Grant Roberts - The wayward wifes

Her stomach felt funny and full. It was all warm inside, as though a gently implanted coal was there, emitting a non-burning but soothing soft radiance. She let one of her arms fall away from her naked breasts, stretching slightly, and then she froze!

There was something next to her, soft and warm like… like a man's body! She held her breath and turned her head slowly to the side. Her mouth gaped open as suddenly her eyes focused on the brown skinned back lying on the couch next to her.

And then it all came back to her!

She clenched her eyes tightly shut from the remembrances. The beginning with Rick Renault's patently false excuse to lure her to his den of iniquity. Then the marijuana, the smoke filling her lungs with intense desires, and then the films, the lewd, perverted movies of the two lesbians and the giant dog, and then her own wild twisting and churning body as it yearned for sexual release. She had succumbed like a harlot of pagan Rome to the rituals of lovemaking, obliterating her inhibitions and prejudices, which were already seriously destroyed by the ordeal of the past few days. And that smell was one of consummated sex which covered both her and the sleeping man beside her after the salacious orgy of the afternoon. Three women, one man and one dog all lusting, all climaxing together! Oh how sick! How wretched!

And she remembered too, the eruption of Renault's aging sperm deep inside her young gullet as she urged him on with her lips and tongue. That white heat in her stomach, the warmth which she could feel so strongly, was from the great pool of hot, white semen that he had emptied into her belly. She had begged for him to do that to her and had urged his own frantic licking and sucking of her vagina with all her physical being like that same sick whore. Nothing could excuse her lapse into uncontrollable passion with the degenerate old man, not even the small excuse of rape as she had had with Larry's father, she had deadened her every sense of righteousness.

She turned to view the naked man beside her, shuddering with revulsion as he shifted his thin, lined haunches. His nude form reminded Patty of an ancient hound dog snoring in the sun… a hound dog of inexpressible evilness which would soon be on the hunt again to ensnare her sweet pulchritude with further debauchery. She slowly, carefully edged her way from the couch, trying not to disturb Renault, lest he awaken and demand more from her.

She slipped quietly to the floor, smoothing the thin sweater and short skirt, then she tiptoed to the door and peered through the open crack into the hallway. All was dead silent, save for the regular heavy breathing of Renault. Her thoughts raced a mile a minute. This was her chance!

She held her breath and opened the door further until she could slip through without a noise. Cat-like, her bare feet barely touching the floor, she continued across the vast house. A board squeaked!

She went rigid, her heart pounding in her chest, but Renault only groaned softly and shifted to a more comfortable position. She continued to tiptoe to the front door, and she pushed her way out to the front porch and down the cement path. A gust of wind blew the door shut with a loud crash. She ran as fast as she could on her tortured and wobbly legs to the street. There was the main street of Portrero not far away. She hoped she could reach it before Renault realized she had fled.

Patty was lucky: a bus was just discharging passengers, and uncaring where it was going, she hopped aboard. The bus hissed and moved away from the curb, and Patty, the horror of the situation over, sank into her seat, a drained and hapless woman.

It took two more buses and another hour before Patty arrived back at Marcia's house. Throughout the long rides, she kept mulling over her predicament, her brain in a numbed state of shock. She was beyond crying, her emotions exhausted as her bruised body was tired. But the loathing continued to haunt her and she couldn't shake the fevered thoughts which rampaged her ravaged mind. She was completely immersed in the feelings of outrageous defilement which Rick Renault had so cruelly and debasedly subjected her to.

She could not stop despising herself, nor would she ever, for the wanton surrender to his foul, brutal raping of her cunt and mouth was a loss of her control, and there was no denying it. Before he had finished with her she had given back as much as she had received, her brain steeped in the blinding passion of her own desire, her body an ungovernable mass of seething lust. Oh God, she moaned softly to herself, she was still nothing but a street walking slut with a strange man's hot white sperm digested in her entrails..

She stumbled to the house, slamming the door after her impulsively. She raced to the bedroom, the filth and degeneracy of her actions overwhelming her mind. Quickly, almost feverishly she threw her skirt and sweater into a heap and stood naked, rubbing her hands along her sides in a futile attempt to cleanse her body. She looked down her breasts at the soft curve of her stomach to her raised pubic mound, and at the matted, dried hair and her inflamed cunt which Renault had so abandonedly manipulated with his long, hot tongue. She thought of her sexual desires which the old man had so callously raised into enveloping passion; she thought of how she had sucked him off to climax and how disgusting and evil she had been. She thought of her actions with Val Robbins, and her acceptance of Marcia's straining lips, and the original, releasing rape of her body by her father-in-law.

Gone was the listless, lethargic barrenness of that morning. The empty shell of her mind was once again filled by the terror and agony of her plight. And the full impact of what she had done and what she thought of herself hit with sledge hammer blows.

Her inner torment magnified a thousandfold, and she felt as if a trillion tiny, unseen creatures were walking on her body, dirtying it, defiling it so that she would never be able to be clean again. The filthy, unseen organisms scurried faster and faster over every inch of her velvet flesh, trailing dung-like putrification…

A low, tormented wail bubbled from Patty's lips as she ran to the bathroom. She twisted the plastic handles on the shower taps bringing forth a spray of water, and then she adjusted the stream almost with frantic haste until the needles were hot, hot as the hell she felt inside her. Then she stepped in the stall and gasped as the scalding spray beat upon her skin, turning it bright crimson, burning off the insects which infested it. She made no move to cool the water; instead she stood fast and endured the pain, her mouth open, her eyes shut, enduring the lashing cascade as if it were some cleansing, divine punishment.

For five minutes Patty withstood the torrent, blanking her mind to her sorrow. She soaped her rectum, vagina, breasts and face in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the dirty feeling, unsure whether she could succeed or not. She turned off the water and stepped out to dry herself. Oh God, will I never be wholesome again?

Briskly, almost as though she were heaping further abuse upon herself, Patty dried with a large, fluffy towel. Her skin tingled from the water and the toweling and glowed a burnished pink. She padded naked to the bedroom, hoping above hope she could relieve the furnace of loathing which burned inside her.

… And suddenly the thought of Larry flashed into her mind. The idea of his finding out what she had been doing was more than she could bear! It was too much! She'd betrayed her husband's pure love… lowered herself to the very depths of moral degradation… and she'd never be able to face him again. She couldn't go on this way, knowing she had lasciviously given herself to other men, complete strangers… a woman, her best girlfriend… no matter what the extenuating circumstances. She couldn't! She'd rather die first!