She came to be consoled.... we helped, or did we?
*
"Who could that be?" my wife Aliza said as our doorbell rang. She looked worried. And not without reason. It was close to midnight and we had just finished cleaning up the kitchen before going to bed.
"No idea."
We both went to the front door and I peeped through the small spy hole.
To my surprise it was Isabelle, wet from the rain.
We know her well. She lives on the next farm up the road, a farm that barely makes a profit. Her husband is known mainly as nuisance and a habitual frequenter of pubs. Isabelle, normally a blooming pretty young woman with a charming face and a sexy body, appeared to be extremely distressed.
"What happened?!" my wife asked alarmed, letting her in. Isabelle had eyes red from crying. We showed her into our still warm living room. The fire had not yet completely died.
It took a while before she calmed down. It appeared that her man had left her once again. That happened often. We knew. He always came back after a few days. Usually stone drunk. But this time Isabelle was certain he would not return. They had fought the whole day over the news he had broken to her: he had another woman. By evening he'd angrily left, saying he would move in with his new love. He had packed his things in two big suitcases, including his bottles of booze, slammed the door and disappeared. Isabelle began to cry again.
"He won't come back..." she slobbered, "and I don't want him any more." She seemed shivering cold and very much in need of being cuddled and consoled.
But trying to quieten her was no easy matter. Isabelle put her on the sofa and wrapped an arm around her. I made tea. We listened. And we tried to comfort her with quiet soft words. Still it took quite a while. In the end we gave her a few stiff drinks which, once gulped down, seemed at least to clear her up a little.
We talked a lot that night. Deep into the early morning hours.
Actually, she was the one doing most of the talking. Mainly about her stranded marriage, confessing to our surprise that her man beat her regularly. Shocked Aliza prodded for more. "What do you mean, beat?" she asked.
"He just beats me," Isabelle said, sniffing up some last tears.
"I see," Aliza answered pensively, "He's that kind." And when Isabelle did not answer, she asked: "What triggers him?"
Isabelle hesitated and blushed. "Nothing," she said, "Just beats me up for nothing."
"For no reason?" I asked throwing a meaningful glance at Aliza. "How did this thing start?" Aliza, ignoring my question, softly inquired: "Is this a sexual thing or something?"
Isabelle shook her head, but then, in a barely audible voice, admitted with a fresh flowing of tears, that in the beginning, when it all started, she at least hoped it would turn him on and make him want her sexually.
"And did it?" I asked rather recklessly, which gained me an angry stare from Aliza.
She shook her head again. "We don't have sex anymore," she sniveled, "in bed he just wanks himself off next to me."
"Jesus, for how long has this been going on?" Aliza asked.
Isabelle began to cry again, full blast. "I don't know... maybe years," she finally managed to say, trying to stem her tears with the soaked hankie Alisa had handed her. Aliza again hugged her like a small child. "Poor little thing," she said, "Poor little thing". She repeated it many times.
We had to give Isabelle a few more drinks before she managed to dry her tears. But it was getting awfully late (or rather close to morning), and she showed no signs of going home or even wanting to.
Aliza became really concerned. So we proposed she sleep it off in our spare bedroom. Isabelle looked up at us gratefully, agreed, and finally stood up from the couch. Hurriedly we both steadied her on her legs.
Suddenly she wrapped her arms around my neck, looked at me with half closed watery eyes, and pulled my face to hers, kissing me hard and wet on my mouth.
"Thank you... thank you..." she blubbered, after I had disentangled myself with some effort from the unexpected embrace. Aliza watched with both amusement and a slight tingle of suspicion as Isabelle went on in an unstable voice. "You two are so nice to me... I don't deserve it... I'm such a bad woman..."
Half an hour later Aliza had finally succeeded in putting her to bed.
"Guess what she told me," Aliza said when we stepped into our own bed.
"What?"
"She's drunk as a door of course, but it was still quite shocking. She said it's all her fault and that she's the kind of woman who always ends up being beaten by her man. When I asked what she meant, she began to cry again, confessing that she thinks she needs to be hurt and bullied and thrown around like dirt. Thinks it's her destiny. Sounded like some masochistic jabber if you ask me."
"Pity I'm not married to her," I joked."
"Don't try to be funny... I know that this kind of talk triggers that kinky mind of yours. But really, this looks quite serious."
"Hmm....," I said, "Sure it triggers me. But you're quite kinky as well, aren't you, my love?" Drawing her near to me I kissed her and whispered: "You better beware, little slutty of mine, I'm going to fuck you raw. Remember, it's my turn tonight..." and suddenly I pulled her head back by her hair...
She fought me.
And still did when I mounted her.
***
Isabelle stayed with us every evening for almost two weeks. It became quite a burden. She would talk and talk about her failed marriage, cry a bit, drink too much and sleep it off in our spare bed room. It had almost become a routine.
Aliza and I began to discuss her, speculating about what kind of woman she really was. Or had been for that matter. We both thought her a very attractive young woman. And then, at a certain point, while making love in bed, we found ourselves whisper like naughty school children about Isabelle's young body and its imagined potential. Soon she began to feature in some of our most cruel sexual fantasies. We tied her down. We whipped her. We raped her. Not entirely without guilt feelings of course. But it wet our sexual appetite.
Then, one night.
We were reading by our little bedside lamps after a very tiresome day, fatigued and hoping to get drowsy, when the door of our bedroom quietly opened.
She wore one of Aliza's sexy nighties. The semi-transparent material on her left little to the imagination.
