One Afternoon In The Countrybyquinn rogan©
Paterson trained the gun firmly on her as she did as she was told. She tied her husband's wrists behind his back, then bound his ankles together, then knotted the two ropes together, leaving him virtually immobile on the bed in his striped pyjamas. Paterson had a minor twinge of conscience - after all, he must be nearer seventy than sixty, and lame, to boot - but, he had been a soldier all his life and, even in the British Army, you don't make brigadier just by going to the right school or joining the right clubs.
Paterson also noted that his wife, Anthea, had been so anxious to avoid enraging Paterson that she had tied the twine too tight and, already, the bound man's hands and feet were turning white from loss of blood flow.
Paterson motioned to the wife to sit down on a cane chair on the other side of the bed. Then keeping an eye on her, he laid the Mauser down within easy reach, and loosened the bonds slightly. Her hand flew to her mouth when she realised what she had done, and tears sparked her eyelids.
Paterson carried out a final check on the knots, and on the gag, then turned to the woman and said - "Right! Get dressed and come downstairs and make me some breakfast!"
She stood up, then hesitated, looking at Paterson, clearly waiting for him to leave the room. "Oh, come on!" he sneered, casting a totally jaundiced eye at her grey hair and shapeless nightdress. "I'm not leaving you to cut the old guy free - even at the price of your modesty!"
She looked him straight in the eye, then, gathering a few clothes from the wardrobe and a bedside table, marched defiantly into the ensuite bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Paterson shrugged and sat heavily on the bed. Suddenly, the adrenalin of the last forty-eight hours just drained away, and all he wanted to do was sleep. But he had to stay alert until the car arrived at four o'clock. Perhaps he could tie the wife up later, as well, once she had fielded any phone calls and visitors to the remote cottage, and get a couple of hours sleep.
Meanwhile, he kept an eye on the frosted glass door of the bathroom, through which he could make out the vague shape of the woman as she washed hastily and struggled into a jersey and slacks. Nevertheless, his eyes were heavy when she emerged in less than five minutes, and he heaved himself off the bed and followed her downstairs...
The clock was striking half-past one as Paterson pushed away his empty coffee-cup. Anthea jumped to her feet and, putting it in the dishwasher along with the rest of the breakfast and lunch dishes, switched the machine on.
Paterson had to admit that, although she clearly wasn't doing it out of love, she couldn't have looked after him better if he'd been an honoured guest. From the bacon and eggs for breakfast to the delicious steak for lunch, Paterson had eaten better, almost, than he could ever remember. She had dealt with three telephone calls about the previous night's dinner party, as well as the postman, and a passing hiker, who was lost.
Paterson hadn't let her visit her husband, upstairs in the bedroom, but had gone up twice, himself - on the clear understanding that any foolishness from the woman would visit its consequences on the helpless bound figure on the bed.
He chuckled to himself at the obvious effectiveness of this threat. She was really anxious to please. Hell, if she was a bit younger, and he wasn't so shagged out, who knows....?
He stood up and looked across at her. She met his gaze, coolly but not defiantly. He jerked his head ceilingwards and raised a warning eyebrow. She nodded, saying nothing, and he left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. The old man was sleeping, and Paterson, in a rare moment of generosity, drew a loose cover over his bound form.
A photograph on the bedside table caught his eye. It was clearly their wedding picture - he in dress uniform; she in startling white. He leaned over to read the date inscribed on the bottom - almost thirty years ago.
He looked at the picture again. Maynard was obviously well into his thirties, but his wife looked barely out of her teens. Paterson felt a twinge of illogical envy, which he dismissed with irritation. Well, he wasn't enjoying a teenage bedmate now, Paterson thought, almost savagely, aware that his annoyance was caused by his own chronic failure to maintain two marriages and at least half a dozen promising relationships.
Maybe, at getting on for seventy, Maynard still saw his fifty-year old wife as a piece of young meat, thought Paterson as he descended the stairs. He pretended to try to remember the last time he had had a woman, but he was only too well aware that it was all of three months - a Filipino nightclub hostess; a lithe light-brown girl who had given him precisely one hour for his thirty dollars - and a week of worry and incessant self-checks after he had sobered up...
He re-entered the kitchen. The woman hadn't moved. She looked up at him enquiringly, and he nodded, curtly. "He's O.K.," he said. "Asleep. I want a decent chair - an armchair."
Wordlessly, she rose and led the way through the hall to a comfortable room at the front. A coal fire burned between two deep armchairs and Paterson sank into one, motioning her to sit opposite.
"I saw your wedding picture upstairs," he said, after a few minutes' silence. "Your husband's older than you."
"Yes," she replied. "Almost sixteen years."
"Oh?" said Paterson. "And how old is he now?"
A ghost of a smile flitted over her face, and disappeared. "Sixty-eight", she answered, curtly. Silence fell again.
Paterson stared into the fire. That made her fifty-two, he thought, absently. He thought she probably didn't look it but, since he'd never had a woman older than thirty, he wouldn't know. Anyway, the jersey and slacks she was wearing gave no clue to what her figure was like, except that she clearly wasn't fat.
The realisation that he was becoming curious about what she looked like out of her clothes grew very slowly on Paterson and, when it did impinge, at last, at the front of his mind, he immediately picked up a day-old copy of the Times and started leafing through it.
Anthea relaxed, just a little. For a moment, she had been just a little worried. The intruder had seemed to be glancing at her a little speculatively, and she had become very sensitive to such signals after thirty years as an Army wife - and a faithful one. She let her head fall back against a cushion and closed her eyes.
For the third time, Paterson tried to digest the political leader in the newspaper, but his eyes continually flickered over the top of the broadsheet towards the woman.
Jesus H Christ, he thought to himself, you've committed four killings in three days, one act of arson, plus whatever what you're doing in this cottage is called in English law. You're waiting for an aeroplane to arrive to help you make a bolt for it, and here you are, wondering if you can get laid by some fifty-year old dame!
Then his mouth dried as he realised there was really no 'if' about it. He was in complete control here - she would do as he said. All he had to do was threaten her husband. His testicles tightened and the paper shook a little in his tightened fingers. The novelty of the idea astonished him - surely he had been in this situation before?
Well, of course, there had been a few times in 'Nam, when the platoon had 'liberated' a village in the jungle and claimed their just rewards, selecting the pick of the young women and taking them off into the bushes, but, somehow, that was different...
He looked over the top of the newspaper again. Her eyes opened, sensing his scrutiny, and met his. They were clear, grey and set wide apart on high cheekbones. They seemed slightly slanted, giving her a feline look. Paterson studied her face. Her mouth was not large, but her lips were full, under a short, straight nose and over a small, but determined chin.
Unconsciously, his tongue passed over dry lips as he visualised her mouth surrendering to his, the soft pressure of her breasts against him as her body arched under his. Hell, he thought to himself, a woman's a woman. They don't lose their essentials as they get older, and this one's not old, anyway! Look at some of these film stars, still looking good up to their sixties.
Anyway, the whole point is - if you want to know what she's like, there's nothing to stop you having a look. If you don't like what you see, you don't have to pretend, to make her feel better. He chuckled to himself at the irony - him not liking what he saw would undoubtedly be the right result for her!
His penis stiffening in his trousers, he abruptly made up his mind.
"Stand up!" he grunted, laying down the newspaper.
Her eyes widened, but she did as she was told, standing in front of the chair, hands by her sides. Paterson appraised her for a few seconds, then took a deep breath.
"Take off your sweater!" he said, in as deadpan a voice as he could muster. The woman closed her eyes and exhaled, despairingly.
"No! Please!" she whispered, opening her eyes again and staring into Paterson's. Paterson felt a surge of power, and an excitement he hadn't had for ten years. A surge of energy raced through his loins and his penis was suddenly, massively, fully erect.
"Take it off!" he growled. His voice almost shook with excitement.
She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head, helplessly.
Then - "No!" she blurted out. "I'll feed you, look after you, get you away safely, but you can't - not this! It isn't fair!"
"Do it," insisted Paterson, "or I'll pay a visit upstairs... "
Two large tears dropped on her cheeks and her shoulders drooped. She started to turn her back on him, but he rapped - "Stay there!" while, at the same time, a sensation of triumph assailed him. She was going to do it! Oh, she was going to argue about how, and why, but, at bottom, she would do it, to keep her man safe.
He hoped. For, deep down, Paterson knew that it wasn't in him to physically force her.
Some Calvinistic streak in his background recoiled from physical violence against women - but coercion, making them bend to your will because of some non-physical threat, that was different.
He forced himself to continue sitting in the armchair, his eyes never leaving the woman as a myriad emotions chased themselves across her face. The two initial tears had become a flood and her arms were crossed protectively over her chest, her shoulders hunched, legs pressed tightly together in the shapeless slacks.
"I won't tell you again," Paterson said, quietly, his eyes flickering pointedly upwards.
Up till now, her eyes had been staring in a mixture of pleading and baleful hatred into his, but now, with hopeless resignation, the woman forced her eyes ceilingwards and gathering her jersey at the bottom, in two hands, lifted it up, over her belly, over her brassiere, and clear of her shoulders. With a final tug, she dragged it over her hair and let it fall on the chair behind her.
Paterson studied her, his tongue running round his dry lips.
Her upper body was slim, in good condition, her stomach slightly concave, but not slack, her white lace brassiere well-filled, the flesh of her cleavage apparently firm and resilient. Paterson wanted to stand up, to look her over properly, but restrained himself.
"Now the slacks," he murmured, and exulted in her automatic, almost immediate compliance. She undid a button at the waist, then a zip, and eased the trousers down over her hips. As she did so, she leant forward, and Paterson gazed greedily at the deep cleavage between her breasts. He could feel his penis erecting even more, and shifted his position in the chair.
Her slacks lay beside her feet and she stood before him, wearing only bra and panties. Her panties were unexpectedly skimpy. White, but plain, they covered the woman's mons veneris, completely - but not the cheeks of her bottom, which jutted out, full and round, behind her.
Paterson could just discern the slightest hint of a dark shadow beneath the opaque material of the panties and he swallowed, again, to drag some moisture into his arid mouth.
She still didn't meet his eyes and she looked calm as she stared over his head, but he could see the whites of her knuckles as her fingers dug into her palms. Paterson was almost reluctant to issue his next command, savouring the excitement and power of watching the helpless woman standing in front of him with all but the last vestiges of her nakedness uncovered.
He thought, with another thrill of excitement, that she had probably never stripped for another man, in a sexual context, before, and deep down, came the realisation - dim, and very deep within him - that, in the future, she might well look back on this afternoon, this experience, and derive, if not pleasure, then sexual excitement - perhaps intense sexual excitement - from it.
"O.K." Paterson said, quietly, almost holding his breath. "Now take off your brassiere."
Automatically, the woman lifted her hands behind her back, then she stopped. She looked, pleadingly, into his eyes, and the tears, which had stopped, brimmed again. "Please!" she whispered. "Please don't make me do this."
Paterson simply stared up at her and, after a few seconds, she went on.
"Please - no-one but my husband has... " Her voice trailed away, and her eyes lifted to the ceiling again, in misery.
Paterson was exultant. The one thing that could make it better had occurred - the reassurance that this was no experienced adulteress, that this was almost as painful for her as if she had been an eighteen-year-old virgin. He wanted her to be shy, to be unsure about showing her body - otherwise there would be no achievement.
If she had stripped off her clothes with condident élan, Paterson knew that his interest would have been perfunctory and, once physical curiosity, and lust, had been slaked, he would have felt a certain amount of self-loathing and contempt.
But now, it was perfect!
The woman's eyes, at last, dropped to his, with a final plea. On meeting his intractable stare, however, her eyes dropped away and her fingers fumbled with the rear fastening on her brassiere. As it finally gave, she held it in place for a futile moment or two, pathetically, then, shoulders drooping, dropped the garment down her arms to the floor.
Her exposed breasts were just large enough to carry a hint of sag, but they were round and fairly firm, with dark brown knobbly nipples set in circles of dark aurolae.
"Hey!" exclaimed Paterson, softly. "Hey! Very nice!"
As he spoke, unable to contain himself any longer, he was levering himself out of his armchair. She trembled violently as he approached her and he murmured soothing noises at her, but, nevertheless, her hands reached up to automatically cover her exposed breasts
Then Paterson reached out and held her thin wrists, easily pulling her hands away. Releasing them, he then touched her naked breasts, and she started, her teeth audibly chattering in fear.
His thumbs rasped over her nipples, and she shuddered, closing her eyes, involuntarily. He laughed softly and closed his hands round her breasts, squeezing them gently, then releasing them, then squeezing them again.
"Hey!" he breathed again. "Hey! Great tits, Anthea!" He used the semi-obscenity deliberately, experimentally, to gauge the effect on her. He was only guessing but he didn't think British brigadiers would use such words to describe the attributes of their womenfolk and, from her reaction, he guessed he was right.
There was an automatic hiss of disgust from the woman, but then her face coloured and he could feel a distinct hardening of her nipple against his palm.
"Yeah - really nice tits," he repeated and she stood silently, eyes downcast, as his hands explored their soft, yielding weight...
"And now the panties," he breathed, stepping back to watch her.
Her thumbs hooked round the elastic at her waist and she began to inch the flimsy garment down her thighs. Her dark pubic thatch began to appear almost as soon as they began their descent and Paterson watched, transfixed, as she bent forward to pull her panties down. Her breasts now dangled downwards and, seeing them in this position, Paterson hungered again to feel her dark erect nipples against his palms.
The white panties transcended the woman's strong thighs, past her knees, then, finally, she lifted one foot after another and they joined her brassiere on the carpet. She straightened, an expression of defeated resignation on her face - but, still, her hand automatically crossed her belly to cover her pubic triangle. This time, however, Paterson made no move to uncover her, but walked, slowly, behind her as she stood in the middle of the room, shoulders bowed, both hands pushed between her thighs.
Her bottom was every bit as sumptuous as he had surmised. Almost absent-mindedly, he wondered if it had anything to do with horse-riding. Twin moons jutted out from the small of her back, firmly, proudly, atop strong, undimpled thighs. Paterson thought about gripping them while she rode him from above and his breathing juddered, again.
He returned to face her and, stopping in front of her, lifted her chin. Her eyes did not meet his, but, undramatically, she removed her hands and let her arms hang by her sides, leaving her body open and unprotected.
Looking at her face, Paterson let his hand drift forward until it touched the skin of her upper thigh. As it made first contact, the woman started, but, otherwise, remained still. Paterson let his fingers roam lightly up her warm flesh until they made their first contact with the soft hair at the base of her belly, then he slid his index finger along the hair-line, in between her thighs.
She remained motionless as his index finger slid along the lips of her vagina, but her flesh began to assume a lustrous glow and he continued teasing, caressing until he felt the tip of his finger becoming slippery. His other hand rose to stroke her breast. He felt her nipple grow against his palm and, at the same time, he felt her vagina lubricate sufficiently to allow his finger to enter.
Sliding it in up to the second knuckle, he felt the burgeoning heat within her and he pulled his hand away from her breast and unzipped his trousers. There was a roaring in his ears and he could hold himself no longer. He slid his erect penis out of his trousers and closed his hand round it.
"Turn round," he muttered, hoarsely, to the woman and, as she complied, he pushed her forward and downward until her hands rested on the arms of the chair she had been sitting on, and she was bent forward at the waist.
Easing her feet apart, he placed his hands on the peached cheeks of her bottom and came up close behind her. He took his penis in his hand again and aimed it between her parted thighs until its tip met the wet warmth of her spread vulva.
Then he bent over her back and, reaching down, filled his hands with her soft, pliant breasts, and then, and only then, thrust his penis into her. As its hard length invaded her, the woman emitted a gasp, which was almost a scream. Paterson withdrew almost completely, then rammed it back inside her again, his hands closing on her breasts almost convulsively.
Then he established a rhythm, and each deep thrust was accompanied by a gasp of increasing intensity from the woman, as her breasts were squeezed and her vagina invaded with ever-increasing remorselessness.
Anthea strove with ever-increasing futility to maintain a sense of outraged loathing as her body was callously violated.
Despite herself, she found herself resenting each partial withdrawal of Paterson's erect penis and, involuntarily, found herself pushing her hips back towards him, to ensure it did not slip out completely. Then, as he drove the return thrust inside her, her accompanying gasp owed as much to sensual excitement as protest. Her breasts glowed as his questing fingers pressed and squeezed them and her erect nipples were almost unbearably sensitive. Her mouth was wide open, gasping for air and her eyes were closed. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white with tension.