The Making Of A Little Heresy

Author's note: This submission is my entry into the Halloween 2016 contest here on Literotica. I would be much obliged if you could offer your opinion on it by voting and/or commenting. Thank you.

The persons and locations mentioned herein are fictional. Any mention of real-life people, locations and companies is strictly coincidental. Only adults having sex here.

Someone tried to unlock the apartment door. The key scratched against the lock time and time again. Amanda looked up from her laptop, then she rose and walked into the hallway.

"Greg, is that you?" she called hesitantly through the door. A muffled grunt answered her. Calming her nerves, she opened the door a crack, only to be face to face with her husband. The stink of whiskey was heavy on his breath, his hair ruffled and his expensive suit crinkled.

"Lemme in, that damn key's not working," Greg slurred.

Amanda pulled the door open and allowed him to enter. Greg fumbled with his keys as he swayed past her.

"Hey honey, gimme a kiss," he drawled, trying to swipe her into an embrace.

"Jeezus, Greg," Amanda cursed, taking a step away from him. "You're smashed. What's wrong with you?"

The snarl was all the warning she got. His fist hit her jaw and suddenly, she was on the floor, head ringing, with Greg towering over her like a vengeful giant, practically foaming at the mouth.

"I said," he began, balling his fists, "gimme me a kiss, shweetheart. But you know what, screw that. I think I need a little more than juss a smooch."

Terrified, confused and shocked to the core, Amanda looked up at him, his hands going to his belt.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she asked, hating herself for the panicked quaver in her voice.

"What's wrong with me? I come home, wanting nothing more than a bit of comfort, and you bitch deny me? What's wrong with you? Do you have any idea how I feel?"

At his tone, her shock turned into anger, a harsh icy rock settled deep in her stomach. Amanda used the kitchen counter to haul herself upright.

"I told you before. If you ever lay a hand on me, I'm outta here. That's it. I'm gone."

Greg's jaw worked silently as if he was looking for words to say. She didn't wait for another outburst, or God forbid, another blow. Instead, she ducked past him, into their shared bedroom and grabbed her small go bag. Amanda had planned to visit her parents the coming weekend and was already packed. She snatched her jacket off the peg, stuffed her purse and cell phone into a pocket and turned to leave.

"Where the fuck you think you're goin'?" Greg yelled, stomping down the hallway, his broad chest now naked.

"I'm leaving." Amanda hissed, dodging his groping hands.

"You're not!" he bellowed, trying to grab her shoulder. Amanda pulled open the apartment door, ducked through and yanked it closed just in time to block his charge. The door banged shut with the finality of a gunshot. Amanda raced down the stairs, clutching her bag to her chest as if it was the only item keeping her alive.

Already two flights down, she heard the door crash open and Greg yelling. The echoes in the stairwell distorted his words, but she knew the tone, angry and pleading at the same time. Amanda didn't bother to wait and listen. Her jaw ached where Greg's fist had hit her, but the tears streaming down her face, blurring her vision, hurt even worse. Out of the apartment building, she hailed a cab.

"Where to, miss?" the cabbie asked, throwing her a sympathetic look through the rear view.

"Get me away from here."

* * * *

Amanda came awake, rubbing her aching neck. Sleeping on the bus wasn't the best idea, but it beat trying to make sense of this mess. She looked out of the window. Even in the rain, the Massachusetts forests were a breathtaking view, the canopy a lustrous gold, the kind you'd see on postcards. Through a gap in the trees, Amanda could see the dark waters of Blackwater Lake, and hugging its shore, her hometown of Greenbury. Apart from the bus, the town had few connections to the outside world. No train station, no airport. Amanda vividly remembered when her parents finally got broadband internet a few years ago.

She smiled ruefully at her reflection, her green eyes set deep into their sockets and her auburn hair ruffled from sleeping in her seat. Despite her mouth feeling like a truck had kissed her, she still looked gorgeous. Well, apart from the bruise on her jaw. How did he dare hit her! Why was he drunk like that in the middle of the day? She had been so sure he was the one ever since she met him ten years earlier. He had been a handsome and eager stock broker with a Midas touch back then, a rising star on Wall Street. Her parents owned the lumber mill in Greenbury, a small town in Massachusetts, deep in the Berkshires. They had met at a mutual friend's wedding and hit it off. Two years and furious hot dating later, they had married. It looked so perfect, the complete opposite to this nightmare. Sure, Greg had been rather moody the last couple months, but he was never a heavy drinker. And he never hit her. Ever. What had gotten into him?

Amanda shook her head to clear those depressing thoughts away. The anger helped her focus and doubting herself made things even worse.

The bus stopped at the run-down terminal and Amanda got off along with an elderly woman.

"Oh, you're Joyce's girl, right? Tell your mom Erika says 'hi'," she said, hobbling towards the cab parking near the terminal. Amanda stopped dead in her tracks. Sure, she was home, but could she go back to her parents? Her father didn't like Greg, never had, and coming back home with a bruise would only prove him right. She clearly remembered their first Thanksgiving together, when Dad had taken her aside.

"That man of yours, he's a gambler. I don't like him," he had said.

"Dad, Greg is a stockbroker, a successful one at that."

"No matter how you dress it, it's gambling. With higher stakes. Mark my words. There will be one day when he's lost everything, your money, your home, your happiness. Don't you come cryin' to me then."

No. Not such a good idea. Amanda pulled her cell from her jacket and dialed her sister's number.

"Yes?" a female voice asked.

"Hey Grace, it's me."

"Amanda! How are you, girl?"

"Not good. Hey, I'm at the bus terminal in town. Could you give me a lift?"

"Wait, did you say you're here? Home? You sound horrible. Did something happen?"

"Yes, I'm in Greenbury. A bit earlier than planned. I'll tell you all about it once you pick me up."

"Don't move, I'm over there ASAP."

"Thanks. I owe you."

Amanda paced the terminal, staying under the roof to avoid getting wet. No matter how often she tried to make sense, she couldn't grasp why Greg had been so violent. And drunk. It was so unlike him. Did it have to do with his job? She wasn't sure, Greg never talked about his job and so far, she never asked more than the usual "how was your day?", to which he answered with a shrug or a grunt. He provided for her and she never had any reason to wonder. But what if there were problems? What if their money had gone? She had to know. Maybe then she could understand why Greg acted so strangely.

Amanda looked around and spotted the ATM across the street from the terminal. Briskly, she crossed the street, getting soaked by the still pouring rain. She slipped into the ATM booth and fed her card into the machine, ordering it to print a statement. The machine went to work and spat out a handful of pages. Amanda looked them over, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. The account was deep in the red. She had a few hundred dollars cash to her name. And the worst? Apart from her bus ticket, the last twenty withdrawals had been made by her husband, several thousand dollars at a time.

A car horn shook her from her horrified trance. Grace's orange Corolla parked next to her. Amanda went to the passenger's side, opened the door, tossed her bag onto the back seat and climbed in.

"Shit girl, you look even worse. What happened to you? Did you argue with Greg?" Grace asked. Like her sister, she had luxurious auburn hair, though she kept it in a plain ponytail. Amanda always thought Grace undersold herself. With a bit of makeup, a bit more attention to her hair, she could be twice as stunning, but Grace never bothered, instead she seemed content with the backwater beauty look. Her brown eyes, full of sympathy, scanned Amanda. Unlike her older sister, she didn't leave Greenbury at the earliest opportunity. Instead, she had married her high school sweetheart and worked at his pharmacy. Much to their dad's approval.

"Not a word to Mom and Dad, you hear?" Amanda hissed.

"You know me. I'm, like, the best secret keeper ever," Grace said, grinning. "So, where to? Home?"

"I don't feel like running the gauntlet just yet. Drop me off at the Passenger, will you?"

"Sure thing. So, what happened?"

"I wish I knew, sis. Greg came home, completely loaded, and he hit me."

"What for?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Amanda sighed.

"You're not having a piece on the side, are you?" Grace nudged her.

"Of course not!" Amanda protested, blushing. Greg had been more than enough. They didn't have as much sex as before they said their vows, but Amanda never felt the need to take her desires outside her marriage.

"Maybe he has trouble at his job," Amanda hazarded, softly.

"That's not a reason to smack your wife!" Grace snarled. "You want me to give him a piece of my mind?"

"I really don't know what I want. I think I need a good night's sleep and to see how things will look tomorrow morning."

"You know, you could crash at our place. Jake will be happy to see you."

"Thanks, sis, but I think I'd love to be alone for a bit. Maybe I'll come see you for breakfast tomorrow. How's that sound?"

"Whatever you want, girl. Here we are."

* * * *

The Passenger Hotel had been built in the early '20s, when some local business owners wanted to turn Greenbury into a more modern, glitzier town. When the Great Depression hit though, these plans folded in on themselves and now the Passenger, looking utterly out of place with its art deco facade next to the mostly Colonial-era buildings, stood as the testament to failed entrepreneurship.

Amanda shrugged water off her jacket and strode through the lobby. Warm light played on the leaf-gold ornaments and reflected off the marble pillars framing the concierge's desk. An old man behind the counter looked up when her shadow fell over him.

"Yes?"

"I'd like a room, please."

"For how long, miss?"

"For tonight at least. Maybe longer. I'm up in the air right now."

"No problem. We have enough vacancies." The concierge rose slowly and fished a key off the pegs behind him. "Here you are. Have a nice stay."

"Thank you." Amanda took the key off him. The plate on the key chain read 313. On her way to the elevator, she passed the hotel bar. The bartender was stacking glasses into a shelf, preparing for the evening.

She called the elevator. It arrived with a somber ding and she rode it up to the third floor. The hallways were decked out in dark wood and lush carpets, lit by the occasional wall lamp. She unlocked room 313 and entered. A large bed, TV cabinet with built-in freezer and wardrobe made the room appear a lot smaller than it actually was. Next to the bed, a door led off into a small bathroom. Amanda used it to freshen up a bit. No matter how much cool water she scooped into her face, her insides felt like coated with lead. Sighing softly, she left the bathroom and sat on the bed.

Her cell's message notification sound played. She pulled the device from her jacket and stared at the screen. Greg. She deleted the unread message with a snarl. Words could not erase the fact he hit her, with a fist no less. Suddenly very tired, Amanda curled up on the bed. The tears were not far behind.

* * * *

Amanda stared at the screen of her phone. Another text from Greg. Another seven lines expressing how sorry he was. Fuck him. Growling softly, she flicked the text into the recycle bin to join the other five he had sent her this evening. Her jaw throbbed where he had hit her. Annoyed, she put the phone into standby and shucked it into her purse. How typical of Greg. Instead of calling her to apologize, he hid behind honeyed words, without a chance for her to rip his head off.

Amanda took another sip from her whiskey. Usually, she didn't drink more than a glass of wine in the evening, but the pain-numbing fire pouring down her throat helped fan the flames of rage inside. A tiny part of her feared what would happen if the rage died down. She'd probably end up crying like a little girl somewhere, and she would rather die than give Greg the satisfaction of bringing her to tears. Not that he would see her like that. He was in New York City while she tried to dull the ache in her jaw by drinking. Sitting in the faded art deco grandeur of the Passenger's hotel bar, which was crowded by tourists this evening which Amanda didn't mind at all. She was just a face in the crowd, no one would recognize or bother her. Amanda sighed and turned her attention back to her drink.

A shadow fell over her just as Amanda raised her glass, only to realize that it was already empty.

"May I join you?"

The voice was cool and level, not much louder than the chatter around her, yet it commanded her full attention. Amanda looked up. He wore a long coat over jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his hair a dark chestnut and just reaching his collar. A hint of stubble gave his jawline definition, but it were the man's eyes which got her the most. They were of a stormy grey and they seemed to gaze directly into her soul. For a heartbeat, sympathy and sorrow fluttered over his face before he cleared his throat.

"I am sorry. You're obviously not in the mood for company. I will take my leave."

Amanda quickly looked around. The seat opposite her at the table was one of just a few not occupied. What would sitting here alone accomplish anyway? As far as she was concerned, everything was better than brooding over Greg. He didn't deserve that kind of attention. Not after what he'd done to her.

"No, it's okay. Sit. Please?"

The stranger, already two steps away, stopped dead in his tracks and shot her a look over his shoulder.

"Are you sure? I don't want to impose on you."

"I am. Drinking alone is horrible enough," Amanda said, wondering where that little excited laugh came from.

"One moment," he said, continuing towards the bar. He talked to the bartender then came back with a long-stemmed wine flute and another highball glass for her.

"The least I can do. Do you mind?" He placed the whiskey in front of her.

"Not at all. Strangers bearing gifts are always welcome," Amanda said, smiling at him. "I just hope you didn't spike that."

He chuckled softly. "Usually, I don't have to resort to drugs to find company. I'm not here for a quick escapade." He sipped his wine, looking her over.

Amanda shivered under his gaze, feeling oddly self-conscious all of a sudden.

"For someone not doing the bar circuit, you're quite adept at undressing me with your eyes," she said, blushing a bit. "And you didn't even introduce yourself."

"You're very good at making me apologize profusely. My name is Charles. Yours?" He reached across the table, offering his hand. His fingers were long and slender, his nails meticulously trimmed.

"Amanda. Nice to meet you." She took his hand, but before she could shake it, he gently pulled it close and bent his head over it, his warm breath stirring the hairs on the back of her hand.

"Enchanted."

Amanda reclaimed her hand and smiled, genuinely touched. A hand kiss? Did she somehow end up a century in the past? She looked at Charles's face, trying to find out if he was pulling her leg, but there was only genuine warmth in his eyes and a friendly smile playing around his lips. So what if his manners were antiquated, he at least knew how to treat a woman properly, unlike Greg.

"I know it is none of my business, but what is troubling you?" Charles asked, his voice even softer than before. Amanda had to strain her hearing to catch his question. "Your husband?"

"How do you know?"

"When I asked you, your gaze flicked to your ring and you scowled," Charles explained, his fingertips brushing hers.

"That's... very perceptive of you," Amanda said, a little taken aback.

"In my line of work, one needs to be."

Now it was Amanda's turn to look him over. Charles leaned back a bit, inviting her scrutiny. His clothes were well-made, but unremarkable otherwise. He looked fit and healthy and rather well groomed. What kind of work did someone like him do? Private eye? Cop? As if all cops were sleazy and wearing wrinkly shirts or coats, she scolded herself.

"And what is your line of work, Charles?" Amanda asked, bringing her drink to her lips.

"Art."

"I didn't know Greenbury had an art gallery."

Charles laughed softly. "You misunderstand, Amanda. I don't sell art. I am a painter."

"You don't look like the starving artist type to me."

"Well, to tell the truth, in certain circles my work fetches decent prices," Charles said. His mouth twitched into a playful smile.

"And what circles might that be?" Amanda asked. "I have never heard of a painter called Charles."

"Try Redburn," he suggested. "I'm sure some people are flaunting the exclusive purchases they've made."

Amanda closed her eyes. She dimly remembered the name. Then it hit her. "The Charles Redburn? Didn't they auction off a painting for about two million last year? It was all over the news."

"Yes. It was

Innocence?

, one of the better ones I created." Charles dug into his coat pocket and produced a large-screen smartphone. He manipulated it for a moment, then placed it onto the table between them. "Have a look, if you want."

Her curiosity got the better of her and Amanda gingerly picked up the device. The picture was done in dark, cool colors, mainly rich night blues and purples. It showed a bedroom, lavishly detailed despite being shrouded in darkness. The only exception was a sliver of silvery moonlight pouring in through a window. On ghostly white linen sheets, a young woman seemed to be asleep, one hand across her naked breasts. Her other hand disappeared under a thin sheet covering her from the stomach down, but the artist picked out the wrinkles in the sheet so deftly, there was little guesswork required to see where her hand rested, straight between her thighs, caressing her sex. Her dark hair pooled around her head and her lips were curled into a devious little smile while a thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. The picture exuded a forbidden sensuality Amanda had never seen before, and the technique was breathtaking, almost lifelike in its perfection. She expected to see the girl move any moment, to wipe that trickle of blood from her mouth.

"How did you capture the image?" Amanda asked. "I can hardly believe she would let you watch. And what's with the blood? Vampire fantasies?"

Charles laughed. "No, she told me she bit her lower lip during her climax. The implication works, doesn't it?"

"She let you watch?"

"Oh yes. After all, she hired me to paint her. Do you like it?"

Amanda put the cell back onto the table top, trying to sort her mind. "I'm no expert, but the picture seems so lifelike, it's almost scary."

"Want to see another?"

"What, you keep your portfolio on your phone?"

"Of course. Helps to solicit new models," Charles said matter-of-factly, shooting her an inquiring gaze. He picked up the phone, swiped and tapped on the screen and placed it between them, daring Amanda to pick it up.

Her gaze flicked from the phone to his face. Charles still smiled, but there was something in his eyes which gave her pause. But again her curiosity got the better of her and she picked up the phone.