A Hypothetical Marital Catastrophe

HYPOTHETICAL MARITAL CATASTROPHE (PART TWO)

(Proviso: This story is a work of fiction. All characters were created for the purpose of telling the story. Any similarity between any character and any person living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters were created as adults at least 21 years old.)

"Knackered," a word that had fascinated her English grandmother, rattled around in Gail Connery's pain ridden pulsing brain. Gail had expected the night of laborious sex to tax her endurance if not her sanity. But she also had calculated that there would be overwhelming guilt.

Why was there no symptom of guilt?

Had she really done it? Had she sold her 48 year-old body as if it were a frat house blow-up doll?

Her slowly functioning senses became even more flummoxed as she stared up at the sex soiled image of herself on the ceiling.

Why was she naked on the ceiling?

How could that bald, overweight man be mounting her on the ceiling. Her eyes focused critically as she stared incredulously at the ceiling. It was her face and body. Seeing herself literally "fucking" on a strange ceiling, however, produced a visceral response almost like a tangible madness.

The strain of the rapid, piston-like penetrations of Gail's body was showing in the middle aged man's contorted face. Beads of moisture popped out on his wrinkled brow as he gasped for air, all the while dripping his warm sweat into her eyes as he labored above her. She saw no pleasure in the bulging eyes or waxy face. Grasping the reality was tantalizingly elusive.

Sorting her own emotions, however, seemed comically simple. To Gail's horror, she knew that the sexual deluge of this night already had become addictive. Above in the ceiling video, she saw the man mercilessly driving a long, thin penis into her gaping, semen filled vagina. Involuntarily, she screamed and convulsed as the one dimensional man on the ceiling abruptly stopped, stiffened and howled.

"Gram would say that I'm knackered beyond redemption," Gail murmured. "I actually see my filthy naked body up on the ceiling being fucked."

To her Gram, "knackered" had meant that she was "beyond bone-tired." The word most certainly applied as Gail slid her hand between her legs and confirmed that her bruised and swollen vagina was a slimy mess. She flinched and moaned as her fingers explored her stinging inflamed opening.

The porn movie playing in the enormous mirror on the ceiling was no hallucination. It was a faithful recording of her whoring performance that had paused for a brief recovery only three hours earlier.

How did she get to this magnificently appointed room? Where was she?

Surreal flashes of sexually charged scenes from Santini's "research party" began to swim in Gail's throbbing brain. She massaged her facial muscles and eyes. Fragments of her negotiations with Santini floated through her sex sodden consciousness. None of it could be true.

But there was the memory of Santini's ecstatically happy, almost lyrical eruption of satisfaction during the experimental orgy. He had declared victory. He did a spontaneous victory dance. His long, tedious study of women had validated his hypothesis, and now he would publish and renew his standing as the leading social scientist in the ether. His findings in this cutting edge research known as The Project would change fundamental perceptions of the nature of women. His streets would be paved with gold.

Women as a species, he had toasted, were endowed with both intuitive and instinctive qualities that led them to sell, barter or gift their sex. He now had the evidence. Santini's soon to be published monograph would nail this long held blue collar opinion, a fact of life known instinctively by patrons of ale houses and barrooms, to the door of Notre Dame Cathedral.

Gail and her friends—Margie, Jeanine and June—had just provided his obligatory chapter. They represented the most important cultural and sociopolitical segments of the canon known as "Women's Mystique." They would provide the center point. All of them flew under the victory burgee of "The Women's Movement."

Obviously, Santini had employed the most sophisticated of investigative agencies in his search for the most prestigious and successful women of the 50-year women's campaign for superiority. But his staff had compiled 1,422 files of women all over the world, who in some significant measure had contributed to the success of this risky and very costly project.

Our four wives had emerged as the quintessence of "The Movements's" most successful woman, according to Santini's computer models. It had been imperative that he secure their services in concluding his study. It was obvious that his reputation for success in reasoning with women had been well earned.

Preseumably, we husbands were post modern men. Were we not required by all 21

st

Century revisionist social protocols to be proud and unquestioningly supportive of our women's success? As it turned out, neither Santini nor our wives had considered the possibility that at least one of us four huswbands might be a "throw back" to the dark ages when wimpery was not an option. I often have wondered how the indestructable Dr. Santini could have failed to consider the possibility that a "recessive gene" might be lurking in one of us.

As it turned out, I suffered from the "flawed male ego" and could not be persuaded or coerced into wimpery. I was not necessarily alone in my resistance. But the other three husbands had eakened in varying degrees as the material rewards of selling pussy became obvious.

"Women are disposed by nature to sell their sex," Dr. Hussain William Santini Santiago Ali had shouted after only an hour into the pivotal orgy weekend.

Santini's scientifically scripted, "dusk to dawn" sex marathon had proved his hypothesis. If the illustrious Gail Connery and her friends, all paragons of the virtues valued by the cultures known as Western Civilization, would sell their sex, all women would sell their sex. It was only a matter of price.

RISKING ALL FOR SCIENCE...

This abrupt change in her life had brought heretofore unthinkable new dimensions of existence. The realiztion that sex could become a way of life to the exclusion of all other meaningful variables shook her to the core. Gail was confounded by the emotional paradox of exhilaration mixed with a pernicious disquiet.

There also was the disturbing echo of Doctor Linda Nriana Omara Asante hovering over her with a sophisticated video instrument. Asante had cast a dark shadow over the night of "scientifically scripted" sex. As Santini's lead assistant, the surly, snake eyed woman recorded all of the intuitive reactions reflected in the eyes and muscles around the mouth during an orgasm. Gail gasped as she realized that Asante's videos had captured every nuance of her experience as she had coupled with each sperm donor. And she had lost count of the partners at twelve.

On the ceiling, three men were vigorously exercising their abnormally erect penises in her incredibly dilated body openings as five awaited their turn. Several women empathized visibly as they stood in a semi circle applauding the writhing mass, their faces reflecting their own growing sexual arousal. They unconsciously masturbated as they watched the four straining faces turning rapidly in full circle.

It was a freakish rotation of artful savagery. Gail was enjoying an almost injurious performance of sexual mayhem measurable only in mechanical revolutions per minute that diffused erratically in radical variations of sensuality mixed with pulsing cognitive senses and perceptions. Gail tumbled like a golf ball in a clothes dryer in the bruising sexual contest of intertwisted arms and legs attached to four contorted sweaty torsos. Their seemingly detached faces registered pain even when they would have described the most sublime gratification, straining for the mystically elusive "Ultimate Orgasmic Rapture." Santini had coined the phrase "Ultimate Orgasmic Rapture" in his orientation lecture just before the scientific fuckfest began.

Staring at this ceiling display of her inflamed, swollen vagina brought "shock and awe" succeeded by a moment of hysteria. During all of her cascading emotions and surging appetites, Gail was taunted by the word "Phantasmagoria." The ridiculous word had entered her novelty vocabulary during an abnormal psych class. Now it seemed to have relevance. Almost comically, one part of her brain was lucid and playing back random memories. "Phantasmagoria" entered the world of the adventurously cusrious in the 17

th

Century as "horror theater." Demons and apparitions were projected onto the walls of a room decorated to create "the thrill of unconscious fear."

Gail had wondered if she would ever regain control of her emotions and nerves. She lay watching herself in the video on the ceiling screaming in rapid fire orgasmic convulsions as the three penises thrust into her. The protagonists drilled her with almost painful force, then slowly withdrew in a fascinating synchronization. As a prolonged finale, they churned her holes with rapid half-inch penetrations. The effect of their embedding themselves and violently shuddering their whole bodies created a vibration that engulfed her vagina walls and slowly spread to each atom of her body. At the peak of the tension, her nervous system essentially detonated an indescribable orgasmic experience unlike any emotion she could remember.

In her report to Santini, outlining the resulting pleasure produced by the "vibrating penises," she described the experience as "tormenting exhilaration and exquisite erotic agony." Her partners, however, had shrugged and found nothing extraordinary in either her responses or their efforts. They complimented Gail's natural "fucking talents," but the superlatives Gail had expected were missing.

Though her purported lovers were not extraordinarily impressed with Gail, the other select participants in the party gave her high marks. The preponderance of the recorded opinions had held that the owners of the penises had "lacked enthusiasm."

Visibly offended, the men made an impressive statistical defense, citing impressive orgasm numbers for both Gail and themselves, the opinion register remained unchanged. Their uneventful moments of mundane ejaculation had proved to be an anticlimax for the sex scientists gathered at the event as aficionados of the mystical orgasm. The "penis performers," said the women observer participants, unforgivably had lost their concentration as they unloaded their semen into Gail.

Aftershocks of Gail's unexpected and at times frightening orgasmic detonations had continued long after the three men had spent and withdrawn. Santini had called a halt to the awe-inspiring demonstration when she failed to revive immediately from a third passionate "la petite mort" (The little death. So complete was her erotic exhaustion that she lay twitching and quivering, screaming in unconscious protest if anyone touched her. At length she had calmed and submitted to a brief therapeutic massage while drinking orange juice. Her commitment to the orgy, however, had been cemented. Within half an hour, she was under a frat boy who was artless at intercourse but stretched and filled her in an almost brutal demonstration of raw fucking. After the frat boy, a hard hat type, dark burned tan with vulgar muscles, used an average appendage with savage pleasure, sneering as he splattered her face.

Not once had she refused any proposal for any sex act other than water sports. She was relieved that there were no animals present. Remarkably, at no time did she or her three friends express doubts or consider leaving. After the initial round of sexual intercourse with a succession of three partners, they had become aggressive and set their own sexual trends for the night.

Would the video reveal that she quickly became a committed partner? Would these videos become public? She experienced a sudden choking revulsion. The video, she knew, would show that she had performed like an inveterate whore during the night of comprehensive debauchery.

Everyone including Charlie would soon know the truth. She had "fucked" like a woman possessed, not simply as a participant in a science project. Her husband, Charlie, would not be impressed even if he were convinced that she was serving the high calling of science.

Charlie would dump her "cum filled ass." Here came Gail's humorless laugh again. She probed her ass with her forefinger and confirmed that it truly was "cum filled."

It was the money. Of course, she did it for science, too. But that wouldn't matter. Charlie wouldn't believe that she could be bought so easily. And everyone would agree with him. Again came the fruitless laugh as she floated another dose of unforgiving probability. Apparently, she had traded her marriage for a colon and vagina filled with the ejaculate of at least a dozen sex partners.

Incredulity would not release its painful grip. No one would believe it. Santini had hooked the cultural icon, the professionally exemplary Gail Connery. Furthermore, he had done so with money.

Incredible in the extreme! No sex gamester, even a renowned social scientist, could buy a proud Christian woman like Gail, whose salary from her own business was always in a high six figures.

Gail heard herself emit an involuntary laughter, more like the rattle of a soul in abject misery. Though Gail Connery would never sell her soul and sex for money, she murmured, Santini had managed to buy her. His pioneering research into the unfathomed depths of the female mind had compelled her to listen to his proposition. But, without a doubt, it was his offer of a literal fortune that had bought her.

How had Santini done it? How had he so easily penetrated her academically and theologically reinforced safeguards. Gail painfully prodded her conscious mind. Santini had been so scrupulously courteous and professionally reasonable in describing his need for an accomplished career woman with an impeccable history. The "subject woman" must hold an advanced degree and stand admired as a wife and mother. His academically controlled study of the "unexplored scope and depths" of the nature of women would have seized the imagination of any woman of the post Christian, post modern and millennial generations.

"Even as I signed the contract," Gail reasoned as she berated herself, "I must have known that I would choose the money and permit the men to fuck me; so, I can't recount all of the hours of rationalization and convincing myself that my family would be so mush happier and secure with all that money."

Then came the condemning memory. Santini had agreed that she and her friends would receive $25,000 each for attending the party. They would receive the $25,000 even if they chose not to "fuck." Of course, Santini had stressed with mock bewilderment that their reward for 12 hours of energetic, enthusiastic "dusk to dawn fucking" would be ten times the honorarium of $25,000.

More to the insane point, why had Gail Connery, an exemplary wife and mother as well as an accomplished career woman, made the "Satan's Bargain?" Surely she had not been as "easy" as a barroom "quick fuck?" But she had chosen a fortune to "fuck and suck" indiscriminately for 12 hours? Was the answer as simple as that?

Fear overwhelmed her slowly enveloping humiliation. It was a strange emotion, though, more like a challenge to the unknown while realizing that the human mind lacked a known mechanism for diving the answer.

MAGICIAN FROM EVE'S ORCHARD OR A DEMON FROM HELL?

Then, as she fell back on her pillows continuing to stare at her naked body on the ceiling, her training and experience prevailed episodically. The critical intelligence and profound analytical abilities so confidently touted by her professors, colleagues and many clients, apparently had failed her.

Gail Connery had always relied on her extraordinary recall faculties and moral strengths. With all her cognitive strengths, she was struggling to revive her conscience if not her moral compass.

As the fog that was dulling her cognition lifted, the reality of the last 48 hours dawned. Undoubtedly, she and her three best friends irrationally had attempted to escape their high tension existence beginning with their insidiously pivotal introduction to Dr. Hussain William Santini Santiago Ali.

To add a pinch of the ridiculous to their humiliation, the "larger than life" exemplars of women's superiority had schemed to meet the devil's own ambassador in the toilet of the luxury hotel. The absurdity produced a humorless smile until she once more stared at he naked body on the ceiling.

Seeing herself in the mirror on the ceiling as she examined her ravaged vagina was terrifying. She willfully suppressed a taunting need to scream in complete surrender to the simplistic idiocy implicit in her failure.

Now she recalled Santini's urgency in requesting a meeting to engage her services as one of the top media analysts in the world. He had stressed in his initial call that he could not delay conferring with her until after the New Year's holiday. The government funded Project he directed had come to the "moment of truth," he said, and he must test his hypotheses immediately. Money was no problem. He cleverly inferred that the money he could offer would stagger her imagination.

When she had asked for more information, Santini had evaded answering, saying that it was too complex to discuss on the phone; but, should she agree to participate, her role would be critical in the analysis of this pivotal study's findings. He had added with an accomplished poker payer's artfulness that her contribution to his research could be the catalyst. Then he set the hook with the tantalizing remark that his research could have a revolutionary effect on the status of all women.

Santini had quickly seized the initiative and quizzed her about her plans for New Year's Eve. Always resourceful, he had led her with astonishing ease to agree to meet with him briefly at the hotel ballroom before the band started played at the New Year's Eve Gala.

"You have three friends who also would qualify for the program," Santini had said, almost as an after thought before he terminated the call. "It would be to their benefit to attend our negotiations."

If only she had not gone into her office that morning. Santini could not have completed his fateful call to her office. He could not have made his incredible offer until the next Monday during office hours. In retrospect, however, she would admit that the delay would not have changed the outcome.

Why had she told him that she and her friends, also widely respected media professionals, would "give him a few minutes at the New Year's Eve party?" Within minutes of being seated with their unsuspecting husbands at their party table in the hotel's ballroom, Gail and her three friends needed to "pee and refresh themselves."

Persistently, some uncontrollable dark voice from her unconscious now teased her. Some evil blackness from a dark corner of her mind played tricks on her Super Ego. She did it because her Libido demanded nasty, high risk sex. She wanted to hurt the demon tormenting her, but she could only cry.

Why had she done it? How could she have spread her legs with the ease of a stupid Berkeley or Harvard freshman? She had been incredibly "easy" and her heels had been so "round."

Gail Connery, the super woman of media management, cringed and squirmed as her insipid little "Greed Gene" answered her intuitive question. It damned sure was the money. It was all that financial power conferred by the government grant and private patrons. Some

It was all that money that Santini had casually mentioned in the opening gambit of his initial cell call. She cursed under her breath as the realization crystallized. Money! Nothing more than