"The reluctant neighbor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jenkins Peter)

CHAPTER ONE

Marily lay back on the rumpled bed as though she were a broken rag doll. Her legs were spread obscenely apart, one knee slightly bent, her breast jutting out from her chest, and one arm limp across her sperm-filled stomach. She was watching her next door neighbor, the man who had just raped her putting his clothes on. She looked at him from the depth of her dark brown eyes, keeping him in focus, not wanting to see what she was looking at, but staring, not missing one movement that he made. Masculine was the only word that came to her mind. It almost amused her that he would put on his shirt before he did his under-drawers, that his now limp penis hung down beyond the tails of his shorts. Her own husband would never dress in such a disorganized manner.

Peter buttoned his shirt carefully, then knotted his tie, then reached to the floor for his jock shorts. He glanced at the voluptuous young woman laying on the bed, sprawled, her thighs still open and wet, and wanted to go back to her, to burn and scald her as he had done moments before. But, he felt as though she were staring a hole through him, looking at him but seeing what he could only guess at. He put one leg then the other through the shorts, then pulled them up around his waist. He reached inside, adjusted his still half erect prick so that it rode where it should, then took up his trousers and put them on, buttoned the buttons, then cinched up his belt. He took his coat from the chair and rammed his arms through it, then sat on the same chair and put on his shoes and socks. Then he stood and faced her. "Look," he hesitated, talking down to her on the bed from his six feet two inch height, "You were good. And, I'll be back again. I know you enjoyed it even if I did have to force you a little at first."

He leaned slightly forward, wanting to shake the eerie feeling that she gave him, wishing that she would say one word, any word, so that he could be sure that she was hearing what he said. She didn't and her eyes remained as void as they had been when he began speaking. "I'll have to go now. I'll see you tomorrow. And just remember that I came here by your invitation. I don't think you'll tell old Fred anyway. And I don't think he'd care one way or the other. So, see you later." He turned from her, left the bedroom, walked down the hall, then went through the front door, banging it arrogantly shut behind him. Marily heard his tread on the hall floor, then the closing of the door, then silence. She found herself wishing he would have, at least, gone out the back way so the other neighbors wouldn't have seen him leaving… but, oh what the hell. What did it all matter anyway? She lay as she was, wondering why she was so cold, so unrelated to what had happened, then was grateful for the pain that reminded her that she had been raped, used, like a whore by her neighbor, a neighbor she had just met. She forced herself to go over all the events that led up to that sudden happening one hour ago.

When, she wondered, had he first noticed her. In the garden? Through the window? Why hadn't he spoke to her before today, or at least to Fred? It didn't make sense. She didn't know him, except that his name was Peter Aiken and that his wife was a pathetic little thing, involved in community projects, held an office in the parent teacher association where their daughter attended school in the second grade, and puttered around the garden, occasionally holding long monologues with herself while talking to Marily, who knew that she wasn't supposed to listen, to answer, just be a form for the woman to talk at. But she never saw him, or only rarely, going from his car to the house or from his house to his car.

When had he noticed her?

Not that it really mattered, she told herself. He obviously had. Not only had he noticed her, but apparently he had been planning to use her as he had just done, for some time. Her thoughts went back to the morning, to the beginning of her day. She had tumbled from her bed when the alarm had made its first maddening sound, and looked over to Fred's bed. He had been snoring softly, curled into the ball shape that he preferred for sleeping, and then had gone to the bathroom, had shaken Fred awake ever so gently, then kissed him on the forehead, then had gone to the kitchen and started the coffee, made the orange juice, put on the bread and butter and toaster on the table, then had walked outside to smoke a cigarette. She grimaced with the thought of smoking in the garden. Fred did not smoke, could not stand the smell of smoke in the house. Maybe, her mind warned, she had been seen by Peter then, in the garden, early in the morning, blowing her lonely clouds of smoke. But, it had to be before today, she thought. He didn't seem the type to do things so suddenly without some kind of previous plan.

Then, what had she done. She tried to recall, her mind telling her that she had done what she had done every morning or what seemed like millions of years. She had gone back into the house as soon as she had finished her cigarette, knowing that Fred would be stepping out of the shower, then he would be in the kitchen within minutes. She had gone to the small bathroom and brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth with mouthwash to get rid of the odor of cigarette smoke. Then she had returned to the table, took her place, put two pieces of toast in the toaster, and looked as Fred came through the door, dressed for work, ready for his breakfast.

With Fred gone she had cleared the table, put the few dishes in the dishwasher with the ones from the evening meal, set the dial to wash, then had gone to the garden again to smoke. Then she remembered. She had had a strange feeling in the garden, as though there were another presence there other than her own. Yes! Exactly! She could remember it now, the goose bumps on her flesh, the feeling that someone was watching her every moment, that behind a bush someone waited, breathed and watched her. But it had only been a fleeting emotion, she reminded herself. But, her mind said a significant one. Perhaps that was the first warning sign of the danger that was to burst upon her later. Later she had decided to work in the garden, to trim up a hedge, to cut a few branches off a rose bush, perhaps to rid herself of the unreasonable fear or fright that she had felt there. She did so. She had become so involved in her work that the time had slipped by, unheeded, until she grew warm. She covered her eyes with her hand and looked up at the sun. It was almost mid-way in the sky. She had laughed to herself. She had been in the garden much longer than she thought. She went into the kitchen, washed her hands, then made herself a sandwich and a glass of tea, put them on a tray and returned to the garden, she had been there only a moment when she had been interrupted by Peter Aiken's sudden presence. She had felt grateful for the interruption, she remembered. She had smiled at him, then ran a hand over her hair, thinking that she must be a mess since she hadn't looked in the mirror since just after getting out of bed.

"Hello. I'm Peter Aiken. From next door." He said, then paused, waiting for her recognition of him. "Yes, I know. I'm Marily Spencer. I know your wife – I mean, we have spoken together here, from one yard to the next." Marily had smiled, then waited for him to continue.

"I just came over to introduce myself actually. I came home for lunch, which I do occasionally, and found a note from my wife. She had to go to a meeting she had forgotten about. Anyway I saw you here and I thought…" He stopped talking, leaving the thought uncompleted so that it had to turn into an invitation from her.

"Please. Sit down. Would you like a sandwich? I haven't much to offer but…" Marily had said, turning sideways in her chair and watching his progress to a chair.

"No, you don't have to bother. I'm not really hungry, actually. I get tired of drinking lunch and so once in awhile I come home and eat." He smiled, revealing the most perfect white teeth she had seen in a long time.

"I'm afraid I can't offer you a drink. My husband, Fred, doesn't drink… so we don't keep it in the house." Marily finished lamely.

"I don't want a drink, thanks, but don't apologize. Somehow I knew that your husband didn't drink." His tone of voice had changed, a smugness creeping in that angered Marily.

"And how did you know that?" She had asked, not kindly.

"He looks too healthy, actually. He has that glowing, youthful flesh that one associates with non-drinkers." He laughed easily.

Marily had relaxed, had suddenly began to enjoy talking to him. She had had to admit to herself that he was a very handsome man, well-built and he seemed so sure of himself. And it was a pleasant break in her otherwise dull day.

"You don't have children?" He wanted to know. Marily felt that he probably knew the answer to that one, too. She had felt the impulse to tell him that Fred didn't want children now, maybe in a year or so, after he had fully adjusted to his marriage to her and his new job. But she didn't. She had merely said, "No. Not yet. We've only been married two years and… no. We don't have children."

"Habit is hard to break, I guess. I seem to be terribly thirsty. For water," he smiled, standing. Marily had not wanted him to leave. She had felt that he had no intention of it anyway, but he did stand and somehow gave the impression that he would… or that… what? She asked herself. It didn't matter.

It was then that she realized that the pain was lessening, that her vagina was still throbbing, but the pain had gone somewhat and the more pleasurable sensation she had known a few moments before was slowly returning. She straightened her legs, pressed them together and then continued to think over the day.

"I have water. Come in and I'll make you a sandwich and a glass of tea. One must eat, you know, to keep a healthy, youthful complexion like Fred." She had laughed at her own joke and preceded him into the house.

Once inside the door she had remembered how she must look and for some strange reason she wanted to look better for this almost complete stranger. She asked him to sit, then excused herself and had gone through the bedroom, to the bathroom, and run a comb through her hair, deftly washed her face, straightened her blouse and returned to the kitchen.

It was then that the whole sordid… sordid? Well, whatever kind of nightmare it had been, had begun.

Peter had stood up when she entered the kitchen, had moved toward her without a word and had taken her in his arms. Why had she been so willing? she wondered. Had she expected him to do that? Thinking back, she rationalized that she had not had one thought about it, one way or the other. It had simply happened and she had not objected, but she had not responded either… unless… the fact she had not screamed out and fought with all her strength against his lewd advances, could be considered a response.

She could feel his arms about her, much more powerful than those of Fred, much more sure of what he was doing and more knowledgeable about how to go about it. He had kissed her gently, his lips on hers, then his tongue had played about her lips, then over them and into her mouth. She had tried to push him away, but he had a firm hold on her. She relaxed, took his tongue in her mouth and felt a delicious sensation that Fred had never given her reverberating up and down her spine. Then her anger had spilled over, whether at her sudden submission to his probing tongue or at him she didn't know, and she had tried to push him away.

"Relax, baby. I know that husband of yours isn't enough for a little minx like you," he had whispered, directly into her ear, then slipped his mouth wetly down to her neck.

She had tried to break his hold on her, had not wanted to hear anything against Fred from this near stranger. She could not! But, he had lifted her as though she had no weight at all, and carried her into the bedroom. Why hadn't she cried out? she wondered, the answer to her question immediately there: who would have heard her? No one! She had fought him with her fists, but it was no use. He had been too strong! Yes, that was it! That was the excuse she had been searching for: he was too strong!

He had placed her on the bed and then himself on top of her, had found her mouth with his before her full weight had sunk down into the mattress. He had almost suffocated her, his large tongue in her mouth, probing, his teeth biting and hurting her lips. "No!" she had cried out to the void, the space of the bedroom. "Please. No!" But it had been useless. He had managed to undress her and himself almost without her knowledge. Suddenly she had been stripped naked and was lying on the bed by herself, and he was up, throwing his clothes desperately over the chair. She had tried to escape, to get off the bed, but he had leaped onto it, pinning her under him. He had put her arms over her head, had fought with his head to turn hers and put his mouth onto her again, then he had himself slightly, and twisting and turning his stomach, had touched her sensitive flesh with his hardness, which had felt like steel – hot metal – laying on her stomach. He had continued to kiss her, to bite her lips, then had removed his mouth from hers, and began to suck her breasts. She had struggled, but to no avail.

The hopelessness of her situation had overwhelmed her. There was no one to call to, no instrument at her command that she could use to protect herself with. She tried to get her arms free of his, hoping to scratch and tear his arrogant face, but he held her firmly, arms up over her head and teased her ripe, full breasts, stopping only long enough to say, "God-damned, what a pair you have!" then his mouth had become busy again, biting into her flesh, then sucking her nipples into hardness then back to her mouth. She couldn't remember when the excitement had hit her, but laying now with the residing sensation in her vagina, she was sure it had been later even if the sensation of him kissing her had almost been pleasant, once she had adjusted her mind to the fact that it was really happening to her.

When his mouth had not covered hers she had pleaded, had implored him to stop. But her every word seemed only to spur him on. He had forced her legs apart with his muscular thighs and then shoved the head of his hardness into the softness between her open, defenseless legs, causing her to scream. He had immediately covered his mouth with hers, filled it with his tongue, then ground his hardened penis slowly into her resisting vagina. She felt as though he were killing her, as though he were pushing all the way through the center of her and impaling her with a spear to the mattress beneath her buttocks. Never had her own husband hurt that much, even on the night of their wedding, or any other night. But, then, never had she felt her husband so hard or excited by the feel of her body.

Peter had thrust himself inside her, all of him, splitting her and hurting her because she hadn't really been ready at that moment. The pain seared her insides and seemed to work outward to the top layer of her soft sensitive skin. She moaned, tried to move her hips back to rid herself of him, but it was hopeless. He shoved on into her, ground himself against her, against her words of pleading until suddenly she had felt the soft sacs of his testicles pressing hard against the sensitive hole of her anus.

Almost in a flash the pain had turned to pleasure for Marily. She had felt the hardness and roughness of him with every cell in her vagina, then there it was, the feeling that she had never had before, the desire that had never been opened up inside her, began begging for fulfillment. She knew now that he had sensed that, that where only a moment before she had been crying with pain, her legs had suddenly responded with a will of their own and had snaked desperately around his back, the small of it, and that they were pressing him into her. He released her hands and even though she had wanted to claw at his face only a few minutes before, she now wanted to, and did, use her hands behind his head to press it down onto her mouth and her neck…

With her response, Peter had slowly begun fucking in and out of her, causing to build within her the fires, the desperate need of fulfillment that she had never before experienced. She began to move with him to match her rhythm to his, without wanting to, hating herself for her weakness, hating him because he was raping her, causing her to be unfaithful, against her will, until a dam broke within her and she tightened her hold on him, pulled him to her with all her might. And she had broken her silence.

"Ooooh God!" she remembered murmuring with disbelief up into his open mouth. "I-It's so deep inside me."

He had hooked her legs in his arms and had bent them back so far that her knees were even with her breasts, then moved his cock out of her vagina, almost all the way, with only the head of it inside the soft, clasping lips, then plunged back, causing her to gasp with the force of his passion, the pleasurable pain of him sending fire all through her body. He had plunged, ground against her, kissing and biting with his mouth, until she felt that she could no longer stand it, until she began to expand inside, to break and spill over with the greatest passion that she had ever known. She had clung to him, pressing her body to his, rising off the bed when he moved out of her, had caught him deep inside her cunt and waves of fire and relief had broken deep within her, then, exhausted, amazed at herself and the secrets that this total stranger had opened within her, lay unmoving but open wide for him while he increased his jabbing and plunging. He had moved faster and faster, his breath had come in gasps, then with a long and low moan he had ground within her, spewed his hot wetness inside her, then with piston-like movements had emptied all the remainder of his hot, white sperm deep down into the hidden recess of her satiated belly. Then dropped on top of her, his cock still in her, throbbing out the last dying sensations of his orgasm against the smooth, flooded walls of her vagina.

His prick had started to soften, then had been withdrawn from her leaving a thin trail of their warm secretions lying wetly across her thigh. He had rolled off her, then lay alongside her and tried to put his arm over her. Why, she didn't remember but she had knocked it away in a too late gesture of defiance. She had been fucked, and fucked good right in her own husband's bed, so why hadn't she just admitted it to herself instead of trying to soothe her conscience with a hypocritical act like that. He had taken a deep breath, then got off the bed and began dressing. "Look," he had said and she hadn't really listened to the rest.

Marily didn't know how long she had been laying as he had left her, nude, on the bed. She heard the front door open. She knew it was Fred, home from his day's work. She did not move except to pull a sheet over her nakedness knowing instinctively that he wouldn't approve of her like this.

"Marily?" Fred called, faintly, from the interior of the house. She did not answer. She hadn't thought of him since that morning, not at all since the rape upon her body. She couldn't think of anything to say to him now, even to answer his summons, so she said nothing. Shortly he entered the bedroom, looked at her on the bed, then, "Are you all right? Didn't you hear me call you?" Her answer was simple: "Yes."

He removed his hat, brushed it off on his coat sleeve, went to the closet, slid the door open, put his hat on the shelf from the exact position he had taken it from that morning, removed a hanger from the closet for his coat, then removed his coat, arranged it on the hanger, then brushed it before putting it in the closet. He then removed his shirt, folded it neatly, and put it in the dirty clothes hamper in the hall. He returned to the bedroom, the closet, took another hanger, of a different shape than the one he had used for his jacket, and then removed his trousers, made sure that the creases were aligned, then removed the hanger under them. He put that hanger in the closet also.

He then turned, sat in a chair and removed his shoes, then his socks. He took his socks to the same hamper into which his shirt had gone, then returned to the bedroom. He stood over the bed, dressed in his undershirt and briefs, and looked at Marily.

"Why are you in bed? In the middle of the afternoon? You've never done this before." He didn't wait for an answer, since she simply looked at him, but went instead to the other closet, opened it, then turned back to her with a startled look. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded.

"I didn't put them out today. Find the ones you wore yesterday," Marily said, trying not to sound angry.

"I can't stand the same clothes two days in a row. You know that. Why are you in bed?" He turned to look at her again. "You wouldn't believe it, Fred," Marily said, then turned onto her side, away from him so that she would not have to look at him nor he at her.

"Well, if you're ill all you have to do is say so. I mean I come home after working all day and find you in bed and what am I supposed to think. Then, you haven't done anything, apparently, all day. My clothes aren't even ready. Do you plan to make dinner or do you intend to ruin our whole daily routine?" He finished with an injured tone to his voice.

Marily wanted to hurt him, suddenly, just for the hell of it. She felt like crying not from her own debasing experience with their neighbor, but for hers and Fred's hopeless situation, which, she had to admit, had only become hopeless within the period of the last two hours. She turned back over in bed, looking at him and said, "Fred, let's make love."

"You must have a fever, Marily. You mean now, this minute, I presume? This is only Tuesday. We do that on Thursday night, and not in the middle of the afternoon. I would appreciate it very much if you would get up, after I have found some clothes for myself, and prepare dinner. I don't care to eat after seven o'clock, as you very well know." He was indignant. He rummaged around, knocked hangers about the closet, then finally pulled on a pair of trousers, doffed a sweater, then carried his sneakers out of the room.

Marily sighed, then sat up in bed. She felt dizzy. She stood, after a couple of minutes, and the waves of dizziness assaulted her again. The coldness of the air, on her nipples, her bare buttocks, jarred her somewhat and she laughed. She started, on impulse, to call Fred into the bedroom, then changed her mind. He had never, she reflected, seen her nude so she might just jolt him into a heart attack. But, she reflected, biting her under-lip, she had never seen him totally nude either. She went to the bathroom, put a shower cap over her head, turned the faucet to hot, then adjusted the cold water until she got the mixture she wanted, then stepped into the shower. Hell, she thought, once her body was covered with soap and her hands sliding comfortingly over its slippery surface, I ought to be thankful for being raped, and I ought to have a husband who would be so wounded that he would kill the man that did it. But, she almost laughed to herself, I'm not and I don't.

She rinsed off the soap, then stepped out of the shower, and dried herself vigorously. She felt that she had some of her purity restored, just by getting the outside of herself clean. She returned to the bedroom and dressed. She was still experiencing a throbbing in her vagina, deep down, next to the center of her being.

She passed through the living room with hardly a glance at Fred. He was sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper, waiting – she knew – for her to prepare his glass of vegetable juice. She did so, then returned to him, placed it on the table next to his chair and stood there, looking at he top of his head. He nervously rustled the paper.

"What would you like for dinner, Fred?" she asked.

He acted as though he had been slapped. His head flew back, the paper was smashed on his lap and he looked at her with a startled expression. "Marily, I must say I don't understand you today. This is Tuesday. We will have what we have every Tuesday. I see no reason to change our menus just because you choose to sleep all day, do you?"

"We can't. I didn't do shopping today." She felt like hitting him. He had no idea what had happened to her, didn't even seem to care if anything had. She had never realized what a drag their very existence had become.

"Didn't go shopping today? Then we have nothing to eat, do we? I mean since we only eat fresh vegetables and fresh fruit, we must be out of luck," he glared at her.

"You only eat fresh fruits and vegetables. I don't really care that much. I'd like to go out to dinner. I'd like to have a large steak and drink before dinner, too. Wouldn't you?" She asked, knowing the answer before she put the question.

"I would not. I don't care to ruin the organic whole of me even if you do seem bent on self-destruction. Not for a minute. But, we could go to the living health store and dine since there is nothing here to eat. That is, if you wish. Is it too late to go shopping now?" He wanted to know.

"Perhaps not. I think the store stays open until nine, but I don't care to go to the store. Not today." She sat down in a chair opposite his.

He peered at her, then turned his head away and seemed to look at the wall. Then he turned back to her abruptly and in a slightly lower voice than shout, "Marily, I demand to know what's troubling you. I am your husband, you know, and I want to know. I come home and you're in bed and then you asked me if I wanted to make love on a Tuesday afternoon and you've done nothing by way of preparing dinner and… you don't look right. Now, what is the trouble?" He sat forward in his chair and eyed her suspiciously.

"Fred, are you satisfied with our sex life?" She asked, not realizing that she was going to say what she said before it was there between them.

Fred jumped from his chair, paced the floor, then with his back to her, said: "I am. We are married and we have what some people would call a normal sex life, I believe. At the least the normal people would call it such. You are not?" He questioned the wall.

"I don't know. I suppose so. I just… It was a stupid question. Forget it." She, too, stood and turned toward the kitchen.

"Marily," he said, softly, still to the wall, "If you'd really like to go out to dinner, we can, I suppose. I shouldn't try to stick too close to a schedule, I guess. It's easy for me but I know it gets on your nerves. Let's. Where would you like to go?"

"For a drink and a steak," she said, still facing away from him. "Perhaps to the Red Ox."

"Very well," he agreed, "But the money will have to come out of the household budget. I'll just have a salad so that should save some."

Marily turned and went to the bedroom. She dressed hurriedly, feeling that she had won a victory over him, wondering why she felt so depressed. She shook off the feeling, entered the bathroom, then called to him so that he could dress while she was in the bathroom making up her face.

Thirty minutes later they left the house and got into the car. Fred was permitting the car to warm up, even though he had been driving it only an hour or so before, when Peter drove into his own drive way. He jumped out of the car, waved a hand gaily in their general direction as though nothing at all had happened then entered his house. Marily felt her face grow warm, her whole body trembled. Before she could examine her feeling, Fred interrupted.

"He's quite a nice looking man, I hear that he is a very good attorney, also. I don't know why he would choose someone like her for a wife, she can't possibly help him get ahead." Fred mused, steering the car onto the street.

His wife didn't bother to answer. She wished that she could sort out her own feeling toward her attacker. Her sensation when she saw him was not an unpleasant one, but he had, damn him, that very afternoon, assaulted and raped her. She should hate him, she told herself, but she didn't. Instead she wondered if he would come back as he had promised.

God, what would she do if he did? Would she fight and scream to protect her honor with a greater intensity than she had this afternoon? Or would she… Yes, she mused to herself at the broken thought… or would she? Perhaps, the slight trembling and gnawing sensation she had felt in her loins when he had waved at them a moment ago had given her the answer. But now… now wasn't the moment to think about it… that would all come in due time…