This is part of a long, ongoing series. If you've missed earlier key chapters – like Chapters 4 & 5 – reading this one will be like looking at a guidebook to the planet Mars. All joking aside, as long as you read this as part of a long series, it's for you. If not, there are about 400 other great new stories posted this weekend that you can read on this site. For those of you who hang in, thanks for your feedback and votes.
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"Suck it, Dee!" growled my husband, Frank, as I knelt on the low, plastic-cushioned bench in front of the cock that stuck through the wall in the large gloryhole booth. I'd removed the parka and sunglasses that I'd worn to the odious place and he was forcing me to put my mouth around a huge, anonymous black prick that stood erect and pulsing before my pale face. Frank had also stripped the halter top from me, leaving my naked breasts to hang free, and was panting as Corky – the blonde slut whom in earlier days I'd assumed was his boss's girlfriend – throated his cock.
I looked at the video monitor on the wall through my drug-veiled eyes, and saw a frightened woman's face...my own. It was framed by my newly-dyed dark brown hair, pulled to the back of my head in a twist, which I'd had done just that morning while Frank had been out of town. The face looked quite different from the Dee I'd known for years. My mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping in agony while I whimpered, frightened by my husband and sickened by my plight, as my tongue flicked my pink lips, reluctantly preparing themselves to engulf the second alien male member forced on me in the past 48 hours. Because of my recurring panic attacks during that time, I'd popped Percodan – a painkiller – every few hours to still their physical symptoms.
With my face in line with the hole in the wall, my drugged mind prompted me for a moment to study the object in front of me. The cock was slightly longer and thicker than that of my lover, Jack. Its color was a dark, chocolate brown from the base to the circumcision scar, where the color changed to a mottled purple and pink, as if the infantile operation might have been performed recently. Its head was larger around than a golf ball, of an attractive, violet hue, and appeared carved from dark, blemishless mahogany. It pulsed, indicating the slow heartbeat or voluntary muscle clenchings of the man attached to it. Its deeply set opening was graced by a drop of clear liquid, seeming to anticipate a tongue to lick it off. On top of the shaft was a very thick, quarter-inch wide, blood-filled vein that ran its full length to the spongy head. The entire thing moved up and down rhythmically, as if it were a flagpole on the side of a building being buffeted by a strong wind.
I heard the man on the other side of the wall groan something about "yo' mouf'" as Frank cursed, "Damnit, Dee, I said suck it!" and reached over Corky's bobbing head to shove my face onto the ebony shaft 'til it struck my epiglottis. Fighting my gag reflex, I ran my tongue slowly around the head – that's about all I could manage – as my Percodan-laced mind took refuge in wandering back over the past weekend... .
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My rape on Saturday night had left me shattered. It seemed as if my past life had little meaning. The few previous heady days when I'd felt so confident in asserting myself to my husband had evaporated with the brutal assault perpetrated by his boss, Bruce, on Saturday night while Frank had been in Phoenix. Worse yet, I feared that the wall of resentment that Frank and I had constructed between ourselves over nearly ten years of marriage would only get stronger...more impenetrable.
I now realized my part in building that wall, thereby defending myself against all men whom, at base, I feared. With Frank, I'd assumed the role of the passive wife, so typical of women of Italian lineage, and had deluded myself into thinking that I was persevering...that I was the binding force that had kept together the family unit. Even though we were "equals" in modern American parlance – financially, educationally, and otherwise – I'd consistently been a failure, in terms of both will and imagination. Unfortunately, we had gone beyond the point of forgiving and moving on. It now seemed too late.
My deep-seated frustration, repressed to a ridiculous extent by my family's teachings, had been neatly sealed over by years of self-denial in addition to fear. A prime example of this was Frank's infertility, which in recent years had spurred my biological clock, stimulating it to speed itself up...sending repeated alarms to my body to have a family. Subconsciously, probably, that was the reason I'd begun my torrid love affair with Jack Taylor, the dashing, 40-year-old home designer who now represented the only hope I had to salvage the wreckage of my existence. It was he who had been there for me in the aftermath of the incident – my rape, though I still couldn't admit it had been real – and had taken charge of the therapeutic details required in its aftermath. Now, it was to him that I looked for continuing emotional and physical care...unfortunately, a dim and unrealistic prospect.
Jack had stayed with me after the rape until Monday morning, both to apply a soothing balm to my emotional wounds and to commence the lengthy remodel project on our house that was just beginning. Then he'd left. Frank wouldn't be home from Phoenix until evening. He was still unaware of Bruce's assault, and would remain so, I'd guiltily vowed. And, I had doctors to see. I'd also decided to ask my boss, the dentist Dr. Neil McCarthy, for the week off, pleading that I'd be too busy overseeing the remodeling. So, I'd gone to the dental office where I work and gotten permission for the vacation time I needed and, while there, had stolen a handful of Percodan tablets from the pharmaceutical cabinet. The drug, which Jack had given me, had saved me since Saturday night, numbing me to memories of the horror, and had provided a nice, fuzzy sense of comfort, though completely altering my perception as I'd moved through Sunday. While I was at the office, my work mate, Mandy, had cornered me and set up a Wednesday afternoon date for lunch..."and whatever"...since, normally, she has Wednesdays off. I didn't tell Mandy about my rape.
I did, however, tell my gynecologist, a woman in the same complex as our dental office. She fully understood my not calling the police, but didn't necessarily approve of it. She examined me and took some samples for lab work, and referred me to a rape crisis counselor in the same building. I went to that woman and we had a long first session, making another appointment for the following week.
Driving home, I felt an overpowering desire to change something about myself. Something fundamental. Something that might help eliminate the frightening, flashing images of Saturday night's assault as they recurred in my mind. I wanted to rid myself of the old Deirdre. In a strange sense, I despised her. On impulse, I called my beautician, who had a spare two hours open before lunch...to trim and dye my hair. I wanted to go back to my original color. I'd had enough of the expensive frosted blonde and copper highlights and suburban housewife hairdo that had required constant attention. Suddenly, I wanted to look like what I was...an attractive, 32-year-old Italian-American woman who had a lot of life yet to live.
I arrived home after noon with my hair its natural tint: a rich, dark brown, with auburn highlights. This way, when it grew out – I wanted it to be long – the roots wouldn't show. As I walked into the house I was shocked to see walls torn out and plastic sheeting covering everything, including furniture, some of which had been stored in a room that was not being remodeled. All of the construction crew was in the backyard, eating lunch, and Billy – the strapping, 19-year-old son of our neighbor whom Jack had hired as a helper and my "protector" – was patrolling the site with his Great Dane, Thor. Billy saw me and waved through the kitchen window. I took my second Percodan of the day and opened the back door. "Want some lunch, Billy?" I called.
"Sure, Deirdre, thanks!" he responded enthusiastically, flashing the beguiling grin that seemed perpetually on his face. "Wow! You look super hot!" he exclaimed. "What'd you do to your hair?"
"Oh, just had a dye job," I said, beginning to fix sandwiches. "Going back to my original color. Got tired of the old style after...what?...seven years."
"Jeeze, it's awesome! You look like you're my age!" he gushed.
I looked at him quickly and blushed, "Ohh, Billy!" though I was secretly pleased that my new look projected a younger image...a pre-raped Dee.
