Bad Husband

Author's note: My recent story "Rosette" was inspired by medieval tales about young women whose old and jealous husbands kept them locked up. After I'd finished that one I wondered if I could treat the same theme in a modern setting. Here's my attempt. I don't know if it's any good: you tell me.

Becky's lounging by the pool again, wearing her microkini. I'm crazy about that thing. It's almost not there at all—it's got just three tiny patches that barely cover her nipples and slit, nothing left over for her ass. I've got a lovely view of her shaved outer labia, the perfect curve of her breasts, the outer edges of her areolae. And there's that tattoo she's got, the one she surprised me with on our wedding night three months ago, slanting up along her pelvis on the left. In her own neat handwriting it says "Property of Dave."

Since I'm Dave, it's fine with me.

Still, I said to her, "What are you going to do with this tattoo after I'm gone? I'm forty years older than you. I'm not going to live forever, you know. I don't expect you to climb onto my funeral pyre or lead a life of chaste widowhood. The next guy along may not want to be reminded of me."

She said, "You're in great shape. You'll probably outlive me."

What could I say to that? I kissed the tattoo and then, since I was in the area anyway, I kissed her pussy, which tasted extra good that night.

Sometimes when we're out by the pool together, just the two of us, I'll sit by her on the chaise and kiss one of the thin strings that barely holds that microkini together, right there where it crosses her clavicle, and she'll undo all the strings and pull me to her, and we'll make love by the pool. She's never yet said no to me. She's always ready for love.

Trouble is, we're not alone right now. There are these three yard guys I've never seen before, the service sent over new people today, and they're trying not to stare, but they're young, male, and apparently heterosexual, and I understand it's really hard not to cop a glance at a beautiful woman now and then. I can't blame them: I just wish she wouldn't wear that microkini when the yard guys are around.

But she's not the kind of person who worries a lot about the effect she has on men. She understands she's beautiful and knows she turns heads, but she doesn't believe anything bad could happen because of that. It's easy to be uninhibited when you're fearless.

Don't get me wrong—I like it that she's uninhibited. We wouldn't have met if she'd been as reserved as I am. I'd never dream of coming on to a twenty-year-old college girl. But at the reception after a reading I'd done at NYU she joined the little group around me, and after everyone else had drifted away, she was still there. She was a delight: she'd read all my novels and a good many of my stories, and she was full of insights and interesting thoughts. She was a creative writing minor, and something about her made me want to read everything she'd written.

When the workers started to come in to gather up the trays and dishes, she said "I'msonot ready to stop talking to you."

I had to go to dinner with some faculty that night, but I was planning to be in New York for one more day, and I took her to dinner the next night. Or maybe I should sayshetookmeto dinner, because even though I picked up the check it felt like she was in charge, somehow. She picked the restaurant. She recommended dishes from the menu and interrogated the waiter about things I was thinking of ordering. We talked literature—my stuff, hers, and stuff we both liked—for hours. And as we were leaving the restaurant, and I was steeling myself to shake her hand, say goodbye, and climb into the taxi, she said, "I'll bet you have a bottle of wine in your room."

I suppose I should have thought "She's not old enough to drink," and I should have thought "this is absurd, I'm almost sixty." What I actually thought was "I can't believe this is happening to me," and I felt my dick start to stiffen. Of course I took her to my room. And once I'd poured us some wine she sat close to me and made a lot more than the usual amount of eye contact as we talked, and touched me lightly with her fingertips to let me know she was ready for me to make an advance.

Her lovemaking was—I don't quite know how to put it—maybe "witty" is the word. If wit is the art of having fun by using words in inventive and unexpected ways, well, she used her body in ways that took me by surprise and delighted me. There's a sameness in the way most people make love, a standard progression from kissing to petting to oral sex to penetration, and standard moments for removing this or that article of clothing. She didn't conform to any of the standards, but made it all happen in an order and manner of her own devising that somehow seemed both right and oh so lascivious. When you're middle aged, things that happen during sex don't often take you by surprise, but I was dizzy, off balance and thrilled, and if I'd imagined the possibility of being in love with her, I think I would have been in love. Maybe Iwasalready in love but didn't know it at the time.

In the morning she asked if we could stay in touch, and of course I said I'd be delighted. And we started an email correspondence that was literate and fun and so hot I'd get an erection just reading her notes to me.

As summer approached I hinted that I'd love a visit from her, and she responded enthusiastically. That July she spent a week with me at my country place in western Connecticut and introduced me to her collection of microkinis. Before half the week was over we were in love, and by the end of the week we'd set a date for the following June, after she'd graduated. Maybe you read about the wedding in the news: it made a little stir, because I'm fairly well known as writers go, and she'd already published some stories in prominent places, and there was some buzz about the novel she was finishing up.

I'd been married twice—widowed once and divorced once—and I thought I knew what I was getting into. But every marriage does something different to your head. For all the eleven months of our engagement, Becky split her time between my place in Connecticut and the apartment she shared with friends in New York, and I never suffered a moment's anxiety about what she was doing when she wasn't with me.

When we married she moved in with me, as you'd expect. But she still had lots of friends in New York, and she wanted to visit them. I bought her a car, both so she could get around locally and so she could drive to New York.

I didn't like being alone at my country place while Becky was visiting her friends in the city. It was lonely in a way single life had never been.

"Well," she said, "Why don't you come with me?" But I didn't think I'd fit in with her friends. Way too old, way too distinguished, I'd be a dead weight on her social life. I couldn't imagine myself in the kinds of clubs and bars they no doubt liked to visit, and I worried that they'd treat me as a sort of oracle and have no fun around me.

Becky and I did go to New York together once, to see a play adapted from one of my stories, "The Boxing Ring." It was about domestic abuse, not my usual subject. But the playwright and the director had done a good job getting across the abusive husband's creepy obsessiveness and the wife's complicity, the way she gloried in her martyrdom. There was lots of slapping, punching and waving of knives. It's not easy to do violence convincingly on stage, but they'd done it well.

I met several of Becky's friends that weekend too, over lunches, dinners, drinks, and (once) a little pot. Some of them were aspiring writers, like her, though none could match her early success. She introduced two of her male friends as "my ex." I wasn't sure how I felt about her hanging around with ex-boyfriends. Later I said to her, "those exes, theyareall exes, right?"

She wrinkled her nose at me and said, "Property of Dave."

About a week later she told me she was going to go into town again the following Wednesday. We were expecting a visit that Tuesday from an old college pal of mine, a writer I knew Becky wanted to meet. I called him up and asked if he could come a day later instead, and, as I expected, she postponed her trip for a week so she could meet him.

The next Wednesday I woke up with one of those raging migraines I sometimes get, and though I urged her to go, she decided to stay home and take care of me.

Week after week all kinds of things came up. There was the visit from the agent, whom we now shared. While we were at a dinner party in Westport one night there was a burglary that left us both pretty rattled, even though not much was taken. All kinds of odd things just got in the way of her travel plans.

I got up early this morning and swapped two spark plug wires in her car. Our mechanic had to send a tow truck for it. I've arranged to pay him three hundred to keep it for a few days and make up some plausible story about what he had to fix. I'm proud of that one, because I'm not much of a mechanic.

I just wish I had Becky to myself. All I can do, I guess, is wait patiently for the yard guys to finish up and take off. Meanwhile I peel off my shirt and sit in a chair next to her chaise, and it's pleasant to relax here in the sunshine, reading and occasionally chatting.

She stretches and says, "What I want, I think, is to float in the pool. Would you be a love and get me a raft?"

"Sure," I say. She doesn't like to go in the shed where we keep the pool stuff. She's brave about everything in the world except spiders, and she believes the shed is full of them, though I've never seen one there.

The shed's just a prefabricated thing with a door that locks with a hasp and padlock and one little window, more decorative than functional. The key is hanging in the kitchen, and I go to get it.

On the way I pass one of the yard guys, who says, "You want us to trim these bushes, Mr. Allen?" There's something familiar about him, but I think I'd know if he'd been here working in the yard before.

I dismiss the thought and say, "Thanks, you needn't bother. Just finish up the grass and call it a day."

"Okay, Mr. Allen," he says.

I get the key and walk back to the pool. I unlock the shed, hang the padlock on the loop of the hasp, and go inside. We keep the rafts inflated, leaning against that back wall. I'm just picking one of them up when the door slams behind me.

"Hey!" I shout. "I'm in here!" I go to the door and push on it—it has no handle on the inside—but someone's closed the hasp and locked it.

I rush to the window and bang on it, shouting "Hey!"

And then I freeze and stare.

Becky is sitting up on her chaise, shying away from one of the yard guys who's standing in front of her, undoing his pants. He's the guy who just talked to me: he's strong and tan and has the look of a college kid on a summer job. Meanwhile the other two are closing in from both sides, reaching for their belt buckles.

I can dimly hear what they're saying. The guy in front of her says, "I can tell you're ready for some young cock, babe. Been a long time since you had anything but that old fart. Bet he can't even get it up."

I can't hear her reply. I think it's just a syllable, probably "No." She shakes her head.

The guy in front has his pants down now and is holding his stiff cock in his hand. The other two are standing close on either side of her now, unzipping their zippers.

"I know you want it, babe," the first guy says. He puts his hand behind her head and pulls her towards him. She closes her mouth and eyes tight and turns away from him, and his cock rams her cheek. He grabs her by the hair, pulls her away from him, and slaps her. It looks painful.

He says, "Open up, bitch," but she shakes her head, keeping her mouth closed. I've never seen her look scared before. I don't think I've ever been this scared before either.

I'm banging on the window and shouting, but of course they have no reason to pay attention to me. I study the window. If I broke it, could I crawl through? I don't think my shoulders would fit: the only thing I'd accomplish would be to hurt myself. The walls of the shed are pretty solid; there's no way to break through. I think of my cell phone and feel for it in my pockets, but I don't have it.

The first guy is slapping Becky again and again, shouting "Suck my fuckingcock, cunt!" Tears are running down her cheeks, I guess from both the fear and the slapping. Finally she does open her mouth—shit, I can't blame her, the way he's been pummeling her—and he pushes his cock into her, grabs her head, and fucks her face hard. She chokes, her face is turning red, she's got her hands on his thighs, trying to push him away, but he's too strong, there's nothing she can do but just take it.

"Hey, man, give the rest of us a fucking turn," says the guy on her left: he's beefy and Hispanic looking, though I can't hear an accent. The first guy pulls away and this guy grabs her head, rams into her mouth, and pounds her throat just as roughly as the first guy. After a couple of minutes the third guy gets a turn: he's sort of small, smooth-skinned and dark-haired. You wouldn't think him the rapist type, if there is such a thing as a rapist type. But he's just as violent as the others: thick drool runs out of Becky's mouth and ropes down onto her breasts.

I'm still banging on the window, trying to distract them, or at least remind them there's a witness here. Who knows whether that'll do us any good? Maybe they'll decide to kill us both. But maybe they'll be a little less violent knowing I'm here and watching.

They tear off the tiny patches of Becky's micokini. I thought she was pretty much naked with it on, but I understand now that I was wrong, seeing all of her exposed to these men, seeing them squeeze her breasts, grab her crotch and shove their fingers into her pussy. She thrashes and kicks, she's crying, pleading, "No! Please!" But two of them wrestle her to the ground while the first guy gets on top of her and pushes in. They're angled so I can see his buttocks and his cock thrusting into her, oh fuck, she's got to be so scared and miserable.

After a few minutes the first guy gets up and says "Your turn, bro" to the Hispanic guy, who takes his place between Becky's legs. She's limp now, defeated, not resisting at all as the first guy straddles her head, puts his cock into her mouth, and starts to thrust. The third guy, meanwhile, the slight one, has let go of her arm and is jerking himself off, looking impatient. After the Hispanic guy's had a couple of minutes the third guy gets his turn in her pussy while the Hispanic guy shoves into her mouth.

After a couple more minutes the first guy says, "Turn her over. I want to fuck her ass." The other two get up.

Becky sits up and says, "Wait a minute. Stop."

They all take a step back, obedient as schoolgirls. What the fuck is going on?

She gets up and walks towards the shed, staring at my window. I can't read her face, except that she looks unhappy.

She disappears from view for a few seconds and then the door opens.

She's standing naked in the doorway. She says, "I can't go on with it. I'm sorry, Dave."

I don't know how to react. I still don't quite understand what I've seen. I say, "You . . . you're all right?"

She says, "Come on, you'd better meet the guys." She holds her hand out to me, and I take it. I'm starting to wonder if our marriage is over when it's just a few months old.

She leads me back to the pool, where the yard guys are pulling on their clothes. They look awkward, as if they don't quite know how to react to me.

She gestures towards the first guy, the one who hit her, and says, "This is Tom. He played the husband in "The Boxing Ring." He knows how to look like he's hitting without actually doing it. Just in case you wondered if I was really hurt."

She gestures towards the Hispanic guy and says, "This is Richard, an ex boyfriend. And this is Steve, another ex."

Steve smiles and says, "I'm a huge fan of your work, Mr. Allen. It's really an honor . . ."

He trails off, looking scared.

"I think you'd better explain," I say.

"Watching your wife get raped was supposed to be your punishment for being a jealous husband," she says, "but I guess I lost heart."

"What do you mean, jealous husband?" I say. "I don't have a jealous bone in my body!"

"Come on, Dave, you've been totally out of control. You've practically been keeping me prisoner here for two months. Your little stunt this morning, sneaking out in the wee hours to mess with my car, that was really over the top. Did you really think I wouldn't figure out what you were up to?"

All of a sudden I feel ashamed. "Okay, okay," I say. "What I did was stupid and wrong. But haven't you just proved that I was right to be jealous? Maybe what's-his-name here didn't really hit you, but he sure as hell fucked you. Tell me, whatdoyou do when you go into New York? How often do you have group sex with ex-boyfriends? What other kinds of sex do you have when I'm not around?"

"Dave," she says, "I told you I belong toyou, and I meant it. But that doesn't give you unlimited rights over my body."

I say, "The marriage service says 'forsaking all others.' The minister said that, and you agreed to it."

She says, "And I meant it. You're the only man I love. But no one thinks 'forsaking all others' is about sex anymore."

"They don't?" Suddenly I feel very old.

She comes to me and presses her naked body against me. Her skin feels so good.

She lifts her head and whispers to me. "Why do you think I got my tattoo?"

Suddenly I don't know. I thought it was to please me, but now I'm sure that's the wrong answer. I look at her in confusion.

She says, "It was so people would know not to take sex with me too seriously. Because I belong toyou, Dave. Not to anyone else. I'm notavailable."

"So you're saying . . ."

"I'm saying that you'll always be number one with me. Aren't I number one with you?"

"Of course you are," I say. "It's just that for me there's no number two, let alone a number three or four."

She puts her hands behind my head and pulls me down to her. She kisses me, and, oh, her kiss is as good as it's ever been. She says, "But therecouldbe, Dave. There are lots of people who'd love to sleep with you."

I begin, "I don't think I want . . ."

"Like Steve here," she says. "Every time I talk about you, he sighs. Heyearnsfor you, Dave. More than he ever did forme."

I glance at Steve, the slender one. He's misty eyed, watching the two of us together.

I shake off the thought. "I've never wanted to sleep with a man," I say.

"You don't have to if you don't want," she says. "I'm just saying youcould. He'd love it, and it'd be all right with me. The only reason he agreed to come all the way to Connecticut today was to get a look at you, and maybe he thought there was just an off chance you'd think he was hot. You know, a man can do things sexually that a woman can't."

I look at Steve again. I have to admit he's got an attractiveness that was lost on me while he was raping my wife. I shove the thought out of my mind.

Richard says, "Um, I think it's probably time for us to get going."

Becky says to me, "Why don't we invite my friends in for a drink, just to show them there're no hard feelings?"

I don't really want to, but it's hard to say no to Becky, especially when she's naked and her arms are wound around me. There's no woman in the world more compelling. Just a minute ago I believed our marriage was over, but now life without her is unthinkable.

"Okay," I say.

She gives me an enthusiastic kiss and turns to her friends. "I know you've got to go, guys," she says, "but why don't you come in and relax for a few minutes first?"