“Now, as to why we’re here. It has come to the attention of Mr. Morton and myself that the most heinous form of sexual depravity is being practiced right here in Glenville!” Barker paused dramatically.
Henshaw started nervously.
“The very morality by which we live is being undermined,” Barker told them pontifically. “Such filth has come to Glenville as some of you may not even be aware exists. Indeed, the acts which are being perpetrated are of a nature which decent people avoid even mentioning.”
In the next room, Mrs.Barker was titillated. She strained her ears to hear. Also, Rafe Proctor was licking his lips with frank curiosity. Only Luke Partridge seemed to be displaying the genuine puzzlement Barker’s words implied they should all feel.
“The horror of homosexuality has invaded Glenville,” Barker announced. “Worse! Female homosexuality! That most disgusting of all perversions! Yes, I tell you that right here in Glenville lesbians are flaunting their immoral sins against God and man!”
Everybody except Angus Morton was genuinely surprised. There was a murmur of disapproving voices and then the question emerged. Who was doing this terrible thing?
Barker answered. “The Malden girl and that blonde from New York, Glory Dawes.” He went on to supply details.
These details were listened to with a kind of lip-licking disgust by all of them— including Mrs. Barker in the next room. Peculiarly enough, each of the listeners jumped to the same wrong conclusion in fixing the blame for this depravity. Despite the special knowledge which each of them had about Wilma’s evil nature, they each nevertheless blamed Glory for the relationship.
It was inconceivable to them that a girl who had been born and raised in Glenville might have initiated such depravity. New York, they all knew, was a Sodom, a sinkhole, and it followed that it must have been the girl from the big city who led the local maiden down the garden path to the pit of perversion. No matter what Wilma was, she had been one of them, and therefore the largest share of the blame went to the outlander.
Barker’s revelations had eaten away at the veneer which kept them civilized. Beneath this surface, violence was ever ready to erupt. Now there were murmurings among them of horsewhipping and tar and feathers and even lynching. And these murmurs were mostly aimed at Glory.
Privately, however, each of them was having a personal reaction conditioned by his particular relationship with Wilma. After they’d left the Barker home, these reactions snow balled and congealed into personal hates. And these hates were also of murderous proportions.
There was Mr. Birdwell, for instance. He went straight home after the meeting. He went up to his room and got’ ready for bed.
Five minutes after he turned out his light, the window in the house opposite flared up, framing little Alice Simpkins in its glow. Mr. Birdwell strained to see her from his bed. But she walked farther into her own room and began undressing in front of the mirror. Almost automatically, Birdwell got out of bed and started for his window to watch her.
But then he remembered about Wilma and how he might be seen peeping at Alice. He pulled down the shade and got back into bed. He thought about Wilma then, and his skinny frame began trembling with rage at how she’d destroyed just about the only pleasure he had left in his empty life.
For years Mr. Birdwell had conditioned himself to express his occasional anger in only one way. Now he reached for the hem of his old-fashioned nightshirt and pulled it up above his waist. Gnarled fingers groped over veined thighs for a moment and finally formed the loose-fisted symbol of Birdwell’s sex life through the years. Birdwell unleashed the bitterness in his mind and molded it into a fantasy of mounting, hardening fury while he slowly masturbated.
His hands ripped the clothes from Wilma ’s burning body. Her little breasts were swaying, the tits long and hard and red as cherries. Her high, hot ass was flushed pink and trembling. Her cunt was dripping honey, the lips working like a bellows, the joystick purple and hard and twanging.
“You gonna pay, you bitch!” He drove a hard fist into one soft breast, then watched the nipple swell up ugly from the blow.
When Wilma pleaded for mercy, he struck her in the face and she fell to the floor. “No!” she screamed. But he had his huge, hot hard-on out now and in his hand and he struck her again and again with it like it was a truncheon.
He turned her over and with his dong, beat her cushiony butt until it was as red as if it had been whipped with a leather belt. He mounted her like a bull and shoved his giant pecker right up her bunghole. She screamed again. His prick was too big; her asshole was too small. That didn’t stop him. He rammed it in and out until it was slippery with her blood, until the blood was pouring out all over his iron balls, until his pecker-tip was tasting the terror of her very bowels.
If he'd come, he would have blown her bowels to bits. But he was merciful. He pulled his horse-prick out of her ass and shoved it in her mouth. She gagged. She choked. But that didn’t stop him. He crammed it down her throat and fucked her in the face his hard-on deep in her mouth, foaming, forcing her tongue down her windpipe until she fainted.
He slapped her face until she came to. Then he fell on top of her and forced her legs apart. He shoved the broad, foaming, blood-stained crown of his cock between the lips of her narrow, dripping cunt. Her goddamn honeybox was slick, but almost as tight as her asshole had been. He slung her legs up on his shoulders and bent her double so he’d have more leverage to shove his rod all the way up her. This way his weight was on her foam rubber ass and his balls were bouncing against her bleeding asshole. He rammed his cock all the way in her. She screamed. He ignored her screams and just kept pumping his cock in and out of her box until he ’d opened enough of a path for it so she wasn’t hurting as much. She started pumping with him, hot and excited, her stiff clitty rubbing up and down the length of his steaming cock.
“Cut that out!” He slapped her face hard. “You evil, disgusting little twat! You animal bitch-in-heat! You filthy whore!” He kept beating her and fucking her, not letting her participate, stopping her from any thought of coming, just fucking and hitting her like a man, like a man, the way it should be!
Her screams rang in his ears as he fucked her. He beat her with his fists until her body was covered with welts. Then he took out a knife and stabbed her. Again! Again! Again! , , .When her naked torso was slippery with blood, he shot his load of cream deep inside her dying body. . . .
Mr. Birdwell’s hand moved frantically as his penis started to spurt. Wilma! Kill her and fuck her! Wilma! Then his mind took an unplanned flip as he remembered Barker’s description of what the girls had been doing and suddenly it wasn’t Wilma, but Glory who was his victim. He wiped his hand on the sheets. But he couldn’t wipe away the urge to kill which filled him.
Across town, in the back room of Joe Ambler’s general store, a similar urge—this one born of jealousy -- was taking shape. Joe Ambler, lecher, adulterer, and lovemaker whose perverse pleasure it was to vent his lust midst the stench of dead flesh, was in the process of talking himself into a righteous morality. It was a two-pronged morality with each prong dipped into the venom of self-doubt and prejudice.