The Abduction of Veronica X

Chapter Two-1

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 f**k 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 s****l 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 s****l 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 s*x. 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 s****l 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 s****l 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 s****l 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 start 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. p*****s 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 v****a. 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.

She threw her head back and gasped; the fit was tight.

Still he f****d her there. “This what you want, hon?” he wondered aloud and sarcastically.

Her numb mind couldn’t form a reply.

“Is it? Tell me,” her husband insisted.

It was do or die now. Emerson would not be dissuaded and she knew that. Still she struggled and her face screwed up in a terrible grimace, “Please, Emerson, no.”

“But you don’t mean that, wife, do you?” His fingers continued to probe her darkness, ruthless and sure of their quest.

“Emerson, please!”

“No, you tell me the truth.” He pumped her ass with two fingers, the other two free to fondle her v****a. The effect brought the sensation he roused in her toward an undeniable peak.

“Oh…gawd…” her breathing erratic and heavy, her mind nearly convinced. She was about to come in spite of herself. That is until Emerson lowered her from the edge and turned to his friends.

“She needs a c**k in her ass. How about it, Bo?”

The man looked on in shock, although he was furtively rubbing his crotch beneath the pillow that covered his lap.

“Don’t look so weirded out. It’s what she wants. Can’t you see it?” To Emerson it was obvious. Bent and spread over the table, Daphne’s body moved erotically on his hand, unconsciously communicating the very thing her mind fought to convey.

“Hey, man…” Bo shook his head, as if to say, no way.

“Tell him, honey,” Emerson whispered, with his voice turning oddly sweet. “You want Bo to f**k you in the ass, right?”

Emerson’s fingers moved more vigorously again, short-circuiting the last of her protests with the desire he raised.

“My wife deserves the rebuke after rebuking me. Remind her just what a slutty piece of ass she is. Come on, Bo, look at this ass. All you gotta do is stick it to her and satisfy us all.”

Zack nudged him in the ribs, to which, Bo’s mouth then curled into a smile.

He rose to his feet and sauntered toward the table.

“Think of it as your revenge,” Emerson prompted him. “Ever had a wife before?” Wife was said with some disdain. But not enough to jar Daphne loose from the lust that needed its fulfillment.

Bo half c****d his head as he looked down on the pair. His hulking body towered over Emerson’s and there was a strange, knowing look in his eye—like maybe he just wanted this over. Perhaps he wanted to placate Emerson more than he wanted to do his wife. But then, maybe he wanted to do the wife.

Bo took the reins of Daphne’s body, as Emerson’s fingers slipped from her body and he stepped aside. Settling in behind the bobbing punished ass, Bo unzipped his pants and set free his straining c**k. Taking a pink cheek in each hand, he parted the two cheeks wide showing the target of both their lust and then shoved the hard head of his d**k into the puckering hole. A fat eight inches of Bo slid past her tight sphincter muscles with little effort; Emerson’s going over had seen to that.

Daphne seethed beneath him, but that was all, at least to start.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Emerson gloated on the sidelines. He’d stepped further away to watch.

“Hey, Bo, f**k that sweet ass!” Zack called to him. He’d be going nowhere now.

A man of Bo’s size could have a hard time f*****g without being brutal. But he, like Daphne, like Emerson and Zack looking on, were beyond the point of gentility, or tenderness. No one wanted it sweet. They wanted to hear the woman groan, hear her screams whether from anguish or elation, and as he vigorously thrust his member into her bowels, she gave them what they wanted.

“Oh, my, yes, yes, yes…” her voice got louder. Then she just sucked in air, before another refrain of heated exclamations began. “Ooo,” she wiggled her fanny on the fat c**k, face contorting.

The brute banged her hard. Daphne’s small body was like a doll in his hands, completely captured and under his control. She was nothing but a hole, a piece of meat, a little beast, who with every gyration sent the fucker behind her into greater spasmodic rapture. Unconscious of himself by now, his baser instincts engaged. Some bitterness toward women showed in the way he suddenly backed off from his first eager thrusts and decided to take his time—time to slap her ass until it was stinging hot again, time for his fingers to bite into her flesh, time for a hand to find a n****e beneath her torso and pinch until she winced with pain. Bo let himself free for several minutes while Daphne suffered and their tiny audience silently applauded.

“Oh! You’re good, Bo!” Emerson was pleased in his sick sort of way. “Stick it to her harder, guy. Just think, you’re f*****g your best friend’s wife.”

Emerson seemed to take some perverse pleasure in this fact, but the comment seemed to change Bo’s spirit, as if his conscience suddenly kicked in. He stopped the fooling round, the slapping, the pinching, and focused on the f*****g alone, driving his point home.

Daphne banged against the edge of the table, controlling nothing now, but her own response to the man’s use of her ass. The table edge cut into her groin, her legs ached, her mind was as battered as her body. But all thought of rebellion had died minutes before.

In a flash, a sudden thunder seemed to crash through the room. Bo came, groaning, thrusting, finally just holding Daphne’s hair in his one hand and her ass in the other, while great jets of c*m ejaculated into her rectum.

Wild colors floated before her closed eyes. The pain was more than pain. Her body swelled within itself, then a swoosh of sensation tore through her belly—and she experienced that other kind of come, the anal kind. The rasping pleasure took hold of her being and sent her for several minutes into a sweet and insensible bliss.

By the time Daphne revived, Bo had withdrawn from her, leaving her dripping and the ache in her less fierce. With her legs too weak to hold her, she started to slump to the floor, but Bo caught her and handed her over to her husband, where she tried to hide inside the protection of his arms.

“You little slut,” he whispered in her ear—just for her to hear.

“I’m so ashamed of myself,” she whispered back.

“Hell, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he reassured her. This time his voice was loud enough for the boys to hear. “Nothing to be ashamed of, is there Zack? Bo?”

She didn’t know how Bo responded, but Zack was not one to let his feelings go unnoticed.

“Daph, I only wish it had been me. You will do me next time, won’t you?”

She blushed, and buried her head in Emerson’s chest, refusing to look at her voyeuring friend. Pants down, she was still an awesome sight. Although the blush on her ass had faded some, there were enough bruising marks left from the spoon to leave the evidence of the spanking for several days.

“Hey, don’t tell me you didn’t come, that you didn’t love it. That would be a lie.” Emerson made her look at him.

“Can I just go get cleaned up?” she asked weakly.

“Sure, babe, just remember the facts.” His eyes narrowed. “You got that?”

“Yes.” Her voice was small and bewildered.

This night was the beginning of understanding. Daphne gained a greater awareness of Emerson and what it would take to please him as a wife. Although she never imagined that her life would include this kind of depravity, it really wasn’t so bad if she focused on the s****l outcome. That was something she would secretly savor.

She would soon learn that the depravity her husband relished had just begun.

Emerson sent her to the bedroom with a patronizing smack on the butt. Exhausted now, she sat forlornly on the bed and listened through the door, as her husband told their friends rather arrogantly, “She needed breaking in.”

Zack replied in character, “As it should be, man. You can’t let them think they have something on you. A woman’s place is to serve.”

He said it slightly tongue-in-cheek and they laughed at the joke. But behind the laughter was the obvious fact that Emerson and Zack took the remark for real.

No one knew what Bo thought; he never did say much.