Chapter 3

Roger awoke slowly Saturday morning, as if he were gaining awareness by degrees. His temples throbbed agonizingly, and there was a chalky, almost lacquered taste in his mouth. He groaned slightly, raising one hand to shield his tightly closed eyes against the bright, grayish light of dawn which burned against the lids. He rolled onto his side, facing away from the window, and his hand reached out instinctively to search for the warm, pliant body of his wife. It touched only cool, empty sheet.

His eyes fluttered open then, and a nauseous feeling centered in his stomach. Diane? he thought dimly. Diane, where--?

Suddenly, last night came rushing back to him with crystal clarity. He groaned miserably, rolling onto his back again. The sheet slid away from his naked body to expose the satiated limpness of his cock. He lay there, reliving the scene with Marcus Cord in the Pig and Whistle, his subsequent beer-and-lust provoked handling of his genitals during the drive home, his insane bursting into the kitchen with his cock gripped in his hand, his wanton, perverse lust rape of his wife on the kitchen floor...

Oh Christ, I completely lost my head! he thought with personal loathing. I must have gone berserk to have... have done those things last night! I must be sick... Nobody acts that way, not even when he's denied the love and the gratification he has every right to expect in his marriage. He doesn't turn into a ravaging savage, a primitive Neanderthal. He doesn't force his wife to suck his cock in a pile of broken dishes and scattered silverware, and then go down on her like some demented beast, and then rape her body like a two bit whore...

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.

He sat down at the table next to Diane. "Look, Diane," he said as calmly, as rationally, as he could--even though he was emotionally wrought up inside, "Please listen to me for a moment. Before I... came home last night, Marc Cord and I had a long talk. He offered me one of the top managerial positions in his section of the company. It's maybe double my present salary-- double! Do you realize what this means, honey? No more duplex living, no more scrimping and saving. We can buy that split-level down the peninsula we've always talked about, we can get you a new wardrobe, a car. We can live in solid comfort."

Diane said nothing, but she was looking at him now.

Roger took this as a positive sign. He went on quickly, "I've got the job, Diane, without reservations. But Marc is a funny sort, and if we don't show up at his place today he's liable to take it as a personal slight. That's the way he is. And he's just as liable to retract his offer, to give that position to someone else. Do you see now? We have to go. I... I regret what happened last night more than you can possibly believe, and I'm going to do everything I can to make it up to you. So please, honey, please don't let one terrible mistake spoil everything we've always wanted, everything we've built together. Don't let it spoil our marriage. Please, Diane."

There were tears forming in the corners of her eyes now, and he knew his pleading words had had a definite affect on her. She moistened her pale, unmade lips with the tip of her tongue. Then, almost spasmodically, she nodded.

Roger felt a certain elation. "You'll go?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered softly, averting her eyes again. "God knows why, but I'll go."

He stood and went to her and tentatively put his arm about her shoulders. She shrank away. "Don't touch me, Roger!" she said. "Please don't touch me! I'll go with you today, because you're my husband and because I'm not cruel enough to try to hurt you like you've hurt me, but don't expect me to be warm and responsive to you. Not now, not for a long time, maybe... maybe not ever again!"

She stood abruptly and pushed through the door, leaving Roger alone in the kitchen. He stood by the table, hearing her words in his brain. Don't expect me to be warm and responsive to you. Not now, not for a long time, maybe... maybe not ever again! He felt a resurgence of the anger he had known just before Cord's telephone call, and he clenched his fists tightly together.

When were you ever warm and responsive to me, you damned iceberg! he thought viciously. Again! That was the key words again! Christ, could she really believe she'd ever been a passionate, normal woman? Could she really put all of the blame for last night squarely on his shoulders?

He repressed the desire to rush in after her and put voice to these thoughts. There was the upcoming day with Marc and Cindy Cord to consider. In the interests of preserving as much harmony as possible, he had best leave well enough alone for now. It wouldn't do for Cord to sense any kind of rift between the two of them. Knowing that bastard, Roger thought, why, it wouldn't be surprising if... if he tried to move in on Diane!

That thought struck Roger as being rather funny, and he smiled. Wouldn't he be in for a surprise if he did? Wouldn't he, indeed? She'd slap him silly, that's what she'd do. Oh sure, there was that undeniable attraction she had exhibited for Cord's magnetic maleness on that single occasion of their meeting, but knowing Diane as he did, she would never allow--hell, would never even consider--any extramarital fun-and-games. Not with that ice- cold body and mind of hers.

Roger took four aspirin and an Alka-Seltzer for his hangover, and then went in to take a hot shower before dressing to leave for Marcus Cord's.

The Cord home was near the crest of a sloping, eucalyptus- bordered drive in Peacock Gap--one of Marin County's most affluent communities--just outside of San Rafael. It was constructed of heavy redwood, with a lot of glass and a field-stone facade; long and low and sprawling, it lay nestled back from the road some hundred yards, behind a tastefully landscaped yard that included bottlebrush and Joshua trees. The heady, redolent scent of the Burmese honeysuckle which grew abundantly over an arbored porch filled the warm, balmy afternoon air.

Diane sat with her body pressed tightly against the door on the passenger side of the Plymouth as Roger made the turn into the curving macadam drive. She hadn't spoken since they'd left San Francisco, had simply sat with her hands folded carefully in the lap of her flowery summer dress, staring out through the windshield and not looking at her husband at all. Her mind kept reverting back to the events of last night, to the unspeakable, cankerous indignities she had suffered at the hands of this man whom she had vowed to love and to honor and to cherish until death did them part. Why? she asked herself silently, for perhaps the thousandth time since it had happened. What had turned sweet, kind, gentle Roger Slater, the boy she had fallen in love with, into a savage creature of the primordial jungles? Was it, as he had screamed into her pain-deafened ears in that carnal kitchen, all her fault? No, no, how could he blame her? How could it be her fault? How could he expect her to throw off the shackles of her parentally instilled apprehensions at marital sex practically overnight? Learning to accept, to enjoy, to believe in, physical love took time; and it took patience, trust, love and gentle understanding. God knew, she wanted to be the kind of wife Roger expected her to be. She really did. At least she had until last night. Now... well, now she wasn't sure, she just wasn't sure. She didn't know what she wanted now at all. She was so confused, so mixed up, so hurt by his violent attack--the final, most outrageous attack in a long series which traced back to her wedding night, and even beyond that to Lookout Drive--that she was still unable to project her thoughts toward any rational conclusion...

Roger brought the car to a stop behind Cord's dark green Jaguar XKE, which was parked before the open doors of a large, separated two-car garage. No sooner had he shut off the engine than Marcus Cord walked around the rear of the house on a crushed shell path. He wore a pair of tight yellow swimming trunks, and his bronzed, hard-muscled body glistened with a recent application of sun oil. His salt-and-pepper hair was damp from swimming, and he carried a tall frosted glass in one hand. Looking at him, Diane felt a small, reflexive shudder of fascination move briefly along her spine. Lord, but he was a handsome, appealing man! She had thought so when she'd first met him that night in front of Roger's office building. He had a certain... allure which captivated her, which made her somehow want to blush girlishly and avert her eyes. She watched him approach the car, moving easily, with almost feline fluidity, the strong muscles rippling along his thighs and chest, the hard, bas relief outline of his manhood straining at the thin material of his swim trunks...

Diane did avert her eyes then. Self-deprecatingly, she thought: Oh, God, how can I think about Marcus Cord that way, think about his maleness, his attractiveness? How after last night can I ever harbor any physical thoughts about any man?

Cord reached the car just as Roger stepped out. The two men shook hands, and Diane heard Cord say, "Good to see you, Rog boy. How was the traffic coming over?"

"Not bad," Roger answered.

"Hey," Cord said, looking in through the wind-shield at where Diane sat primly on the front seat, "You're not going to leave that beautiful wife of yours sitting in there all by her lonesome, are you?"

"Oh... no, of course not." Roger came quickly around the car and opened the passenger door. He offered his hand. Diane had a fleeting urge to refuse the proffered assistance, but then she took it and allowed Roger to help her out of the car.

Standing on the macadam, she smoothed the thin cotton material of her dress along her waist and thighs and smiled politely at Cord. Roger said, "You remember my wife, don't you, Marc? Diane?"

"Indeed I do!" Cord was beaming, and Diane felt faintly uncomfortable under his steady, open scrutiny. "How are you, Diane?"

"Just fine, thank you."

"Good, good!" Cord enthused. "Come on around to the pool, kids. I want you to meet my better half." He winked. "Or so she says, anyway."

Diane walked beside Roger, following Cord along the crushed shell path and around to a large, redwood-fenced patio. The path ended in a long, narrow grotto, floored with more of the crushed shells and fronting a green-tiled, L-shaped swimming pool with clear, still water. Three tall eucalyptus tree grew beyond it, just inside that section of fencing.

The grotto contained several brightly colored lounge chairs and chaise longues and two white-metal tables with barber-striped beach umbrellas shading them from center poles. At one of the tables sat a tall, willowy woman with short jet black hair, wearing a brilliant cobalt blue bandanna bikini. A frosted glass identical to Cord's was clasped in one slim hand. She was as bronzed as her husband, with a smooth taut stomach and fine high breasts barely concealed in the narrow strip of her suit top; no whiteness showed at all on the plentiful amount of bare bosom which was exposed. The bottom section outlined the tight, slightly protruding pubic mound, revealed her full rich thighs, and then tucked into the crevice between her globular buttocks, leaving the brown curve of her hips almost completely nude.

That's a rather scandalous outfit, Diane thought critically, a little prudishly. It was certainly much more daring than her own relatively skimpy two-piece paisley swimsuit, which was in the large straw handbag she carried. Why, it shows... well, almost everything she has; it doesn't leave much of anything to the imagination. Of course, this is her house and her pool and she can dress however she chooses--but it hardly seems the most conventional attire for receiving guests she's never previously met.

The woman stood as they approached, smiling in a bold, easy way. Cord went to her and put his arm about her waist, letting his fingers splay familiarly on the satiny surface of her almost naked hip. "Roger and Diane Slater," he said convivially, "This is my wife, Cindy. The wildest little woman north of the Golden Gate Bridge." He winked at her. "HELL, and south, east and west of it, too!"

Cindy moved her body closer to his approvingly, rubbing her bare flesh against him like a purring cat. Then she stepped forward and took Diane's hand, coolly, briefly. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Slater," she said in a throaty tenor.

"It's a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Cord."

Cindy pivoted her body to Roger and took his hand. "Well, well, so you're Roger Slater," she purred. "Marc's told me so much about you."

Roger grinned. "All of it good, I hope."

"Very good," Cindy said. Her cool gray eyes appraised him in an almost predatory way, and Diane saw that his eyes seemed to be caressing her jutting breasts. They were still touching hands. Roger finally released the clasp, but as if with a great reluctance.

"Well, Rog?" Cord asked. "Can I pick them, or can I pick them?"

"You can certainly pick them!" Roger agreed ardently.

Diane felt uncomfortable. What was the matter with Roger? she thought. He was acting like a school boy, looking at Cindy's exposed bosom like that and holding onto her hand so long. Not that she was any better! "Marc's told me so much about you!" and standing there showing off her body like a common tramp...

She realized Marc Cord was speaking to her, and her eyes flicked up to meet his. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cord," she said. "What did you say?"