The Missing Link 02: Lizabyangiquesophie©
Do I love my husband?
I know I should be able to answer that question in a heartbeat. But I can't, so I guess that's an answer too. I do know that I must have loved him, once. Could I have fallen out of love -- or at least out of thinking I loved him?
Many people say you can't fall out of love. If you do, they say, it can't have been true love to begin with. Ah well, love or true love, life isn't what the books say -- or what Hollywood tells us, for that matter. My life never was. And I never fell in love with my husband -- I slowly slid into loving him. So maybe I just as slowly slid out of love?
Maybe I did, but I didn't slide out. I slithered.
I am Liza, wife of Steve, mother of Eric and I know my husband loves me. I know he even loves me today after all I did to him. It would be easy to ridicule that love as a cuckold's delusion. It seems to be all the rage, nowadays, calling him a pussy-whipped wimp. I did. But the crazy thing is: I envy him for it now. Yes, I know it sounds sarcastic, but I mean it. I would give an arm and a leg for being able to simply love a person. I'd love to love someone the way Steve loves me. For one thing, it wouldn't have got me where I am now.
I do know that I love little Eric. I don't even need a nanosecond to say that. Which of course speaks volumes on the quality of my love for my husband.
You have read what happened between Steve and I. Or at least, you think you know what happened. But you don't, not really. That is not because he lied to you or kept you in the dark, no, Steve would never do that. But he can't very well tell you what he doesn't know, can he? He quoted others, but he can't vouch for their truthfulness.
Steve has been lied to a lot -- by me and by Roger, but mostly by me. I would love to say that I lied to protect him from a truth that might have destroyed him and our marriage, and the safety of our son. But of course I did it also to protect my more personal interests. Does that make me evil? Maybe, but what options did I have?
How honest can a person like me be for her own good? Can she be honest at all? I guess this is all beside the point -- I was neither evil nor honest. I was just weak. It is something I hate to admit, but yes -- I was a weak and selfish person who needed to hide behind the excuse of rape to enjoy her pleasures free of guilt -- and then crave for more.
I was a slave who feared one thing the most -- to lose her chains.
It was true that I was raped at the birthday party of Roger's plastic stepmother, all these years ago. But it wasn't true that Roger didn't mind. He was there, held in check by Daddy's gorillas, while his father pinned me down on the bed and rammed his fat, hard cock into my cunt -- claiming me like a medieval rogue-knight. Roger was there, screaming in rage. He had to look on, while his father riddled him with volleys of humiliating sneers. And when the Count at last lifted his heavy body off mine, he was replaced by an ongoing number of others, ravaging every orifice of my body.
Roger wasn't gay, like I made Steve believe -- he was my boyfriend, and he loved me like crazy. The reason he was so eager to marry me was not to please his father -- very much the contrary. He married me to thwart his father's plans to set him up with a desirable party -- one that served his father's business plans, just like his mother had done. He married me out of love and that romantic notion excited me no end. It even made me wonder if I loved him too.
But whatever love I had for him was efficiently washed away on that four-poster bed. I never had as many mind shattering orgasms as I had that night. I was nineteen, having only had a few rather fumbling experiences with high school boys and college kids; and Roger, of course, who was back then more of an enthusiast than a Don Juan. I had orgasms that affected my state of mind, tumbling switches I never knew I had. They changed me from a wholesome, no nonsense girl into a sick, groveling slut. I was prepared to give up everything to satisfy my newfound needs and grab the many perks that came with the package.
Many people insist that such sudden changes aren't possible and they may be right. Perhaps Count Moreland and his gang of rapists only had to scratch off the thin layer of artificial decency that covered the monster I truly was. A very hypocritical monster at that; I needed to hide behind the blame I put on my rapists. I very much needed that.
Robert Count Moreland -- 'Daddy,' as of that night -- knew me well. The morning after the rape, he just chuckled through all my indignant protests and threats. He concurred with all of my arguments and then bought me off with money. I still see the pain in Roger's eyes when he heard I took the bribe, but hey, what did he know? He'd been rich all his life, hadn't he?
Then I missed my next period. As you know I told Steve that Roger paid for the abortion, but it really was Robert -- Roger never knew of the pregnancy. And there was no reluctance in collecting the monthly bribe for that.
The year that followed was the time I call my 'crazy year.' Calling it that is another convenient way of removing myself from responsibility. It was rape. I had no say in it, I assured myself, knowing perfectly well that I could have stopped any moment. But I didn't want to stop, did I? I just had to find a way to live with it. So I embraced the excuse of being helpless -- they'd robbed me of my freedom. I praised my glittering cage, secretly fearing the day someone might reveal that its door had never been locked.
'Crazy year' might have been an excuse, but I truly was a mental case when I woke up at that hospital. The first face I saw wasn't a nurse or the psychiatrist I told Steve about. It was not even the police -- it was Roger. It made me wonder. I had hardly ever seen him that year. Had he at last stood up against his powerful Daddy? Or had his father finally tired of the fucked-out slut I had become? I don't know. I do know that I hadn't seen Count Moreland for weeks toward the end of my roller coaster ride. It was mostly his cronies and business friends that fucked me by then -- total strangers, really.
I guess Roger hooked me up with the psychotherapist. She was good. Later on I learned that she also was a liaison to Roger, who'd never stopped having these romantic notions about loving me. After recovering and returning to college, I told him I was thankful for rescuing me; I would never have made it without him. But I started turning him down when he asked for a date. I guess I used rather lame excuses. In truth I wanted a clean slate; I didn't need him to help me remember the shameful disaster. Of course I never told him that -- you know me by now.
I started to avoid him and began dating Steve. It was a conscious move to fight my way back into sanity -- Steve being the epitome of sanity. Roger was part of the craziness that almost ruined me -- at least that was what I told myself. Fear and guilt made me place the causes of my ruin outside myself. It seemed the shortest way to recovery, so I had to avoid him and everything else connected to the year of disaster. Yes, I guess I was always better at being selfish than at being fair.
Through the next year I gradually convinced myself that Roger accepted the new reality. I had a hard time understanding why he kept hovering around, though, even becoming friends with Steve. I only much later understood that Roger Chesterton might well be the most patient person on this earth, trained to perfection by a cruel father and the impossible circumstances of his youth. If I'd been sensitive enough to care for his pain, I might have discovered the tell tale pattern of an obsessive stalker -- but I guess I wasn't and I didn't. I just 'slid' into love with sweet Steve, gladly drowning in his sea of normalcy. It was a deceptively calm ocean, though. It neatly covered the deep, eternal storm that raged at its seabed, throwing up dark clouds of long-forgotten emotion.
I easily convinced myself that I loved Steve -- he is an agreeable person to be with; I know no one who doesn't like him. I also loved the way he put me on a pedestal -- me of all persons. We were the perfect couple in everyone's eye, so who was I to doubt a love so wonderfully fitting my needs?
I also see now how the rumor came into the world that Roger might be gay; he never dated a girl during the rest of our college years. Again, I guess I was too insensitive to understand why. I soon forgot all about him after he left for Europe, trying to climb a career ladder that wasn't owned by his father. Steve and I married and had little Eric. Life was good. It lulled me into its vanilla comforts; soon I had a hard time separating my real orgasms from the faked ones.
Imagine the impact of Daddy's return. His blunt rudeness tore as easily through the cobwebs of my complacency as his rampant cock did through my dormant cunt. I was what they call a sitting duck -- or rather the torn up ragdoll version of it by the time he was done with me. I could only nod to his casual order to await his phone call. I was repossessed; pushed back over the flimsy fence I had built between my old, outrageous self and the farce of married mommy-hood.
The childish fairytale of my marriage had ended.
A more decent person than I would have sat down with Steve and told him what happened -- what truly happened. But I am a coward; of course I am. How else could I have been weak enough to fall that easily for my rapist again? The following months were a balance act of keeping my new madness away from my husband -- and most of all: keeping my new lifestyle away from sweet innocent Eric. To my own amazement I succeeded. I even thought I misled the therapist I still consulted.
Robert was careful too; he had a meticulously constructed public image to protect. Despite his bullying indifference, he only called when Steve would be away -- he seemed to be well informed. He always phoned a few days early; one time he called even before Steve had had the time to tell me his schedule. He organized everything, even Eric's babysitter if I didn't have one. He never fucked me in the house again. Most of the time he had me picked up or he gave me the address of a house or a hotel. But you know all that. You also know he sometimes brought friends and business relations. I didn't mind. He'd pushed me over the edge and I just kept coming like the good little whore I was -- again.
Then Steve found the cufflink. It confused me no end to see it lying on the table, right between a zonked out Steve and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. I picked it up and saw that it must indeed be Robert's. I'd often enough seen him take them off. No one else would have a set even similar. Panic overwhelmed me. How had Steve gotten hold of it? Robert never ever fucked me in the house -- not because I asked him not to, I asked nothing. I guess he decided it was convenient that Steve wouldn't know; at least for a while. He might have changed his mind about that by then. Had he visited the house while I was out? But why? He could just as easily have called Steve and told him about us.
Thank God I'd returned from a fuck-date the day before Steve was scheduled back from his trip; so I was home on the Friday he returned early. On Wednesday night I'd been the main attraction of a multi-cocked fucking party at the Hilton, two towns over. Robert hadn't even bothered to bring me home. He had his driver do it, who pulled my head down into his lap for his usual tip before letting me go. It was right in front of our house; I was only protected from curious eyes by the dubious safety of tinted glass.
Anyway, that early Saturday morning when I found the link, blind panic made me stop wondering about the how and why. I slipped the object into the pocket of my robe. From then on it was all instinct and improvisation. I became a chased rabbit, cutting corners to outrun the hunting dogs of truth.
Ironically it was a truth I knew as little about as Steve.
I stubbornly thought that denying everything would be the way to save our marriage. And I had to save it -- it was the only protection of little Eric while his mother fucked her sanity away. I was sure it was also what Robert wanted. There was no way I could contact him. I supposed he would discover the absence of his precious cufflink and call me, but he didn't. I pushed it into the nether regions of my purse, where I could almost feel it burn whenever I clutched the thing to my body.
When Steve didn't buy my denial and left me, I was conflicted. Of course I feared for our marriage, but what I also sensed was relief. I guess it was just the natural reaction of the hunted rabbit at last escaping the hounds. The constant intensity of Steve's eyes and his questions had worn me down. I was getting too exhausted to mask my true feelings, I guess.
After watching him leave, I returned to the den. Right then my cell phone rang. The little square showed an R for Robert and my heart leapt. It always did.
"Oh God, Daddy," I said, using the name he insisted upon. "Steve found your cufflink in our bedroom!" There was silence; then his arrogant voice boomed through the connection.
"Impossible," he said. "Describe it." I did, studying the link from all sides.
"Wait," he said and I heard the sound of his phone being laid down. I waited for minutes, my anxious heart counting each second of them.
"Can't be mine," he at last replied. "I have three sets and they are all complete and right here. Was it in your bedroom?" I confirmed and told him that Steve had left me because of it. He just gave off a gruffly sound. Why should he care?
"You got the link?" he then asked and I said yes.
"Get to the Excelsior. Now," he barked and hung up.
The Excelsior was the place he stayed while being over. It was ten miles outside the city, part of a country club. He had leased the penthouse suite permanently. I knew most corners of it intimately, although I was usually too preoccupied to give it much attention.
He let me stand while he sat down at a low table. There were two small boxes in front of him, each one containing a set of cufflinks. The third set was in his cuffs.
He extended his hand, palm up, moving his fingers impatiently. I understood, found the link in the chaos of my purse and placed it on his palm. He turned it around, watching the smaller square intently. Then he snorted.
"Roger," he said.
Roger hadn't been on my mind much since he left for Europe. The way he gave in to his father when I, his wife, was raped, claimed and bought in front of him, hadn't done much to earn my respect. His puppy-like sweetness after he rescued me and helped me return to sanity only deepened my contempt -- irrational, yes, and deeply ungrateful, but it was how I felt.
I guess I have the true slave's heart. Whomever my new master told me to despise, I loyally despised. Robert despised his son with a vengeance, so I did too. He sometimes told his cronies what a wuzz he thought Roger was. He called him a closet homo in public, only encouraging people's ideas on the subject. That Roger did everything to prove his father wrong by playing James Dean, strengthened my contempt. It even made me wonder if his father could be right, although I knew first hand that he could never be homosexual. He was just a sensitive and decent man, I guess, just like Steve, and well, you know about my attitude towards decent men.
So Roger had put a cufflink in our bedroom? Why, I wondered. Moreland must have read the question on my face. He chuckled and pulled me onto his lap.
"You see, little cunt," he said, pushing his hand under my skirt, where the heat of his skin invaded mine, "Roger never forgave you for pushing him aside and choosing Steve over him. But being the wimp he is, he couldn't just take you away from the other wuzz. He sulked and goddamn pouted, just like the sissy he is. He started stalking you, no doubt wallowing in his disgusting self-pity. God, how it made my stomach turn."
I felt his fat fingers jamming into my bare cunt. I never wore panties when he summoned me and I had been wet ever since his phone call. I moaned as I pushed my face into his shoulder -- hating myself, but loving his fingers.
"I guess in the end he even got sick of himself. So when he graduated," Robert went on, "he went to France. I guess he at last grew up and gave up on you." Robert chuckled, hooking his fingers into my soft flesh.
"I suppose he wanted to make a belated point concerning his independence. He buried himself in work and did amazingly well. He's good, you know, businesswise, I mean. He's this really conscientious little hard working manager type -- impartial in his decisions, a true motivator, loyal to his people, blah blah." He said it with a sneer on his face. His fingers, three now, stabbed hard up my cunt, hurting me.
"God," he sighed. "Isn't it so like the little twerp to wait for years before getting his vengeance, and in such a weasel-like way? You must feel honored, little whore! Two losers fighting over your treacherous cunt!"
By then I came, squirting my juices over his hand. He slid his fingers out of me, rubbing them clean on my skirt. Then he pushed them inside my mouth; I started sucking at once.
"Well now, slut," he said, grinning, "Do you think Stevie-boy will divorce you?" I was too deep into the afterglow of my orgasm to concentrate on his question. He spread his legs and made me fall through his opened lap. His hands were on my shoulders as he pushed me down until my face was in front of his crotch. My fingers went to his belt automatically, efficiently. I opened his fly and produced his half erect cock, taking it into my mouth. His voice droned on behind a curtain of wet, sucking noises.
"Never mind, girl," he said. "No need to worry. Hubby is too much of a wimp to dump you." I felt his big hands on my head as he pulled me down the fat pole, choking me as he slid past my throat's entrance.
"He adores you, you know? And there is the brad, of course. He'll never give the two of you up, trust me. Just keep denying until he doubts his own memory. It'll teach him to doubt you. In the end he'll beg you to take him back. Make him beg. Make him tell you he's sorry and he'll be your cunt-lapping puppy... for... the... rest... of... your... life."
His speech started following the pumping rhythm of his cock. As he delivered the last words, I felt his flesh swell like it always did right before coming. The hot, wet gushing of goo never failed to send a wave of warmth through my body. It spread an indescribable feeling of sweet content. I groaned around his flesh, making bubbles of sperm pop and splash. He smiled down on me, patting my head while I swallowed his salty gift.
"Good girl," he said. "Now clean me up and run. Don't worry about hubby or Eric or little Woger Wabbit. Everything will be fine."
But I did worry. Steve might have become a pathetic softie in my brainwashed imagination -- to little Eric he was a hero. The boy's incessant questions about Steve's whereabouts ran me through all kinds of emotions -- from irritation through guilt, sadness and utter frustration until I reached despair. Eric didn't enjoy beating me in his videogames at all. He laughed with deprecation as I offered to play ball with him. He flat out refused to be read from his favorite book before sleeping -- he said I had all the Greek names wrong and never the right voice for the right character.
Then he started waking me up at night. Something had to give and I knew it had to be Steve. I started calling him. His cell phone was shut down and I had no idea where he might be. On Monday I called him at work. His girl stonewalled me, the little bitch. How could she? I had personally helped picking her, hadn't I?