A Bestiary of Unnatural Women (31 page)

If I called the police, I was completely and
utterly screwed by every possible outcome. My only choice was to
get the hell out of here now and never, ever tell anyone what had
happened to me in this room.

Instead of calling the police, I collected
the evidence myself. That was the ultimate degradation: picking up
every scrap of duct tape and every bit of ruined clothing and
stuffing them into the plastic dry-cleaning bag that I retrieved
from the closet. Of all the things that I had done – sending the
email asking to be raped, acquiescing to every demand of my rapist,
giving him every bit of pleasure that I could – cleaning up the
motel room after him was the act that finally made me the
accomplice in my own rape.

The clock beside the bed said that it was
nine-thirty. The sun peeking around the curtains confirmed that it
was midmorning. I still had to endure two and a half hours until
noon when my request to be raped would expire. If Rick could find
me, he could still rape me half to death.

I had no luggage to pack. My last task was to
get dressed, get into my car and drive home. I slipped my jeans,
socks and shoes on and then sat on the edge of the bed and wondered
how I was going to make it all the way around the motel to get to
my car and then drive all the way across town when I was naked from
the waist up. I would be reported by the first person with a cell
phone who saw me. I would be arrested by the first cop who arrived
to investigate.

There was only one thing to do. I retrieved
my tee-shirt from my bag of evidence, slipped it on backwards and
tucked it into my jeans to hold it in place. My back was completely
exposed but my tits were covered. Covered tits was the only thing
that counts in this fucked-up civilization. Everybody would freak
if a woman showed her tits in public, but, as long as they were
covered by a layer of stretchy fabric, they could bounce around
like two basketballs in a gym bag with every step she took and
there would be no problem. Men would notice, that was for sure, but
the law didn't care.

I checked that the coast was clear – no sign
of my rapist or any other voyeurs on this side of the building –
and then casually sauntered around to my car carrying the plastic
bag of evidence with me. Thankfully, the other side of the building
was equally deserted and I made it to the car without attracting
any attention.

When I got home, I entered as quietly as
possible and looked around carefully, fearful that Rick would be
waiting to finish the task that I had assigned to him. Thankfully,
the house was empty. I cleaned myself up as best as I could, taking
a long shower and brushing my teeth twice. Then I spent the
afternoon sitting on the couch in shock, staring at the television
set but seeing and hearing nothing. I kept going over and over in
my mind the events of the past twenty-four hours.

I knew that I had put myself into a bad
position, but the more I thought about the ramifications of what
had happened, the more I realized how bad it really was.

I had probably been raped by a stranger. If
that were true, then he would have gone through my purse before he
left. He would know my name and address. Worse, he would know that
I had not called the police because there would be no report in the
newspaper or on television. He would not hear of any manhunt. If he
drove by the motel he would see that the room was not sealed; that
there was no crime scene tape or police investigators collecting
evidence. He may have even parked somewhere up the street and
waited all day to see if the police ever came.

He was certain that I had not called the
police , he would know that he was free to rape me again at will.
He could come to my house as often as he liked and rape me any way
he wanted, confident that I would never report him.

I had made myself a perfect sex toy for a
sociopath.

How could I ever stay in this house alone
again?

Yet I couldn't tell Rick that we had to move
away. I couldn't change my name or phone number without giving him
a damn good reason. The truth would destroy my husband, yet any
believable lie that I could invent would lead directly to a police
investigation.

Rick, himself, would trigger that. As a
citizen with a spotless record, he believed that the police were on
his side. He would seek police assistance with any kind of crime or
threat no matter how hard I tried to convince him otherwise.

My only choice was get on with my life but
keep looking over my shoulder and, if my sociopath showed up, give
him whatever he wanted, any way he wanted it, and hope that he
would let me live for another day.

And afterward, I would have to begin waiting
again for my next raping.

On the other hand, against all evidence to
the contrary, maybe Rick had been my rapist. I desperately hoped
that was true but I would never be able to confirm it by asking him
directly. If he had not been my rapist, then the question alone
would tell him that I had been raped by someone else and our lives
would come crashing down.

That evening, Rick arrived home from work at
the usual time, greeted me pleasantly, and asked about my day. I
hung on every word, examined every facial expression, hunting for
the truth. But I could not tell one way or the other. On the one
hand, he gave no hint that he had spent the previous night raping
and torturing me. On the other hand, he gave no hint that he had
come home last night and found me missing. Either was possible. I
had been missing for twenty-four hours. Surely if he had not been
my rapist, he would ask where I had gone. Unless he guessed the
truth, that I had fled to avoid being raped by him. Either he had
raped me or he had accepted that I had escaped being raped. Either
one would suit me.

For days, I waited for him to mention our
game – to make some comment, however indirect, that would indicate
whether he had been the one who had done me or not – but he never
said a single thing that was out of place, never gave me the least
hint one way or the other. I had to accept that because it was
implied by my rules. I had been crystal clear that the INR
condition only lasted until noon the following day and then our
marriage would resume as though nothing had happened. Rick was
frustratingly good at pretending that nothing had happened.

I managed to keep Rick from seeing my bruises
for the next couple of weeks. I wore full makeup on my face every
day and made love to him in the dark every night. It wasn't all
that hard to keep him from seeing my body in the light when I was
making sure that he got enough loving in the dark to keep him from
asking too many questions. I kept my first and third unholy vows
religiously. Until I was fully healed, I suffered less when I gave
him blowjobs than when I let him push into my crotch. And, I was
happy to let him play with my tits to his hearts content; they had
not been bruised or injured during my night of horror. He does love
to play with my tits. A couple of weeks later, when my skin
cleared, I turned on the lights and kept my second vow as well. I
can't believe how long he likes to sit and stare at me naked.

Never before has Rick seemed as happily in
our marriage as during these last couple of months.

Every day I pray that it was Rick who raped
me that night, but, as hard as I try, I can't make myself believe
it. How could he have found me so quickly after I checked into the
motel? And the man who spent the night with me had been so strong,
so cunning, so light on his feet. How could he have been my gentle,
impractical, lumbering, naive husband.

Now I'm plenty familiar with the feeling of
Rick's cock in my mouth. It seems similar to the sociopath's, but I
can't tell for sure. I do know from experience that a cock feels a
lot different when I'm gently sucking and teasing it with my tongue
and lips than when it's being rammed against the back of my throat
with unrestrained violence. Rick's spunk seems to taste the same,
but don't all men's spunk taste about the same?

The only thing that I know for certain is
that I'm going to have to ask Rick to rape me again soon. I've got
no choice but to send him an INR message sometime within the next
couple of months. You see, if I never invite him to rape me again,
then he'll wonder if he did something wrong the last time. I can't
tell him that he raped me so well that I don't need it any more
because it probably wasn't him that committed the rape. On the
other hand, I can't let him think that my need to be raped was
satisfied by avoiding him. He'd have to wonder how that happened.
The only way that he won't get suspicious is if I ask him to do me
again. This time when I send him an INR message, I'll have to
arrange for him to rape me outside the home so that he thinks that
it's normal for me to leave the house after I declare open season
on myself. And I'll have to give him some clue, either in the
message or at home so that he'll know where to go to catch me. That
way, when he remembers the time that he couldn't find me, he'll
simply conclude that he failed to understand whatever clues I must
have left for him.

Of course, my next rape may not be done by
Rick. If the sociopath is watching me, he will come for me one day
while Rick is at work. If that happens, then I’ll know that the
sociopath exists. If not, then I’ll spend the rest of my life
wondering.

No matter who rapes me next, it's going to be
horrible because it's not a game any more. If it's the sociopath,
he's going to be brutal because it's in his nature. If it's Rick,
he's going to think that I need something extra bad to make up for
missing my last rape. I recall suggesting a beer bottle up the ass.
Rick's going to act on that suggestion sooner or later. My
sphincter twitches in anticipation of the pain every time I see a
beer bottle in Rick's hand. They're damn big. I don't think I could
take one up my ass without getting torn open no matter how much
lube he uses. I think I'll spend a couple of weeks stretching
myself before I send the message. That's another painful
humiliation to look forward to.

There's one silver lining in this whole mess,
though. I haven't thought fondly about Lester since I sent Rick my
last INR message. I have other things to think about now. I wanted
to be relieved of the burden of my ongoing mental infidelity. Now
dark terrors occupy my thoughts and dreams, day and night.

I got what I wished for.

Pity me.

Portrait of a Wife as a Middle-Aged Woman

I don’t understand my husband. Not at all.
I’m not a pretty woman, not a young woman, not a sexy woman but I
try to be a good wife. I cook a nice dinner every night. I keep the
house clean. I have a job; actually, a career as a marketing
manager for a chain of furniture stores. Keeping the house clean
and raising our two children on top of that took a lot of my
energy, but even so, I have never refused sex when Bert asked for
it.

I try to be a good wife. I thought that our
marriage was a good one. Good enough for me and good enough for
him.

But it seems not. Now that our youngest
child’s gone to university, he says that he wants something more
from me. He wants to do something kinky. I don’t know exactly what
that might be – he hasn’t given me any details – but I can guess.
He said that he’d like to try something new. He didn’t use the word
kinky – he used the words experiment and different and out of the
ordinary – but I know what he means. He means kinky.

I know what kind of kinky stuff he likes. I
caught him once, two or three years ago, looking at some porn on
the Internet. When I came into the basement, he couldn’t get the
screen turned off fast enough and I caught a glimpse of a woman
tied up with rope and leather straps. That might be the kind of
thing that he wants but I know that it’s not what I want. Simple,
ordinary sex is good enough for me. Get in, get out, and get to
sleep. That’s what gave us two fine children and a good home to
raise them in. We don’t need a lot of foolishness to be happy.
Doesn’t he see how good we have it? If he tries to make me into
some kind of exotic sex toy, he’s going to ruin it all.

He looks at me when I get undressed for bed.
I hate it when he looks at my sagging breasts and my fat, puckered
butt. He says that he thinks I’m beautiful, but I know that he’s
lying through his teeth. If he thinks that I’m going to believe
that story, then he must think I’m stupid. I can look in a mirror.
I know that that there’s no Playboy centerfold staring back from
the glass. My body’s not the stuff of sex fantasies. I’m thirty
pounds overweight and twenty years too old to be a sex kitten. He
must find me disappointing to look at. He keeps staring at me all
the time that I’m naked so I get my clothes off and my red flannel
pajamas on, quick as I can. It’s embarrassing. I wish that he’d
just roll over and go to sleep before I come to bed.

Unless it’s Friday night. Sometimes we do it
on some other night and sometimes we miss Friday night, but mostly
Friday’s the night. Then, I guess he has to look at me to try to
get himself turned on. But I don’t see how he can. I’m not sexy in
the glare of the bedroom lamp.

I’m better in the dark. All cats are grey in
the dark, so, I guess when leave the flannel pajamas under my
pillow and crawl into bed nude and turn out the lights and he feels
me up, he can pretend that he’s holding a younger and prettier
pussy. I expect that all women’s crotches feel about the same, so
as long as he keeps his hands down between my legs and doesn’t let
them wander up to feel the folds and sags and puffy fat above, he
can think about someone sexier while he gets himself turned on.

But it’s our twenty-first wedding anniversary
and he says that he wants a gift from me. I haven’t given him so
much as a card for years and now he wants a gift? Sure, he always
gets me a box of chocolates and a card but I let him eat most of
the candy. I don’t need the calories. He buys the kind of
chocolates that he likes because he knows that he’s going to be
eating most of them. And I always make love to him on our
anniversary night, even if our anniversary doesn’t come on Friday.
That’s expected, isn’t it? Anniversary sex. But a gift? We’ve got
enough money that he can buy himself whatever he wants whenever he
wants. He doesn’t need anything from me. What kind of gift can I
buy him that he doesn’t already have?