The Abduction of Veronica X

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Abduction of Veronica X

  By Lizbeth Dusseau

  ISBN 10: 0-9769679-3-6

  A Pink Flamingo Publications Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2004 by Lizbeth Dusseau,

  All rights reserved

  Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.Introduction

  Sadie Curtain is a literary researcher looking into the facts behind a book written by writer Emerson Gray called Pygmalion Whore, which was released in the early 1970’s. This work of fiction centered around the abduction and seduction of a young woman. While the work was alarming for its time, it also won quite a cult following. It was recently rediscovered by a Millennium audience, some of who have used it almost as a textbook for certain unconventional sex practices. The interviewer’s intention is to delve deeper into the experiences on which Gray based his novel. She assumes that there are things left unsaid. Daphne McGill, Emerson’s former wife, was willing to candidly share the truth with her.

  Chapter One

  Her heart beat as if it were going to run away, tormented, frightened and in anguish, but aroused, all in the same confounding, splendid instant. She lay back on the bare, striped mattress, legs spread like a wide Western vista; skin shiny, venting the incense of sex. He came toward her for the third time that afternoon, penis edgy with testosterone overflowing, raw muscled extremities breathing with feral power. He loomed and thrust unrestrained into the succulent sheath between her thighs and she drew him in again, ready for more, for coming again, coming easier this time perhaps, his vigor hardly abated but now laced with exhaustion. Their afternoon had started at one o’clock and would end at five on the same old mattress in the same barren room where they began.

  At the window, a thin white curtain fluttered in the breeze.

  His body sank into the cushion of her, into sweaty thighs and a satiny bosom flushed with heat, sweat dripping down the sides. He kissed away one salty rivulet. As he fucked her, his firm ass bobbed in and out of the flickering sunshine. He hit deep and clawed for more, always more. Three times was never enough for him.

  And what did she mind that he was such a sexual animal? She liked her orgasms long and strong. And plenty of them one after another…after another.

  The sound of their skin smacking drove her mad. She thrashed back and forth. His teeth clamped onto her nipple and he sucked it into a hard inch-long bullet of tender sensation.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she seethed, closing her eyes and feeling the wave of pain. “Hard, dammit it, harder!” Grunting, panting, sweat dripping from her brow, she arched her back. Coming again…squeezing down to suck him dry. “Oh, more…” her lilting voice drifted, as the waves of passion rode her body end to end.

  Then he finished too, pressing his groin firmly against her center, muscles straining while he moaned for the duration of his climax.

  Emerson fell away, naked body bouncing into the mattress.

  They stared upwards at the old cracked plaster, watching motionless as the ceiling fan loped a bit cockeyed, stirring the overheated air. Without it one could hardly breathe in the stifling room. Their scent was strong.

  “Probably should have the place fumigated when we’re done,” he finally broke the silence.

  “Oh, I think the aroma is divine,” Daphne returned with a sigh.

  She turned to him, laying her hand on his chest. The hair there had been bleached by the sun, like his close-cropped blond at the top of his head, already white and it was just the end of spring. He could have been a beach bum with his looks, like a West Coast surfer, but he was much more than that, much different. She stroked him affectionately, letting her thoughts swim.

  He was often quiet for minutes at a time, as he was now, lost in thought. Then he came back revived enough to announce, “Let’s get married, Daph.”

  “What?”

  He rolled over, propped on one elbow, looking at her, blue eyes flashing a hard, cold gaze of determination. So like Emerson Gray. “Married Daphne. You and me, like this forever.”

  “It can’t be like this all the time,” she said.

  “What?” Instantly irked. “You making excuses for not loving me?”

  “But I do love you!”

  “Then there should be no question about getting married.” Simple as that.

  The thought had never occurred to her, since she never thought that Emerson would ever consider marriage. Her boyfriend was brilliant; the most brilliant man she’d ever dated, or knew, for that matter. He was incisive, biting, sexy, charming when he wanted to be, or wanted something. But married? He lived to defy convention. What could be more conventional than marriage?

  She shrank back, shivering with nervous heat. “I think you have me scared.”

  He looked at her quizzically—he didn’t understand her hesitation—then suddenly smiled, opening up the broad expanse of his peculiar magnetism.

  “Oh, Daphne, sweet,” he leaned over her, staring straight into her hazel eyes, curling a lock of her long ash blond hair between his fingers. “You…have…no…reason to be scared,” he enunciated with great care. “I couldn’t ever, ever love anyone like I do you. Ever!” The word was almost tinged with anger. But still, he smiled. He gazed at her in awe. “Don’t make me beg. Please.” He raised his eyebrows with melancholy wanting.

  Her cold shivers took on some warmth.

  “Okay.” Her voice breathless and small. “I-I…don’t… you say this so suddenly… so get married, how do we do that?”

  “Elope, of course. Tonight,” he thought again, “no tomorrow, I need to get some cash. We’ll bring Zack and Penelope maybe, but no one else, unless you just want it to be the two of us. I think I’d like it that way, don’t you? Just you and me. It’s all about you and me.”

  “I don’t know,” she returned, still dazed.

  “You don’t know what?” he looked concerned again.

  She saw a hint of hurt in his eyes. “No, Emerson, I do want to marry you.” She smiled, looking suddenly elated, then giggled like a young girl. She was still young, twenty-three, a graduate student looking for a publisher for her randy poetry and emotionally edgy short stories.

  “Oh! We’re going to be quite the pair, huh?” He jumped from bed and climbed into his clothes.

  Late the next night, they were married by a Justice of the Peace.

  Chapter Two

  The Interview

  Daphne Lawrence Gray McGill speaking…

  I was in shock for months after the wedding…if you could call it a wedding. Sweet, really. Just the two of us as Emerson wanted. I wore a long, flowered granny dress, flowers in my hair, of course, such was the style in 1968. And there was Emerson wearing some expensive, conservative suit he’d worn for his graduation a few years before. He did know how to dress well.

  You know, it was he who started the Writer’s Club. Until then, we were just a clique of friends meeting in coffee houses and on the University lawn. Emerson wanted to make made our efforts more formalized, and required that each of us present a new piece at our meetings, something fresh, inspired, he’d say. He insisted we read it aloud. I hated that. At the time, I wanted to hate everything I wrote. Maybe that was why I liked Emerson so much—he loved, appreciated, even
revered my writing. Can you imagine, for all his sharp critique of society, of hippies, hawks, protestors, warmongers, everything that life was at the time, he never criticized my work in a negative way—or anyone else’s I think… He only criticized a lack of effort.

  She pauses.

  Emerson and I came to the next meeting in the basement of the English Department building announcing our big news, wearing two shiny gold rings. Nothing fancy, just simple bands. I still wear it. She fidgets with her right ring finger. Can’t take away those years. I wanted them; I needed them to be the writer I’ve become. She thinks of the past and then returns to the present, her face brightening. You should have seen their faces. Never had a shock wave ripped that crowd with such force!

  The Interviewer—Sadie Curtain

  You mentioned others in the Writer’s Club?

  Daphne

  Yes. There was Penelope—tall, ballsy, brunette, a real bombshell. She was small-chested, but she had a kind of svelte sexuality that reeked with confidence. And opinions. She had opinions on everything, and she was a slut in the true sense of the word. You know, the old saying—she’d fuck anything that moved—that was Penny. Oh, she hated to be called that. It was Penelope. The 60’s were made for her—perhaps better put, she helped make them what they became. A long sigh. And then Kathy Ann. She really didn’t belong with us. Yes, she was, still is, a terrific writer, but she wore her feelings on her sleeve and was too easily hurt. She would never have the stomach for what we became. But she was in love with Zack, I think even more than I was ever in love with Emerson. She loved until it hurt her. When Zack wasn’t loving someone else, he loved her back. Damn, Zack! I loved him too; everyone did. It was hard not to, the smile, the charm—much different than my Emerson. Emerson could be cold, distant and tactless. He hated hugging. In that department, Zack was everything that Emerson was not. Big in spirit, emotional. They were both edgy bastards and so filled with sexual hormones and fantasy that they couldn’t live simply in normal society. They had to make a boisterous statement. In that regard, they fed off the other’s fantasy, off each other’s perverse sexual kinks.

  Interviewer reviewing her notes

  Weren’t there more than just the five? Another man?

  Daphne

  You mean Lowell—Bo, we called him. He was the quiet contemplative one. He rarely had anything to contribute to the Writer’s Club. Emerson would get pissed when he’d shake his head, in effect saying, ‘not tonight’. Oddly, he was one person who was rarely fazed by Emerson’s fits of pique. And when Bo did have something to say, a new work to read, it was like listening to a Shakespearean sonnet or the melodies of Mozart. Everyone’s jaws dropped in amazement. It was probably a good thing that he wasn’t more prolific; I’m not sure we could have tolerated the emotion. He, like Kathy Ann, had the most problem with Veronica X. Not that he wasn’t as horny as Emerson and Zack… Oh! he did have demented cravings… She stops, looking a bit self-conscious and begins again…

  Our Writer’s Club meetings were sometimes horrific. They always started out happy, everyone arrived with smiles, like the day after we were married. Zack, after he got over the initial shock, started a round of toasts, which became another round, until Emerson made us stop, said that we needed to stay on purpose, do what we came for. He was so dictatorial. His idea was that our passions were burgeoning springs of creativity and we needed to express them…let out our raw and uncultivated truth. He would not let us stop; we had to dig deep into our souls, our anger, our hurt, our disappointment, our lust… That night, after the big announcement shocked them all, the celebration was wonderful. The feeling of bliss carried out into the readings. There was a lot of laughter amidst Emerson’s prissy fuming. But even he refused to get gruff that night.

  But like everything else at the time, everything changed within the week and there was a radically different mood the next time the Writer’s Club met.

  ***

  “Where are the others?” Emerson stared around, no Penelope, no Kathy Ann.

  “Penelope had to cram for that graduate final and Kathy Ann thinks she’s coming down with a cold,” Daphne said.

  His eyes flared. “Damn, if they have no more dedication than that, we should kick them out.”

  “Like hell we’ll kick them out!” Zack objected. “What do you kick them out for, asshole?” He sat sprawled out on an old divan in Emerson’s apartment. The place was a mess, with Daphne having just moved in, boxes and debris everywhere.

  “Women don’t have the tenacity of men,” Emerson sputtered.

  “I beg your pardon,” Daphne jumped in. “You can’t blame them; people do have lives. Things get in the way. It’s reality, darling. And don’t pull that male chauvinistic crap with me, husband; women are just as suited for the craft of writing as men. Sometimes better, I think.” She flashed him a big smile. Being the only woman in the room she had to defend her sex. There was some force behind her words, maybe a little annoyance, something between the newlyweds that had sprung up during the week. But for the most part, she kept her tone light and bantering, hoping he’d lighten up.

  Emerson turned slowly and stared at her critically, finally saying crisply, “I was not commenting on your own efforts, wife. But as my wife, you don’t fuckin’ contradict me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said,” his words were terse, the tone flat and filled with unspoken intent.

  “Ooo, are the little lovebirds having a spat?” Zack crooned.

  “Shut up, Nolan.”

  “Emerson, this is not something to get in a twit over,” Daphne jumped in again, while at the same time hopping aboard the wave of emotion that suddenly rode its way about the room.

  “Then why have you contradicted me?” he accused.

  The two faced off, eyes flashing, the brilliance of their battle gaining with every second. The sight was uncomfortable to watch and yet no one dared blink.

  “Because it needed to be said,” she fearlessly came back. She tried hard to stand up to Emerson, but he had a way of making her crumble before him.

  Zack and Bo might have slunk out the room, recognizing a lover’s quarrel—something they’d seen often enough, but Emerson was standing right in front of the door, leaving no easy escape.

  “You’d better be careful how and when you disagree with me,” the angry man warned.

  This did not sit well. A few more seconds of smoldering stares, Daphne suddenly jumped from her chair, lunging toward him. What she would have done after that, no one would ever know, because Emerson caught her arms in his hands. They held like vice-grips.

  He wanted to mock her, even punish her. Meantime, her sexual energy flared. This wasn’t the first time the air between them crackled with rage, and not the first time an argument sent them into the throes of a sexual battle. But never in front of anyone, never in public. It wasn’t exactly public now, but there was Zack and Bo staring at them, bewildered and speechless.

  “Let’s get something straight, little woman. Like who’s in charge.”

  She wanted to laugh; it seemed so ridiculous. But Emerson couldn’t have been more serious. Her laughter might have stopped him, broken their hostilities, maybe just given her the edge needed to twist from his grasp. But she didn’t laugh. Instead, she watched him, like the others watched, as his simmering indignation escalated. Something savage, needy and sexual entered into his revenge.

  He made the first move, clamping both of Daphne’s hands in his one large fist and dragging her with him to the kitchen. After lifting a thick wooden spoon from the rack where it hung, he hauled his wife to the kitchen table and flung her over the edge. She was too stunned now to act in her defense, his hands too powerful a force containing any will to rebel.

  He spanked her hard a dozen times with the stinging spoon, and then because he was spanking a denim-covered behind and the effect was not intense enough to satisfy his need, he tugged at her jeans and had them down to her knees so he could st
art all over again. He did this all despite the way she hollered and kicked. With the initial shock over, her body meanly wrenched to remove herself. But with Emerson by far the stronger of the two, there was no way he wouldn’t win.

  Daphne’s bared bottom was barely pink from the first dozen blows. But that quickly changed, as Emerson laid into the jiggling round behind with a series of forceful smacks that turned the flesh red in seconds.

  Her bottom was hot and burning as she raised her voice, “Goddammit! You ass!” and thrashed vehemently until he’d stopped.

  Emerson dropped the spoon, his initial rage abated. The thing clattered to the floor as his arms went around Daphne’s body to contain her. “Get a hold of yourself,” he whispered tersely. He covered her from behind to calm her, then pulled away enough to run one hand along her hot behind. She struggled still, trying to will away the fierce sensations of pain, arousal and emotional hurt. But then she felt her willfulness drift away as his hand moved between the crack of her ass and pressed deeper where he found her wet.

  She shook her head, groaning with another brief burst of anger, but that was her last protest, and one Emerson ignored. “Why, you’re nothing but a little slut, Daph,” he whispered. “Don’t deny it.”

  Bo and Zack looked on, getting uncomfortable in their pants as the scene advanced, as Daphne got her butt worked, slapped, fondled, probed, her holes ridden with Emerson’s tenaciously driving fingers. Penises became erect and throbbing, all of them goading the action with the hope for some perverse finish.

  “Ah, Emerson, no,” she whispered to him, her voice crying plaintively, lost between desire, embarrassment and hurt.

  “No, wife. Object lesson number one: Your husband will not be rebuked.” He had been running a teasing finger along the folds of wet skin surrounding her vagina. Moving his hand back, that wetness coated the rim of her ass, and he punctuated his remark by suddenly ramming three fingers into her bottom.