“You’ve grown a lot, too, Caron,” he said. “Unless my eyes deceive me, you’ve turned into a woman since the last time I saw you. I can see it now, the way your eyes sparkle. You’re afraid, but you’re not a coward. You’ll fight me, even if you know you’ll lose. I can see it in the way you move, too, the way you carry your body. You’ve filled out a little since I was home last. Almost thirty, starting to bloom—you’re at your prime, Caron, and I like it. Are you shacking that guy, Paul? Maybe figure to make it permanent once you’ve gotten rid of me?” He twisted her wrist, not roughly, but enough to give her the message. “Well, baby, before you make any rash decisions, maybe you should try out all the angles. Know what I mean?”
“Don’t know and don’t fucking care!” she spat. His face clouded momentarily and his other hand came in. He cuffed her across the face, not brutally, but hard, very hard. No one had ever struck Caron Archer in her adult life and she was shocked. Her dressing gown fell open as she slumped, and when she reached to close it, he caught her other wrist and held her up.
“Don’t be shy, kid. I’ve seen it all before. I used to own it. But I think…” and he tilted his head, eyeing the revelation of her body through the sheer pink nightie, “I think the property values have gone up a little since I was the tenant.”
“If you don’t let go of me right now, you motherfucker, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” he wondered innocently, just before he grabbed the neck of Caron’s pink nightie and tipped it downward, savagely, tearing the flimsy garment to shreds while she screamed and kicked and went beet-red. She tried to double up, to deny him the cheap peek at her bare body, but he pulled on her hand and, she thought he was going to jerk her arm out of its socket. “Ohmygod, stopppppp…”
“Good tan,” he admired. “I was hoping you’d be tan all over. Jesus, I really hate those pukey white places where chicks are afraid to take off the bikinis and let it all get sunkissed. Golden tits, Caron. Sweet and golden.” He touched them. “Firm, too. And look at the nipples. Little cherries, aren’t they? Mind if I tickle them a little? Of course you don’t mind?” And he laughed, and his hand stroked across her nips. She moaned, and squirmed and sputtered, but there was no way she could get loose, not with that steely hand of his clamped onto her wrist. Her nipples stiffened in fear. What the bloody hell had gotten into him? Did he think he could take a walk, stay away for seven years, then come back and pick up where he’d left off?
“I’ll see you in prison,” she said. “For attempted rape.”
He laughed heartily. “Attempted? Who said I was finished? Anyway, a husband can’t rape his own wife. And as far as the law is concerned, we’re still husband and wife. The little separation doesn’t change it one damned bit. Listen—do you think this is easy on me? It’s hard, Caron, and getting harder. Feel.” And with that, he ground himself against her, his jeans scraping her bare belly, and she could feel it, his cock, starting to bulge inside his pants. She screamed. For Sheila, for Paul, for Jesus. For anyone to come help her.
But no one did, and she didn’t really expect it. Sheila was at the other end of the island, and the only person around, besides Lou and herself, was that blonde tramp of his. Hadn’t he said something about operating a massage parlor? A glorified pimp, in other words. And that little bitch looked as if she’d stepped right out of a massage parlor. Probably a dingy one. She tried to think about that, and not about the fact that Lou was eagerly stroking her naked body, dragging her across the floor kicking and protesting.
They stood in the middle of the kitchen. He jerked her wrist and she snapped upright. Lou was grinning. His moustache wiggled. He leaned in close, kissed her without warning. She could feel his hairy growth against her skin. God, it tickled! “We have the house to ourselves,” he said smugly.
“I sent Melissa on a tour of exploration. If she finds a seashell it will occupy her for hours. She’s not a very bright girl, but she’s fun.”
“She’s a cunt.”
Lou grinned. “You’ve picked up a new vocabulary since I left home. Yes, she is a cunt, a sweet, hot, tight young cunt. But she’s only a cunt. I think you’re a lot more than that, and I intend to find out. Anyway, Melissa seems to have made herself a conquest already.”
“Paul?” Caron was livid. She remembered the glazy-eyed way Paul had stared at Melissa’s sumptuous tits, but to think that he… “How dare you say that?”
“Mmm,” Lou smiled, “you are the innocent one, aren’t you?” He didn’t give her time to think about what he’d said. His hand swept down her front, caressing her tits, sliding over her smooth rounded belly and into the forest of her pussy. His fingers traced the little hedge of fur that trimmed her slice. She groaned, trying to close her legs on his hands, push him out, God, anything! A moment later she realized that her spontaneous action was only helping him, pinning his hand to her pussy. Blushing scarlet, Caron unclamped her legs, tried to hold her breath until she passed out. She sucked it in till her chest hurt and her brain went woozy from lack of air, but Lou was fondling her pussy with greater and greater involvement, his fingertip flirting with the smooth tight lips of her gash, and her lower body was starting to twitch and undulate. “Goddamn you,” she moaned, releasing her breath. Her lungs filled with air. She wasn’t going to faint. “Oh, Goddamn you!”
“Here?” he asked. “On the kitchen floor?” He looked round. “Hey, the table. Come on, Caron.” He dragged her to the table, shoved her head and tits down upon the smooth Formica top. It was cold against her bare skin. Her ass was sticking out and up. Lou lifted the hem of her dressing gown, her ripped nightie. He stood behind her, prodding her with the bulge in his pants. It had grown enormous, Caron thought, since the first time he rubbed her with it a few moments ago.
His hand stroked her buttocks, traced the deep cleft, zeroed in on her unprotected snatch. She moaned in tenor as his finger began to assault her from behind, and she started to buck and twitch. His finger slipped inside and there was a cold clamminess in her armpits, a sense of tenor just behind her eyeballs. “Please,” she sobbed, wishing the tears would flow. Just this once. Couldn’t she cry? Shame him? God, he had no shame! He’d left her, and now he’d come back, dragging along a slut barely out of diapers. But Melissa wasn’t enough for him. He wanted her, too, the woman he’d abandoned. He wanted to shame her again, more brutally than before. He was going to fuck her.
“Haven’t you been fucked on the kitchen table lately, Caron?” he asked, insidiously. “You don’t seem very comfortable. Maybe we’d better go the traditional route. So let’s try for a replay of our wedding night, hmm mm? Only this time I expect something more than a fuzzy glove wrapped around my cock. I want a cunt. A real live cunt. Your cunt, Caron. I want to feel you fucking me back, I want your legs around me like a spider web, I want to hear you mooooooaannnnnn when I sock you into paradise. ’Cause, baby, that’s what I’m gonna do!”
She didn’t have time to answer. He swept her up into his arms and went strutting through the house, carrying her. He kicked doors open as he came to them. Caron could only hang on lest she fall. She couldn’t believe he was carrying her. The old Lou had been a weakling; the OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH POETRY was a heavy load for him. Once. But not now. He carried Caron into the master bedroom and he threw her onto the large double bed they had once shared as man and wife. It was rumpled from her night of tossing in fitful dreams and as he towered above her, she knew achingly that it was going to get a lot more rumpled.