story book, gentlemanly and courteous, nothing at all like what Miss Whitfield had said, and she had found herself falling hopelessly in love with him. Within a year they were married, and it seemed to Susan like a dream come true. Tim made a good salary at the company, and they were able to move into their beautiful suburban home right away. After the spare, ugly environment of the orphanage, having her own house was like a gift from the gods. She had taken great pains to furnish it just like the pictures she saw in the magazines, spending hours selecting the right furniture and accessories. Now she let her eyes wander over the attractively designed living room, lingering over the colonial chairs and tables, the little figurines she had purchased, the vases of flowers, the pictures on the wall. Everything was neat as a pin and perfectly arranged, just the way she liked it. She was happy here. She liked being surrounded by such lovely things. Her life was almost perfect except… except for one thing.
The attractive young housewife took another deep puff on her cigarette and then leaned back against the sofa and shut her eyes, trying to blot out the ugly feelings that suddenly surged forward from her subconscious. She remembered the afternoon before Tim had left for Boston, Monday afternoon, when he had… raped her… yes, raped her in the cruelest manner possible. Her petite frame shuddered from head to foot as she once more saw her young husband lurching angrily toward her, stark naked, his… his huge penis angrily erect and leering at her like a menacing vision of obscenity. She hated the way it looked. It was ugly and shameful. She had always begged him to turn out the lights when he wanted to… to take her. But that afternoon he had been drinking — oh, it wasn't his fault, she knew — they had been quarreling for two days and he was frustrated with her constant fears.
'Oh God,' she murmured, as hot tears began to trickle down her cheeks. 'Why does it have to be like this? Why is it so awful? So shameful?'
She loved Tim, loved him with a passion that nearly overwhelmed her at times. He was so handsome… so loving. Sometimes when she was alone, just thinking about him would make the skin along her arms tingle excitedly and her loins would grow strangely warm, as if a tiny fire had started there. And sometimes, though she tried desperately to resist it when it happened, her vagina would grow involuntarily moist… so moist sometimes that the thin material of her nylon panties would grow damp from the mysterious secretion that flowed from the aching walls of her private interior. Yet, whenever this happened, she grew frigid with fear, and the words of Miss Whitfield would roar at her from inside her head — fierce warnings against 'carnal lust' so strong that the tips of her fingers would grow immediately cold as ice.
The troubled young wife knew in her heart that it was wrong to react like that. She had read enough to know that sex could be a beautiful, wonderful experience between a man and a woman. But sometimes Tim wanted to do strange things to her, even… even put his lips to her… her vagina… and lick it with his tongue! Though her conscious nature told her there was nothing to fear, an increasingly deep sense of shame and humiliation washed over her now when they made love.
In the beginning it hadn't been so bad, and even though she had lain in near total passivity while her young husband made love to her, Tim had seemed to be satisfied. He said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and he didn't care if it took her a while to break through her fears, because she was worth it. Yet things had gotten worse, not better, and lately he had begun to demand the more she resisted until, after two months, she shook with fright whenever sex was mentioned. She had even gone to a doctor, a medical doctor, to see if there wasn't something wrong with her. He had been kind, and talked of relaxation and letting yourself experience pleasure and of orgasm — something she had never known. She had felt nothing of what he had described, and now she was afraid she never would, thanks to Miss Whitfield. She knew if she could just let go completely, she might be able to break through her anxiety, but she just didn't know how.
And time was running out. She had never seen Tim as angry with her as he was that Monday. They hadn't had sex for a week, and he'd wanted to make love before leaving for Boston. She had wanted to… oh, she had wanted to desperately, but Sunday night she had begun to cry pitifully when he touched her, and they had quarreled. The next morning, Tim had started drinking wine as he packed his suitcase for the plane trip, angrily muttering to himself. Susan was shocked to see him drinking so early and fully realized the extent of his frustration for the first time. She had gone into the bedroom to try and calm him down, but they had quarried again, and then… then…
The young wife held her breath as she sat on the couch in the living room and vividly remembered the terrible scene that had taken place. She could hardly believe it had actually happened, but it had, and the memory of it haunted her now like an obscene hallucination. Monday… ten o'clock in the morning… when she went into the bedroom…
'Christ almighty,' Tim Jameson mumbled to himself as he clumsily jammed a small suitcase full of clothes for his impending trip to Boston. 'I've got the most beautiful wife in the world and I can't lay a goddamn hand on her! Three months of marriage and it seems like three years. Hell, I'm half-drunk and it's only ten o'clock!'
His quarrels with Susan over her frigidity had been coming more and more frequently lately, and the previous evening, when he had tried once more to make love to her, she had responded like a scared little girl, crying hysterically and freezing up like cold stone. Her young husband was tired of placating her now, tired of listening to a million excuses and tearful references to her girlhood at the orphanage. He needed release — a full sexual male release — soon or he'd go crazy with the inner tension.
'Maybe she needs to see a damn psychiatrist or something,' he growled, throwing some socks into his suitcase, 'or maybe I do. Hell, if I don't need one now I will soon at the rate I'm going.' He paused for a moment and went to the nightstand next to the bed and took a deep swallow from the half-full glass of red wine he had left there. He sighed as the potent liquid coursed down his throat. Although he didn't like the idea of drinking so much so early, he had to admit it relaxed him and gave him the strength he needed to cope with his mounting marital problems. 'Maybe I'll end up being one of those suburban alcoholics,' he mused bitterly, 'just like the old man Carson down the street, half drunk all the time. Ah, who gives a damn anyway.'
He stiffened noticeably as he heard the bedroom door open. He knew it was Susan, and he could feel his inner tension begin to mount again rapidly as she entered the room. Keep hold of yourself, man, he cautioned himself, knowing he was growing quite drunk. Don't say anything you'll be sorry for.
'Are… are you finished packing?' his young wife asked timidly as she approached the bed. 'Can I help with anything?'
'No… no, I'm fine… just fine,' he muttered in a low voice, avoiding looking at her.
'You've… you've been drinking,' Susan said nervously as she eyed the half-filled glass of wine on the nightstand.
'Yeah, I've been drinking.' Tim struggled to keep his composure, but he was well aware of the thinly disguised note of disapproval in her voice. Goddamn uptight bitch.
'Tim, it's not good to drink so early in the day… don't you think…'
'No, I do not think,' he said abruptly, cutting her off mid-sentence. 'I just need a drink to relax me, that's all. God knows I'm entitled to it after what you've put me through.'
'Tim,' Susan exclaimed, her eyes watering with hot tears, 'don't say that. I know it hasn't been easy, but I'm trying, you've got to believe that.'
He wanted to believe her, he wanted to once again take her in his arms and comfort her and tell her everything was all right, that he could wait as long as necessary for her to get over her anxieties. But he knew it would be a lie. He was sick and tired of waiting, sick and tired of having no sexual outlet, tired of being the dutiful husband. He glanced at her. The look in her eyes was pitiful, like a lost child begging for help. How could he be angry with her when she looked like that? He couldn't, for the plain fact was that he still loved her, loved her so deeply that it made his frustration all the more difficult to bear.
'Oh, honey, I'm sorry,' he said finally. 'I just don't know what to do anymore. The job's got me down, the bills are piling up… I'm going crazy, I guess.'
She looked so vulnerable standing next to him, so forlorn and scared that the handsome young husband was surprised to find himself suddenly enfolding her supple form in his arms and embracing her tenderly.
'Tim… oh, Tim darling,' she whispered as she pressed her head against his muscular chest. 'I don't want you to go away angry at me. I love you so much.'
'And I love you too, honey…' The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils like a potent aphrodisiac, heightened because of his wine-sodden state. How good it was to hold her close like this and to feel the firmly rounded mounds of her breasts pressed against his lithe body. His arms circled her petite frame and, to the tipsy young husband, it
