Grant Roberts - The wayward wifes

The horrible alternative drifted across her brain, tormenting her further. She weighed the methods, poison, slitting her wrists, jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge and the consequences of actually destroying herself, and it was too much for her confused mind to take. She sank upon the bed, and shortly her maddened thoughts dissipated into a weary, almost lethargic state, and with her sex exhausted body, she fell into a deep sleep.

She awoke after dark, the sounds of night coming through the open window. "Ooohhh, my God," she groaned aloud. "What's happening to me?" She sat up quickly, her brain reminded her of Renault again, and of her panicked flight… and of the almost hysterical trance she had been in after arriving home. It was too much, and she screamed, hard and high. She ran to the bureau and looked in the mirror. "My God," she moaned.

Heavy lines marred her fresh, young skin, and her eyes were sunk into her cheeks as though she had aged ten years over night. Her body was a mass of blush-red marks and bruises from Renault's suckling mouth, mostly centered around her breasts and inner thighs. Her nipples seemed to feel completely raw and she leaned against the bureau with revulsion.

"It must have been a nightmare. It must have!" she babbled incoherently over and over to herself, still hanging onto the bureau. "I'll ask Marcia. She'll tell me the truth, I know she will. She'll tell me I never did such things!"

"Marcia! Marcia!" she yelled, half staggering half crawling through the house.

There was no answer. She could see the clock on the kitchen wall as reading after seven, which meant that Marcia should have been home from her job by now. Where was she? Patty collapsed in the dinette chair. Then she saw the note propped against the sugar bowl, the handwriting Marcia's barely legible scrawl. It was a short message, but it said a thousand words:

"Patty: I'm letting you sleep, as you looked as though you'd had a rough day. I'm going to a party at Renault's and hope to see you there when you get up. Your friend, Marcia."

Patty slumped to the Formica table and sobbed. Her one friend had deserted her, not even bothering to wake her up to see if she was all right when she, Marcia, had come home after work. Oh God, she was the vile creature she secretly thought she was, and this only proved it! Marcia could not stand her except in the company of other lewd and corrupt individuals. With almost hysterical reasoning, Patty cried and moaned her feelings of abandonment and spuriousness out, wetting the table top. Then she stopped, completely drained of her agony, and again the fog of incomprehension began to roll over her mind. She settled back in the chair, whimpering with soft sounds of agony and let the blackness of the night's uncaring attitude envelop her distraught brain, soothing away the horror she could not face, blanking out the reality of her life.

Yes, and as she stared at the wall, the tears of her rejection drying upon her cheeks, she wanted to escape still further, right off this horrid, degrading planet into the spiraling eternity of the universe and she knew how to realize this fervent wish.

With sex. After all, her body was a used, vacant pit of decay, her soul putrescence and atrophy, her morals nonexistent and her life a hollow vestige of degeneracy. Why not use this gangrenous form to help her fly from her world? Why not let Val and Marcia and Renault, that ugly, vile old man, and even the dog on the screen grovel in her carrion? At least she, in that one brief passage of time, was able to break away and be free!

And with marijuana. That sweet haze of euphoria, that abundant supplier of soporific pleasure which heightened her ability to get away… she wanted more, more of the evil drug to fill her nefarious blood and take over her controls. She no longer wanted to worry, ever, about what became of her.

Like a robot, mesmerized, Patty rose from the table and slowly trod to the bedroom again. She had only one burning idea in her mind, the abject surrender to the goals of sex and drugs, and she knew exactly how and where to obtain them. At Rick Renault's. Tonight. At the party Marcia had already gone to. A thin smile of anticipation creased her otherwise bloodless lips, and Patty arched her form before the mirror again, only this time it was with pride of possession, rather than sick revulsion. This plague of flesh, this pestilence of spirit will serve my few desires well, she mused to herself as she kneaded her fine breasts and played her palms along her stomach ridges. It got me into trouble… now it will get me out of it.

She rummaged through the few clothes she had brought from the Jennings, and selected the dress she had worn on her honeymoon. She and Larry had not had much money, neither when they got married, or afterwards, and so she had been practical, picking out a simple all-white cocktail sheath as the outfit to be married in and then travel with him. Occasionally she still wore it, at special times when they had been invited to fancy places, or when they saved up enough to dine at a very good restaurant. But now, now was the time to wear it again, to have this symbol of her past defiled as the wearer was, so that not even this tag would be left to remind her of what she had come from. She slipped the fine wool dress over her head and down her body, drawing its satin drawstring around her neck tightly and tying it in a bow just above her breastbone. That was all she wore, save for a pair of sandals. Her breasts, firm and buoyant with their own uplift, stuck out, the nipples pointing through the material where her tits bulged at their most voluminous proportions. The tight bottom clung to her hips and outlined her bare buttocks and narrow vaginal slit as she walked. She hummed as she dressed, then she took the pearl-backed hair brush and began to stroke the soft, thin strands of her reddish waves, over and over, hypnotically counting back from one hundred as she brushed. When she had reached fifty-seven, the doorbell chimed. She didn't stop, but ignored its sound, and it rang again at forty-five and another time at thirty. Then a fist pounded on the door and a deep, gruff male voice yelled out her name.

"Patty! Patty! Please let me in!"

Patty put down the brush and walked to the door, grabbing her purse as she went. She opened the door, and if she had been more herself, she would have gasped with horror and shock. But as it was, the hulking figure of Larry's father, Tom Jennings, barely caused a ripple of interest to crease her forehead.

"Hello," she said tonelessly.

"Please, Patty let me in, will you? I-I have to talk to you."

"Can't. I'm sorry," she replied listlessly.

"But you don't understand! I'm sorry," Jennings said compassionately, "I'm truly sorry for what happened, as sorry as I've ever been in my life!”

Patty looked up at the wretched individual, discerning the pain and remorse which were written across his features. "Don't be. You were right all along, Tom. Your daughter-in-law is nothing but a gutter whore, and you did what all men should do to her. You fucked me silly, but that doesn't mean anything. Not any more."

"You-you don't mean that, Patty. It was me. I raped you, I raped my own flesh and blood, and I don't deserve to live any more." He grasped Patty by the shoulders, shaking her in an effort to make her understand. "Forgive me, Patty. Come home now and forgive me. I want only the best for Larry and you, and I promise, I promise on my mother's grave I'll never lay a finger on you again. I'll never say a nasty thing or even look at you wrong, but please say you'll be part of our family again.”

"Let go, Tom. I forgive you.”

"Wonderful! I'll get your things and we'll…"

"No. I'm staying here. This is where I belong."

"But I promise"

"I'm sure you'll be good. I'm just as sure I won't be. Now please get out of my way. I'm late for an appointment.”