' all day about it, neither.
"We got that other, uh, project, remember?"
But Jerome took his time, ignoring Randolph's sighs of impatience.
At last, however, the cheeks of his ass stopped working, clinching one last time, then relaxing.
"That does me," he said.
"Mm-hm-mm-hm-um-hm-hmm!" Ramona said.
"What?" Randolph asked, lifting the gag and loosening the rag in her mouth.
"I said, I have to use the bathroom."
"Oh. Nah, fuck that," he said, tying the gag again.
"You all set, pal?"
"How's about a fast shower?" Jerome suggested.
"Yeah, I guess we got time for that."
"And some lunch. I'm fuckin' starved," she heard Jerome add, as they went down the stairs.
* * *
"Ramona? I'm home, honey! Where are you?"
And Caspar smiled.
Because he knew where she was.
In hell, where she belonged, was where.
Still, he had best discover the body.
Nothing down here.
The basement, perhaps.
No, nothing.
Upstairs!
Of course! He would have slaughtered her there on the spot, having had his fiendish fill of her luscious body.
No, nothing.
The attic!
And his balls receded inside his body in anticipation of what he would encounter.
Ugh!
He was right.
There it was, the smell of death, of decay, of-
shit!"
And he saw her, lying there, bound hand and foot, gagged.
And she was not moving.
Horrified despite himself, Caspar approached the bed.
And almost shit his own pants in sheer terror, as her eyes popped wide open.
And clutched his racing heart as Ramona said, "Hm-hm-hm, hm hm hm-hm-hm!"
Cautiously, as though afraid to touch her for some reason, Caspar loosened the gag and removed the rag in her mouth.
"What?" he asked.
"I said, get me the fuck out of here!"
But he did not move, his eyes traversing her naked form, cunt still oozing stale come into the pile of excrement in which she was lying.
And still he did not move.
As she lay back, eyes closed, head turned away from him, the danger now past, ashamed to be seen even by him in this condition.
And seeing her there like that, he was tempted to just walk away.
What a disappointment!
What an anticlimax!
"Perhaps," he told her, "I had better call the police.
"I realize that you must be terribly uncomfortable like that, but I believe this is what they call a crime scene.
"And I shouldn't wish to disturb the evidence."
He saw her eyes narrow in fury at him.
And he stared back at her, expressionless.
And her eyes went wide with horror at the thought that this doofus might actually do that.
So that a parade of blue uniforms, plainclothes-men, and a police photographer would see her here like this, cunt oozing into a pool of her own shit.
"Please," she begged.
The first time she had ever said please to him.
"Just ... just ... get me out of this ... mess.
"And no police. Please."
She could not risk it.
It would be the end of her self-image as she knew it, with the psychiatric files, the publicity, the whole bit.
And how could she ever explain to them what really happened?
What would they know or believe of exorcism?
And now, Caspar was untying her.
And helping her to rise, as best he could, without getting all that close to her.
