Ron Taylor: Roped and raped

The older inmates – the same ones who'd gang-raped us in the laundry room – invited me and Angela a few times to sample the new brides with them. It was a sign that we were old-timers, too, privileged to take part in prison sports, but neither of us had the slightest interest. And, as I've already said, I carried a knife. Which I never had to use – merely to show once or twice when some venturesome old dyke would make a play for "Mrs. Bergman".

All in all, our prison year wasn't that bad. In many ways I hated to see our paroles coming, because it meant an end to the total intimacy we'd found behind bars. Oh, outside, we'd be much freer, physically, but we had responsibilities on the outside, too. Her job, my doctoral work. We couldn't throw those away. We'd have to sublimate our passion until we could once again embark upon it with all the freedom we'd known in jail. Doesn't that sound paradoxical?

Well, no matter if it did, because the time was at hand. I had my job at Boonesfield, the same school where Angela taught, and we could be together always, as we were meant to be. I'd already broken the news to my parents – that I was deeply, fully, irrevocably in love with another woman – and they'd taken it much better than I'd ever dreamed they could. Of course they didn't understand. They're middle class bourgeois-liberal. But they acknowledged that it was my life, that I had the right to live that life as I chose. Perhaps Angela and I could come out of the closet here in Boonesfield without losing our jobs. We could try, at least. But for now…

There was a small foreign car parked on the curb outside Angela's home, and I had to steer hard to get my oversized junker past it, into the driveway. Did we have company? Probably not. At least, I hoped not, because I had the most fantastic news for Angela, and I wanted to tell her, then celebrate it in bed, and we didn't need company around for that.

I let myself into the house, using the key she'd given me. Even from the doorway I could hear the sounds of lovemaking. A bed shaking. Violently! Angela groaning, whining, cooing. Her tones were unmistakable to my experienced ears.

For a moment I stood in the doorway, numb, shaken. Wait, Marilyn, I told myself. If she's making it with another woman, is that really such a big deal? You tried a couple of ladies on for size when you were separated from her, didn't you? Maybe she had a date this morning, made before she found out I was coming, a date she couldn't break. Maybe – I smiled knowingly – she's using one last sexual encounter as a means of telling that other woman good-bye, it's all over, my love has arrived and I must go to her. That would be like Angela. She was so kind, so gentle. She hated to cause pain. She would say good-bye as sweetly, as tenderly as she could. My heart still beat rapidly, but the numbness had begun to depart. Of course that's how it was. After all, I was here now. We'd made fantastic love last night.

The bedroom door wasn't quite shut. That's why the sounds were so obvious when I entered the house. I reached curiously, touching the door, pushing it gently. Maybe I'm too nosy for my own good, but I had an interest in stealing a peek at Angela's other companion. I was vain enough to wonder if she mightn't have picked a temporary lover who perhaps reminded her slightly of her Marilyn. Just a sneaky look, and then I'd steal way to allow Angela freedom in breaking the news to her friend.

Well, she hadn't picked a sweetheart who reminded her of Marilyn, and I wished that I had never looked around the half-open door. The damned thing slid easily, without the graciousness of a telltale squeak, and as it opened farther, my eyes were treated to a broadening view of Angela's bed and its occupants.

Angela was on top, rocking up and down. Her eyes were shut tightly and her head swayed from side to side. Unless she was an incredibly good actress, she was definitely enjoying herself.

Beneath her, stretched out full-length on the bed, was a man. A man, with hairy legs and hairy chest and a big hairy cock that was, at that particular point in time, busily involved in Angela's plummeting pussy.

She rocked up and down, thrusting, swooping in to eat up his meat, and he lunged up to join her, burying his tool in her delicate, tasty snatch. Her hands were braced on his stomach and he held her, one hand on her ass, the other pawing her small, tender tits.

"Ooooooohhhhhh!!" she squealed in glee as he mauled her titties and pulled the nipples with his fingers.

I could even see his balls shake as he punched his tool up her cunt with sure, vigorous strokes. And she was enjoying getting fucked by a man! There could be no doubt. None at all!

"Harder, darling Mark! Harder! Harder! Oh, fuck me! Fuck meeee!" she cried in a delirious voice.

It hit me like a slap in the face. The name she'd whispered in her sleep! Oh, foolish bitch! I chided myself. I'd thought it was only a mumbled venture at saying my name. It had sounded like Mark, I remembered, but I'd been stupid enough to rationalize it away. Oh, God, I thought. Oh, God!

Tears blinded my eyes as I listened to her wail in ecstasy as that big prick pounded in and out of her dripping cunt.

"Do it, do it, do it to me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuuuccckkkkk!"

The door slid a little farther, and I could see his face. It was a passable face, as male faces went, but there was nothing extremely handsome or provocative about him. He appeared to be in his middle thirties – about Angela's age, I suppose, though she had always seemed much younger to me because of her late awakening. I saw no character or other traits that could help me understand why my lover was mounted upon his ugly dick, fucking the hell out of it and herself.

She rocked more passionately, her ass bouncing up and down on his lap, and I saw her shoulders give a twitch. Muscles rippled in her back and thighs and butt, and I was certain that in just a moment or two, muscles would also be rippling inside her darling cunt, all around that disgusting cock.

There was a weakness in the pit of my stomach and I wanted to turn away, to stop watching this hideous nightmare, but I couldn't. I felt a dizzying sensation in my head and I reached for the door to steady myself. Just then, Angela squealed.

"Oh, Christ! I'm commmmmiiiinggcggg!"

She slammed her pussy down forcibly upon his impaling prick. My eyes closed. I heard him groan and the bed started shaking even more as if he were really pumping his dong up into her cunt. And then he was panting and puffing like a steam engine and I knew he was coming, too, that his cock was drenching the pussy I'd eaten only last night with the acrid, sticky juices of male orgasm.

I grabbed the door, bumping it, knocking it slightly past my reach, and I stumbled towards it for support, just as I began to sob in hurt, aching convulsions.

The sickness only lasted a moment, but that moment seemed an eternity. When I opened my eyes and stood up straight, balance regained, both of them were staring at me from the bed, and Angela's pale body was suffused in a total blush.

She'd uncunted herself, and she was lying on her side, blocking my view of his genitals. That was fine by me, since I had no interest in looking at the cock that had befouled her sweet pussy – the pussy I had thought was mine and mine alone.

"Oh, dear," she said. "Oh, dear." It seemed a mild reaction, to say the least.

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," she went on, her voice sincere as hell. "I wanted to tell you last night, but it didn't seem the right time. You were so happy, and you had your interview this morning. Oh, Marilyn, I wasn't going to keep you in the dark! I wanted you to know! I'd have told you! But…"

"What would you have told me?"

"About me, about Mark." I felt the world collapsing around my shoulders.