The Beating

A story in two parts.

I'm indebted to GeorgeAnderson and Blackrandl1958 for edits, discussion, suggestions, and criticisms of a previous draft of this story. If you like it -- thank them. If you don't like it, I'm the author.

There's almost no sex in this story, and if you blink, you'll miss it. There is some cheating, violence, drug use and other bad behavior, so there's that, but it's not a BTB story. Depending on what you're looking for, you've been warned.

I appreciate comments and stand by my policy of accepting all of them, even those insulting ones usually posted anonymously. If you post a comment from a Literotica account, I will try to reply directly.

Copyright, 2024, by H. Jekyll. I reserve all rights.

Battery, Part 1: The Beating

By H. Jekyll

My wife came back to me after I killed a guy.

That's not quite right. She didn't leave me. I left her. I'd have left anyway, but I was forced to leave "pursuant to a protective order," as the magistrate put it. There was a protective order because I had hit her. I'd kicked her, too. I broke her nose and gave her a hairline crack to her cheekbone, along with some other injuries. I did all that because I caught her doing it with a guy. And, no, I didn't kill the guy she was doing it with, though I sent him to the hospital.

That's the simple version.

I didn't kill anyone until much later, and I didn't kill him because of her.

*****

Oh, Jesus! Could there be a simpler way to catch them? Just stumble on them. Sometimes I've thought, 'if only I hadn't gone home early.' At least I wouldn't have had to know. Maybe she'd have ended it. So what? As it was, I ended it, and it ended badly all around.

Walking in on them took my breath away. Our townhouse front door was up a flight of stairs, and it opened onto the living room. Our mid-century modern couch faced the door, and the matching love seat faced the deck. The style doesn't matter. What matters is that when I opened the door, I looked straight at Mary Ann's ass, and she was bending down toward his dick. They probably should have heard me, though they were busy. She was on her knees on the carpet, naked; he was on the couch, hunched forward, his clothes on but his jeans all the way down around his ankles, his knees spread, his dick sticking straight out, and Mary Ann was licking it like a Tootsie Roll Pop. I don't know where her clothes were.

Yes, it's 'Mary Ann,' the girl next door, just like the cute one from "Gilligan's Island," for anyone old enough to remember. Mary Ann was cute when I started dating her and was cute as my wife. Short and trim, not voluptuous. Her almost-black hair didn't reach her shoulders, though it was long enough that she took one hand away from her--her what? Her lover's?--her lover's dick to brush it out of the way, so she'd have better access. I'd always thought her breasts were like small fruit, especially when she was kneeling, and they would hang and sway. Like peaches. They were hanging as I stood there not breathing, but they didn't sway because he was reaching between his knees and squeezing them. He seemed to be squeezing them hard and pumping them, and she grunted when he did it, as though it hurt. That was all the sound she made. He didn't gasp or anything, but said, "Yeah. Yeah," while she did him.

It wasn't so much what she was doing as whom, though the 'what' counted. My Mary Ann didn't generally do oral. 'My' Mary Ann. Crap. She didn't, but sometimes she did. She once told me that 'ejaculate'--her word--was too much like snot, and would you suck out someone's nose? But now and then it was different. One time, when we were making up after an argument over something I don't even remember, and we were madly in love again and having make-up sex, she went down on me and worked me with her mouth, getting me closer and closer. I tried to tell her I was going to come, but she didn't stop and then I couldn't stop. That took my breath away, too, though it was completely different. Afterwards she caressed my face and looked me in the eyes and whispered, "I wanted this to be special for you."

'Special'. Special because we had fought. Again. It was Mary Ann's way of making up. We'd met in a coffee shop--a music bar--where she played guitar and sang in a little folk group that was professional enough to get gigs and had cut two CDs, and whose songs were mostly about peace and love and heartache. With Mary Ann I had love but not much peace. Her soft soprano could become a whip, and we'd go from peace to total war, or, as often, to total surrender. There was a lot of making up. No one is perfect, and the making-up rescued everything else, though now came the heartache.

But 'special.' I figured she wanted to make today special for whoever it was who'd made her strip and get down on her knees, who was squeezing her breasts too hard while she did him, and who couldn't be bothered to strip for her.

That wasn't the first thing I thought or thought about. My first thought was 'no.' No. It couldn't happen. Never. But the denial phase didn't last long.

I would have said something as soon as I could exhale again, but I didn't have to. Mary Ann was staring into her guy's groin and couldn't see me, but

he

saw me and pushed her away. He half rose from the couch and tried to say something that started with, "Wha..."

Then it was her turn. She looked as shocked as she could be, maybe as shocked as I looked. He'd looked surprised at first, but also a bit smug, as though he were thinking, 'So here's the guy whose wife I'm banging.' That changed to a smirk. 'Yeah, let him see her do a real man,' and he wasn't in any rush to cover up his junk. It waved back and forth in front of him. A big damned cock. A big damned guy.

He must have been sure I was overmatched, because he was as big as a pro linebacker. Over all. I don't know how his cock stacked up against those of other linebacker types. I imagine Mary Ann didn't have much basis for comparison, either. But he knew that out in the open it dominated the room. He even petted it, like a cat, so that it pulsed, and he was the first person to actually say anything: "Would you like a taste of this, you fag? Maybe you two can share it."

Mary Ann was up and walking over to me by then with her game face on, but she turned back toward him. "Gary! Stop that!" Then back to me. "I'm sorry you had to see this, Peter." She was covering her breasts with an arm and had a hand over her crotch, as though they were things I shouldn't see. When she spoke, she was controlled and direct. "We need to talk. Just give us a few minutes alone, so Gary can leave. We need a little time. It won't take very long, then we can talk."

That was when I hit her.

*****

Never hit a woman. I know the rule. Never. Not under any circumstances. I never would. I never had. And my own wife? Me? Hell, I was Peter the 'Peacekeeper.' People chuckled about it, how even-tempered I was. I had a reputation and a nickname. The last time I'd been in a fight was, oh, never. In junior high I'd jumped into the middle of a brawl to break it up. What I'd gotten out of it was a cut lip and some bruises, but also the admiration of my friends. "Jeez, Louise, Pete! That's either the bravest or the dumbest thing I've ever seen!" Two girls were especially impressed. I got to second base with one of them a few weeks later. Then I hit a triple with the other, on a drive to deep center, if you catch my drift. Girls liked the Peacekeeper. Guys liked me. I got between two fighting kids in high school once, and they both quit rather than hit me. Other times I'd get between guys who were on the edge of swinging away. I had a way and a presence. Stay calm. Be reasonable. Help folks get out of that spiral. Talk them down.

It made Mary Ann mad. When we'd argue she'd explode and call me names and say outrageous things, while I'd try to be calm and recognize her side. God, she hated that. "Get

angry

, Pete!" I didn't want to get angry. I tried to stay in the zone. Yes, we fought, and we loved each other.

But I hit her.

I, of all people. In college I got a degree in clinical psych and then became--should I say, 'wait for it?'--a counseling psychologist. I specialized in couples' counseling, and I was good at it. I knew all about battering. I'd counseled couples who hit each other. Where he'd hit her a lot. I had helped wives or girlfriends get protective orders. I'd worked with the Women's Center to find them safe places to stay. I'd reported men to the police and helped get them arrested.

Then something happened. No, something

s

. Plural. Not just Mary Ann and her new guy. That was pretty much the

last

thing on the list.

*****

Months before. Long before. This couple was accosted by a street gang in a sketchy neighborhood in Indy. Famous last words by the husband: "Don't you touch my wife!" Anyone could guess what followed. Just for fun, they battered the husband into submission, then doubled their fun by dragging them into an abandoned building and taking turns with the wife. "Watch this, Mr. Hero! I said

watch

, you fucktard!" They were a skinhead group, and they wanted her to experience plentiful cocks tattooed with their gang's name and emblems, so she'd remember them.

What followed?

Their relationship couldn't take it. They knew they weren't at fault, but it didn't matter. It destroyed them. Sex itself became a terrible issue. She couldn't face it. She'd flinch from his touch. "Please don't, honey." Over time they could hold hands, kiss, even hug, but any step toward sex would set her off. She'd gag at the sight of his penis. She'd feel guilty about it, and angry that he would want sex, and mad at herself for being angry with him and for not trying harder, but unable to force herself forward. He was sad for her and tried not to push sex, even felt guilty for wanting sex, but grew upset with her for not trying harder, and then mad at himself for being upset with her. They fought bitterly and their marriage entered a death spiral, though neither wanted that. They started therapy to try to salvage something, but it wasn't going well when I was called in.

Why me? The husband wanted to see a man, someone he thought would better understand him. I read the file and heard him out and I thought I understood his position, but I had missed a major part.

It was our second session. We were in my office on two comfortable chairs, sitting across the coffee table from each other. We seemed to be making progress when he stopped talking and began staring at the wall, at a landscape by someone from the Hudson River School, just staring, completely losing the thread of the conversation. "Fred?" When he didn't respond I asked again. "Fred? Are you okay?" Then, out of the blue he hung his head and got weepy and began crying. He couldn't continue. I waited for him to gain control, but he couldn't, so I waited some more. You do go dry eventually, and when he did, I asked him to explain it to me, but he broke down again and started crying into his hands. Finally, he managed to tell me the hidden part.

"It's not just the sex. If we never have sex again, I'll love Linda and stay with her. It's not what I want, but I can live with it. She's my wife. But I can't live with..." and he broke down yet again. I'd never seen a man sob like that, in all my work. When he slowed down enough to finally talk, he said, "I couldn't protect her. That's what I can't live with." He had to stop again, and when he continued it was in the high and tight voice of a person who is struggling to get it out. "My wife. My Linda. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't help her." He was shattered and wanted to kill himself.

We managed to work through it. He was able to go back to his wife and the other therapist and be open with them. The last I heard they were still together and working towards intimacy, and he was learning to forgive himself for failing her. But it made me wonder if I could live with

myself

if I ever let something like that happen to Mary Ann, and I decided that no, I couldn't.

So, I learned how to fight. I took classes from a pro, twice-weekly group sessions and individualized practice sessions. I learned how to size up a situation and an opponent and to take control. We had a motto: "Don't be active, be pro-active." Don't let him choose the fight. Don't give him any time. Start before he's ready. Go for the eyes, the nose, the balls, right now!

For a break, we'd watch things like the knife fight from "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," where a gang member built like Mary Ann's Gary challenges Butch Cassidy--Paul Newman--to a knife fight over leadership of the gang. The guy's got a Bowie knife. Butch says something like "let's go over the rules," and when the guy argues "There ain't no rules in a knife fight," Butch kicks him in the balls and then knocks him out. The whole thing lasts about five seconds. We all laughed hysterically, but after we were done the pro said, 'That's the outcome you're aiming for."

Yes, I learned to fight because my client couldn't protect his wife. I understand the irony of what actually happened.

*****

The second big thing was that Mary Ann and I had a crisis. We'd been trying to get pregnant. We wanted kids, and we were working at it happily. We had sex all the time, focusing on positions that were supposed to help, after which she would arrange her body in ways that should help my sperm seep deep within her, while I caressed her ass and her pudendum. She'd caress my cock to get me back up and we'd do it again, as often as I could get it up. Sure, there was some so-so sex, but there's that old saying: better so-so sex than no-no sex. We did everything right, but somehow it wasn't happening.

We had tests and got the bad news that Mary Ann

couldn't

get pregnant. God, that was an awful day. The morning was overcast and cold, which Mary Ann took as a sign. She'd been obsessing for days, and I'd been trying to reassure her, but she grew so scared that she wouldn't even go to the gynecologist's office to get the results. I had to bring them home to her. I held her hands and told her, and then I pulled her to me, and we held each other until she didn't want me to hold her anymore. She lost her appetite. She lost her libido. She sat or walked aimlessly, and I grew more and more worried about her. She couldn't even talk about our options.

But the crisis seemed to pass. She ate. She talked. She laughed. I remember we were on the bed, naked, the first time we'd set out to make love since that horrible day, me erect as all hell, when she burst out crying and asked, "How can you want me, when I can't even give you a baby?"

The crisis wasn't over at all.

We held each other again, and I caressed her, maybe too much. I should have known better. I caressed her breasts, then down to her mound, and she said, "Let's not do it tonight, Petey, okay? Could we just snuggle?"

Of course! Of course we could. We fell asleep touching each other. In the morning when I awoke, we were still naked and Mary Ann was curled up to me in the middle of our bed, but something had changed for her. She didn't want sex. Ever. She absolutely wouldn't initiate sex, and when I'd try, she'd turn me down for this or that reason. She was in her period, or she didn't feel well, or she was too tired. Sometimes she said she just didn't feel like it. She cooperated a few times--isn't 'cooperated' a nice, neutral term?--but she just passively accepted it, and I stopped trying.

That was the third thing. Weeks went by. A month. Two months. More. Yes, I knew about these issues, didn't I? Well, it's different when it's your own wife. I knew to give her time, and to not put too much pressure on her, but at three months I was starting to suggest she see a therapist. Other than the sex, things seemed to be okay.

Okay.

That's a shit word for a marriage, but it's how I felt.

So, unlike many men who've found their women have strayed, I can point to the exact date that things began to turn sour, indeed the very hour. I thought I saw depression, though, not what turned out to be a voyage of slutish exploration.

*****

Mary Ann came to me, around the coffee table, straight from her lover's cock, and used

that

mouth to tell me to leave so she could usher the guy out. I should be a gentleman about it, then we could have our serious 'talk.' Fuck it all! Something snapped and I hit her and she just collapsed. She rolled to her back and her lips and mouth and chin were all covered in blood. She was making a sound, something like a cross between a moan and a whimper, and I wasn't sure she was completely conscious.

I couldn't focus on Mary Ann, though, because Gary had started to rise just as she had begun to fall, and I took him out. A giant? One who didn't know how to fight. Had he ever needed to? Did anyone dare cross him? If so, he'd won on brute power. Sure, I'd never actually fought before, but I had two things going for me, rage and training, and to hell with peacekeeping.

In any case, he made a huge tactical error by kicking the coffee table aside instead of fastening his pants, and I got him in the balls. Thank you, Butch Cassidy. But really, how could I miss them? They were right there, still half visible, saying 'hit me!' and the fight was over. What came next was the massacre. As he doubled over, I came up with my palm, right on his nose, and I heard it crunch. I hit him on the side of the head to put him down and then I jumped down on him, driving both knees into his belly. I hit his face over and over. I was trying to jab my fingers into his eyes, but I couldn't get direct hits anymore because he was struggling so much. Still, he was finished, and after about a minute I put a forearm across his throat and pushed it down with my other hand, and I said, "Get the hell out of here! But keep looking over your shoulder because you'll never know when I'll be there. And if you ever touch my wife again, I'll kill you! Do you understand?" He just grunted so I slapped his face. "Do. You. Under. Stand? I'll fucking kill you!"

He averred as to how he could see my point of view. I'm making a little joke of it because I'm feeling it again, as I write this. I have to fight the feeling because it's so overpowering. I really didn't want to stop, but I was getting winded. My first fight and I think I could have beaten him to death, but I got off him and he struggled oh-so-slowly to his feet, catching blood in one hand, leaving more on the carpet, holding his pants up with the other hand, and he staggered out the door. I never saw him again.

Then there was just Mary Ann. She was lying on her side against the love seat, holding her bloody face, writhing and moaning. Her left eye was swelling, and she stared at me with her right eye. I hated her. I hated her more than him. "So, you want to talk?" I walked over to her, and she cried, "Don't!" as she tried to shrink under the love seat. She could never shrink that far. I grabbed her hair, pulled her face up, and slapped her right where I'd hit her. She screamed and pulled both hands over her face.

"Don't! Please!"

She rolled over so her face was protected, and it was just her back.

"Sure! Let's

talk

."

I kicked her in the back, and she yelled again.

"Don't hurt me!"

"Sure! Start talking. Why not?"

I kicked her again. Then again, so she'd know it.

"Don't hurt me, Pete. Please don't. Please don't."

She was shaking, and I was too. I thought of kicking her again, but I finally started to realize how pointless it was. What was I doing anyway? I looked down at my feet, at the floor, at the love of my life, at Mary Ann. Then I turned away. I got her cell phone and tossed it to her.

"Call the cops. I'm sure they'd

love

to talk with you."