 |
|||
|
|
6
Single malt scotch is a drink of peat fires and cold seas, not the Equator, but air conditioning can make Singapore cool enough; and while his wife was being fucked to oblivion, Ross Edwards tried to drink his way there. The difference was that she succeeded.
Ross was not usually a heavy drinker. A martini in the evening; a pitcher of margaritas on past happy San Diego weekends with Carol; wine with diner. He seldom drank during the day; and he couldn’t remember the last time he was truly drunk. But after staring for several minutes at that photo of men on his wife like a pride of lions devouring a kill, her kneeing sound echoing in his mind, he opened a bottle of Lagavulin, distilled on a small island off the Scotland coast a world away.
Lagavulin is rich, flavorful, strong; but it didn’t work. At least not completely. Images of Carol’s plundered body hazed, but they did not vanish. Every minute, minute after minute, hour after hour, as he filled and drained and refilled his glass, helpless, he knew that a cock, cocks, were in her. Rending. Filling. Coming. Taking pleasure. It was abominable. It was impossible. It was true.
From what he could see in the photograph she had been on her back. That foot. That vulnerable, well-formed foot. He had never seen such vivid polish on her toenails. Her applying it. Preparing herself for animals.
Clumsily he tore off his clothes, fell back into an armchair naked as he knew she was naked, and began furiously jerking his cock.
Despite the alcohol he was excruciatingly hard. He saw them fucking her. Fucking. Turning her body, fine-boned, full breasted--he remembered the first time he saw them, touched them, kissed those dark nipples. Hands. A sea of hands. Turning her this way and that to suit their pleasure. Over, onto her knees, spreading her ass. Mashing her breasts. Twisting her nipples. He saw her cry out, a cry muffled by a cock shoving between cum slick lips. He saw the men’s bodies jerk and spasm. Spasm. Spasm. And he did himself. Sex had obsessed his mind for days, ever since that first devastating email.
Semen spurted out, up, arched in the air, splashed back onto his hand and belly. It kept pouring out, as he knew it was pouring into his wife. Pouring. Even when it stopped, his cock remained hard.
A come covered hand reached unsteadily for another glass of amber liquid.
...
Half a bottle of Lagavulin brought poisoned sleep. Sleep filled with Carol. Laughing. Smiling. The moment he first saw her on the Stanford campus when she was working on her masters in architecture and he on his MBA. The breathtaking moment he first saw her naked. Writhing naked beneath a mass of men. Screaming. In orgasm or pain. Even in shallow, troubled sleep his mind was aware that she was being fucked by man after man. He hoped her screams were of pain. He hoped they were hurting her. She deserved to be hurt.
His cock was so hard it hurt and woke him.
The room was dark. Night had fallen. He glanced at his watch, but the numbers blurred. He reached for the bottle, but in mid-motion changed direction and grabbed his cock instead. Strangers were taking pleasure from his wife, and he had only his hand.
Daylight.
On the third try, he managed to open his eyes. His head was being beaten with a hammer. His tongue was thick. A dried crust on his hand and cock and belly. He smelled of sweat and sex. For a moment he thought he was going to vomit. He bent down. His head between his knees. The moment passed. He straightened and clumsily brought his left arm to his face and peered at his watch. 9:35 Sunday morning. He tried to figure out the time in California, but couldn’t subtract 15. Still Saturday though. Toward evening. She was entering her second exhausting night.
He hated her. Hated her as he had never hated anyone or anything. And at the same time, perhaps because of that hatred, he wanted her as much, more, than he ever had. She could deny him nothing now. He could use her any way he wanted. Everyone else had fucked the ass that she had so seldom and reluctantly given to him. It hurts, she said. I’ll show you hurt, he thought. I’ll shove it so far up your slut ass you choke.
His stomach spasmed, and he stumbled to the bathroom.
He showered. Carol was being fucked.
He shaved. Gargled with mouthwash. Brushed his teeth. Carol was being fucked.
He made a cup of coffee and sipped it tentatively. Uncertain if it would stay down.
Slowly he packed his suitcase, called for a taxi, rode to Changi Airport for the five hour flight to Shanghai. Glancing out the window at the passing traffic, he saw Carol being fucked.
In the Singapore Airlines VIP lounge he dared to sip a gin and tonic. It did some good. Helped settle his stomach. The ringing in his ears went down a tone. The throbbing in his head slowed. He took another sip and looked around the room. She had been fucked by many more men than this. He wondered who was in her at that very minute. What he was doing to her. How he was using her. Ross could not endure this. No man could. He made the mistake of taking a gulp of his drink.
Three hours later and six miles above the South China Sea, a flight attendant in first class bent over to pick up a magazine, causing her uniform skirt momentarily to stretch tight across her hips.
She did not really look like Carol. She was merely pretty, not beautiful. But she was about the same height, and had the same light brown almost blond shoulder length hair. And good legs and ankles. From her accent Ross surmised that she was Australian.
When she straightened he noticed her wedding ring.
An almost overwhelming urge flooded over him. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to fuck her until her eyes bulged. He wanted to make her scream. He wanted to do to her what was endlessly being done to Carol. He wanted to humiliate her husband. Tie him naked to a chair and make him watch. He wanted to do to others what was being done to him.
7
Chrysalis.
The camera flash reflecting off the sheen of come coating her body made it appear solid and hard. I look like a chrysalis, Carol thought. A new life form waiting to be born. But whatever has emerged, whatever I have become, is most definitely not a butterfly.
The picture, along with dozens of others, was in an online gallery. Even though it was password protected, she felt uneasy. She had no idea how many people Brad had given the password to, or how many others they would share it with. Knowing that evidence of the weekend would endure forever in cyberspace was somehow worse than having no idea how many men had actually used her. By Saturday dawn she had become insensible and had no more memory of what had happened after that than a woman given Rohypnol.
The link to the gallery arrived in an email Tuesday evening with a subject line: what I did last weekend.
She had followed Brad’s advice to put in for a few day’s vacation time in advance, and was only now beginning to feel human again. If I am human, she reminded herself.
She was bruised and battered inside and out. Brad had kept his word that she would not be seriously injured; but she had been hard used. Her breasts, her ass, her thighs, her arms bore blue-purple finger prints. Every part of her ached. Her cunt and ass and mouth and throat were sore. Her hair was sore. Urinating almost made her cry.
Photograph after photograph of men she had never seen. Only the first few seemed vaguely familiar. And Brad, who from the evidence had taken her at least a half dozen times. And one or two others. A huge Spanish speaking man with an enormous cock who make her scream. And a weasel spitting in her face.
That is why my throat hurts, she thought, as she flicked though a series depicting her with her nose flattened against men’s groins. Brad said I’d learn to deep throat.
The last two images were ‘before’ and ‘after.’
There she was beautiful, smiling at the camera through the V of her legs. Hair clean and soft. Lipstick smooth. Skin unmarked. The almost childlike slit of her shaved cunt pencil line closed. Her puckered anus tight.
And there was someone, something. A discarded rag doll. Sprawled. Eyes staring vacantly. Hair matted. Mouth slack. Arms and legs akimbo. Flesh bruised. Flaccid. Like a melted candle. Cunt and ass gaping wide. Pools of come inside both. Streams of come draining out.
There was a second link in Brad’s email. This to a site that purported to contain amateur porn. It did not require a password. Halfway down a page of thumbnails, she saw the photo the filling station attendant had taken. She clicked and it enlarged. The incongruity of her nakedness framed by the open car door made it even more obscene, as did her smile as she held her cunt open for the camera and the world. The picture was in sharp focus. She was unmistakably recognizable.
A cold wave broke over her. Anyone might see this. Her father. She flashed on her father’s shock at discovering that his good daughter was a shameless slut. Could he prevent himself staring at her cunt like any other man? Would he even want to? People at the office. Friends. Long forgotten high school classmates. Teachers. Neighbors.
The only email text: I told you, baby, I’d make you a star.
The email reached Ross Edwards between meetings in Tokyo Wednesday morning. It contained the same two links his wife was viewing, but the subject was: your wife and your brain. The text: I’m fucking both. And a .jpeg was attached.
With a mixture of apprehension and sexual anticipation, Ross opened the image, quickly followed by a perplexed, What the hell?
He couldn’t figure out what he was looking at.
An enormous irregular circle filled his MacBook Air. On the screen it was seven inches in diameter, touching the top and bottom of the screen and leaving little blotchy space on the sides.
At first it looked like a crater on the Moon. Then a tunnel. The mouth of a cave. An open manhole.
My god. That was it. My god, Ross repeated in soft disbelief as he realized he was looking straight up his wife’s asshole.
|
|
|