“Well, if something happens to the Malden girl, her father isn’t going to hold out for long.”
“I imagine that’s true. But what about the other girl?” his wife wanted to know.
“There’s reasons why her being out of the way could be helpful. It could take her father out of the picture. Grief and all that, you know. I can do much better with that mortgage on Malden’s farm if a shrewd apple like Dawes isn’t around when the sale takes place.”
“So that’s why you’re so thirsty for their blood.”
“I’m not thirsty for their blood,” Beau protested. “I just think the people of Glenville have a right to protect themselves against unnatural women like that.”
“And if they kill them, all the better.” Mrs. Barker shrugged. “You really are cold-hearted, Beau,” she said. But there was a note of admiration in her voice.
“That’s what you think.” Beau reached for her and began running his hands hungrily over her body. “Now I’m gonna show you how warmhearted I can be when I want to be.”
Mrs. Barker sighed to herself and accepted his caresses passively. She wondered to herself what she should demand on the morrow by way of payment for letting him use her body. While her mind considered the possibilities, Beau was working up to a more pertinent fantasy.
His wife’s dried-up body had long ago ceased to arouse him. For many years now, whenever he made love to her his mind would conjure up fantasies of other women and exotic situations. In this way, Beauregard Barker had made love to virtually every attractive woman in Glenville—none of them ever knew about this, of course -- as well as to a dozen or so of the sexiest actresses he’d viewed on the local screen.
Now, however, there was one picture which took precedence over all others in Beau’s mind. In vivid detail, he was seeing once again the writhing, nude bodies of the two girls in the motel cabin. Only now his mind had transported him from the window where he’d watched into the room and onto the bed itself.
Beau was between the two girls now. He was devouring Glory ’s lush breasts with his mouth. His hands were grasping at Wilma ’s glistening buttocks. Glory’s plump hips were bouncing in her eagerness to wrap her legs around him. Wilma’s sharp teeth were nibbling at the inner surface of his thighs.
He was a bull with a giant prick, a stiff, outsized cock to flail the weak females into submission. They groveled now, the sweat of fear slicking down their boobs—Wilma’s small ones with the long, prick-like titties; the blonde’s big, lush jugs with those red half-dollars framing the nips-—and terror tightening their thighs too, those thighs sticky with the cunt-juice pouring out of them, and the twats twitching, afraid of his huge, virile cock, but aching to feel it fucking them too. He pounded their soft flesh with his fists. His teeth tore at their pussies savagely. His heel ground into a belly, a breast, a buttock. Their whimpers were a duet of cringing worship to his cock.
Beau grasped Wilma now, slender neck almost completely encircled by the claw-fingers of one hand. With the other hand he slapped her face, back and forth, back and forth, while the upper half of her body struggled for breath and the lower half writhed for fulfillment. And then it was Glory panting under his blows, her blonde hair whirling wildly as she struggled to free herself from his grip, her plump hips and buttocks jiggling half in panic and half in lust. He squeezed her throat and her face became shiny with sweat. Then he choked Wilma again, hands tangling in her long red hair, and felt her nails rake his back in a plea for the mercy of his fucking. He was choking each of them in turn, first Wilma, then Glory, his sex urge overcome by sadism so that he no longer knew whether it was orgasm or death he was seeking. And mounting lust tightened the vise of his cruel hands on their throats. . . .
‘,‘Stop! You’re choking me! Beau, please! You’re hurting me!” Fear filled Mrs. Barker’s voice and it was fast becoming panic.
But Beau seemed past hearing. He was pounding away at her brutally, stabbing at her tender membranes as though he wanted to rip them from her body. And his hands around her scrawny neck were shaking her head, the way a terrier shakes a rat, and tightening as if he really was bent on killing her.
“Stop! Stop! Are you trying to kill me?”
Finally, with a savage thrust of release and a spasmodic wrenching of the throat between his fingers, Beau relinquished his fantasy and groped back to reality,
His wife, half-swooning, was unable to speak for a moment. When she did, her voice was shrill and filled with a combination of lingering terror, shock, and disgust. “What were you trying to do to me?”
“Nothing. Just make love.” Beau was shamefaced and sullen.
“Make love? Rape, you mean! You were raping me, that’s what you were doing! I’ve never seen you like that. You went mad! I really thought you were going to kill me!”
“I was just making love to you,” Beau insisted stubbornly.
“You were trying to murder me!” she accused.
“No,” Beau told her, his voice shaky, “I wasn’t trying to murder you. . . .”
Yes, the seeds of murder were budding in Beau, just as they were in the others. Every man is a murderer; so it has been writ. Now this potential was very close to the surface in Glenville. So close, indeed, that a portion of it was aimed directly at Glory Dawes, waking her up to some of the forces which had been shaping her life, releasing yet another impulse to kill—this one in the breast of the young blonde herself!
It stemmed from the letter she received from Don Corrigan:
Dear Glory, it began, I ’m writing this letter more for myself than for you. I’m writing it in the hope that by putting the way I feel down on paper I’ll be able to get back some measure of control over my emotions.
What are these emotions? Summed up, they are rage and an overwhelming desire for vengeance. Toward whom? You for one, Glory, Why? Because I loved you so very much—and still do, damn it!—and you thought so little of that love that you allowed it to be smeared with the filth of perversion.
Yes, I know all about you and Wilma. I know that you let her seduce you into being a lesbian. I even know that you seem to find more wild ecstasy in her arms than you ever found in mine.
Can you guess how this makes me feel? Like something less than a man, Glory; for you've robbed me of my manhood. You ’ve spit on what we had and forgotten me in the arms of your girl-lover. Because of this, I tremble with the urge to kill you!
Yes, to kill you! Even though I know that you are a victim of Wilma’s much the same as I have been. It was she who led me to the scene of your lovemaking with another man. (Another wound from you which may never heal.) And it was she who went on to seduce me and hold me with perversion.
She did this for unscrupulous reasons of her own—business reasons. She is the daughter of the man whose land we are trying to buy—your father can tell you more about that—and she will stop at nothing to further her father's interests. She is -- and I know this may sound corny—the most thoroughly evil person I have ever known. Yet I experienced a kind of love with her—albeit a kind very different from that which I had known with you. Perhaps" that’s the reason why I find myself wanting to kill her almost as much as I want to kill you. When all pretense of love vanishes, hate quickly fills the void. This has happened to me with both of you and my hate is truly murderous.
It has taught me something, this hate. It has shown me the killer inside myself! It has made me know what it is to want to kill someone for whom I once felt only desire and love. There ’s nothing else to say.