Peter Jensen - Kidnapped bride

Tim rammed his massively ejaculating cudgel back and forth until its rhythm abated naturally and the last drop of his white sperm had jetted into her. Then, slowly, he pulled away as Susan fell forward in an exhausted heap on the bed. Something had happened at the last minute, something he had been too excited to comprehend. She had been responding incredibly and then at the moment of orgasm… What was wrong?

"Susan?" he asked softly. "Susan?"

"Oh, Tim…" she moaned, her face buried tearfully in the coverlet of the bed, "it's no good… it's no good…"

Tim's face soured into an expression of deep disappointment and anger as he realized once more that his efforts had been in vain. He had fucked her, yes, and had a full release, but now, seeing his wife once more shuddering in fright on the bed, the momentary galvanic excitement he had experienced quickly fled, replaced by the old feeling of resentment and frustration.

"Christ," he said wearily, rising from the bed. "What's the use?"

Susan Jameson sat absolutely still on the sofa, her mind slowly returning to the present. Tim had left for Boston a half hour after their unhappy encounter, and nothing was settled. Things remained at an impasse so that it looked as though their marriage might fall apart completely. Yet she also knew that something had happened to her during his cruel rape, for she had experienced, at least for a few rapturous moments, a sensual awakening the likes of which she had never known before. Maybe, with a little more time, she could really let herself go and experience an entire orgasm. With surprise, she realized that the crotch band of her panties had become moist, probably because of her detailed recall of what had taken place on Monday. Quickly she got up from the sofa, feeling a little embarrassed, to change into a fresh pair.

But as she started up the steps to the second floor of the house, the doorbell rang.

The petite young housewife paused momentarily on the stairs, wondering who could be at the door. She wasn't expecting anyone that day, and the only neighbor who was in the habit of dropping in unexpectedly was Mrs. Carson, who was away on vacation. The doorbell rang again.

"Just a minute," Susan called as she descended the steps and paused in front of the mirror to straighten her dress and pat her hair into place. Oh, it must be the paperboy collecting for the week, she decided.

Going to the front door, she opened it slightly and found that her visitor was a good-looking young man who she guessed was in his late teens or early twenties.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Excuse me, ma'am," the young man said politely, grinning at her with a friendly smile, "but is your husband at home?"

"No… not at the moment," Susan replied, somewhat cautiously. Tim had warned her often about being careful of strangers in the neighborhood, especially since the crime rate was going up steadily, even in their suburban area.

"Oh, that's too bad," the young stranger said. "I tell you, ma'am, I'm in kind of a tight spot. I know its not proper for me to be knockin' at your door like this — you probably think I'm some kind of freak or somethin' — but I'm just lookin' for odd jobs in the neighborhood."

Susan noticed that he spoke with a slight trace of a southern accent. His face was extremely handsome, youthful and wholesome with bright brown eyes and high cheekbones topped by a thick curly shock of dark brown hair that, Susan thought, made him look almost like a young Greek god. Opening the door a little wider she noticed that he was quite slender, with an extremely well-muscled body revealed by the tapered bright yellow T-shirt and tight white jeans he wore. His feet were clad in high black workman's boots. Despite her initial distrust of her visitor, the young wife found herself fascinated by the good-looking youth and curious to know more about him. His face was so pleasant and sincere that it allayed her fears.

"Do… do you live in the area?" she asked.

"No, my home town's Atlanta, Georgia, and I'm headin' for Oregon to visit my brother. I been hitchhikin', but my luck ain't been so good. I had to get a bus from Ohio out to here, and my money ran out. Tell you the truth I ain't had a square meal or slept in a decent bed for two nights, so I thought I'd just ask around to see if there were some jobs I could do. I noticed your lawn needs cuttin' and I thought I'd just ring the bell and ask.

"I see. I don't know what to say. You should speak to my husband about it, really. We do need to have some work done on the yard, but…"

"Can I talk to your husband when he comes back?"

"I don't think he'll be here until Sunday." The young wife immediately regretted her last remark. Although she had no real reason to mistrust this boy, she knew a wife alone without a man in the house was in a very vulnerable position. "I'm… I'm sorry," she said, attempting to close the door.

"Ma'am look, I'm really desperate for some money, can I just do the work and come back when your husband comes home to get paid? I can sleep in the park down the street tonight, and believe me, by tomorrow afternoon your yard'll look like the garden of a palace!"

"I… I don't know," Susan said nervously. She felt foolish being so standoffish with the young man. After all, his story made sense, and he seemed sincere. What harm could there be in letting him work on the yard? Still, she had heard stories about suburban wives who were preyed upon by strangers when they were alone. She glanced searchingly at the boy, as if trying to make up her mind whether or not to hire him, and he smiled back at her so winningly that suddenly all her suspicions appeared utterly ridiculous. "Oh, I suppose it'd be all right," she said finally. "When do you want to start?"

"Right now," he replied cheerfully. "The sooner I get to work, the sooner I can get some food in my belly."

"Oh, well why don't you come in and have a sandwich, it'd be no trouble."

"Ma'am, I ain't sure that'd be proper, what with your husband away."

Susan smiled at him warmly. There was definitely something about him that inspired her trust. He was so courtly and gentle, so clean-cut, certainly nothing like the dirty hippies she had seen wandering around the streets lately, with their unkempt long hair and ragged clothes.

"I'm sure I can trust you," she said, "Come on in. I've got some ham and cheese in the refrigerator. A good sandwich and a Coke will make you work better." "Well, to tell you the truth ma'am, I'd sure appreciate it."

"Then please come in. By the way," she asked as she opened the door to let him in, "what's your name?"

"Art, Art Wilson."

"I'm Susan Jameson."

"Howdy, Mrs. Jameson."

"Oh goodness, don't call me 'Mrs.' — that sounds so silly. We must be practically the same age. Just call me Susan."

"That's real nice of you, ma'am. Susan, I mean."

Susan laughed merrily, completely secure with the handsome youth now, and rather pleased to have some company to divert her attention from her problems.

"The kitchen's this way, Art," she said, walking past him down the front hall. "Follow me."

The young man watched her intently as he walked behind her down the hall, his eyes riveted to the swaying ripe half-moons of her buttocks, while his face became clouded with a dark and strangely perverse expression that was totally unlike his previous smiling countenance. I sure will baby, I sure will. Right up into that nice All-American pussy of yours!

For the rest of the afternoon Susan tried to busy herself with housework while Art worked diligently mowing the lawn, trimming the bushes, and tending to the garden. He seemed to know a great deal about landscaping, and the young housewife couldn't resist glancing through the living room window now and then to watch him, fascinated, while he worked. He had stripped himself of his T-shirt, and Susan found herself staring unconsciously at his trim athletic build, his sun-tanned skin gleaming with perspiration. Although he was shorter than her husband, and was slender like Tim, there was a classic beauty to his body so striking that the naive young wife could hardly keep from staring at it. She was oddly compelled by the young man and, hardly aware of it consciously, her thoughts kept turning again and again toward him. Finally, she invited him to dinner and they dined together on hamburgers, french fries and salad, chattering warmly back and forth.