The suspicion was confirmed when Archer took Shirley in his arms and kissed her. Llona adjusted the sights on the binoculars, bit her lip, and zeroed in on Archer’s hands as they roamed over the terrain of Shirley's sweater. “You bastard!” Mentally, Llona selected a number-three iron from Archer’s golf bag and bashed in his skull with it. She watched Shirley’s curly head bob as she assaulted Archer’s ear with her tongue. “You little bitch!” Carefully, Llona’s mind’s eye chose a niblick from Shirley’s bag and broke her pert little pug nose with it. Then she finished both of them off with Archer’s putter. “Not guilty!” Llona judged herself. “The right club for the right shot everytime!"
Now she focused on Archer’s hand above the top of Shirley’s knee socks. “Give peace a chance!” Llona ground her teeth together. She certainly hadn’t meant for Archer to give that piece a chance! She watched Shirley guide Archer’s hand to her sweatered breast and press it there. "I’m bigger than she is!” Llona reminded Archer who, of course, couldn’t hear her.
The reminder didn’t seem to affect him. He unbuttoned Shirley’s sweater and slid his fingers under her bra. Her hand was also under his clothing now, the nails raking his chest. “I hope she gouges out your heart!” Llona snarled as Archer pushed aside Shirley’s bra and started kissing the tip of one of her breasts. Llona focused on the purplish nipple and watched it swell. Then Archer caught it between his teeth and it vanished from view. “That's right! Bite it off!” Llona urged viciously.
Her breast straining against Archer’s lips and tongue, Shirley feverishly worked at the buttons of his plus fours until they were all opened and she was able to pull the golf pants down around his legs. “For such a nicey-nice little girl, you’re pretty damn aggressive, Missy!” Llona observed as Shirley’s hands reached inside Archer’s shorts greedily. When, a moment later, Shirley brought her fist-enclosed prize into view, Llona gasped with real outrage. “You sonofabitch! You never responded to me that much!”
Inspired, Archer pulled off Shirley’s panties and tossed them to one side. He pulled up her skirt and reached between her legs. “Baby fat!", Llona muttered. “Makes her thighs too heavy!" Excited by the contact, Shirley rolled over and pinned his hand in its nesting place. The way her bare derriere rose and fell testified to her making the most of the caress.
A moment later Shirley was on her knees again, her skirt up over her hips, her naked nether-cheeks describing circles in the air. Her head swooped low and her Cupid’s-bow mouth fulfilled the implication of its description. Archer’s body arched and he grabbed her by the ears, pushing her head further down. “Disgusting!” Llona decided . . . but she kept on watching.
Archer’s hands moved to Shirley’s hips now. He tugged at them until she scrambled around so that her lower body was over his face. She never lost her oral grip on him during the maneuver. His fingers sank into the flesh of her buttocks and his mouth rose eagerly to the kiss of her pulsating womanhood.
“Oooohhh! Now that’s too much!” Llona was beside herself. “All the time we’ve been married, you never did that to me, you lousy --” But mad as she was, Llona was aroused by what she saw through the binoculars. They were riveted now on the point of contact between Archer's face and Shirley’s rhythmically quivering sex organs. Llona moaned low in her throat at the movements of his lips and the darting of his tongue. Her hand slid under her own bikini as she watched Shirley’s clitoris swell. Llona writhed on the rooftop and stared through the binoculars at the contractions of Shiley’s nether-mouth.
Archer’s thighs closed over Shirley’s ears, his hands pressed down hard on the nape of her neck; lust was released in a long, drawn-out series of explosions that left her choking. Shirley didn’t mind; she’d settled solidly over his mouth now; he almost suffocated with the insistence of her long-lasting release of passion. Simultaneously, Llona -- involved beyond remembering her jealousy -- dropped the binoculars and rolled across the rooftop with the frenetic intensity of her own voyeuristic orgasm.
It was a few moments before Llona recovered enough to pick herself up. She located the binoculars and refocused them on the gully. Archer and Shirley were no longer there. She caught up with them on the putting green of the sixth hole.
Archer was putting. He lined up the shot carefully and sank it. He jumped up and down excitedly. Through the binoculars, Llona could read his lips. “A birdie!” he was exulting. “I sank a birdie!”
“In the wrong hole!” Llona muttered grimly. “You sank it in the wrong hole, Archer! And believe me, if it’s the last thing I ever do -- which seems likely--you’re going to pay the penalty!”
What penalty? Why, let the punishment fit the crime! And trust poor Llona to come up with one calculated to insure that she would die a happy girl!
Poor Llona! First death staring her in the face, and now the shock of finding out her husband was unfaithful to her. It just wasn’t her century! Poor Llona!
And poor, unsuspecting Archer!
CHAPTER THREE
In the year 1632, the Countess of Cleves hired two professional assassins to chastise her unfaithful husband by pouring hot wax in his ear. A few hundred years earlier, the Baroness of Schleswig-Holstein cut short her husband's infidelities by means of castration and beheading; both detached portions of his anatomy were hung from a pike in the public square as a warning to would-be adulterers. More recently, in the mid-1950s, a Long Island suburban housewife arranged for the Mafia to discipline her wandering mate by cutting out his cunnilingual tongue and sending him to the bottom of Jamaica Bay in a cement overcoat.
The Countess, The Baroness, the Long Island housewife -- the Marquis DeSade himself—all were in the minor leagues compared to the diabolical punishments Llona contrived for Archer in her fantasies. In her fury, slow fire was too fast, drawing-and-quartering too merciful, the rack too tolerable for Archer. She thought of impaling him on one of his own red-hot irons, but she wasn’t sure whether the number four or number six was the proper club to use. Smearing his naked body with honey and staking him to an ant-hill near the fifth green was an appealing idea; however, there was too much risk of him being discovered by some foursome playing through. Putting from his groin with his natural masculine equipment in place of golf balls was also an intriguing thought, but Llona had never managed to perfect her backswing, and she was afraid she’d miss more often than not.
No, she decided, mere physical torture wouldn’t do. One had to be modern. The desired end was the Hellfire of Eternity, or at least a lifetime of agony. In keeping with the times, that meant that what was needed was the anguish of psychological suffering. The equivalent, of brain-washing with slow-acid—that was the ticket!
When originally confronted with her death sentence, Llona, filled with concern for Archer, had decided to find a successor to herself who would care for his needs. Now she mulled over the idea of a successor as punishment for his sins. Yes! The way to get even with Archer was to saddle him with a wife who would make his life a living hell! But how?
How? Women move in mysterious ways their wickedness to perform. In the vegetable bin of her memory, Leona found a trio of toadstools to implement her revenge. The poisonous fungi were Mrs. Neva Holdkumb, wife of Archer’s boss, Olivia Valentine, Archer’s cousin by marriage, and Mrs. Adelaid Hornsby, Ar- cher’s mother.