Mona

1. Friday evening I was out back on my little slab of concrete patio, lounging in my saggy lawn chair, drinking bourbon and chain-smoking. I was thinking about money, specifically that mine seemed to be running out again, and that something would have to be done about it soon. That was as far as I'd gotten in my musing. The evening, the liquor, and the tobacco had persuaded me that tomorrow would be soon enough to address the problem in depth.

I watched a rabbit over by the garage eating something green. It always surprised me to see wildlife in the yards around here. I wondered if the little bastard was undermining the garage.

My yard is narrow and the garage takes up three-quarters of the available width. The main door is on the opposite side, facing the alley where you drive in; the door out to the yard is in the side wall, so from the vantage of the patio all you see is a blank brick wall. I haven't parked there in over a year.

To the left, between the garage wall and the chain-link fence, is a footpath leading back to a gate and the alley beyond. It's narrow and overgrown, which I guess explains the rabbit.

The light was fading by this time, so I was startled when I first noticed the woman standing on the path at the corner of the garage. Just for a second, I had the wild idea the rabbit had transformed into a human. But that was absurd.

The woman wasn't moving, she just stood there looking at me. After the initial surprise, my first rational thought was to wonder how long she'd been back there before coming forward to show herself (my second thought being to wonder whether or not I'd absent-mindedly scratched my balls in the last quarter-hour or so).

I couldn't make out much about her but I didn't move or acknowledge her, hoping she'd mistakenly wandered up from the alley to the wrong house and was now doing the mental work to confirm this for herself prior to retreating. When she continued to stand there I realized she probably couldn't see me well enough to register that I'd noticed her and was now looking right at her.

"Hello," I called, trying to be curt but neighborly at the same time, if that was even possible.

She moved then, a sort of full-body spasm suggesting she was more startled than I'd just been. Her arms and legs all worked at once in a kid of involuntary protective gesture.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Wrong house?"

"Uh, well..."

I got up and walked towards her. "Is everything okay?" It's not a long yard so I was within a few feet of her after eight or nine paces. She was wearing a knee-length flowery summer dress and flip-flops. She was holding her right arm across her chest with her hand on her left shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," she said again, only this time her voice had dropped to a whisper.

So I said, again, "Is everything okay?"

"Not... not really," she said, and she took a step past the end of the garage, then side-stepped in front of the wall. I glanced along the path toward the alley then back at her.

"Are you... are you

hiding

?"

Her hand came away from her shoulder and she raised her finger to her lips to shush me. As she did so her dress peeled away from her left side and a torn section fell to her waist. She quickly gathered it up and returned it to her shoulder. It was a rapid movement, but I saw she wasn't wearing a bra and her left nipple was hard as a hazelnut.

"What happened?" I said, "what's going on? Are you hurt?"

Her hand went up to her face, the torn dress fell away again, and she half-stepped, half-staggered towards me as a sob lurched up from her chest.

I caught her by her upper arms in an attempt to prevent collapse but she sank into me, head against my chest, arms around me tight--painfully so, as if she'd discovered a buoy in a choppy sea and her life depended on not letting go.

"Whoa," I said, struggling under the sudden weight. It felt like her legs had given out. After a moment she recovered somewhat and took some of the load herself, but she continued to hold tight.

She said into my neck, "I just needed to get away. I'm so sorry to bother you. I didn't think there'd be anyone back here."

"Come and sit down."

I led her across the grass to the patio and brushed off the dirt from the other lawn chair I'd had my feet on.

"Here, sit."

I looked at her in the chair, knees together, her right hand holding up the dress.

"Wait a second," I said.

I went into the house and found a sweatshirt. On the way out again I picked up a glass from the rack by the kitchen sink.

"Put this on, it'll leave you both hands free."

She smiled tightly, meeting my gaze only for a second as she reached for the sweatshirt, then looking away as if embarrassed or ashamed.

"Drink?" I said, "you look like you need one."

"Thanks."

I sat down after handing her a couple of fingers in the tumbler, then refilled my own and lit a cigarette.

"Do you want me to call the police?"

"Uh, no, they're sick of hearing about us."

"This is to do with your husband, or...?"

She took her first sip then half-coughed, half-wheezed.

"Yes. Every couple months there's a fight and he gets physical. Sometimes I just need to get out until he runs out of steam."

"Did he hurt you tonight?"

"Almost. But I know when it's coming, when it's time to split. He caught my dress as I headed out the back."

"This happens a lot but you stay with him?"

She shrugged.

"Do you love him?"

"I... guess so."

"...Okay."

This was none of my business and not my problem, other than the temporary presence of this woman in my yard. I'd walk her back to her house when she was done with her drink.

"Could I bum a cigarette from you? Drinking makes me want to smoke again."

"Sure. Help yourself. I'm Freddie, by the way."

She looked at me as she was lighting up, the flame dancing in her eyes. Her mouth was pouting with the cig in there, but the eyes were smiling at me.

"Mona," she said, exhaling. "It's nice to meet you, Freddie. And thanks for rescuing me."

Even in the twilight I could see Mona had good legs. She crossed one across the other and let her flip-flop dangle from the raised foot. She was in her early forties maybe, sturdily built, trim but soft. The underside of her thigh was just the right side of slack. The glimpse I'd had of her left breast was enough to trigger the standard reaction in me, so all was well there, too. The scratch on her collar bone, where the dress had been torn away, was the only visible sign (so far) of physical violence.

"It doesn't sound like you needed rescuing," I said. "You knew when to duck out."

"Yeah, but you could have just shooed me off the property, told me to hit up the police. I guess you still might. But you took me in. Showed me some concern. Made me feel, I don't know, safe?"

She was making more than a couple of assumptions and/or extrapolations there, but I let it pass.

I said, "Speaking of the police, are you sure you don't want to make a report? I know someone who works there, I could ask her to help you out."

"Is she pretty?"

Hmm.

"Uh, yeah, I guess she is. Very fit, ex-military. She's like a miniature horse."

"Funny kind of compliment."

"Yeah, she doesn't much like me at the moment. We have our dry spells. But when we do it's not because I hit her or anything. If I tried that with Kim she'd just put me in the hospital."

"Everyone's different, huh?"

"I guess. Not sure what you mean?"

"You talk about her affectionately while you're telling me there's friction."

I regarded her for a moment before replying. "I never thought about it like that. But I can tell you have."

Mona dusted some ash from the top of her thigh. "Yeah, I guess I have my reasons to think about things that way."

"You and your husband. What's his name, anyway?"

"Chip. For Charles, which he hates. If I want to get a rise out of him I call him Slugger. He hates that even more."

"You called him Slugger tonight?"

She gave a coquettish little shrug and a smirk.

"He'd been pissing me off."

"Listen," I said. I was sitting forward in my lawn chair now, elbows on my knees. "If this is just routine for you guys, why don't you just head on home? The both of you know it's all going to work out."

"You think I'm faking?"

"I didn't say that."

"You think I ripped my own dress?" She reached for her left shoulder even though the bulky sweatshirt was covering it.

"No. How long do you stay out when you run away from him? I mean, this is all just elaborate foreplay for you two, isn't it?"

"Ha."

I'd never heard less amusement in an exclamation. Mona had an inscrutable expression on her face, so I just waited.

"The, uh... the violence is very real."

It was more or less dark now and the street light at the end of the alley was the only illumination. It was just enough to see her eyes filling up.

"When it's not too rough," she went on, "usually I'm okay with it. Sometimes it's too much. And sometimes I'm just not in the mood. But I understand what's going on inside Chip. I guess it's complicated. That's what they say, right? 'It's complicated.'"

She did the air quotes then picked up her glass and took a pull of her bourbon. She uncrossed then recrossed her legs the opposite way. It looked like a defensive move. She was uncomfortable now.

I didn't have much to say about what she'd said, but I did have a question.

"Do you guys drink a lot?"

She nodded. "Chip's drunk all the time. Me, I can't take it like that, not anymore."

I'd been wavering, in two minds, trying to weigh my risk/reward with Mona here, but I guess this tipped the scales for me. It was time to take the necessary next step.

"Look, finish up your drink and I'll walk you home. Where do you live?"

"You wanna meet Slugger?"

"I'll make sure he's not out of hand, is all. You're headed back there anyway, right?"

"I don't always. Sometimes I stay away a few days."

"Doesn't that just make things worse?"

"It gives me time to think things through. Gives him time to start missing me."

"Where do you go?"

"Here, there, motels, my sister's. It's not every week."

"I assume he's pissed when you get home?"

She surprised me by smiling broadly.

"Oh, sure, at first he's pissed. But I know he always wants me back. Either way, I'm ready for him. You see?"

I shook my head. Not that I didn't understand, just that I was trying to take it all in.

"Where do you live?" I asked again.

"Not far. We're a block up from Moundville Pike."

"All right. Let me grab my keys."

I took my glass and went in the back door. My keys were in a bowl on the counter beside the toaster. When I turned around to head out again Mona was right behind me. She'd taken off the sweatshirt and was holding it out to me.

"You'll need this back," she said. "Thanks. It was kind of you."

Her expression hit me like a punch to the gut. She looked desolate. Her dress was hanging off again, and there was her matchless left breast, forlorn and glorious and helpless.

I took the sweatshirt from her and put it down on the counter along with my keys.

"Mona," I said in a low voice, stooping slightly to catch her lowered gaze. I picked up the dangling fabric and lifted it back to her shoulder. "Oh, Mona. What a life."

"It's not so bad." A couple of tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her dress had been ripped along the seam; the remnants of the stitching stuck out like a millipede on its back. I gripped the material in my fist and pulled down hard. The dress tore the rest of the way, across her belly and down to her hips, then fell to my kitchen floor.

2. There was no plan, of course, no great seduction. But there was something about Mona standing there naked in my kitchen: in her crappy flip-flops, her arms across her breasts, her spine bowed in a crouch of anticipated violence, her face blank of emotion, her eyes dark with interior visions. Something inside me caught fire like a gas boiler igniting.

In my line of sight was the little café table just beyond the kitchen door. It was circular with a top of iron grillwork, the kind they put out for sidewalk dining in the summer (which was probably when my landlord stole it).

"Over there," I said, and when she half-turned to see where I was indicating, I gripped her near shoulder and turned her all the way around, then began to march her in front of me.

Besides her flip-flops, Mona was wearing thin cotton briefs, tan in color, as far as I could tell from the portion that hadn't already migrated to her butt crease. I might be a little strange, but I like this kind of dishevelment in a woman; it has a humanizing effect. Perhaps it makes what's to come less of a sacrilege? (I struggle sometimes with an inclination to place women on a pedestal.)

Up near her coccyx I hooked a finger around the panty-twist and tugged it free of her ass-vortex. Using both hands I smoothed out the material to make it easier to roll down, which I then did, squatting behind her and starting with the narrow band above the hips. A couple of inches below the inflection of Mona's ass-cheeks the panties had become two loops of damp rope conjoined by a sopping gusset. I separated her trembling peach halves and blew into the crease. As I did so I could feel on my chin the humid heat of her furnace below, curling up towards me like steam from a witch's cauldron.

I stood up and put my left hand under Mona's hair to grasp the back of her neck. "Down," I said, pushing. At the same time I tapped the inside of her ankles with my foot--right then left--which she understood. One of her flip-flops came off as she spread for me. These adjustments resulted in Mona's torso being more or less horizontal and she gave a little gasp as her breasts encountered the metal table-top.

"Cold!"

Playfully I pressed down on her upper back and shoulders.

"Bastard!"

She didn't sound too put out.

I stripped off my shorts, underwear and T-shirt. While bent over I slurped at her ass like it was ice cream, two scoops in a cone.

Returning to the upright position, my cock instinctively sought out Mona's fly-trap, as if his primary function was olfactory. I separated her cheeks again and thumbed her asshole while my snuffling bloodhound ran her pussy to ground. I felt her yield at the first push and the table scraped the remaining couple of inches across the floor until it bumped the wall. Then her thighs stiffened invigoratingly as she reciprocated the force.

I was surprised and delighted to feel us instantly synchronize our rhythm, as if we already shared an intimate understanding. More likely it was beginner's luck, or maybe the extremity of the circumstances. Either way, we coupled like railcars on a track and I shunted her caboose with juddering bony clunks and fleshy slaps like we'd been working the same route for years.

Partway through Mona said something to the table that I didn't catch.

"What's that?"

She turned her head slightly and I heard, "Just don't hit me anywhere too obvious, okay?"

What was she expecting, a donkey punch?

"I'm not gonna hit you, Mona."

Jesus. I know it takes all kinds, and everyone has their peccadilloes, but if anything I'm the guy who, at the moment of capitulation, is more likely to yell out, "I love you,

!" (You know what I'm talking about: the holler of shame, instantly regretted.)

"I mean," she said, "if you feel the urge."

Oh. Now I got it. I guess I should have been ready for this after the conversation we'd just had outside. Mona

wanted

me to hit her.

I'm not against roughness, as a rule, but even an imbecile knows it's not the brightest idea to make your first encounter with new minge an orgy of concussions and contusions. A lady likes to be guided and encouraged along her way to such excesses. Maybe Mona wasn't such a lady. Maybe she was just a broad, as they used to call it back when words had more nuance.

These days, I don't know, I guess it's all about the girl feeling

safe

with her guy when she

consents

to take a beating from him. Kind of drains the spontaneity from the moment. ["Would you be agreeable to me slamming your head on this iron table as I ejaculate inside you?" "Yes, that'll be fine." "Wonderful, just sign here."]

I have to hand it to Mona, though, there was none of that bullshit. Whatever she put up with from Slugger, she understood the excitement inherent in risk and danger, the red-hot knife edge between domination and victimization. For me, it's never been a successful long-term plan for a relationship. The numbness of familiarity invariably sets in, and sooner or later you're lost in the fog of moral doubt trying to decide just how far to escalate.

But for now I had a choice to make.

Where

? And also,

how hard

?

It wasn't lost on me that there was something odd about the evening's turn of events. Mona showing up with her sob story was one thing; it might or might not have been genuine. But without some corroborating evidence it was equally plausible that I had been figured for a mark of some kind, a gullible layabout with a lazy Friday evening on his hands, ripe for exploitation. Lawsuits? Rape charge? Blackmail and extortion? Some kind of staged but violent retribution (because Mona and Chip had made it

that

far on their escalation ladder)?

Yes, I had to keep all that in mind, even as I gouged Mona and gathered a hank of her hair in my left hand and pulled, while spanking her ass with my right. Yes, I'd known Mona for less than an hour and already she'd let me fuck her and more or less given me the green light to loose my inner caveman. But the urgency of the moment demanded I put these considerations on ice for now.

"I'm right on the edge, baby. Hold tight."

"Do it, Slugger," Mona told the wall. And a moment later she twisted her head to the side and added, more quietly, "Oh, shit. That just slipped out."

Fellas, as you well know, there's nothing like being mistaken for someone else in the midst of plowing your new girlfriend a nice deep furrow. It can hit you a couple of ways. One, you might be dismayed, crestfallen, and most importantly, deflated. Two--and this is the reaction I had--you might be enraged, indignant, and suddenly full of renewed purpose.

"Slugger, huh?"

I let go of her hair and pounded her cervix (maybe, I'm not a doctor) for a full minute, flat out; angry, punishing thrusts that felt like an important lesson was being taught. I almost didn't notice that she'd started coming, but eventually her twitching legs and jerking shoulders--along with a sustained whimper through the holes in the iron grillwork--clued me in.

Meanwhile, the vanishingly small portion of my brain that was still dealing in reason, logic, and risk assessment began to speak up.

"Freddie," the small voice said, surprisingly calm and patient. "...Hey, Freddie, pay attention, man. You see what she's doing here, right? Don't be a fucking idiot, Freddie. You don't know this woman. And you certainly don't know 'Slugger.'"

But the rest of me said La-la-la this feels great, what's the worst that could happen? And God damn if I didn't come deep inside her right then, like a sixteen-year-old hedonist with his whole life to ruin, because what else was there to do on a Friday night?

When my own spasm had concluded and the first of a thousand self-recriminations began to murmur in the resulting void, my smarter self chimed in again. "That's the style, Freddie, taking the long view. Protecting yourself." I noted a decidedly sardonic tone.

Slowly Mona turned herself around, holding onto the edge of the table for support. Her eyes were wide and locked on mine. Her mouth was hanging open.

"Freddie," she said, still somewhat out of breath. "You just... Freddie, you just

raped

me."