Chapter 9

“Hi, I’m Detective Leigh Armstrong,” the tall brunette introduced herself, offering her hand to Doctor Wilson.

“And I’m Officer Robert Turner,” offered the tall, muscular blonde, taking the doctor’s hand next.

“Sorry to call you out so late, but hospital protocol dictates that we call the police when we suspect a woman is the victim of sexual assault, and in this woman’s case, also forcible confinement.”

“We’ll investigate and let you know. What can you tell us, Doc?” She inquired.

“Her name is Karen Hayward. Her husband and girlfriend—she calls the other woman their wife—brought the victim here instead of going to Bellville General, which was much closer. Have you heard of the Hen House?” He asked.

“Yes, yes I have,” Leigh replied, remembering her times as a guest there. She tried to prevent her cheeks from turning red.

“Apparently she’s been going there most afternoons for weeks, paying money to partake in some kind of bondage role-play routine. She has been freshly showered, washing away a lot of possible evidence. Her vagina and rectum are red from abuse and have been swabbed for the presence of semen and DNA. She has bruises around her ankles, wrists, and neck that are in various stages of healing, plus fresh welts on other parts of her body,” the doctor explained.

“Which one is the husband?” The detective asked, peeking out the door window.

“The guy with his back to us, wearing the blue shirt and tan shorts,” he said. She could see two women rubbing the husband’s back and comforting him. “The doctor from the mental health department is interviewing our patient right now. You can question her in a few minutes.”

The detective saw a second woman standing beside the one on the right. Her eyebrows rose when she noticed the two women caressing her by putting a hand under the other’s short skirt and feeling what appeared to be a bare ass. She couldn’t help but notice that all the women wore bikini tops.

“Hello, Karen ... Karen Hayward?” A voice asked, peeking in the exam room door.

“Yes?” Karen looked at the woman.

“Hi, I’m Angela Carter. Doctor Wilson asked me to come and have a chat with you,” she said, closing the door behind her.

“I bet you’re from the third floor,” Karen surmised.

“Yes, I am; how did you know?”

“I was a nurse here years ago, so I sort of know the routine. Examine the patient, get a tox screen, start an IV solution, call Psyche for a consultation when there’s a suicide attempt, and call the police. Oh shit ... the police! My husband didn’t do anything to me except love me more than I ever deserved!” Karen stated, fearing Dan might be blamed for her condition.

“I understand from the doctor that you’ve had a rough time lately. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“I guess not.”

“Fine then,” she agreed, pulling up a chair. “Is that your natural hair colour?”

“No, it isn’t. I’m a natural blonde. I wanted my hair to match my mood—dark and horrible,” Karen said, playing with several dyed strands.

“And what has your mood been lately?”

“I hated myself. I felt worthless, helpless, had no hope, and most of all, I felt so damn guilty.”

“Because you suffered a miscarriage and lost your baby?” Karen looked at her. “The doctor briefed me on your medical history.”

“Yes, I had to punish myself for losing Dan’s baby, our baby. And I was so certain he would never forgive me for it happening.”

“Do you have any children?”

Yes, two girls and a boy, twenty, eighteen, and fifteen years old.”

“Why wouldn’t you be happy with the family you do have?”

“Dan and I were never married, at least to each other, until last December. He never knew, until last November, that the children who called him ‘Uncle Dan’ all their lives were actually his own flesh and blood. I hid their true heritage from him for twenty years. Dan and his first wife were my best friends. She knew that my three kids were really his. He was transferred to a new place, and we lost contact for five years. When we met and renewed our relationship, I swore I wasn’t going to lose him again.”

“When I found out about ten weeks later that I was pregnant with Dan’s baby, I was so overjoyed. I never expected to be able to have another baby again. I couldn’t wait to tell him. The look of love, pride, and happiness on his face was unbelievable. I could hardly wait for him to hold our baby in his arms, knowing she was his daughter right from her very first day,” Karen explained.

“What if you had told him from the beginning that he was the father of the first child, the second, and the third? What would he have done?”

“I know he would have been so happy and so proud, but now that I think about it, he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone that he was her father or the dad of the other two as well.”

“So you saved him from that secret and put the guilt on yourself. You look pale and shallow; have you lost weight?”

“Yes, about fifteen to twenty pounds.”

“Do you sleep well?”

“No, I toss and turn and quite often sit up, reading and frustrated. I haven’t slept in bed with my husband or had sex with him since the night before my miscarriage.”

“So the last time you had sexual intercourse with your husband was when?”

“The 31st of March.”

“Why do you remember so easily?”

“I lost our baby the next day.”

“How was your sex life with your husband?” Angela asked.

A big smile came over Karen’s face. “The best sex any woman could ever want!” She said it proudly. “Try him out for yourself; you’ll see what I mean,” she smiled.

“You’d let me have sex with your husband, just like that?”

“Our relationship and love were born out of an open marriage Dan had with his first wife, Laura, and it continues that way just fine today with Dan and me. Dan’s first wife was killed in a car accident three years ago.”

“Do you blame your husband for your miscarriage?”

“Heavens no, I blamed myself,” she wanted to make certain.

“While coping with a miscarriage, many women believe that it is their fault they miscarried. Many women will also feel that they are not a whole woman because they must be ‘defective’ if they can’t carry a pregnancy to term. Other women will wonder what they have done wrong to deserve such a devastating experience.”

“That’s how I felt,” Karen agreed.

“What hobbies do you like to do?”

“Believe it or not, my favourite hobby was having sex. Dan and I would fuck our brains out together and with other people. But like I said, I haven’t been fucked by Dan since that day.”

“Have you had sex with other people since you stopped having intercourse with your husband?”

“Yes, with men and women at the Hen House and men at other clubs and bars. I became the easiest, slutty, married whore for fucking in Trenton and Belleville,” she replied shamefully.

“How many times do you figure you had sex with other men?”

Karen had to think for a moment, doing the mental math. “I’d have to guess I was fucked about a hundred and fifty-five times or so with different men and women, mostly men.”

“Wow, that’s quite an accomplishment. Was the sex enjoyable?”

“Not really; some of it was good. Most of the time, I’d have a climax, but nowhere even close to the intensity of the cum I have with Dan fucking me. The routine was that I’d get fucked by a guy in the bondage room of the Hen House, then I’d be led around like a dog on a collar and leash to be fucked in my pussy or ass hole, or give guys blow jobs on the main floor. I also would lick women’s pussies.”

“Is that what caused the bruises around your ankles, wrists, and neck?”

“Yes, when I was shackled up, I caused my bruises by fighting against my restraints to punish myself more for my miscarriage. I’d look at them to remind me I was no good.”

“Why didn’t anyone in your family notice your bruises?”

“I kept saying I was always feeling cold from my hysterectomy and medication, and I wore clothes that hid my bruises.”

“So how was your day today? How did you end up in the hospital?” Karen looked at the clock on the wall; it was 12:30 a.m.

“Yesterday was my husband’s fifty-third birthday. The whole family had gathered at our home for a big pool party in the afternoon. Dan had teased me that when he was finished opening his gifts, he was going to throw me into the pool, clothes and all. I thought he was just joking; hardly a day goes by that he doesn’t try to make me feel better and laugh. I didn’t deserve his love.”

“He stood by you during your ordeal?”

“The more he tried to help me, the more I pushed him away, yet he didn’t get angry at me. Frustrated, no doubt, but never angry.”