"How badly was she hurt?"
"Not seriously. Did the police give you the full details?"
He frowned. "I heard she was ... "
"Assaulted? Yes. It appears she has been assaulted."
"What do you mean appears? Don't you know?"
"That's for the police to decide, Mr. Vaughn. It's not in our jurisdiction to make a decision, only to treat the patients who arrive here."
"Well ... has she been hurt? Has she been ...?"
"Other than the evidence of sexual attack, there are only some minor scratches on her body. No evidence of any severe blows or physical damage."
"Where is she? I want to see her."
"You can't right now. We're still in the process of the examination. I'll tell one of the nurses to let you know as soon as you can see her."
The doctor left and a few minutes later he remembered he'd forgotten to thank the doctor for the information. The tall, bald-headed man had also left the room. Pete and Rosina came. And Paul and Beatrice. They asked how Alma was and he relayed the information the doctor had given him. Rosina huddled in one of the chairs and began to sob softly. Beatrice knelt beside her chair and tried to soothe her.
He told Paul and Pete it was good of them to come, but there wasn't really any need for them to wait around. He'd be all right, he told them, they should go home.
"Nonsense," Paul said. "This is what neighbors are for."
He felt Paul's hand on his shoulder, clutching it. For a moment their concern about Alma and himself brought a wet sting to his eyes. Then, glancing around the room, he noticed Beatrice as she knelt beside Rosina's chair. She was wearing that damned green dress ó the green dress she'd worn the night he'd fucked her ó and from the way her eyes widened when she saw him staring at the dress, he knew the memory had flashed into her mind also.
Paul's words echoed. This is what neighbors are for. And he fought the wild urge to laugh at Paul, Beatrice, himself, the hospital, the world.
CHAPTER FOUR
No one except himself would ever know exactly how Alma was. She was one of the most pure women in the world. He'd met her at a church bazaar. She had been behind one of the counters, the counter that sold stuffed animals and he'd bought a huge giraffe, lying about it and saying he'd give it to his niece as a Christmas present. He'd gone to the bazaar to find Becky. Becky had said she'd be there that night and for the past few months he'd been making it with Becky. His sole motive in going to the bazaar had been to meet Becky and then take her somewhere in his car and fuck her.
But one look at Alma and he forgot Becky. Alma was beautiful. It was more than a beauty of her body, there was a kind of beauty in her eyes and in her face he'd never seen before. She was like an angel who had been brought to earth and placed in the body of a girl. Talking with her that night, he learned where she lived and discovered her mother was also at the bazaar.
Since they would have to take the bus home, he offered to drive both of them home. He began dating her and, while he was in college, he wrote to her.
During the first summer vacation, he began dating her again, and they were married before the next semester. She worked to help pay his way through college and he rarely cheated on her. The only times he ever did cheat on her were those rare times when there was something irresistible, something that seemed to throw itself at him. He never went out looking for other women. With Alma as a wife, it was never necessary to look for excitement with other women and whenever he did slip and fuck another woman, his conscience nagged him.
* * *
They had an apartment near the campus. A third floor apartment in an old brick house of which the bottom corner apartment had been converted into a grocery store. In September, when it was still warm enough to leave the windows open, he would sit at the old-fashioned wooden desk and wait for her, struggling to keep his mind on the books before him, rarely succeeding, his mind always turning to her as she came homeward from the office on the other side of town. The fresh smells of vegetables and fruits drifted through the open window and often he would close the books and wait for her, feeling the excitement build in his blood. Alma, Alma ... Sitting there, he was able to visualize her as she left the office, smiling and saying good-night to all the other office workers. He could see her standing in the elevator ... visualize her skirt, her panties beneath her skirt, her cunt beneath her panties. Her cunt but his cunt too, since they were legally man and wife, she had been a virgin and no other man had ever touched it. His cunt ó up there beneath her skirt and panties at the top of her beautiful legs ó coming closer and closer toward him with every passing minute ... down the steps from the office building ... down Maple Avenue as Alma's high heels clicked sharply, rapidly.
Then there would be no need to visualize ó she would come into the apartment, sometimes with a bundle of groceries or a package from a department store in one arm, and she always locked the door behind her, secondly depositing whatever she might be carrying, then coming to him, kissing him with that warm hungry mouth. They had been married only a few weeks and this was when the newness was still there ó the discovery of each other's bodies, the discovery of each other's passion.
"Hello, darling."
"Hello." The verbal greeting ó immediately after the kiss, while they held each other, while he stared into the depths of her clear gray eyes. She always called him darling but he could never bring himself to use any of those terms and ó after the kiss and greeting as if they had been separated for centuries ó they would both begin to undress, Alma with a shyness that never quite left her.
Sometimes he allowed her to undress herself completely, but often he would be naked before she finished and he would come to her while she still wore her nylons, garter belt, panties. She always shivered as he removed her panties and he eased her back onto the bed so her body, from her hips to her head, rested on the bed with her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet flat on the floor, shoving his prick into her soft warm hole while she was still wearing her nylons and garter belt, looking down at the beauty of her body stretched out before him gloating mentally as he began to fuck her.
This is my cunt, this is my woman!
During the earlier days of their marriage, he had not been so abrupt. To overcome her incredible shyness, he had devised a game, whispering to her, "I brought something for you to play with, Alma."
"What is it?" her response as part of the game.
"Here."
And, obediently, with that ingrained shyness, she would look at his penis, her gray eyes widening slightly, her red lips parting with fresh excitement.
"What do you call it?"
During the first few weeks of their marriage and the first few attempts at the game to ease her into their married sexual life, he had referred to it as his prong, cock, or dick. Those names had always seemed to shock her despite the fact they were married and he had eventually formed the habit of responding, "A new type of car."
"It doesn't look like a car."
"It is." He would insist, touching her breasts and holding both of them with his hands, squeezing them and gently digging his fingertips into the soft curves of flesh, occasionally kissing her while he felt her breasts ...
"It doesn't have any wheels." Her dark eyebrows arching, a faint, pretended frown crinkling the smoothness of her forehead.
"Yes it does. Feel them."
And that shy touch of her soft fingertips on his cock, the sensation itself more satisfying than a climax with Becky on the backseat of his car. Becky the tramp, Becky who a dozen other guys had fucked, Becky so eagerly removing her panties, so eagerly grasping his cock and pulling it into her body.
Alma's breath warm on his face, Alma shivering with her excitement, partially shy and partially burning with her desires ó Alma doing all the things he wanted her to do because she wanted to be a good wife. He lowered her to the bed and, fighting the urge to thrust roughly into her, moved a hand between her thighs, exploring
the tender moist flesh. "I see a garage where I can park the car."
"My garage?" Her eyes were closed now, her red lips parted over her perfect white teeth.
"Here comes the car."
She always repressed the gasp of pleasure or pain or a mixture of both ó he was never quite sure. During the first weeks of their marriage, the game ended, at that point, in the wild union of their bodies, but after they had been married awhile, she continued the game. "The garage is too small."
"The car is in."
"But the garage is too small. You'd better take it out."
So he would withdraw until there was only a fraction of an inch union, remaining there, kissing her again until she began to squirm beneath him, and then thrusting into the soft tunnel of her womanhood again and again, faster and faster, harder and harder, until the end of the great wet explosion.
As they became more and more acquainted sexually, she lost more and more of her shyness although it never seemed to leave her completely. She was always eager to please him sexually and when he suggested that they do it "dog style," as he'd read about in a book, it was delightful to watch the shy way she poised herself on her hands and knees, asking, "Is this right, Clark?"
"Yeah ... that's okay, honey." And then guiding his shaft between the soft smoothness of her thighs, up and into the tightness of her pussy.
She was always willing to try any of the positions he said he'd read about ... her sitting in a chair with him kneeling before her ... her sitting on the bureau while he stood before her, trying any and all of the positions he wanted to try because of her willingness and eagerness to be a good wife in all ways.
Sometimes they took showers together and, going to the bed with their bodies still warm and fresh from the shower, he would press his tongue between her soft lovelips, licking the quivering bud of her clit until she moaned and writhed with pleasure. He coaxed her into sucking his cock, working up to it gradually by first getting her to kiss it, then to lick it, finally coaxing her into taking the head within her mouth and sucking on it.
"I'll do it if you want me to," she had told him. "But please, don't let it go off. I couldn't stand all that stuff in my mouth."
He had agreed and it had excited him tremendously to see his beautiful wife kneeling before him with her cheeks hollowed as she sucked on his cock. He knew she didn't like to do it ó did it only to please him ó and he kept his promise of never coming while she sucked him although it often took great effort, watching her perfect red lips circling his prick and feeling the wet soft warmness of her mouth. On those occasions, he had always held off to the last minute and then pulled from her, frantically shoving his throbbing cock in her cunt and often spurting on the first inward stroke.
During the last months of college, she reached the point where she spoke more freely during their relationships: "I need a good fucking!"
"My lil' pussy is dripping with anticipation!"
"Ohhh, Clark, ram it in there! Fuck me!"
Or, grasping his cock and squeezing, smiling impishly, saying, "This is the biggest and hardest cock I've seen all day."
Her sense of humor, often subtle or offbeat, always pleased him and sometimes she would see if she could make him laugh at the most awkward times, such as while he fucked her, looking up at him with a curious and quizzical expression, half-raising herself on her elbows and glancing down at the meaty blur of his cock, asking, "Do you really love me or did you marry me just so you could fuck me?"
There were many other times, however, when she was far from a joking mood, times when the rhythm of his sliding prick made her gasp with excitement and caused her to murmur almost mindlessly, "I'm coming, I'm coming! Ohhh, I can feel it shooting in me! Keep on, Clark, keep on, fill up my cunt with your come!"
During those days, after their lovemaking, she always bathed and dressed.
She prepared a meal and washed the dishes while he studied. After the dishes, she cleaned the apartment or carried a bundle of their clothes to the laundromat down the street. He graduated and was fifth in his class as far as his grades were concerned. As far as every other aspect of his college life, he was almost nothing. He had made few friends and he had spent almost no time in the college social events except the few he attended with Alma. She had become his whole life. He had his choice of the best job offers because of his high grades and soon after college they were able to afford the house they'd dreamed about.
By some quirk of fate, he'd married one of the best women in the world. She was pure without being frigid ... a perfect sexual partner without being a slut.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Alma?"
Her eyes fluttered but did not open completely. In a few moments she was asleep again. He moved the chair beside the bed and held her hand. Her hand was almost as white as the sheet, almost as white as the walls ... A nurse opened the door and then, as if she had entered the wrong room, quickly closed it again.
He decided he would only sit there and hold her hand and not try to awaken her again. If she awakened, he would talk to her but he would not deliberately awaken her only to talk to her.
Beatrice in that damned green dress ... He'd managed to almost forget it.
Beatrice must have managed to almost forget it ó or else she wouldn't have worn that same dress to the hospital. Everything had fallen exactly right for it, he told himself. He hadn't wanted to make love with Beatrice.
Beatrice hadn't wanted to make love with him.
Everything had fallen exactly right, as it must have fallen exactly right for a million other men and women in the past, the circumstances precise, the intermingling of moods precise, healthy bodies hungry at the right moment.
Beatrice had called him on the phone. She said she'd been ironing and the fuses had blown. Would he replace the fuses ? She didn't know how to do it and didn't know if Paul had any spare fuses in the house. It seemed unbelievable that a woman over twenty-five didn't know how to replace a fuse, but he had gone down to the cellar and taken some of the extra fuses from the box there, dropping them in a pocket and casually crossing the two lawns between their houses. Later he was to wonder if any of the neighbors saw him going into her house ... or if any of the neighbors noticed how long he stayed.
Alma was visiting her mother. It had been a bad month and discontent had been building within him. Alma had been ill for two whole weeks. Their doctor said it was the flu, but it seemed much worse than the flu and she had spent most of the two weeks in bed. During that time, because of her illness, he had not attempted to make love with her. They made love once shortly after that illness, but it had been unsatisfying except in a purely physical sense because she acted as if she did not want him and did not enjoy it. The next day her menstrual period began. It was one of the worst she had ever had and made her so irritable that they were constantly erupting into bickerings and arguments which grew worse and worse until, at the end of her period ó it seemed to last ten days ó they were hardly speaking to each other. Sexual intercourse with her at that point was impossible because he would not literally beg for it. The days had passed and he had refused to show any desire for her, stubbornly waiting for her to make the first sign of her desire through one of her ways: a knowing touch, a sidelong glance, a sudden softness in her voice ... But the days had gone on and on and Alma, instead of showing any signs of wanting him again, had shown indications she might be able to forget sex altogether!
Then she went to visit her mother for the weekend. At that point they had made love only once during the past month.
* * *
When he reached Beatrice's house, she said, "I have a flashlight. I know where the fuse box is. At least I know that much! Show me how to do it and I won't have to bother you again."
"Unplug that iron before we change the fuses. If you were ironing, it's probably the iron that caused it."
"I unplugged the iron. I figured it must be that." She led the way to the cellar, walking beside him a
nd shining the beam of the flashlight on the floor. Going down the cellar steps she went first and kept the light focused on the steps before his feet.
The cellar was littered with boxes of various neglected and useless items.
Paul had talked about building a balcony on the second floor, and Clark now wondered why he didn't clean up the junk in the cellar and convert it into a recreation room instead of going to the much greater expense of building a balcony on the second floor level. He remembered Alma saying something about Beatrice and Paul having difficulties. It wasn't anything too serious, Alma had said. Nothing like Paul cheating ... But Paul had apparently been hitting the bottle heavily and it had upset Beatrice so much she had begun talking about a divorce.
As soon as he replaced the fuse, there was a flash of light from the bulb in the cellar ceiling. The fuse sputtered. Darkness again. He told Beatrice there must be a short somewhere in the house and since he had no desire to spend hours trying to find the short, he suggested she call an electrician.
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