"The wayward wifes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Grant)

Chapter 6

Patty awoke to the sound of a dog howling in the distance. It sounded like the dog in the film, she thought blurriedly as she looked up at the ceiling.

She frowned, confused. Where was she? It didn't look like the ceiling in Marcia's bedroom, the powder blue one with the single light fixture… no, it was another room in a strange house and there was a different odor. She moaned slightly from the odd situation she found herself in, trying to place the smell which assailed her nostrils like something raw and savage. She started to move and then groaned, for her muscles were sore between her thighs and it was hard for her to move them. She lay still until the pain went away.

Her stomach felt funny and full. It was all warm inside, as though a gently implanted coal was there, emitting a non-burning but soothing soft radiance. She let one of her arms fall away from her naked breasts, stretching slightly, and then she froze!

There was something next to her, soft and warm like… like a man's body! She held her breath and turned her head slowly to the side. Her mouth gaped open as suddenly her eyes focused on the brown skinned back lying on the couch next to her.

And then it all came back to her!

She clenched her eyes tightly shut from the remembrances. The beginning with Rick Renault's patently false excuse to lure her to his den of iniquity. Then the marijuana, the smoke filling her lungs with intense desires, and then the films, the lewd, perverted movies of the two lesbians and the giant dog, and then her own wild twisting and churning body as it yearned for sexual release. She had succumbed like a harlot of pagan Rome to the rituals of lovemaking, obliterating her inhibitions and prejudices, which were already seriously destroyed by the ordeal of the past few days. And that smell was one of consummated sex which covered both her and the sleeping man beside her after the salacious orgy of the afternoon. Three women, one man and one dog all lusting, all climaxing together! Oh how sick! How wretched!

And she remembered too, the eruption of Renault's aging sperm deep inside her young gullet as she urged him on with her lips and tongue. That white heat in her stomach, the warmth which she could feel so strongly, was from the great pool of hot, white semen that he had emptied into her belly. She had begged for him to do that to her and had urged his own frantic licking and sucking of her vagina with all her physical being like that same sick whore. Nothing could excuse her lapse into uncontrollable passion with the degenerate old man, not even the small excuse of rape as she had had with Larry's father, she had deadened her every sense of righteousness.

She turned to view the naked man beside her, shuddering with revulsion as he shifted his thin, lined haunches. His nude form reminded Patty of an ancient hound dog snoring in the sun… a hound dog of inexpressible evilness which would soon be on the hunt again to ensnare her sweet pulchritude with further debauchery. She slowly, carefully edged her way from the couch, trying not to disturb Renault, lest he awaken and demand more from her.

She slipped quietly to the floor, smoothing the thin sweater and short skirt, then she tiptoed to the door and peered through the open crack into the hallway. All was dead silent, save for the regular heavy breathing of Renault. Her thoughts raced a mile a minute. This was her chance!

She held her breath and opened the door further until she could slip through without a noise. Cat-like, her bare feet barely touching the floor, she continued across the vast house. A board squeaked!

She went rigid, her heart pounding in her chest, but Renault only groaned softly and shifted to a more comfortable position. She continued to tiptoe to the front door, and she pushed her way out to the front porch and down the cement path. A gust of wind blew the door shut with a loud crash. She ran as fast as she could on her tortured and wobbly legs to the street. There was the main street of Portrero not far away. She hoped she could reach it before Renault realized she had fled.

Patty was lucky: a bus was just discharging passengers, and uncaring where it was going, she hopped aboard. The bus hissed and moved away from the curb, and Patty, the horror of the situation over, sank into her seat, a drained and hapless woman.

It took two more buses and another hour before Patty arrived back at Marcia's house. Throughout the long rides, she kept mulling over her predicament, her brain in a numbed state of shock. She was beyond crying, her emotions exhausted as her bruised body was tired. But the loathing continued to haunt her and she couldn't shake the fevered thoughts which rampaged her ravaged mind. She was completely immersed in the feelings of outrageous defilement which Rick Renault had so cruelly and debasedly subjected her to.

She could not stop despising herself, nor would she ever, for the wanton surrender to his foul, brutal raping of her cunt and mouth was a loss of her control, and there was no denying it. Before he had finished with her she had given back as much as she had received, her brain steeped in the blinding passion of her own desire, her body an ungovernable mass of seething lust. Oh God, she moaned softly to herself, she was still nothing but a street walking slut with a strange man's hot white sperm digested in her entrails..

She stumbled to the house, slamming the door after her impulsively. She raced to the bedroom, the filth and degeneracy of her actions overwhelming her mind. Quickly, almost feverishly she threw her skirt and sweater into a heap and stood naked, rubbing her hands along her sides in a futile attempt to cleanse her body. She looked down her breasts at the soft curve of her stomach to her raised pubic mound, and at the matted, dried hair and her inflamed cunt which Renault had so abandonedly manipulated with his long, hot tongue. She thought of her sexual desires which the old man had so callously raised into enveloping passion; she thought of how she had sucked him off to climax and how disgusting and evil she had been. She thought of her actions with Val Robbins, and her acceptance of Marcia's straining lips, and the original, releasing rape of her body by her father-in-law.

Gone was the listless, lethargic barrenness of that morning. The empty shell of her mind was once again filled by the terror and agony of her plight. And the full impact of what she had done and what she thought of herself hit with sledge hammer blows.

Her inner torment magnified a thousandfold, and she felt as if a trillion tiny, unseen creatures were walking on her body, dirtying it, defiling it so that she would never be able to be clean again. The filthy, unseen organisms scurried faster and faster over every inch of her velvet flesh, trailing dung-like putrification…

A low, tormented wail bubbled from Patty's lips as she ran to the bathroom. She twisted the plastic handles on the shower taps bringing forth a spray of water, and then she adjusted the stream almost with frantic haste until the needles were hot, hot as the hell she felt inside her. Then she stepped in the stall and gasped as the scalding spray beat upon her skin, turning it bright crimson, burning off the insects which infested it. She made no move to cool the water; instead she stood fast and endured the pain, her mouth open, her eyes shut, enduring the lashing cascade as if it were some cleansing, divine punishment.

For five minutes Patty withstood the torrent, blanking her mind to her sorrow. She soaped her rectum, vagina, breasts and face in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the dirty feeling, unsure whether she could succeed or not. She turned off the water and stepped out to dry herself. Oh God, will I never be wholesome again?

Briskly, almost as though she were heaping further abuse upon herself, Patty dried with a large, fluffy towel. Her skin tingled from the water and the toweling and glowed a burnished pink. She padded naked to the bedroom, hoping above hope she could relieve the furnace of loathing which burned inside her.

… And suddenly the thought of Larry flashed into her mind. The idea of his finding out what she had been doing was more than she could bear! It was too much! She'd betrayed her husband's pure love… lowered herself to the very depths of moral degradation… and she'd never be able to face him again. She couldn't go on this way, knowing she had lasciviously given herself to other men, complete strangers… a woman, her best girlfriend… no matter what the extenuating circumstances. She couldn't! She'd rather die first!

The horrible alternative drifted across her brain, tormenting her further. She weighed the methods, poison, slitting her wrists, jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge and the consequences of actually destroying herself, and it was too much for her confused mind to take. She sank upon the bed, and shortly her maddened thoughts dissipated into a weary, almost lethargic state, and with her sex exhausted body, she fell into a deep sleep.

She awoke after dark, the sounds of night coming through the open window. "Ooohhh, my God," she groaned aloud. "What's happening to me?" She sat up quickly, her brain reminded her of Renault again, and of her panicked flight… and of the almost hysterical trance she had been in after arriving home. It was too much, and she screamed, hard and high. She ran to the bureau and looked in the mirror. "My God," she moaned.

Heavy lines marred her fresh, young skin, and her eyes were sunk into her cheeks as though she had aged ten years over night. Her body was a mass of blush-red marks and bruises from Renault's suckling mouth, mostly centered around her breasts and inner thighs. Her nipples seemed to feel completely raw and she leaned against the bureau with revulsion.

"It must have been a nightmare. It must have!" she babbled incoherently over and over to herself, still hanging onto the bureau. "I'll ask Marcia. She'll tell me the truth, I know she will. She'll tell me I never did such things!"

"Marcia! Marcia!" she yelled, half staggering half crawling through the house.

There was no answer. She could see the clock on the kitchen wall as reading after seven, which meant that Marcia should have been home from her job by now. Where was she? Patty collapsed in the dinette chair. Then she saw the note propped against the sugar bowl, the handwriting Marcia's barely legible scrawl. It was a short message, but it said a thousand words:

"Patty: I'm letting you sleep, as you looked as though you'd had a rough day. I'm going to a party at Renault's and hope to see you there when you get up. Your friend, Marcia."

Patty slumped to the Formica table and sobbed. Her one friend had deserted her, not even bothering to wake her up to see if she was all right when she, Marcia, had come home after work. Oh God, she was the vile creature she secretly thought she was, and this only proved it! Marcia could not stand her except in the company of other lewd and corrupt individuals. With almost hysterical reasoning, Patty cried and moaned her feelings of abandonment and spuriousness out, wetting the table top. Then she stopped, completely drained of her agony, and again the fog of incomprehension began to roll over her mind. She settled back in the chair, whimpering with soft sounds of agony and let the blackness of the night's uncaring attitude envelop her distraught brain, soothing away the horror she could not face, blanking out the reality of her life.

Yes, and as she stared at the wall, the tears of her rejection drying upon her cheeks, she wanted to escape still further, right off this horrid, degrading planet into the spiraling eternity of the universe and she knew how to realize this fervent wish.

With sex. After all, her body was a used, vacant pit of decay, her soul putrescence and atrophy, her morals nonexistent and her life a hollow vestige of degeneracy. Why not use this gangrenous form to help her fly from her world? Why not let Val and Marcia and Renault, that ugly, vile old man, and even the dog on the screen grovel in her carrion? At least she, in that one brief passage of time, was able to break away and be free!

And with marijuana. That sweet haze of euphoria, that abundant supplier of soporific pleasure which heightened her ability to get away… she wanted more, more of the evil drug to fill her nefarious blood and take over her controls. She no longer wanted to worry, ever, about what became of her.

Like a robot, mesmerized, Patty rose from the table and slowly trod to the bedroom again. She had only one burning idea in her mind, the abject surrender to the goals of sex and drugs, and she knew exactly how and where to obtain them. At Rick Renault's. Tonight. At the party Marcia had already gone to. A thin smile of anticipation creased her otherwise bloodless lips, and Patty arched her form before the mirror again, only this time it was with pride of possession, rather than sick revulsion. This plague of flesh, this pestilence of spirit will serve my few desires well, she mused to herself as she kneaded her fine breasts and played her palms along her stomach ridges. It got me into trouble… now it will get me out of it.

She rummaged through the few clothes she had brought from the Jennings, and selected the dress she had worn on her honeymoon. She and Larry had not had much money, neither when they got married, or afterwards, and so she had been practical, picking out a simple all-white cocktail sheath as the outfit to be married in and then travel with him. Occasionally she still wore it, at special times when they had been invited to fancy places, or when they saved up enough to dine at a very good restaurant. But now, now was the time to wear it again, to have this symbol of her past defiled as the wearer was, so that not even this tag would be left to remind her of what she had come from. She slipped the fine wool dress over her head and down her body, drawing its satin drawstring around her neck tightly and tying it in a bow just above her breastbone. That was all she wore, save for a pair of sandals. Her breasts, firm and buoyant with their own uplift, stuck out, the nipples pointing through the material where her tits bulged at their most voluminous proportions. The tight bottom clung to her hips and outlined her bare buttocks and narrow vaginal slit as she walked. She hummed as she dressed, then she took the pearl-backed hair brush and began to stroke the soft, thin strands of her reddish waves, over and over, hypnotically counting back from one hundred as she brushed. When she had reached fifty-seven, the doorbell chimed. She didn't stop, but ignored its sound, and it rang again at forty-five and another time at thirty. Then a fist pounded on the door and a deep, gruff male voice yelled out her name.

"Patty! Patty! Please let me in!"

Patty put down the brush and walked to the door, grabbing her purse as she went. She opened the door, and if she had been more herself, she would have gasped with horror and shock. But as it was, the hulking figure of Larry's father, Tom Jennings, barely caused a ripple of interest to crease her forehead.

"Hello," she said tonelessly.

"Please, Patty let me in, will you? I-I have to talk to you."

"Can't. I'm sorry," she replied listlessly.

"But you don't understand! I'm sorry," Jennings said compassionately, "I'm truly sorry for what happened, as sorry as I've ever been in my life!”

Patty looked up at the wretched individual, discerning the pain and remorse which were written across his features. "Don't be. You were right all along, Tom. Your daughter-in-law is nothing but a gutter whore, and you did what all men should do to her. You fucked me silly, but that doesn't mean anything. Not any more."

"You-you don't mean that, Patty. It was me. I raped you, I raped my own flesh and blood, and I don't deserve to live any more." He grasped Patty by the shoulders, shaking her in an effort to make her understand. "Forgive me, Patty. Come home now and forgive me. I want only the best for Larry and you, and I promise, I promise on my mother's grave I'll never lay a finger on you again. I'll never say a nasty thing or even look at you wrong, but please say you'll be part of our family again.”

"Let go, Tom. I forgive you.”

"Wonderful! I'll get your things and we'll…"

"No. I'm staying here. This is where I belong."

"But I promise"

"I'm sure you'll be good. I'm just as sure I won't be. Now please get out of my way. I'm late for an appointment.”

She brushed past her stricken father-in-law and stalked down the sidewalk to the street. She did not look back, not once, never seeing the welling tears of humiliation and contrition, which filmed the broken man's blurred eyes.

The high domed room buzzed with the low conversation of a dozen, sophisticated people as Patty was led in by the Chinese houseboy. A white-coated waiter balanced a tray of drinks and wound his way through the cluster, stopping periodically to offer a replenishment to some guest with an empty glass in his hand. A huge fire burned in the Spanish-accented fireplace, which was almost as large as the entrance doors themselves.

Patty marveled once again at the wealth displayed, at the fine silver and beautiful paintings and magnificent tapestries, which she had but sparingly noticed upon her first visit.

Renault was, as to be expected, the center of attention, Patty moved across the room to him, stopping the waiter as he passed to select a very dry martini, and as she joined the three other people who surrounded him, she heard Renault say: "Yes, and the Van Gogh above the statue has been in our family for generations. The magnificent little artist gave it to Grandmother as a token of his appreciation for sponsoring one of his first art shows in Paris. He was eternally grateful, and rose to his well deserved place soon afterwards.”

Renault was once more in the velvet smoking robe; wide belt tied around his slender waist, collar high and slightly ruffled with a studied carelessness. He paused, seeing Patty for the first time, and she was pleased to note that his eyes caressed her curves, and that her body had not passed his appreciation.

"Well, well," he smiled, "I'm glad to see you are here, my dear." He patted her shoulder warmly. "I was surprised to see you had left so early this afternoon. I didn't even have time to tell you about this little get-together before you literally disappeared."

"I-I was pretty tired," Patty replied in a soft murmur. She flickered her eyelashes in feigned modesty. “And, well, a little shy.”

"Are you still, my dear?" he leered down, stroking his mustache slightly.

“Not in the least, Rick, darling,” she smiled in answer.

"Good. I'm sure we'll work out something later of ah, similar interest. After all, you were brilliant, simply brilliant, today. You have, mmmm, let's just say, a natural talent for such things."

"What things, Renault?" a gruff voice broke in. Patty turned toward the stranger who had spoken, one of the four who had been around Renault when she had joined them. She was attracted to the man on sight; a muscular, good-looking man in a dark suit and tight-fitting turtleneck shirt. She didn't think he was much over thirty, yet he gave a strong impression of power and maturity, as though he had risen in the world the hard way and knew whereof he spoke.

"Sex," she answered blatantly. "That's what thing, Mr…"

"Jessup." The man grinned at Patty. "And you…?"

"Meet Patty Jennings, Harold. Harold is a fight promoter, Patty, and a very good one at that. Oh, and I'll introduce you to the others, which I should have done before. Pardon my rudeness."

Renault gestured at the woman standing to the other side of Harold Jessup; a short, yet perfectly proportioned five foot girl with a pile of golden curls on top of her round, cherubic faced head. Patty thought she was the most innocent, Shirley Templish looking type she had ever laid eyes on, and she thought for a split second that certainly that one couldn't be a part of this licentious, sex-ridden group. She belongs sucking on an all-day lollypop, not some strange man's cock!

And this is Peter Harrison Fugazi," Renault continued, "Harold's new fighter. Expect to see him as the new heavyweight champion in a few years, Patty."

"Pete, Ma'am," Fugazi said. "Just call me Pete."

"All right, Pete." Patty shuddered inwardly at the size of the man, for as adonis-like as Jessup was, he was nothing compared to the fighter. Pete was a few inches taller and a yard wider than any male Patty could remember, with a totally bald head and a cauliflower left ear, and a very thin nose. His eyes were dusky Italian, with the glitter of Rome and Naples in them, and Patty made no mistakes about him;: he would be all animal, lover as well as fighter, and would be absolutely and hugely delicious inside her cunt. She could feel him already, and it frightened her.

Next to Pete Fugazi was a medium-sized girl with absolutely stupendous breasts. They were the size which would have put the plastics industry on overtime if they had been injected with silicon, but Patty had the feeling they were all flesh, all real. They protruded like the Swiss Alps, forcing the girl to arch her back to balance herself. She had a flat nose with wide nostrils, the exact opposite of Fugazi's, and very black, tightly kinked hair. The girl smiled, her thick lips wide with lustful greeting. "Hi," she said. "I'm Linda. Linda Vigal."

"Please to meet you, I'm sure," Patty said, smiling back at them.

Renault took her around to the other guest, introducing her to Fortesque T. Franklynn, to "Fort," as he was known. He had his arm around Marcia, who nodded warmly to Patty, and who in turn introduced George Laufgren, who owned a chain of electronic parts stores; his brother, Carter; and their respective wives, Jean and Helen.

Patty was struck by the quiet, formal, sophisticated way everybody conducted themselves, and if she hadn't known better, she would have thought this was one of the most proper and stuffy gatherings she had been to in her life. It was hard to believe these belonged to the mass-swap life, and wondered if they would engage in any of the perverted and unnatural acts she had so recently been introduced to.

"I'll leave you here, Patty," Renault said. "I have to see how Barbara is doing with hors d'oeuvres. We have a cook, but she still insists…” he sighed and shrugged with age-old way a man does when he doesn't understand a woman. Then he turned and with a smile, he shook a warning finger at the Laufgren's. "I saw her first, so no hanky-panky while I'm doing my duties. Especially you, Carter, you rake."

Everybody laughed and Renault walked toward the kitchen.

"Good to see you, Patty," Marcia said, breaking the ice. "You were dead to the world when I got home, so I thought it best to let you sleep."

"Thanks," Patty replied. "But I'm raring to go now."

"I'm sure you are," Carter said. "Ow! You didn't have to kick my shin, darling," he protested to his wife, Helen.

"We were just talking about Viet Nam," Jean said. "Though I don't understand a word of it. I'm a poor housewife and leave such matters to the men-folk."

"Well, it is obvious to anybody, even to you, Helen," Carter said, "That we have no right in that country. We should pull out of there at once.”

“What?” bellowed George, "Leave those poor people to the ravages of Communism? How many women and children do you think would be slaughtered without our defense?"

"Less than the number we're killing now," came the hot retort. "Let them decide for themselves who they want to run the government. It's not our concern."

"Pshaw! I say the concentration camp and firing squad terrorism would wipe the country clean of any thinking men within a year. What kind of world would we have if we gave in to such tyranny, we; the nation which was founded on the principles of decency and freedom for all mankind! Did we not fight for our freedom? And are not all men our brothers? Why should an ocean or a frontier make any difference to the universality of the human race?"

"You mean we should play God with the lives of millions, just to sway them to our beliefs?"

"No, but to give the poor people a chance to decide for themselves, that's all."

"Imperialism has never worked, and you know as well as I do, George, that the real reason we're over there is not to fight for their freedom, but to enslave them in economic ties with the Western world. We're interested in what they can do for us, not what altruistically we can do for them."

"Is profit that bad? Is the money I take from my company dirty? Don't be silly! The capitalistic system works on the basis that what's good for me is good for you, because I need you as much as you need me. So South Viet Nam is hurried into the twentieth century, is shaken up with industrialization and progress. So is that so much worse than picking weeds in a rice paddy all your life? Hell, no, it's not. And don't talk to me about the history of Imperialism. For one thing, we're not the Imperialists, for we plan to leave. Peking and Moscow surely don't, and they plan to bleed the country, not build it up, and that's true Imperialism."

"That still doesn't give us the right to kill."

"The only thing turning the other cheek ever got was another hit in the mouth. You speak of history, and that's the greatest lesson going. Or haven't you ever heard of Chamberlain's 'peace-in-our-times' sellout to Hitler, and the resultant World War II, which slaughtered millions. Asia will fall to the Reds just as surely, and we will have broken our commitments and promises and seriously weakened the respect we hold now if we do as you want."

"Respect?" snapped Carter. "Respect my ass! It's fear!"

"All right, fear! I say respect, but if our enemies fear us, so much the better," Carter glowered at his brother, and sipped his drink. "That's always the curse of the strong."

"All the strength hasn't done a bit of good, either. The Communists are still as powerful as ever."

"Bull shit, brother. When we entered Viet Nam, Cambodia was Red, the Philippines were overrun with Huk terrorists, Malaysia was threatened, Burma was in deep subversive trouble, and the whole Western influence was tottering on the brink of collapse. Now look. South Viet Nam was lost; otherwise Ho Chi Mm would never have agreed to bargain in 1958 he had it made and could put on a front of conciliation. Well, the front backfired and he has been ground to a standstill. The other countries have rallied behind our directive force, and Burma has thrown out the terrorists, the Philippines haven't had serious trouble in over five years, Cambodia has a new, pro-Western government, and we have never have better, more friendly relations with more Eastern countries than now. True, things aren't perfect, but they are a thousand times better than they were a decade ago, and I say it's because we made a stand and have stuck to it."

"And I say…"

"Please!" interrupted Patty. Continue your tirade later. But I'm exercising my right as a partygoer to ask that the subject be changed. I'm a nit about politics, and I feel left out."

"Thank you for the rescue," Helen said dryly. "The boys have been at this ever since I can remember. They don't exactly see eye-to-eye on everything. The silly thing is that they will never do anything else about it except argue."

They all laughed and as the waiter passed, the four took fresh drinks. The talk switched to television, movies, books, and raising of children in today's permissive society. Then Renault appeared beside Patty again, and she could feel the hardening lump of flesh between his legs as he brushed up against her. She wriggled the soft cheeks of her buttocks back against his groin and felt his cock stiffen still more.

The tempo and heat of the party continued to increase, and after a few more drinks, Renault dimmed the room's lights and had the Chinese houseboy set out the gold pillows in a wide circle on the floor. He then instructed everyone to assume seated positions on the pillows, and Patty knew that the marijuana ritual, which she had been a part of the previous night was about to be repeated. She felt her thighs and nipples tingle with anticipation, and as she sank to the cushion, she thought to herself:

This is just the beginning, and tonight is going to be one hell of a swinging party.