Roger groaned again and sat up in bed. Fire raged in his temples, and caused red-tinged agony to explode in back of his eyes. How many times had he fucked her, lying there on the kitchen floor? How many times had he ripped into her sweat-slick body, flooding that soft, tight cunt of hers with a reservoir of hot, sticky cum? He couldn't remember, didn't want to remember… But it was all there, vivid, in his mind. And there, too, was the recollection of the feeling of helpless guilt and shame which had finally engulfed him, and the whiningly soft apologies he had begun to whisper into her ears as he gently moved above her. Forgive me, darling, forgive me! he had cried to her, endeavoring to elicit the faintest response of absolution from her. But it had been useless; she had only lain unmoving beneath him, her eyes squeezed shut in horror and degradation, mewling with pain and fear until he had pulled out of her. And when he had lifted her tenderly in his arms and carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed, she had only remained as rigid as a block of beautifully crafted marble. Spent, still a little drunk, he had fallen asleep then with his arm protectively cast across her smooth, sperm-sticky stomach…
Roger swung his feet off the bed and crossed to the closet and put on his heavy terrycloth bathrobe. He wouldn't blame her if she left him now, if she divorced him, even if she brought criminal charges against him. He deserved it.
He went to the bedroom door and opened it. The apartment was silent. Had she already gone? Had she fled the house sometime during the night, gone home to her parents in Menlo-Atherton? Oh God, God…
He went along the hallway and pushed open the bathroom door. The nausea was strong in his stomach now, and not all of it was due to his hangover. He knew he was going to be sick. He leaned over the toilet, and his stomach convulsed; it all came boiling out of him in a rush, but when he was finished, and had rinsed out his mouth, he only felt worse than he had before.
He left the bathroom and opened the door to the kitchen. Diane was there. She sat at the table, staring blankly into a cup of coffee, her blonde hair tousled and her beautiful body encased in a thick chenille robe. She didn't look up as he entered. He stood just inside the door, his eyes moving in surprise over the kitchen expanse. It was spotless! She had cleaned up the broken dishes, the silverware, had waxed the linoleum until it shone brightly and there were no signs remaining of the carnal insanity of the previous night.
Roger's heart went out to her, sitting there so small, so fragile, so defenseless. "Diane…" he began, but her name stuck in his throat. He tried again. "Diane, darling…"
She lifted her head to look at him then, and he felt a cold, viscid chill move along his spine and settle between his shoulder blades. Her eyes were filled with sheer and undiluted contempt, with utter revulsion. "Well," she said in a voice which fairly dripped acid, "Good morning, Roger. I trust you slept well after last night's marvelous evening. I know you had such a lovely time, such a heavenly experience."
"Oh, God, Diane," Roger moaned. "Please, darling, don't make it any worse than it is. You can't know how bad I feel…"
"How bad you feel?" Diane threw back her head and laughed without any trace of humor. "You? And what about me? How do you suppose I feel, Roger? How do you suppose any woman feels after being raped by her own husband, after being forced to perform foul, disgusting acts of perversion, after being a… a receptacle for pure loveless lust?"
"Diane, I… I don't know what to say except that I… I'm…"
"Sorry? Well, that's just fine, isn't it? You're sorry, and that makes everything all right again. Last night just didn't happen…"
The pain in Roger's head was intense now. He felt anger replace some of the remorse and shame within him at her condescending tone. Who the Goddamn hell did she think she was acting so righteous? It was her fault that the whole thing had happened, wasn't it? If she had been a wife, a lover, instead of a cold fish then there would have been no necessity for desperate methods. "Listen," he said in a controlled voice, "just what the hell…"
The telephone rang.
Roger started convulsively at the sudden sound, his eyes turning toward the instrument on the wall near the drainboard. It rang again. Diane brought her gaze back to her coffee and sat motionless, staring into the flowered china cup once more, not caring whether or not the ringing phone was answered.
Roger moved finally, walking around the table to where the phone was situated and lifting the receiver from its hook. He said in a hoarse voice, "Hello?"
"Rog?" a deep, masculine voice asked. "This is Marc Cord."
"Oh… hi, Marc."
"How are you feeling this morning?"
"Well, I…" Roger began, and then said, "Just fine, Marc, just fine."
"Good, good." Cord's voice took on a conspiratorial quality. "Me, too, if you know what I mean. You remember Millie?"
"Millie?"
"The waitress at the Pig and Whistle," Cord said. "Man oh man, is she something else! She gave me a head job with a vibrator under her chin."
Roger winced. He was unable to answer.
"Listen, the reason I called, why don't you and Diane come on over around noon instead of tonight? We'll make a day out of it. Cindy makes a hell of a rum cocktail."
Roger looked toward the still, rigid figure of his wife. "Marc, I don't think…"
"Bring your swimming suits," Cord interrupted jovially. "It's going to be a hot day over here, and we'll just lie around the pool."
"Marc…"
"See you around noon," Cord said, and rang off.
Roger stood there holding the dead phone. Damn Cord! He never gave you a chance to say anything, to agree or disagree. He just commanded, and you were supposed to jump… Well, what the hell? Roger thought suddenly. That was how the man had gotten where he was today, wasn't it? That was how he was able to score so easily and so proficiently with the women, wasn't it? Involuntarily, Roger found himself thinking about Cord's words concerning Millie, the Pig and Whistle waitress. He wondered what it would be like to have a woman's soft mouth engulfing his cock, while pressing an electric vibrating massager beneath her chin. Christ, that would be something, all right! He felt his prick leap with a renewed burst of desire beneath his robe…
No, no, he just couldn't think about sexual things this morning, not after what he had done, what he had become, last night! With a small cry, he whirled, putting such thoughts out of his mind. He looked at his wife, still sitting quietly and staring into her cup.
"Diane," he said, "Honey, we… we've been invited over to Marc Cord's for the day. He wants us there around noon…"
Diane's head jerked up and she glared at him. "I don't care whose house we've been invited to!" she flared. "I'm not going anywhere with you today! I don't want to be seen with you!"
"Honey, please, you don't understand…"
"I'm not going, Roger, and that's all there is to it!"
Roger felt a small tinge of panic. He had to keep that date with Cord today, there was no graceful way he could beg off. And he couldn't go alone. How would that look? No, Diane had to go with him. Cord was the type of man you had to stay on the right side of, the type of man you didn't want angry at you; he was ruthless, and he wouldn't hesitate to ruin somebody who displeased him, who didn't fit in with his plans for advancement.
This General Office Manager's position was what Roger had been hoping for, the big break, the major stepping stone toward full and complete monetary and business security. He couldn't afford to let his wife, or one crazy drunken night, destroy what he had worked and saved and planned so long to achieve.