Chapter 2: Liza

I am Liza, wife of Steve, mother of Eric and I know my husband loves me. I know he even loves me today after all I did to him. It would be easy to ridicule that love as a cuckold's delusion. It seems to be all the rage, nowadays, calling him a pussy-whipped wimp. I did. But the crazy thing is: I envy him for it now. Yes, I know it sounds sarcastic, but I mean it. I would give an arm and a leg for being able to simply love a person. I'd love to love someone the way Steve loves me. For one thing, it wouldn't have got me where I am now.

I do know that I love little Eric. I don't even need a nanosecond to say that. Which of course speaks volumes on the quality of my love for my husband.

You have read what happened between Steve and I. Or at least, you think you know what happened. But you don't, not really. That is not because he lied to you or kept you in the dark, no, Steve would never do that. But he can't very well tell you what he doesn't know, can he? He quoted others, but he can't vouch for their truthfulness.

Steve has been lied to a lot — by me and by Roger, but mostly by me. I would love to say that I lied to protect him from a truth that might have destroyed him and our marriage, and the safety of our son. But of course I did it also to protect my more personal interests. Does that make me evil? Maybe, but what options did I have?

How honest can a person like me be for her own good? Can she be honest at all? I guess this is all beside the point — I was neither evil nor honest. I was just weak. It is something I hate to admit, but yes — I was a weak and selfish person who needed to hide behind the excuse of rape to enjoy her pleasures free of guilt — and then crave for more.

I was a slave who feared one thing the most — to lose her chains.

It was true that I was raped at the birthday party of Roger's plastic stepmother, all these years ago. But it wasn't true that Roger didn't mind. He was there, held in check by Daddy's gorillas, while his father pinned me down on the bed and rammed his fat, hard cock into my cunt — claiming me like a medieval rogue-knight. Roger was there, screaming in rage. He had to look on, while his father riddled him with volleys of humiliating sneers. And when the Count at last lifted his heavy body off mine, he was replaced by an ongoing number of others, ravaging every orifice of my body.

Roger wasn't gay, like I made Steve believe — he was my boyfriend, and he loved me like crazy. The reason he was so eager to marry me was not to please his father — very much the contrary. He married me to thwart his father's plans to set him up with a desirable party — one that served his father's business plans, just like his mother had done. He married me out of love and that romantic notion excited me no end. It even made me wonder if I loved him too.

But whatever love I had for him was efficiently washed away on that four-poster bed. I never had as many mind shattering orgasms as I had that night. I was nineteen, having only had a few rather fumbling experiences with high school boys and college kids; and Roger, of course, who was back then more of an enthusiast than a Don Juan. I had orgasms that affected my state of mind, tumbling switches I never knew I had. They changed me from a wholesome, no nonsense girl into a sick, groveling slut. I was prepared to give up everything to satisfy my newfound needs and grab the many perks that came with the package.

Many people insist that such sudden changes aren't possible and they may be right. Perhaps Count Moreland and his gang of rapists only had to scratch off the thin layer of artificial decency that covered the monster I truly was. A very hypocritical monster at that; I needed to hide behind the blame I put on my rapists. I very much needed that.

Robert Count Moreland — 'Daddy, ' as of that night — knew me well. The morning after the rape, he just chuckled through all my indignant protests and threats. He concurred with all of my arguments and then bought me off with money. I still see the pain in Roger's eyes when he heard I took the bribe, but hey, what did he know? He'd been rich all his life, hadn't he?

Then I missed my next period. As you know I told Steve that Roger paid for the abortion, but it really was Robert — Roger never knew of the pregnancy. And there was no reluctance in collecting the monthly bribe for that.

The year that followed was the time I call my 'crazy year.' Calling it that is another convenient way of removing myself from responsibility. It was rape. I had no say in it, I assured myself, knowing perfectly well that I could have stopped any moment. But I didn't want to stop, did I? I just had to find a way to live with it. So I embraced the excuse of being helpless — they'd robbed me of my freedom. I praised my glittering cage, secretly fearing the day someone might reveal that its door had never been locked.

'Crazy year' might have been an excuse, but I truly was a mental case when I woke up at that hospital. The first face I saw wasn't a nurse or the psychiatrist I told Steve about. It was not even the police — it was Roger. It made me wonder. I had hardly ever seen him that year. Had he at last stood up against his powerful Daddy? Or had his father finally tired of the fucked-out slut I had become? I don't know. I do know that I hadn't seen Count Moreland for weeks toward the end of my roller coaster ride. It was mostly his cronies and business friends that fucked me by then — total strangers, really.

I guess Roger hooked me up with the psychotherapist. She was good. Later on I learned that she also was a liaison to Roger, who'd never stopped having these romantic notions about loving me. After recovering and returning to college, I told him I was thankful for rescuing me; I would never have made it without him. But I started turning him down when he asked for a date. I guess I used rather lame excuses. In truth I wanted a clean slate; I didn't need him to help me remember the shameful disaster. Of course I never told him that — you know me by now.

I started to avoid him and began dating Steve. It was a conscious move to fight my way back into sanity — Steve being the epitome of sanity. Roger was part of the craziness that almost ruined me — at least that was what I told myself. Fear and guilt made me place the causes of my ruin outside myself. It seemed the shortest way to recovery, so I had to avoid him and everything else connected to the year of disaster. Yes, I guess I was always better at being selfish than at being fair.

Through the next year I gradually convinced myself that Roger accepted the new reality. I had a hard time understanding why he kept hovering around, though, even becoming friends with Steve. I only much later understood that Roger Chesterton might well be the most patient person on this earth, trained to perfection by a cruel father and the impossible circumstances of his youth. If I'd been sensitive enough to care for his pain, I might have discovered the tell tale pattern of an obsessive stalker — but I guess I wasn't and I didn't. I just 'slid' into love with sweet Steve, gladly drowning in his sea of normalcy. It was a deceptively calm ocean, though. It neatly covered the deep, eternal storm that raged at its seabed, throwing up dark clouds of long-forgotten emotion.

I easily convinced myself that I loved Steve — he is an agreeable person to be with; I know no one who doesn't like him. I also loved the way he put me on a pedestal — me of all persons. We were the perfect couple in everyone's eye, so who was I to doubt a love so wonderfully fitting my needs?

I also see now how the rumor came into the world that Roger might be gay; he never dated a girl during the rest of our college years. Again, I guess I was too insensitive to understand why. I soon forgot all about him after he left for Europe, trying to climb a career ladder that wasn't owned by his father. Steve and I married and had little Eric. Life was good. It lulled me into its vanilla comforts; soon I had a hard time separating my real orgasms from the faked ones.

Imagine the impact of Daddy's return. His blunt rudeness tore as easily through the cobwebs of my complacency as his rampant cock did through my dormant cunt. I was what they call a sitting duck — or rather the torn up ragdoll version of it by the time he was done with me. I could only nod to his casual order to await his phone call. I was repossessed; pushed back over the flimsy fence I had built between my old, outrageous self and the farce of married mommy-hood.

The childish fairytale of my marriage had ended.

A more decent person than I would have sat down with Steve and told him what happened — what truly happened. But I am a coward; of course I am. How else could I have been weak enough to fall that easily for my rapist again? The following months were a balance act of keeping my new madness away from my husband — and most of all: keeping my new lifestyle away from sweet innocent Eric. To my own amazement I succeeded. I even thought I misled the therapist I still consulted.

Robert was careful too; he had a meticulously constructed public image to protect. Despite his bullying indifference, he only called when Steve would be away — he seemed to be well informed. He always phoned a few days early; one time he called even before Steve had had the time to tell me his schedule. He organized everything, even Eric's babysitter if I didn't have one. He never fucked me in the house again. Most of the time he had me picked up or he gave me the address of a house or a hotel. But you know all that. You also know he sometimes brought friends and business relations. I didn't mind. He'd pushed me over the edge and I just kept coming like the good little whore I was — again.

Then Steve found the cufflink. It confused me no end to see it lying on the table, right between a zonked out Steve and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. I picked it up and saw that it must indeed be Robert's. I'd often enough seen him take them off. No one else would have a set even similar. Panic overwhelmed me. How had Steve gotten hold of it? Robert never ever fucked me in the house — not because I asked him not to, I asked nothing. I guess he decided it was convenient that Steve wouldn't know; at least for a while. He might have changed his mind about that by then. Had he visited the house while I was out? But why? He could just as easily have called Steve and told him about us.

Thank God I'd returned from a fuck-date the day before Steve was scheduled back from his trip; so I was home on the Friday he returned early. On Wednesday night I'd been the main attraction of a multi-cocked fucking party at the Hilton, two towns over. Robert hadn't even bothered to bring me home. He had his driver do it, who pulled my head down into his lap for his usual tip before letting me go. It was right in front of our house; I was only protected from curious eyes by the dubious safety of tinted glass.

Anyway, that early Saturday morning when I found the link, blind panic made me stop wondering about the how and why. I slipped the object into the pocket of my robe. From then on it was all instinct and improvisation. I became a chased rabbit, cutting corners to outrun the hunting dogs of truth.

Ironically it was a truth I knew as little about as Steve.

I stubbornly thought that denying everything would be the way to save our marriage. And I had to save it — it was the only protection of little Eric while his mother fucked her sanity away. I was sure it was also what Robert wanted. There was no way I could contact him. I supposed he would discover the absence of his precious cufflink and call me, but he didn't. I pushed it into the nether regions of my purse, where I could almost feel it burn whenever I clutched the thing to my body.

When Steve didn't buy my denial and left me, I was conflicted. Of course I feared for our marriage, but what I also sensed was relief. I guess it was just the natural reaction of the hunted rabbit at last escaping the hounds. The constant intensity of Steve's eyes and his questions had worn me down. I was getting too exhausted to mask my true feelings, I guess.

After watching him leave, I returned to the den. Right then my cell phone rang. The little square showed an R for Robert and my heart leapt. It always did.

"Oh God, Daddy," I said, using the name he insisted upon. "Steve found your cufflink in our bedroom!" There was silence; then his arrogant voice boomed through the connection.

"Impossible," he said. "Describe it." I did, studying the link from all sides.

"Wait," he said and I heard the sound of his phone being laid down. I waited for minutes, my anxious heart counting each second of them.

"Can't be mine," he at last replied. "I have three sets and they are all complete and right here. Was it in your bedroom?" I confirmed and told him that Steve had left me because of it. He just gave off a gruffly sound. Why should he care?

"You got the link?" he then asked and I said yes.

"Get to the Excelsior. Now," he barked and hung up.

The Excelsior was the place he stayed while being over. It was ten miles outside the city, part of a country club. He had leased the penthouse suite permanently. I knew most corners of it intimately, although I was usually too preoccupied to give it much attention.

He let me stand while he sat down at a low table. There were two small boxes in front of him, each one containing a set of cufflinks. The third set was in his cuffs.

He extended his hand, palm up, moving his fingers impatiently. I understood, found the link in the chaos of my purse and placed it on his palm. He turned it around, watching the smaller square intently. Then he snorted.

"Roger," he said.

Roger hadn't been on my mind much since he left for Europe. The way he gave in to his father when I, his wife, was raped, claimed and bought in front of him, hadn't done much to earn my respect. His puppy-like sweetness after he rescued me and helped me return to sanity only deepened my contempt — irrational, yes, and deeply ungrateful, but it was how I felt.

I guess I have the true slave's heart. Whomever my new master told me to despise, I loyally despised. Robert despised his son with a vengeance, so I did too. He sometimes told his cronies what a wuzz he thought Roger was. He called him a closet homo in public, only encouraging people's ideas on the subject. That Roger did everything to prove his father wrong by playing James Dean, strengthened my contempt. It even made me wonder if his father could be right, although I knew first hand that he could never be homosexual. He was just a sensitive and decent man, I guess, just like Steve, and well, you know about my attitude towards decent men.

So Roger had put a cufflink in our bedroom? Why, I wondered. Moreland must have read the question on my face. He chuckled and pulled me onto his lap.

"You see, little cunt," he said, pushing his hand under my skirt, where the heat of his skin invaded mine, "Roger never forgave you for pushing him aside and choosing Steve over him. But being the wimp he is, he couldn't just take you away from the other wuzz. He sulked and goddamn pouted, just like the sissy he is. He started stalking you, no doubt wallowing in his disgusting self-pity. God, how it made my stomach turn."

I felt his fat fingers jamming into my bare cunt. I never wore panties when he summoned me and I had been wet ever since his phone call. I moaned as I pushed my face into his shoulder — hating myself, but loving his fingers.

"I guess in the end he even got sick of himself. So when he graduated," Robert went on, "he went to France. I guess he at last grew up and gave up on you." Robert chuckled, hooking his fingers into my soft flesh.

"I suppose he wanted to make a belated point concerning his independence. He buried himself in work and did amazingly well. He's good, you know, businesswise, I mean. He's this really conscientious little hard working manager type — impartial in his decisions, a true motivator, loyal to his people, blah blah." He said it with a sneer on his face. His fingers, three now, stabbed hard up my cunt, hurting me.

"God," he sighed. "Isn't it so like the little twerp to wait for years before getting his vengeance, and in such a weasel-like way? You must feel honored, little whore! Two losers fighting over your treacherous cunt!"

By then I came, squirting my juices over his hand. He slid his fingers out of me, rubbing them clean on my skirt. Then he pushed them inside my mouth; I started sucking at once.

"Well now, slut," he said, grinning, "Do you think Stevie-boy will divorce you?" I was too deep into the afterglow of my orgasm to concentrate on his question. He spread his legs and made me fall through his opened lap. His hands were on my shoulders as he pushed me down until my face was in front of his crotch. My fingers went to his belt automatically, efficiently. I opened his fly and produced his half erect cock, taking it into my mouth. His voice droned on behind a curtain of wet, sucking noises.

"Never mind, girl," he said. "No need to worry. Hubby is too much of a wimp to dump you." I felt his big hands on my head as he pulled me down the fat pole, choking me as he slid past my throat's entrance.

"He adores you, you know? And there is the brad, of course. He'll never give the two of you up, trust me. Just keep denying until he doubts his own memory. It'll teach him to doubt you. In the end he'll beg you to take him back. Make him beg. Make him tell you he's sorry and he'll be your cunt-lapping puppy ... for ... the ... rest ... of ... your ... life."

His speech started following the pumping rhythm of his cock. As he delivered the last words, I felt his flesh swell like it always did right before coming. The hot, wet gushing of goo never failed to send a wave of warmth through my body. It spread an indescribable feeling of sweet content. I groaned around his flesh, making bubbles of sperm pop and splash. He smiled down on me, patting my head while I swallowed his salty gift.

"Good girl," he said. "Now clean me up and run. Don't worry about hubby or Eric or little Woger Wabbit. Everything will be fine."

But I did worry. Steve might have become a pathetic softie in my brainwashed imagination — to little Eric he was a hero. The boy's incessant questions about Steve's whereabouts ran me through all kinds of emotions — from irritation through guilt, sadness and utter frustration until I reached despair. Eric didn't enjoy beating me in his videogames at all. He laughed with deprecation as I offered to play ball with him. He flat out refused to be read from his favorite book before sleeping — he said I had all the Greek names wrong and never the right voice for the right character.

Then he started waking me up at night. Something had to give and I knew it had to be Steve. I started calling him. His cell phone was shut down and I had no idea where he might be. On Monday I called him at work. His girl stonewalled me, the little bitch. How could she? I had personally helped picking her, hadn't I?

At last Steve answered. He agreed to talk if he could see Eric as often as he wanted. He hung up on me when I tried to be smart, but I succeeded eventually in meeting him at a restaurant.

Why did I have to dress as sexily as I did? Why float into the restaurant on a cloud of perfume and strut with the airs of a catwalk model, made up to perfection, wearing the highest heels Steve knew of? It was pearls to the swine anyway; he didn't even rise to greet me. All he wanted to know was if I'd found a better story. I chose to attack, not even realizing that I casually accused him of amnesia, ill health and lack of mental capacity. When he pointed that out, I saw how disastrously wrong my strategy had been and tried to repair my mistake. It only made it worse.

I went all-out, lowering my voice, squeezing his hand, my lips trembling. In the end I was close enough to how I truly felt, but it proved just another huge mistake.

"I don't lie!" I said, vehemently. "There never was a cufflink on the table. You must believe me!"

"Why do you defend him so, Liza?" he asked. "Is he so important to you that you'd rather break my heart than break your secret?" Oh God, what soap opera did I get into? His sad puppy-eyes made my stomach crawl. I jumped to my feet, moaning with disgust. I grabbed my purse and left — or rather fled.

So you said it would be easy, Daddy?

I decided to play it down for a while, allowing Steve to see Eric again. At least it improved my relation with the little guy and gave me undisturbed nights. It also gave me time to contemplate my concern with a marriage to a guy I cheated on in the most shameless ways.

That's when Roger phoned.

"Liza?"

" ... Roger?" There was a chuckle on the other end.

"I won't ask you how you are, Liza. I know. And I need to see you." The steel in his voice confused me; it had never been there before.

"... ?"

"It is about Robert. Meet me at the Luxor in an hour."

"Roger?" But he'd hung up.

The Luxor is an old and rather exclusive hotel in town. It has a lounge bar, which is a popular meeting place for business people during weekdays. Roger was hard to miss; he is tall and very good-looking — a taller and slimmer version of his father. He smiled easily; I felt stubbles on his cheeks when he hugged me. I hardly shared the hug before stepping back. He smiled apologetically and bade me to follow him into a niche, cut off from the main lounge by an overgrown trellis.

"What about the cufflink?" I asked, ignoring his invitation to sit down. I wasn't there for small talk. He smiled.

"Hello Liza," he said. "How are you doing? You look as lovely as ever." Standing around started feeling awkward. I sat down at the low table, across from him. I wore slacks and a beige sweater, the dullest outfit I could find. My hair was in a loose bun.

"What can I get you to drink?" he asked, but I refused to be distracted.

"You smuggled it into our house, didn't you?" I asked. He sighed, raising his hands, still smiling.

"Guilty as charged," he said. I searched his eyes. They didn't reflect the lightness of his voice. What was going on?

"So after years of absence," I said, "you break into my house, invade my privacy and destroy my marriage. Fuck you, Roger!" His hands rose.

"Shhhh," he hissed. "This is a decent place. Mind your language." I tried to see if he was mocking me, but he seemed dead serious. His hand touched my arm to keep me from rising and leaving.

"I know I shouldn't have," he said. "But I'm glad I did. I know about you and Daddy. Steve has to know too and Robert has to be stopped. He'll destroy you and your family. I won't allow it." For seconds I didn't know what to say. Then I laughed. It sounded forced.

"This is ridiculous," I said, rising. He hurried to his feet too.

"You say me fucking Robert will break up my marriage, and to prevent that you break up my marriage? This is insane. Besides, if Robert wanted to end my marriage, all he'd have to do is call Steve, wouldn't he? Just tell him what we do or mail him a picture — a video even. But he doesn't, because he doesn't want me single. He wants me tied, guilty, cheating, humiliated." His hand touched my shoulder. I shook it off.

"How would you know about all of this anyway?" I said. "What is going on?" He shrugged.

"This isn't about you, Liza," he then said. "Not about your marriage or your son. This is about him and me." I just stared.

"My dad and I hate each other, you know that," he went on. "It goes back to way before you and I met. I must have disappointed him ever since I was a boy. I took sides with my mother. I refused to learn 'manly' sports or go to a 'decent' college, as he put it. I refused to study much at all. I refused to accept the girls he threw at me. And then I went working for the competition, making a success of some of his worst enemies."

Roger once more tried to touch me, but I didn't let him. He shook his head and went on.

"Just short of killing me, he wants to destroy me, Liza. He always has. He refused to fund anything I wanted for myself. And he took away everything I loved, including you. By now, I don't know if I would stop at killing him." I slowly sat down again, thinking, confused by what he said.

"So you dropped the cufflink to spite him?" I asked. He didn't respond for a while. Then he grabbed my hand and didn't let go. When he started talking, his voice sounded urgent.

"I have been trying to get you back, ever since you returned from your 'crazy year.' Suzan Atkins was my eyes and ears, sorry for that. I went as far as becoming friends with Steve from the very moment you picked him, just to be close to you ... to be there when you'd dump him. I was certain you would, but you didn't. At last I accepted your choice and went to Europe. And now, after the asshole grabbed you back, I returned to fight him."

I heard what he said and knew it should have touched me and maybe it did. But I guess I am who I am — his obvious loyalty hit my warped mind as weakness. It disgusted me and made me laugh sarcastically.

"You? Fight him?" I said. He winced at the venom. Then he shrugged.

"I know your opinion of me, Liza." His voice was calm. "It seems that decent men go against your grain. You thrive on assholes, don't you? It is why what happened before will happen again. I don't care what you do to Steve ; it is your choice, your marriage. But at least remember: last time there was no Eric."

The name hung between us. It caused a multitude of emotions to wash through me. There was irritation for his unwanted interference — and of course the typical, amorphous rage of the true addict seeing her habit threatened. But there was also a spark of anguish, an underlying feeling that he was right, however inconvenient his truth might be. I sat down again.

"Liza," he said, his voice warm. "I kept Robert away from you for years. I never told you, but he was enraged when I took you away from him and had you nursed back into sanity. He threatened to kill me, but I didn't give in; not again."

I couldn't help being skeptic; weak Roger standing up to his father, to Daddy? Back then I had never wondered why Robert had left me alone. I just assumed he was done with the used-up slut.

"My father is obsessed with you, did you know?" he went on. "He was hooked, right from the moment I introduced you to him, and he still is. I never understood, but there is something in you he can't get enough of. He almost loves you more than his vintage car collection." He said it without a trace of irony. "I never forgave myself for introducing you. It was like offering a lamb to a wolf." His voice trailed off; then he shrugged and focused his eyes.

"He stayed off your track because — let's say I had something on him, something that would destroy his corporate image. He loves his image even better than he loves fucking you, you know."

My initial confusion slowly lifted. I had known Roger only as an immature, insecure boy, bullied by his powerful father. He'd been incapable of standing up for himself when his girl was taken away from him. But he had changed, I saw. He was calm now — strong? My mind struggled to fathom the change, but my body knew. A warm tingle invaded it — a familiar feeling. His smile turned sly; had he seen it?

"Well," I said at last, invoking sarcasm yet again to drown out the sudden turmoil inside me. "So you tamed the mighty predator? I'm impressed, but it seems things have changed. The magic must have worn off, honey. The wolf has his teeth in the lamb again." I stopped short at making a mocking 'bah' sound. I saw he wasn't amused.

"Brave girl," he said. "Just a pity you are not as brave when he summons you. I know what's going on, Liza. I know where you are headed. And yes, he made someone betray me and took away what I had over him. That's why he returned and grabbed you again — and why he is so reckless with you. Soon he won't care about you, your marriage or your child; he thinks he's untouchable."

I had to hang on to my sarcasm. Maybe it was to control the weakness in my knees. Whatever, I couldn't resist; so I laughed.

"He took something away from you?" I mocked. "Story of your life, isn't it?" His eyes flashed. Was it annoyance? Shame? A sudden sting startled me. His hand slapped my face, making my head spin.

"Don't think you matter, whore," he hissed. His voice sliced straight through my artificial conceit. The venom in his words stripped me of my sarcasm. I shivered ... the lamb knows the scent of a wolf — a young, strong wolf, challenging the leader of the pack.