Chapter 100

FRIDAY MORNING — SEPTEMBER 27

Having taken his Gore-Tex running outfit out of the closet the night before, Jeff dropped it on the table while he started the coffee maker going. Even though the outside temperature was twelve degrees Fahrenheit, there was no wind at the moment. Although he had run in colder weather a few times, it had been several years. A warm day combined with the snowplow had left the road mostly clear, but the temperature had dropped again during the night. I need to be careful this morning. Diana, not to mention Joyce and Caitlin, will not be pleased if I bust my ass on a slick spot on my wedding day.

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he took a sip and set the cup on the table. Putting on a long-sleeve tee-shirt, he pulled on his Gore-Tex pants, put a belt with his holstered .45 on, then slipped on the matching ultra thin jacket and zipped it up. Using the Velcro at the bottom of the jacket, he attached it to the pants' tabs all around forming a tight fit that would keep his body warmth in. After putting on his running shoes, he tightened the Velcro on the cuffs of his pants.

Wiping a little Vaseline around his nostrils and mouth to keep the air from chapping him as he breathed, he downed the rest of his coffee, slipped on a pair of light gloves, and was ready to go. The Gore-Tex running suit was a Christmas gift from Diana and Arlene four years ago. Although he had read about the material and had seen other distance runners wearing the outfits, he had still been skeptical when he first donned the suit. It was so ridiculously thin; it just could not keep you warm. And if you weren't exerting energy to produce body heat, it wouldn't. But it kept in body heat while wicking out sweat, and was a good rain suit as well. Once you started running, it would do more toward keeping a runner warm than other materials many times as thick or layered.

Going out the back, he began his jog. The twelve degrees with only the paper-thin outfit on hit him like an ice bath. Slow-jogging for the first hundred yards, he wished that he had put a heavier jacket on. I could have worn a coat. When my body heat came up, I could have dropped the jacket beside the road until I got back. Screw this, he thought as he ramped up his speed sooner than he usually did, striving to warm his body.

By the time he reached the bottom of the drive, the Gore-Tex was doing its job and he pulled the zipper partway down on the jacket as his body heat became uncomfortable. Smiling, he slowed for the turn onto the county road, then pushed his speed back up. A mile later, he unzipped the jacket another couple of inches, hardly aware that he had done so as his mind cleared and reached that point that distance runners call free association. His mind opened to Little One a little more, and they briefly talked about her master's race, then she hit him with a bomb that shook him to his core.

Margaret had slipped out of bed a few minutes before the alarm clock went off. Getting the pan and large metal cooking spoon she had hidden after borrowing them from Evie last night, she snuck back into the bedroom. Quietly walking up to the bed, fighting to not giggle like a schoolgirl, she took a breath, then next to Frank's head maniacally beat the pan with the spoon.

Frank sat up like he had been shot. "What the fuck..." he said looking at her as if she had lost her mind.

When that was all he said, she set up the clatter again.

"Have you lost your ever-loving mind?" he said, scratching his head and staring at her. "And by the way, that titty looks great," he said, nodding to her breast that had fallen out of her negligée as she clashed the cooking utensils together.

She wound down and just stared at him. "You don't have a headache?" she asked in an odd voice after a last halfhearted clang.

"Uh, nooo," he said pausing to think.

"You drank a dozen fucking beers and you don't have a headache," she accused.

"Uh, well, no. I feel rested, and ... uh, that titty looks like the nipple would fit my mouth just fine. Why don't you come over here for a little while," he said reaching for her.

"I don't believe it," Margaret said as she dropped the pan and spoon on the carpet. "You don't have a hangover? Not even a little bit?"

"Uh ... no. But I have a hard-on. Does that count?" Frank offered just before he pulled the inviting nipple into his mouth and sucked hard.

"Well, shit," Margaret said. "I was going to have some fun and teach you a little lesson for puking all over everything — including your friend."

"Uhmm hmmm," Frank said as he slipped a hand between her legs.

Margaret forgot about her little joke.

In a suburb of Bismarck, North Dakota, Jill Madison, Captain Bill Madison's soon-to-be ex-wife sat on the side of the bed.

"Here are your morning meds," Doctor Ingles said handing her three plain white capsules and a small glass of water.

"Yes, Sir," she slurred as she put the capsules in her mouth, took a sip of water and swallowed.

"Drink the rest of it. You know the drill."

Downing the rest of the water, she sat awaiting her next instruction.

"All right. Go fix us breakfast. I'll get a blow-job after I eat." Dropping his shorts, the doctor walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Jill got up and quickly walked out of the bedroom into the hallway. Putting her hand to her mouth, she spit the capsules out as she hurried toward the kitchen. Putting the pills in the sink a moment later, she ran the water until she was positive they were gone.

Starting the doctor's breakfast, she forced herself to a slow measured pace. Oh, God, my head hurts, but I can't show anything or he will know. Last night was almost more than I could stand. If I'd had a way, I would have killed myself. Oh, it's a hundred times worse now that I really know what's going on. Oh, shit. I can't do this. I have to get out of here.

Shortly, she had their breakfast ready.

"Eat," he said sitting down and motioning to the other plate she had prepared. "You're getting skinny. Can't have my prize pussy losing those fine tits, now can we?"

Forcing herself to not react, she quietly sat and began to eat slowly. Oh, is this the way? I think I usually eat slowly, but I have to remember to wait for his commands.

Shortly, done with his meal, he slid his chair back from the table. "Come here and get on your knees. I don't have much time this morning, so no buildup, just suck hard and stroke me," he said, unzipping and pulling his dick out of his pants.

Obediently, she stood and lethargically walked around the table, knelt and took his cock in her hand.

"Come on. Suck it, Cunt. I have a busy day ahead of me."

Oh, God. How did I get into this? Don't cry you silly bitch, he'll know. Suck him. Don't think; just suck.

Shortly, he grunted and filled her mouth with semen. Stealing herself, she swallowed his spend.

"Clean it up, Bitch," he growled at her. "What's the matter with you this morning?"

When she finished, he stood, flipped his dick back into his pants and zipped. "Tonight at seven bathe and get ready. I've put out your dress, hose and shoes. Make sure that your hair looks nice. Remember what happened the last time you forgot. This is some Arab guy with money coming out his ass, so I don't want any complaints. I want him drained when you leave; not able to get up a hard-on if his life depends on it. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir. I'll make it good for him."

"All right. Don't forget to eat lunch and dinner. You need to gain some weight."

"Lunch and dinner."

When she heard the front door close, she sagged into a chair. I've got to get out of here. I can't stand another night of some fat pig. But my mind is still fuzzy; it's hard to think. I've got to have money — clothes. Maybe he forgot to lock the closet.

Standing, she waited for a moment for the pain to abate a little, then hurried to the bedroom. The black stiletto heels lay on the bed beside the mini-dress and a pack of thigh-high stockings. Knowing the new closet door would be locked, she tried it anyway.

Frustrated, she went into the laundry room where she had managed to secret a pair of skintight jeans and a tee-shirt. She didn't have a bra, panties, or decent shoes. With the jeans, tight shirt and heels, she would look like a tramp. Well, I am a tramp, she thought struggling to keep back tears.

Fighting her conditioning, and finally winning now that she had managed to keep from taking the meds for three days, she quickly donned the jeans and tee-shirt, her breasts bouncing as she wiggled into the tight clothing.

On the stairs to the lower level, she retrieved her car keys that she had managed to hide under the edge of the carpet. Oh, will I be able to drive? My head feels like it is going to explode, and I don't think my breakfast is going to stay down much longer. Suck it up bitch. You either do it today or he'll find out tonight. No way can I fuck another one of those pigs now that I'm back in the real world. Oh, God, the memories, she thought, almost losing it.

Get going you stupid bitch. You've lost the best husband that's ever been. Oh, my daughter, she thought, stumbling as the sorrow hit her. Where is she? Will I ever see her again?

Back in the kitchen, a hand on each side of her head pressing inward as hard as she could, she tried to remember where the grocery money was. Her mind blanked and she stood in a daze for a full minute, the headache consuming her. Aspirin. Maybe there are some aspirin in the bathroom. No, stupid. Get the money. Get out of here.

Finally, she remembered. Jerking the drawer open, she scooped up the bills, even putting the change into her pocket. How far is it? Seven — eight hundred miles at least. Maybe that's enough money to buy gas. If I sleep in the car and don't spend the money on anything else, I might make it.

Food. Food. I need to carry food with me. But I need to get out of here. If he comes back and sees me dressed, he'll know, and I'll never get another chance. Hurry. Hurry.

Grabbing plastic grocery sacks from the trash, she cleaned the meager amount of food out of the refrigerator, added a half box of cereal, a half loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter. That's enough. Get out of here before he comes back. Shoes. Oh, crap. Those spikes are better than nothing.

Going back to the bedroom, she slipped her feet into the ill-fitting shoes, then hurried into the bathroom where she found a bottle of aspirin for her pounding head. Back in the bedroom, looking around, she didn't see anything else she could take, but then in the hall closet she found one of his heavy coats. Slipping it on, it dwarfed her.

Grabbing up her grocery bags and digging her keys out of her pocket, she peeked out the front window while trying to stay hidden behind the drapes. As casually as she could, not knowing who would be a friend, or who would be an enemy, she walked out the front door to her car. Keying the remote, she opened the door and slid under the wheel, putting her food in the right seat.

Mentally crossing her fingers, she turned the ignition switch, half expecting the battery to be dead since the car had not been driven in a while. When it instantly started, she almost broke down and cried. Don't lose it now, bimbo. Calm. Calm. Back slowly out of the driveway. Some of those asshole friends of his that he made me fuck probably live somewhere around here. I remember that much, anyway.

His house was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac. Backing the car out of the drive, she shifted into gear and tried to drive normally down the street. When she reached the cross street, she stopped at the stop sign, then turned right; although, her mind was a blank about which direction to go.

After driving for ten minutes, she came to a four-lane street and turned onto it. A little later, she saw a sign for Interstate 94. Shortly, she was on it. Not knowing which direction to take, she had headed west. The car was warm by now but her shivering would not stop. I have three-quarters of a tank of gas; I need to put miles behind me. When I find a rest area, they should have free maps. I dare not spend money on one; I may need it for gas. Who are you kidding, Gal? You know damn well it will take every dime you have to get to Denver.

I don't dare go to the cops. He said I could never get away. If I tried, they would just bring me back to him because he would tell them I was a mental patient. Oh, I don't know what to believe. My mind is ... Everything is still vague, but better than it was yesterday.

Wanting to floor the accelerator; wanting to run screaming from the warped person that she had somehow become so involved with, she instead forced herself to drive with traffic. Once outside the city, she set the cruise control on the speed limit. Don't want to be stopped by the cops. I don't have my driver's license with me. No ID. No telling what would happen.

Fighting to stay coherent, she concentrated on keeping the car straight in the lane. Wait. I'm going too fast. I don't have much money for gas. Cruising speed. Yeah, Bill talked about cruising speed for the planes he flew. He said an automobile got a lot better gas mileage at a certain speed, too. But I can't slow down too much. Not on the Interstate; someone will run into me. Sixty and stay in the right lane. Maybe no one will run over me, and the slower speed should help with the gas mileage. No air-conditioner. That will help mileage, too. Of course, it's too cold to need air. What else can I do? Drive at a constant speed. Don't accelerate hard. Coast down big hills when I can. Bill said that all of those things helped a little.

Oh, God. I can't do this. My mind comes and goes. But at least the headache has eased off a little with the aspirin. Just calm down and drive. The more miles you put behind you before he finds out you're gone, the better chance you have.

Suddenly a chill hit her. Oh, no. He'll call the cops and tell them this car is stolen. Hmmm, but I'll bet he doesn't have the tag number. Then maybe again, he does. Oh, crap. If he has the tag number, they'll stop me for sure. Maybe I need to get off the Interstate. But I don't know where I'm going, and this car doesn't have a GPS. I'll keep on until I find a rest area. I'll decide then whether to stay on the Interstate or get on a state road. Oh, God, I'm scared.