"If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?"

SEXUAL AWAKENING

a novel

 

© 2014 by S.W. Blayde

All Rights Reserved

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

D. H. Lawrence for his novel Lady Chatterley's Lover

Mario Antonio Pena Zapateria for the cover image (modified)

 

BOOKS by S.W. Blayde

Sexual Awakening – romance murder-mystery on Bookapy & Amazon

Steele Justice – thriller (Lincoln Steele book 1) on Amazon

High School Massacre – thriller/mystery (Lincoln Steele book 2) on Amazon

Death of a Hero – thriller (Lincoln Steele book 3) on Amazon

The Breeder – western/romance on Bookapy & Amazon

Conflicted Nun – romance on Bookapy

 

Chapter 1

After stalking the minister's wife for over a month, Jeff Wateman was ready to put his plan into action. He had studied Elizabeth Hathaway, dissecting her every move, learning things about her that her friends, family, and even her husband didn't know.

He glanced at his watch one more time while waiting outside the theater knowing she would soon arrive. There were great risks and he would only have one chance. Everything depended on her response. But did he really understand her? Pastor Hathaway's wife acted prim and proper in public, but in the theater he saw a different woman.

What if he was wrong? Maybe he should have worn his disguise. What if she called the police?

They will never lock me up again, he thought, clenching his jaw as his fingers balled into tight fists.

With both hands deep inside the pockets of his faded blue jeans, Jeff paced outside the theater, sidestepping broken bottles as he kicked a small cardboard box that littered the sidewalk. He pulled his left hand out to check his watch only to shove it back in.

The sound of footsteps caused Jeff to spin around. The man approaching wore a grimy overcoat too heavy for the spring day. A rubber band kept his cruddy hair off his face.

"Hey, buddy, can you spare some money?" the bum asked.

Even outdoors the stench caused Jeff to cup his hand over his nose and mouth. "Beat it," he said.

"C'mon, I need something to eat."

Jeff pointed to the almost empty wine bottle dangling from the man's dirty hand. "You mean drink, don't you?"

"Need something to wash it down with."

That brought a smile to Jeff's face. Having lived in a similar neighborhood, he never took his eyes off the bum as he removed a twenty from his wallet and held it out between two fingers. The bum snatched it and fled.

Jeff returned to the theater's brick wall. Leaning against it, he checked his watch before rolling up the sleeves of his tailored blue shirt. He crossed his arms. Had he judged the pastor's wife correctly? What if he had not?

***

Elizabeth Hathaway's head shot up as the taxi came to a screeching halt. Her eyes bored into the back of the driver's head before she turned to gaze out the side window. The sudden jolt brought her out of her deep, disturbed thoughts about going to hell.

She stared out the car window at the all too familiar building and, with teeth clenched, once again tried to will herself to return home. A recurring argument ensued within her.

Why are you here?

You know why.

Go home. There's still time.

No way. I waited all week.

It's wrong. It's a sin.

Who says?

Elizabeth sensed she was being watched. She turned to see the driver's unshaven face peering over his shoulder, the loose locks of unkempt hair not long enough to shield his piercing black eyes. She cringed at his scowl and clasped her hands atop the pocketbook resting on her lap, squeezing them tight.

"That's twelve-fifty, lady."

Elizabeth could have told him to take her home, to her unpretentious, safe life. All she had to do was bark the order in the same manner he had demanded his money. Those were the thoughts flooding her mind when her eyes fell away from his.

Unzipping her pocketbook, she fished through the contents until locating the old, frayed purse. The driver's stare made her nervous as she thumbed through the bills. She extracted a crisp ten-dollar bill and three ones. Fifty cents was too small a tip. She hunted for another dollar bill, all the while sensing the driver's annoyance and suffering his seething glare. She stuffed the three singles back into her purse and pulled out a five, thrusting the fifteen dollars at the cab driver. As soon as he took the money, she swiped her hat off the seat and bolted from the vehicle without asking for the dollar change that would be needed at the grocery store.

The taxi sped away, spitting a cloud of dust at Elizabeth's feet. She leapt backwards to avoid gnarly clawed hands of demons reaching out from the ground to drag her into the pits of hell. The lie she told herself was that she didn't want to get dirty, but Elizabeth Hathaway felt dirty standing there, and it had nothing to do with the unwashed pavement.

The hairs on the back of her neck tingled and her stomach knotted. She was standing in the open, exposed and vulnerable. Donning her large hat with a big floppy brim, it settled easily over the auburn bun, but Elizabeth tapped the top anyway to lower it further. Shielded by the large hat and oversized sunglasses, she released a soft sigh.

But it was a false security.

A tall man leaning against the theater with his arms crossed caught Elizabeth's attention. One leg was cocked with the sole of his foot flat against the wall. His light blue shirt looked expensive which contrasted with his worn blue jeans and dirty white sneakers. The shirt collar was turned up in the back and the top three buttons undone displaying a few black chest hairs. Part of a tattoo on his forearm peeked from under his rolled-up sleeve.

Her eyes rose to his face. He was staring at her. She looked away.

Elizabeth took a step toward the booth. The familiar pimply faced boy sneered at her through the smudgy glass. She took another step before pretending to look at her watch as she peeked at the tall stranger. He was staring at her. Sizing her up? The knot in her stomach returned. She glanced at the boy, and then looked at the tall man again before spinning on her heel and scurrying away, feeling the heat of his stare on her back, or most likely her ass.

After half a dozen strides, Elizabeth stopped short. Garbage littered the sidewalk from overflowing trash cans, boards covered broken windows, and graffiti decorated the sides of the buildings. She couldn't be walking in that neighborhood. Elizabeth turned around and scampered back.

The tall man's smirk caused her to look away. She stepped up to the window and passed the money through the slot. As she reached for the ticket, the boy placed his hand on top of hers. She snatched the ticket and yanked her hand away. The boy's cackling filled her ears like the devil's own hideous laugh as she rushed to the entrance.

While entering the building, Elizabeth glanced at the tall man. He pushed off the wall and came toward her. She rushed inside and handed the ticket to another grubby employee while looking over her shoulder. The stranger got closer. She shifted from foot to foot with her hand extended and her eyes locked on the man behind her. When a finger caressed her palm, her head spun around to look at her hand and then up at the employee's smiling face.

She closed her fist around the ticket stub and dashed through the lobby to the open door. As she crossed the threshold, Elizabeth's breathing stopped. She was blind, vulnerable. The sunglasses! Ripping them off, she exhaled a sigh of relief. The light was dim, but she could see again. And the low light comforted her. It provided anonymity. However, it was a mistake to be standing there. Experience had taught her that her eyes would adjust to the limited light and that others already seated were watching her. She hastened down the aisle.

Past the halfway point, Elizabeth ventured a peek over her shoulder. The tall man was walking toward her with slow steps, his sneakers scraping the stained, worn carpet, his eyes locked on her. She wanted to turn and run. But where? He was in her path. Elizabeth froze. Her feet wouldn't move as her body trembled.

The squeak of a seat caused her to look to her right and then her head whipped to the left at the sound of a cough. But her attention returned to the man behind her. He was closer now, almost upon her. He could reach out and touch her. Elizabeth gripped the sides of her long, formless dress, waiting for—

He plopped into an aisle seat.

Elizabeth released the held breath and rushed down the aisle, pressing her floppy hat to her head with one hand while clutching her pocketbook to her body with the other. She avoided eye contact with the others already seated, but her eyes nonetheless darted from side to side. Most seats were vacant with only a few people scattered throughout the theater, providing each with space and a semblance of privacy.

Locating a section devoid of people on the right side near the front, Elizabeth zipped into an empty row and scampered crablike past the upturned seats. Her stomach churned knowing the dirty old men seated behind her were staring at her, but her mind was more on the tall stranger. He didn't look like he belonged in this kind of place. But neither did she. Was he watching her? Why was he there?

Compelled to look, she glanced over her shoulder while rushing down the row. It was a mistake. She bumped into a lowered seat. Elizabeth grabbed her leg and muttered under her breath. The pause was momentary. She continued on, hobbling to the last seat, the one next to the wall. She sank into it and rubbed her bruised knee through the long dress as she peeked over her shoulder. The tall man was not looking at her. He was staring at his lap. It had to be paranoia.

Elizabeth shuddered and turned forward, slouching until the hard surface of the seatback dug into the back of her neck. All those beady eyes behind her, ogling her, felt like a thousand spiders crawling over her skin. She sat alone in the dark dirty room that smelled awful, hiding under a big hat. But she was not invisible. Elizabeth pressed her knees together and smoothed her dress over her legs, tugging it down even though it already draped well past her knees. She pinched the front of her collar to her throat as if she were in a blizzard, but her body was warm.

Slumped down in the seat, blanketed in darkness with time to recollect, Elizabeth tried to fathom why a good girl like her, the wife of a minister, was in a porn theater—and why she returned each week. She knew when her life turned upside down, but couldn't grasp the why. The when was August 17, 1999, a mere eight months ago. It was a Tuesday evening and her husband was the catalyst that led to her downfall.

Thoughts of her mother popped into her head as she waited for the movie to begin, a mother who would not suffer a daughter's transgressions, a mother who named her daughter after the mother of John the Baptist. After all these years, she could still see her mother wagging a finger in her face when she had done something wrong, shouting, "It says it in Luke 1:6. Elizabeth was 'righteous before God, walking in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless.' I expect no less from you."

She fought back tears. Righteous? Blameless?

Then she remembered how, as a little girl, she had tried to comfort her mother. Even though she had been too young to understand, seeing her mother crying on the floor in a corner caused the little girl to jump into her mother's lap with her thin arms wrapped around her neck. It bothered little Elizabeth when her mother shoved her away and told her to go play, but she had always done what she was told. And then when Elizabeth was older, she would ask her mother why she wasn't allowed to hug her. The answer made no sense to the child. "I cannot be comforted by someone on this earth."

Elizabeth's father never got physical, but her mother cowered when he screamed. A man with little patience, he wanted things done his way. Thinking back, Elizabeth realized she had also been the target of her father's rage, and that she used to cry after being scolded. She smiled when she thought of her husband. Milford never yelled at her. He was the kindest, gentlest man she had ever known.

The smile faded. When Elizabeth got older, her question changed. She would ask her mother why she was crying. The answer shocked the teenager. "I was bad and this is my penitence."

Bad? Her mother had never done anything bad. If she needed to do penitence, Elizabeth would never be forgiven. Her mother was a god-fearing woman, citing passages from the worn and dog-eared pages of her King James Bible, instilling in the young girl her beliefs. A woman's job is to love and worship the Almighty. To care for her husband. To have children. To be pious. And then there were all the don'ts. Don't show your body. Don't flirt. Don't have sex until you're married, and of course only with your husband. Don't enjoy sex. That last point was drummed into Elizabeth. Sex was for propagation, not enjoyment. Sex was dirty. It was something a woman had to do, but it was a sin for her to enjoy it. Her mother had said, "Only harlots enjoy sex. You're a good girl."

Elizabeth had been a good girl—until that book changed her life in the autumn of 1999.

***

While Elizabeth struggled with her predicament in the porn theater, Pastor Milford Hathaway fretted in his wood paneled church office. He spent many hours there working on sermons, counseling families and their children, reading, and seeking the peacefulness of solitude. Being his only escape from the unrelenting demands of his job and life, the minister's sanctuary was off limits to everyone other than Mrs. Argenta, the old, arthritic cleaning lady. Off limits even to Elizabeth, his wife of four years.

Stringy hair atop a huge forehead made the minister appear older than his forty-three years. Those who knew his age blamed the stressful job for his early baldness and sunken cheeks, but his bushy eyebrows were what caught everyone's attention. As if attacked by an egg beater, the long hairs stuck up in every direction.

The minister sat in his leather chair with his elbows planted on the large oak desk and his face cupped in his hands. He lifted his head slightly, causing the fingers to stretch the skin under his eyes, eyes that gazed at the couch along the opposite wall. It brought back memories that both excited and haunted him.

Over the years, so many young couples had sat on that couch, snuggling and holding hands, while he provided pre-marriage counseling which often elicited nervous laughs from the young man and embarrassed giggles from the bride-to-be. Other couples sat on opposite ends of the couch while he addressed their troubled relationships, often ending up in the middle of their arguments. And then he thought about the problem children sent to him by their parents.

Milford tore his eyes away from the couch as he dug into his pocket. He pulled out the lone key that dangled on a chain with a silver cross. He hesitated for several seconds and then inserted the key into the lock, turned it with a click, and slid the top drawer open. Like everything else in Milford's life, the contents were neatly arranged.

As he lifted the edge of a notepad, he paused to scan the room. Of course he was alone, but his eyes nonetheless traveled from one end to the other. Only then did he slide the folded paper out from under the pad. It was so wrinkled it no longer lay flat, even though the meticulous minister had attempted to fold it neatly the last time he replaced it. Milford stared at the frayed edges as he opened the note a fold at a time. After he laid it on the desk and tried to smooth it once again, his eyes bored into it. Although he had read the note countless times before, he did so again.

I know who you are. I know where you live.

You will pay for what you did.

Keep looking over your shoulder, you motherfucker.

I've waited 15 years. Revenge will be mine.

You don't have much longer to live!

After reading the note twice, Milford's fingers tightened around the paper and crumpled it into a ball, as he had done so many times before. He pounded his fist on the desktop, ignoring the pain of his wedding band digging into the adjacent fingers. Now breathing hard, the minister rested his elbow on the desktop and brought the fist still clutching the note to his forehead. He shut his eyes.

"Who hates me so much?" he asked out loud.

 

Chapter 2

The foul odor permeating the theater was forgotten as Elizabeth watched the movie. Slumped in her seat with her shoulders pressed against the back, her eyes followed the frantic action. No love was depicted, only raw sex. After years of repression, watching it caused her body to heat up and her breathing to quicken.

Movement in her peripheral vision caused Elizabeth to shove her dress down and look to the side. A shadowy figure strolled toward her in slow motion. With each flicker of light from the movie, the man seemed to freeze, like the effects of a strobe light.

The blood drained from Elizabeth's face and her breath caught. Her heart pounded as she spun to the right, only to face the wall. Then she turned back to the approaching man. Thoughts of climbing over the seat into the next row flashed through her mind. She had thought sitting at the end of the row next to the wall would provide privacy. It now trapped her. Not knowing what to do, Elizabeth did what she normally did.

Nothing!

The tall stranger continued down her row, getting closer, appearing larger and more ominous with each painstakingly slow step. She glanced over her shoulder and then back at the man. When he stopped halfway down the row, she released the held breath, only to gasp when he raised the broken seat and sidled past it. He kept coming. Getting closer. Now three seats away.

Stomach churning, Elizabeth recoiled with her back flat against the wall. That pushed her hat over her eyes. She swatted it off her head.

The man plopped down into the seat next to hers. A burst of adrenaline freed her paralysis. She jumped to her feet, ready to rush past him and flee. His foot slammed into the back of seat in front of him.

"Please, I must go," Elizabeth said.

"Mrs. Hathaway, sit down."

"No, I have to—" Elizabeth's jaw dropped. She stared at the man in bewilderment, and then collapsed into her seat. "H-How do you know my name?"

"I used to go to your husband's church."

He knew Milford!

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "I don't know you. I know all of his parishioners."

"It was a long time ago, before you two were married."

"Please, I'm late for an appointment. I must go. Please let me by." Elizabeth leaned forward to stand up.

The man ran his fingers through his jet-black hair and then placed a hand on her shoulder. He shoved her back into her seat.

Terrified and confused, her palms sweating, Elizabeth was at a loss. "What's your name?" she asked with a quavering voice.

"Jeff."

"Jeff what?"

"Just Jeff."

Elizabeth's mind was in turmoil. She told herself to use his name. Make it personal. She once saw that on a morning talk show. And not to show fear.

"Jeff, what do you want from me?" She failed to sound calm.

"Just watch the movie."

"What!"

Someone who knew her—knew her husband—found her in a porn theater. She berated herself for being foolish and weak. Why had she succumbed to going to the theater? What did the man want? All he had said was to watch the movie.

Elizabeth studied the man's profile. He wasn't much older than her. She thought back to when she was younger and attended Milford's church, but couldn't remember him. That wasn't surprising since Elizabeth hadn't mingled with the other children. They would laugh when she repeated what her mother drilled into her, calling her names and making fun of her. They were all evil. She had avoided them even at school. Her family hadn't socialized with the other parishioners either. They attended church, said a few words to the pastor afterward, and left.

The stranger knew her. How? And if he stopped going to her husband's church, how did he know she and Milford were married?

A scream caused Elizabeth to turn toward the screen. The actress who had been leaning over the bed sucking a man's cock was now being fucked by another man from behind. His cock was huge. The actress must have screamed when he entered her. Elizabeth wondered if that's what the stranger wanted her to see.

Immersed in the scene, Elizabeth flinched when she felt a hand on her thigh. She shoved it away as one would a pesky bug and scowled at Jeff.

"Watch the movie," he whispered.

He laid his hand back on her thigh. When Elizabeth tried to remove it, his fingers dug into her flesh.

"If you know what's good for you, stop that." His whisper was now louder.

Elizabeth glanced at the hand on her thigh and then stared at Jeff's face. His penetrating eyes frightened her. She moved her hand off his and turned back to the screen, but her mind was no longer on the movie. The stranger was touching her—and she could do nothing about it. He knew who she was. He knew her husband. Her life, her husband's life, and her marriage were at stake.

Her body tensed when Jeff caressed her thigh.

She looked down into the darkness to see his hand sliding over her dress, touching her like she wished her husband would. But the man was not her husband and it was wrong. Confused, Elizabeth's brain was like mush. She had to do something. Then she jumped at the sound of Jeff's voice. Not hearing what he had said, Elizabeth stared dumbly into his face.

"I said give me your hand." Elizabeth hesitated, but then lifted the one closest to him. He swatted it away like an annoying fly. "The other one."

In a daze, Elizabeth offered her right hand. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand to his nose and sniffed the fingers.

Elizabeth wrenched her hand free and crossed her arms with her hands tucked under her armpits.

"That's what I thought you were doing," Jeff said with a smirk. "Does the pastor know his wife masturbates in public?"

Elizabeth gasped.

Jeff made a clucking sound while shaking his head. "But knowing Old Hathaway, I understand why you have to play with yourself. What's a young, cute girl like you doing with that old goat anyway?"

"I love my husband."

"Sheesh, he must be twenty years older than you."

"Only eighteen."

"But look at him. The kids called him Squirrel because of his bushy eyebrows. God they're ugly. And his pale skin and sunken cheeks make him look dead, like a zombie. What do you see in him anyway?"

"He's a good man."

"A good man? Bullshit!" Jeff's voice was so loud that Elizabeth glanced behind her to see if anyone had heard. Then his voice softened. "If you only knew…" Jeff's eyes dropped to his lap.

How much more shame could Elizabeth endure? The room spun. Her pupils wobbled inside her eye sockets, struggling to focus. Losing the battle, she became lightheaded. Her chin dropped to her chest and her lifeless arms fell to her sides. Dizziness overwhelmed her and she stopped fighting it. Her body went limp and began sliding down the seat.

A hand shaking her shoulder and a faint, faraway voice brought her back.

"I said, from where I was watching, it didn't look like you finished."

Elizabeth shook her head and sat up. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking—"

Her words caught in her throat when the hand on her thigh moved. Jeff's fingers gathered the material of her dress, dragging the hem above her knees.

Elizabeth slapped her palms on her thighs just above the knees and pressed down. Everything was happening so fast. Terror-stricken, she looked at Jeff, her eyes begging him to stop. When he continued, Elizabeth leaned forward and pressed down harder.

"Have you already forgotten my warning?" Jeff whispered. "Do you know what I will do to you and your husband if you fight me? I will ruin both of you."

"Please don't. Just let me leave. I won't come back here ever again. I made a mistake and I now know it. Please just let me go."

The blood drained from Elizabeth's face as her eyes darted around the room looking for an escape route. A scream from the movie caused Jeff to turn toward the large screen. Elizabeth followed his gaze. The actress lay on her back with her legs in the air feigning an orgasm. The actor who had been fucking her fisted his cock and sprayed semen all over her tits and belly.

Elizabeth sensed Jeff and turned his way. He stared at her in a way that made her feel like a lab rat ready to be dissected.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"You can't take your eyes off the movie, can you?"

Elizabeth's eyes dropped to her lap.

"Do you watch your husband?"

Elizabeth's head shot up. "Watch my husband do what? What do you mean? We live a very pious life."

Jeff's face turned cold. "I'm not going to tell you again. Put your hands on the armrests and leave them there until I tell you otherwise."

There was no escape. Elizabeth needed time to think, to figure a way out. Confrontation would anger him and— And what? What would he do? Would he storm out of the theater and go to Milford with her dirty secret? Would her life be over?

Elizabeth eased the pressure, but her hands lingered atop her thighs hoping for a miracle. None came. Milford would be ruined, and so would she. Elizabeth placed her arms on the armrests and tightened her fingers around the plastic as she fought the urge to grab her dress. She winced, sucking in a lungful of air. Jeff's hand had returned to her thigh. She gripped the armrests tighter to keep her hands there. Her eyes locked on Jeff's hand as it slid toward her knee. She stopped breathing when his finger hooked the bottom of the dress. Her knuckles turned white.

With wide eyes, Elizabeth watched the man's hand pull her dress up, inch by inch. She couldn't blink. She couldn't breathe. Each beat of her heart was followed by another tug that bared more skin. She admonished herself for not wearing pantyhose. On her first visit to the porn theater, Elizabeth had ripped a hole in the pair she had worn as she sought access to her panties. Money was scarce and couldn't be wasted on replacing torn pantyhose.

When more than half of her thighs were uncovered, her resolve failed. She snapped her legs together, snagging the dress between them. But the stranger's efforts were foiled only for a moment. He wrenched the garment from between her legs. The momentum flipped the dress to her waist. He laid a hand on her bare thigh, but Elizabeth's attention was elsewhere. She stared in shock at her panties, at the side crumpled up where she had pushed it aside, at her curly pubic hairs. With no other thought than to cover herself, she yanked her dress down.

"What did I tell you?" Jeff said.

Elizabeth saw the anger in his face. "I, I can't do this."

"You better. You'll be ruined. Your husband will be ruined."

Jeff's hand, still under her dress, squeezed her naked thigh. Elizabeth slapped a hand on top of his over the dress and tried to push it away. It remained steadfast.

Elizabeth clamped down on his hand and glared at Jeff. "It's your word against mine."

"Do you think I'm stupid? I've been watching you, following you, taking pictures."

"Pictures?"

She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard her outburst. A few rows back, a man was looking at her. Her head was spinning.

"Yes, pictures. Lots of them. Standing in front of the theater. Buying tickets. Going inside. Coming out. You know, you look more flushed coming out. I guess what you do in the theater has that effect. And I can't believe you think wearing a big had and those stupid sunglasses disguises you. You know, when an ostrich sticks her head in a hole and thinks she's safe, her ass is exposed." Jeff paused and then his eyes narrowed. "I will send them to your husband. I'll send them to the church council, to every member of the church. He'll be ruined. He'll be thrown out. You won't have a house. You won't have any income."

Elizabeth's jaw dropped.

"Where will you live?" Jeff asked. "Go home to your parents?" He chuckled, but it was a cold laugh. "Yeah right. I'll send the pictures to your mother, too. Do you think she will take you in after she learns what you've done? She'll lock you out of her house." Jeff paused, studying Elizabeth's face. "I will do it, you know. I have my reasons. But it's your choice. If you're willing to accept everything I just said, I'll leave now. But I swear, those pictures will be sent out and your life will be ruined."

Tears streamed down Elizabeth's cheeks as she gasped for air. She looked at Jeff's face, into his eyes. He hated her. She didn't know why, but he did. And he would do what he threatened, she was sure of it. What should she do? Why couldn't she think straight?

Oh Lord, don't forsake me, Elizabeth thought. I'm sorry. I know I sinned, but—

"So what will it be?" Jeff asked.

It took all of Elizabeth's willpower to relax her fingers and place both hands back on the armrests.

"Lift up your dress," Jeff said.

Elizabeth glared at the stranger. He was the devil. It was bad enough to sit by as he—whatever he was going to do—but to make her participate was more degrading. With no hope for a reprieve, Elizabeth sighed and grabbed the hem of her dress with sweaty palms. She hesitated. Then, like one would yank a band aid off to minimize the pain, she lifted the dress to her waist in one swift motion. Again she saw her twisted panties, but when she attempted to straighten them Jeff shoved her hand away. Her fingers curled into a fist. For the first time in her life she wanted to hit someone. But Elizabeth placed her hands on the armrests.

When Jeff laid a hand on her bare thigh, Elizabeth flinched and every muscle in her body became taut. She gripped the armrests tightly when his fingertips caressed her skin. Even Milford never touched her like that. Then his hand moved higher.

Not there! Please, Lord, don't let him do it. Make him stop.

Elizabeth's eyes snapped shut. Quick gasps brought minimal air to her lungs. And then her breathing stopped altogether when the man's fingers brushed over the cotton material of her panties. The urge to push his hand away was strong, but the threat of the pictures immobilized her. She pressed her thighs together.

Please, Lord. Oh please, dear God. Help me. I'll be good from now on. I know I sinned, but don't punish me like this. Please help me. I know that—

Elizabeth winced when his fingers slid over her panties toward the exposed side of her crotch. The material no longer offered protection as his fingers nestled inside her pubic hair. She clamped her eyes tighter when they slid under the leg-band of her panties.

The snap of the elastic caused Elizabeth's eyes to pop open. Glancing down, she confirmed what she had felt. The area was now covered. Was he playing a sick game?

Filled with hope, Elizabeth searched Jeff's face for any sign of compassion. The touch of his fingertips on her naked skin above the waistband of her panties caused her to flinch. She lowered her eyes in time to see his hand push into her flesh and snake inside her panties. She grabbed his forearm with both hands. She had to stop him, she had to.

"Get your hands back on the armrests," Jeff said.

"I can't. Don't you understand? Please don't do this."

"Put your hands back."

"I can't."

"You will!"

Elizabeth licked the beads of sweat off her upper lip. Her stomach churned. What was happening was unthinkable. Still clutching his forearm, Elizabeth looked into Jeff's face. She saw his resolve so her eyes dropped to her lap only to see the shape of his hand pushing out the front of her white cotton panties. Her fingers dug into his flesh for a moment longer, but then relaxed. She had no choice. After taking several deep breaths, Elizabeth returned her hands to the armrests.

"Now watch the movie," Jeff said.

Elizabeth gawked. Watch the movie? It was a sick game. With no other choice, she turned back to the movie screen, but Elizabeth was no longer interested in the movie. With her dress raised to her waist and a man's hand inside the front of her panties, she pressed her thighs together as she gripped the armrests with sweaty palms.

A probing finger snaked through her pubic hair. Elizabeth squeezed her legs tighter and took the quick breaths taught in Lamaze training she hoped to use one day. The finger traveled still lower. She jumped when it brushed over her clitoris. No one had ever touched her there.

Elizabeth's rapid, shallow breaths abruptly halted when the finger wiggled. She clamped her legs as tight as she could to prevent penetration, but the fingertip remained on her clitoris—moving to and fro, moving side to side.

It felt different than when she did it herself.

Much different!

She squirmed in her seat, unable to dislodge the finger. Soon her fidgeting had nothing to do with trying to disengage the contact. Her mind was losing the battle with her body for control as she squeezed both armrests to keep from humping her hips. The feeling between her legs was intense. Lustful hunger flared from her groin and spread throughout her body. A long sigh escaped her now parted lips as she relaxed her thighs.

Jeff's finger sank into her folds. It moved again, lower, sliding down her slit. It was offensive. It was embarrassing. It was arousing.

Elizabeth caught her breath when the fingertip poked her moist hole. Dipped in up to the first knuckle. Her eyes snapped shut and she clenched her teeth. She pulled on the armrests, fighting the urge to hump her hips. When the finger reversed course without sinking into her, Elizabeth felt empty, cheated. Her legs eased further apart.

There was no reprieve.

Jeff's now moist fingertip brushed over her clitoris. Her head fell back and her jaw went slack. She sucked in air. Her legs parted more. Her pussy was on fire and her body's needs clouded her brain's logic. The finger slid back down, and this time when it touched her hole she lost the battle. Her hips jerked. His finger sank in almost to the second knuckle. Elizabeth moaned as her vagina muscles clenched the finger, holding it there, urging it deeper.

Her eyes opened to half slits and she saw only vague images on the big screen. Never having experienced this feeling, her mind was useless. All her senses, her very essence, centered between her legs.

Elizabeth continued to grip the armrests, now for a different reason. She sank down in the seat with her legs spread wide and her feet flat on the floor. She tilted her head back. Unseeing eyes stared up at the ceiling as her hips humped. When her husband made love to her, Elizabeth had always been able to control that urge. But this feeling went beyond what she experienced with Milford. Her husband would ejaculate and pull out before she reached this point.

The stranger's finger remained inside her. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind she knew it was wrong, like when she wanted to move under her husband. At those times she would control herself only to be disappointed and later finish with her own fingers after Milford left the room. That was a sin, but this was a lot worse. The stranger wasn't her husband. And she didn't want to finish herself. It felt much better for someone else to do it. So when Jeff's finger slid down her slit and the fingertip touched her opening, Elizabeth gripped the armrests and her butt rose from the seat as she thrust up to drive the finger into her burning hole. When she settled back down, to Elizabeth's delight, the finger remained inside her. It moved in and out.

But it stopped.

Elizabeth's body stiffened. She craved the feeling of Jeff's finger sliding along the nerve-lined walls of her vagina. She needed release. She would not be denied. With her feet planted on the floor, her legs spread, and her shoulder blades pressed against the seatback, Elizabeth humped, and humped again and again. The seat rocked and rattled and squeaked as she fucked Jeff's finger.

She was close. She was ready.

But with his finger buried inside her, Jeff palmed Elizabeth's groin and pressed her into the seat. She strained against it.

"No, let me move," Elizabeth said.

She grabbed Jeff's forearm with both hands, holding it tight while her lower body jerked with short, quick humps. With his palm pressed against her clitoris and his finger inside her, every movement caused a jolt of pleasure. Elizabeth's body tensed and her knees snapped shut, squashing his hand between her thighs. She shook. She squealed. Her body shuddered. Her fingernails dug into Jeff's flesh as her hips jerked twice more.

And then she went limp. Her arms dropped to her sides and her chin to her heaving chest.

 

Chapter 3

Elizabeth's squeal echoed throughout the theater causing Jeff to turn in his seat and peer into the darkness. None of the men behind them were watching the movie. He glared at one man whose eyes shot up to the screen. The next looked to the side. And so it went with each man he made eye contact with.

Jeff remained sitting sideways when his attention returned to Elizabeth. He rested his right elbow on top of the seatback with the side of his face cradled in his palm. He studied her, leaning in for a closer look in the dim light.

Elizabeth's eyes were closed, her breathing deep. Once again, he noticed how pretty she was, but something troubled him. She seemed nice. What could she possibly see in that monster to have married him? There was only one explanation. She must be just like him, birds of a feather and all that.

Jeff leaned back when Elizabeth's eyes fluttered open. She looked around with half-lidded eyes until they met his, and then they opened wide. She bolted upright in her seat and looked down at her lap.

Jeff suppressed a chuckle at her sharp intake of breath. Her dress, bunched at her waist, did nothing to cover her partly rolled down panties and the exposed pubic hair showing above the top. Elizabeth flung her dress over her knees and leaned forward, pressing her hands flat on her thighs. She rocked back and forth while staring at the back of the seat in front of her.

"Welcome back," Jeff said with a snicker. "You know, you shouldn't hide under that big hat and stupid sunglasses. You're quite attractive."

Elizabeth's hands flew to both sides of her head. "Where's my hat?"

She glared at Jeff who shook his head. Her eyes dropped to his lap and then to the seat next to him. He thrust a thumb at the floor where the hat lay propped against the wall. When Elizabeth rolled onto her hip to reach it, Jeff pinched her butt. She snatched the hat and sat upright with it clutched to her chest.

Jeff chuckled. "You shouldn't tempt me like that."

"I didn't mean to. It's just that I had to get— Oh, never mind! You know I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know no such thing. I think you did it on purpose." The sides of Jeff's mouth curled into a smile.

"I did not! I wasn't raised like that. I'm a good girl."

"Ha! That's why you're in a porn theater. That's why you were masturbating in public. That's why you came like a nymphomaniac. We both know better, don't we? Does the pastor know you're a slut?"

"Oh dear lord! No, of course not! I mean…I'm not…what you said. But he doesn't know about this. He can't ever find out. Will he? Will he find out?" Elizabeth wrung the hat's brim.

"That's up to you. If you do what I say, the pastor will never know."

Jeff gloated inside. Yeah right, like he wouldn't tell Hathaway. That was the whole idea. He couldn't wait to see the minister's high and mighty look wiped off his face. Pastor Hathaway was on the top of his list of people to get even with.

Even in the dark, Jeff saw Elizabeth's hands twisting the hat. Regret for using her washed over him. She seemed so sweet and innocent. And then his face hardened. Did she pretend like her husband? No one's that gullible. She was collateral damage. She'd get over it.

Jeff shook his head wondering if she would get over it. Had he? Would he ever get over it?

Elizabeth laid a hand on Jeff's forearm. "You have to promise me you won't tell him."

"I'm not promising anything. But if you behave, your husband won't find out."

"I will. I swear. I won't come here anymore. I will behave. I don't know what happened to me. I took a class at the university and had these feelings and I made mistakes, but I promise to change. Just don't tell my husband."

"I don't care if you ever come here again. In fact, we may make this a regular thing."

Jeff saw the blood drain from Elizabeth's face. She took quick, short breaths, once again squeezing the now deformed hat with both hands.

"But for now…" Jeff let the words linger as he stared at her face, "…we have unfinished business."

He plucked the hat from Elizabeth's grasp and flipped it onto the vacant seat next to him. "That's mine," she said as she reached across him. He grabbed the wrist of her outstretched arm and forced her palm against his crotch. She wrenched her hand free and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Come on, I thought you were going to play ball," Jeff said. He chuckled. "Or in this case, play with my balls."

"That's disgusting. I'm a married woman. You can't expect me to, to, to touch you there."

"I didn't see you fighting me when I touched you there."

"I tried to stop you. You were too strong. I didn't have—"

"Only in the beginning. Afterward, you didn't even try. Hell, afterward you did most of the work."

"I, I…" Elizabeth's eyes dropped to her lap.

Jeff smirked. "You know, you're one hell of a hot blooded woman. I can tell by how you reacted and how hard you came. All you're doing is lying to yourself. If the pastor knew how to treat a woman you wouldn't be sitting in this theater. You know, I feel sorry for you. Too bad you're not married to a real man instead of your poor excuse for a husband."

"Milford is a wonderful husband and I love him very much. He's very good to me."

"But not in the sack, right? You're a sexy, hot blooded woman and I bet you don't even turn your husband on."

"I do so! I, I mean, of course I do. But sex isn't supposed to be pleasurable. That's a horrible sin."

Jeff's right eyebrow rose. What did she say? It's a sin to enjoy sex? I bet that's what Hathaway told her so he wouldn't have to— Damn that man! I hate his fucking guts! She's as much a victim as me.

"I'm leaving!" Elizabeth said, jumping to her feet.

Jeff knew he had to stop her, but he had no desire to hurt her. Sure she would be embarrassed, but she'd get over it. He needed her. Everything depended on her. Somehow he would make it up to her afterward. He would give her money to start a new life without the minister. It would be a better life. That's what Jeff told himself, and part of him believed it.

Elizabeth tried to squeeze between Jeff's knees and the seat in front of him.

"Fine. You go and I'll tell your husband all about your…how shall we put it, extracurricular activities."

"It's your word against mine!"

"I have photos."

Elizabeth took a step back. Her knees buckled. Jeff reached for her, but pulled his arm back when she grabbed the seat in the row in front of them. He stared up into her face. The flickering light from the movie showed her pupils moving rapidly.

"You better sit down," Jeff said. He thrust a thumb over his shoulder.

Elizabeth peered into the dark theater, at the faces of disgusting men staring at her, and dropped into her seat. She glanced over her shoulder once more before turning toward Jeff.

"You, you said you wouldn't tell Milford."

"You said you'd behave, do what I say. If you do that, I'll keep your little dirty secret."

Elizabeth squirmed in her seat, wringing her hands at chest level. She looked up with watery eyes and nodded. It was a small gesture, but meaningful. Her shoulders slumped and her hands dropped to her lap.

He had her. Everything was working as planned.

Jeff smiled and leaned back in his seat, extending his arms out to the sides, one across Elizabeth's seatback and the other on his other side. Elizabeth leaned forward when his arm touched her shoulders.

"Open my pants and take out my dick," Jeff said.

He thought Elizabeth was going to cry. Now convinced she wasn't like her husband, he didn't want to hurt her, but he needed her. All he wanted to do was break her spirit so that he could use her to get at her husband. She wasn't like any woman he had ever known. She was sweet. She was innocent. They could be friends in another life.

Pastor Hathaway messed up her life as much as he had Jeff's. She needed his help, maybe more than he needed hers. He would teach her that sex could and should be pleasurable. Undo Hathaway's lies. Sure she'd be embarrassed, but in the long run she'd be better off. It was just like that bastard to tell her it was a sin to enjoy sex.

Elizabeth glanced at Jeff's face and then shifted in her seat toward him. One trembling hand fumbled with his belt and slid the leather strap through the pants loop. Then, with an injured kitten whimper, she yanked the belt free of the hook. She took a deep breath and released the air. She leaned forward and unsnapped his jeans using both hands, but then leaned back.

It was Jeff's turn to hold his breath. She had changed her mind. Now what? He would never rape her. He doubted he would even go through with the threat. It was one thing to destroy Pastor Hathaway, but Elizabeth had never hurt him.

 

Chapter 4

Elizabeth glowered in the dark theater. Determined not to look at Jeff's face, her eyes remained on his lap. A deep, drawn out sigh raised and lowered her shoulders before she leaned over the armrest to reach for his zipper. After picking at the shiny metal tab with her fingernail, attempting to touch nothing else, she gave up and pinched the cool metal between her thumb and forefinger and tugged it down.

The intake of air from Jeff caused Elizabeth to hesitate, but not look up. Her eyes darted from side to side as she sought a way out. She could beg. No! She had tried that. He was not a compassionate man like her husband. She had never met anyone like him. He was evil. A monster. He would show the photos, she was sure of that. Why had she been so stupid? This was her penance to atone for her sins.

Elizabeth folded open the top of Jeff's jeans. Her brow creased at the sight of his bright blue underwear. They were so different from Milford's white, baggy ones which she washed and folded on laundry day.

Still leaning over the armrest connecting the two seats, Elizabeth clasped her hands over her heart. Not in prayer. Even when her mother had shunned her as a child, Elizabeth had felt helpless, not hopeless. Now the weight of her mistakes smothered her. If she didn't do what he said, he would ruin her life and, more importantly, Milford's. If she did it, no one would know. He promised not to tell.

Elizabeth laid a hand flat on Jeff's belly between his parted shirttails. It lingered as the heat singed her palm. She pressed down. Her fingers sank into his flesh and slid underneath the waistband of his briefs, gliding through the coarse pubic hair.

I'm touching his, his—

Even in the privacy of her own mind, Elizabeth couldn't utter the word. And then her hand covered his cock. It was warm. The heat spread from her palm to her burning cheeks. Feeling a penis for the first time, her fingers curled and twitched. She had wanted to touch Milford like that, and those thoughts caused her fingers to tighten.

What did it look like?

Elizabeth thought back to her sinful curiosity before seeing pictures of penises on the internet. When she and Milford had sex, which was infrequent, it was always under the covers. Early in their marriage, Elizabeth had been curious to see a penis, but her mother had taught her that a man's thing was God's creation for the purpose of making babies—and often controlled by the devil. It was best that she didn't see or touch it. Otherwise the devil might tempt her to sin.

On those occasions when her husband had informed her that it was time to try again for a child, Elizabeth dutifully lifted her long nightgown under the covers and waited. Milford would undress in the bathroom. When he reentered the bedroom, the robe didn't completely mask his erection so he held his hands over his groin to shield it. Elizabeth would avert her eyes when he shucked the robe and got into bed. She did peek a few times, but their lovemaking was always at night with the shades drawn and the lights off. Even with a full moon, the room was too dark to see anything but shadows.

Elizabeth would spread her legs and wait for her husband to mount her. More often than not, Milford failed to push his already softening penis into her vagina. From the movement under the blanket, she knew he was using his hand. For him it wasn't a sin because it wasn't done for pleasure, but a necessary step to procreate.

Elizabeth's fingers tightened around Jeff's penis as she thought of the times she had wanted to help Milford, never offering because of her mother's warning.

When Milford would enter her, Elizabeth winced with each thrust until her vagina lubricated. Then anguish replaced pain. It felt good. She would bite her lower lip to keep from moaning. After all, it was sinful to enjoy sex so she hid her weakness from her husband. At times she thought she would lose the battle by moving under him, but then thanked God when Milford grunted and ejaculated to put an end to her ordeal.

After doing his duty, Milford would roll off Elizabeth, don his robe with his back to her, and scurry to the bathroom. She would push her nightgown down under the covers and listen to the shower. Those were the times she prayed for a child and apologized to God.

"Please, Lord, don't punish us for my sinful feelings. I can't help it and try not to feel it. Please, Lord, bless us with a child."

After all, four years was a long time. It had to be God's will.

But the man sitting next to Elizabeth in the theater wasn't her husband.

Using her free hand, Elizabeth lowered the front of Jeff's briefs. If she had a third hand it would have flown to her open mouth. It was one thing to feel the penis, but something else to see her fingers wrapped around it. Although not her husband's, butterflies fluttered in her belly anyway.

"Go on, rub it," Jeff said.

Elizabeth had seen enough movies to know what he meant. She squeezed and stroked the soft cock, adjusting her grip as it swelled. A surge of power swept through her. Power she had never known with a man. She was causing his cock to harden. She was causing him to squirm. She was causing him to moan. She was in control.

Elizabeth glanced up at Jeff when he braced his feet on the floor and leaned back. With his butt off the seat, he shoved his jeans and briefs to his knees. After he sat back down, her attention returned to her hand still clutching his penis.

With her dainty pinky sticking out, Elizabeth's loose fist glided up and down. A fiery heat spread through her body. Placing more weight on her forearm, she leaned a little forward. Submerged in unfamiliar territory, a whirlwind of emotions swept through her like a forest fire on a dry, windy day. At that moment her entire universe centered on her hand and what she held within it. She no longer heard the sounds from the movie. She no longer smelled the stale odor of the theater. She didn't even feel the hand on the back of her head nudging it down, not until her nose bumped into the tip of the cock.

Elizabeth sprang back up. She clasped her hands in her lap and stared at Jeff's face. It was as if she had awoken from a deep sleep, but this was no dream.

"Finish what you started," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Put it in your mouth."

After all that had happened, that statement appalled Elizabeth. She had seen pictures of blowjobs, and for some reason they aroused her, but normal people didn't do that. She had wanted to touch her husband's penis to make him feel good, but with her hand! It would sicken her to put it inside her mouth. Elizabeth stared with pleading eyes. What she saw was resolve. He wasn't going to take no for an answer.

Her eyes fell to Jeff's lap. The hard cock stuck up from a bed of dark, curly hair. It looked clean. It had felt nice in her hand. But in her mouth?

Elizabeth chewed her lower lip as she placed her hand on the armrest connecting their seats. She leaned forward. The cock lurched. Her head jerked back. She took a calming breath before bending over again. There it was, right in front of her face, twitching, beckoning her.

She shivered. Her breaths came in short, quick pants. Her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty. Lightheaded, she trembled with excitement she couldn't explain. She opened her mouth wide and leaned over more. When the cock brushed her bottom lip, her mouth snapped shut like a bear trap. It was inside her mouth! She held it there, disgusted with the act and filled with guilt. Yet part of her, the part her conscious mind wouldn't accept, didn't want to give it up.

Saliva accumulated inside her mouth and, when some leaked over her bottom lip, she sucked it back in and swallowed. Her lips puckered and tightened, her cheeks caved in, and her tongue moved as her throat contracted.

Jeff moaned. She tilted her head to the side to look up. He was staring down at her, watching her, but not with a dominant, overbearing demeanor. It was almost adoration. She relished the power it afforded her. Her tongue slid along the smooth surface, flicking the spongy head and the ridge beneath it. Elizabeth's lips traveled farther down the cock. She sucked it. She licked it. She moved her head up and down. Guided by Jeff's reactions, she learned fast.

When Elizabeth felt Jeff's hand on the top of her head, she tensed and awaited the push. Dreading it. Fearing it. But all he did was hold her bun so she resumed. Strands of hair came lose and tickled her cheek as her head once again bobbed up and down. Her instinct was to repair the bun. It served a purpose. Wanton looks from men made her feel like all those names her mother had said were wicked, so she did her best to look less desirable, more respectable and proper. But right now she left the unruly bun alone, feeling as unrestrained as her hair.

Her head moved faster. Her lips pressed tighter. Saliva flowed down the shaft onto her fist. Butterflies fluttered in her belly. And then her hair was being pulled. Elizabeth fought it. The muscles in her neck became taut as she strained to keep her head down, but the stinging on her scalp won out. When the cock popped from her sucking mouth with a smack, she wiped her chin with the back of her hand and looked at Jeff.

"Take off your panties." He was breathing hard and sounded urgent.

Elizabeth stared at him, her jaw slack. Speechless. Those four words sobered her. Did he expect to have intercourse? Right there in the theater?

"Please, I can't."

"Don't make me tell you twice."

Elizabeth's eyes dropped to her lap and her shoulders caved. Despair replaced the feeling of being in control. She turned in her seat to face front and leaned forward with her elbows on her thighs and her face buried in her hands, shaking her head from side to side.

The nudge on her shoulder caused Elizabeth to turn her head. She peeked between spread fingers. Jeff gave a sharp nod.

She had no choice. He had pictures.

With her feet planted on the floor, Elizabeth pressed her back against the seat as she lifted her butt. It was awkward to hold her dress down with one hand while snagging the panties with the other. She rolled one side down over her hip and then reached under her butt to do the other side. Her strength gave out and she collapsed onto the seat with a squeal. A quick glance at Jeff saw his impatience.

Elizabeth slithered off the seat onto her knees. Crouching in the cramped space, her dress flowed around her on the dirty floor. She reached underneath it with both hands and dragged her panties down. She climbed back onto the seat and lifted the hem of her dress just far enough to grasp her panties. They were stretched across her knees. As flimsy as they were, they were her last protection. It took enormous willpower to push them the rest of the way down and off. Elizabeth blushed as she crushed the white cotton undergarment into a little ball in her fist. She stared at the back of the seat in front of her.

When Jeff tapped her shoulder, Elizabeth turned to see his upturned palm. She laid her panties on it.

Jeff put his other hand on top of Elizabeth's head. There was no hesitation. She leaned over his lap. Maybe he wasn't going to violate her. After all, there were others around. Maybe all he wanted was her panties. If she satisfied him with her mouth, he wouldn't expect the other. But another part of Elizabeth, one kept hidden from her conscious mind, wanted to suck the cock. Not that she would do it on her own accord, but since the choice was not hers…

Elizabeth guided Jeff's cock to her open mouth. Her lips closed around it. She sucked and licked with urgency, afraid he would stop her. Doing this was better than the other. In her mouth was bad, but if he put it inside her vagina it would be the ultimate betrayal of her husband. That's what she told herself. But she liked the feel of his cock on her tongue, liked sucking the spongy head, and liked dragging her lips up and down the shaft. Each time Jeff moaned, or his lower body jerked, the powerful feeling of being in control returned.

Once again, Jeff grabbed Elizabeth's bun and yanked her mouth off his cock. This time so hard her bun came undone and her loose hairs fell over her face. She sat up, parting her hair to stare at him. Her eyes followed his hand. He wrapped her panties around his cock and fisted it rapidly. Elizabeth was mesmerized. And then disgust filled her when his hand stopped moving, his face scrunched, and he grunted. She had seen that expression on Milford. He was doing it inside her panties.

Jeff's eyes opened. His arm shot out and he dangled her panties over the seat in front of him. "Do you want these or should I toss them?"

"Oh no! Don't leave them here! Give them to me!"

He swung his hand to her. Elizabeth pinched the panties between her forefinger and thumb and held them away from her body as she reached for her pocketbook. She dropped the soiled undergarment into it and then turned back to Jeff.

Jeff fastened his pants and stood up. "Let's go."

Bewildered, Elizabeth looked around. The movie had ended and they were alone.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"We're not going anywhere. I'm going home. Do you need a ride?"

"No, um, I just thought— No, I can manage."

"Do you have a cell phone?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Give me your number."

Still confused, Elizabeth fished through her pocketbook. She found the pad and pen, jotted down her telephone number, and tore off the sheet of paper. Jeff snatched it from her and walked away without uttering a word, leaving Elizabeth standing with her mouth gaping.

 

Chapter 5

The ride home from the porn theater had always been filled with mixed emotions for Elizabeth. The afterglow of her arousal and orgasm would linger, but so did the guilt. This ride was more traumatic, and the taxi driver didn't help.

Jostled in the back of the cab, Elizabeth pressed one hand flat on the seat while clutching her pocketbook to her body with the other. In her haste to leave the theater, she had neglected to redo her bun. Her free flowing hair whipped her face as she was thrown from side to side. It boiled over when she slammed into the back of the front bench seat after the driver hit the brakes hard.

"Slow down, damn it!" she shouted.

Elizabeth winced at her outburst. She had yelled at a man. She had cursed.

The driver heeded her so the ride was more peaceful, physically anyway. Her mind was anything but at peace. She picked up her hat that had slid onto the floor and stared at the disfigured brim. She stretched it, squeezed it between two fingers along the edge, and even pressed it on her thigh using the heel of her palm like an iron, but it would not return to its proper form. The hat was ruined. Damaged goods, like her.

Elizabeth was troubled by her many sins—having wicked thoughts, masturbating, looking at porn on the internet, and going to an adult theater—but what she had just done eclipsed those transgressions. Milford didn't deserve a woman like her. He was so good and kind. She was everything her mother said was bad.

Having the feeling of being watched, Elizabeth looked up to see the taxi driver's eyes in the rear view mirror. Why was he staring at her? She thrust her hand into her pocketbook for a compact. She jerked it back. It came out wet. Her eyes returned to the rear view mirror. The driver was busy dodging traffic and no longer looking. With her eyes plastered on the rear view mirror, she slyly wiped the back of her hand on the seat.

Elizabeth was more careful this time and nudged the panties aside as she dug through her pocketbook. She located the compact and flipped it open. She held the mirror at arm's length. Other than her disheveled hair, nothing she saw gave away her secret. She peeked over the top of the mirror to see the driver's eyes on her yet again.

Why was he staring at her? She looked like a slut, that's why. He knew what kind of woman she was and what she had done. He knew she had sinned and cheated on her husband. He could tell just by looking at her.

She patted the back of her head, but the pins that had held her bun together were gone, lost in the dirty theater along with her virtue. She wrapped her hair as best she could and stuffed it under the hat, and then tapped the hat down so that it was snug. Each time she tucked loose strands of hair into the hat, more fell out.

Elizabeth was still fussing with her hair when the taxi stopped in front of the park. Relieved to escape the taxi driver's judgmental stare, she paid the fare and fled the vehicle. With a hand holding the top of her hat, she ran along the empty street. The large brim flipped up, letting the setting sun shine on her face. She stopped as she approached her house. To her it was quaint, not small.

The house was provided to the reigning pastor. Adjacent to it was the church, a large structure with a towering steeple that dwarfed the house. But she loved her home with its white picket fence and small patch of grass. The covered front porch had a swing made for two, but Elizabeth seemed to use it alone most of the time. It was nice to sit on the porch and return the waves and smiles of people walking by. It was the life she loved, one that Jeff could destroy.

Elizabeth walked slower now as she passed her house. She looked at the formidable structure of her husband's church and rubbed her sweaty palms on her hips. It could all be lost. The church, the house, everything!

Entering the sacred building, Elizabeth knelt in the last pew, gripping the wooden bench in front of her and pressing her forehead against the backs of her hands. She closed her eyes and prayed, confessing her sins to God. She asked for forgiveness. She asked Him to keep the man from the theater—the devil's instrument if not Satan himself—from bothering her again.

"I will sin no longer," she whispered with eyes shut tight. "Please forgive me and give me my old life back."

Elizabeth's head shot up when she heard quick footsteps echoing in the large, empty room. She panicked thinking it was her husband. But it was little Johnny Whitney running up the aisle. Elizabeth jumped to her feet and blocked his path. The young boy tried to sidestep her so she grabbed his arm. When he stopped struggling, Elizabeth dropped to a knee. Now eye level with him, she held both his arms.

"What are you doing here?" Elizabeth asked.

The boy looked at her with tears on his dirty face.

"Johnny, what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, I know better. What have you done?"

The young boy looked up, his face tense and red with anger. He wrenched free and bolted for the door, slamming into it with a force that flung it open. He was gone in a flash. Elizabeth continued to stare over her shoulder until she heard more footsteps. She turned.

"Hello, dear, what are you doing here?" Milford asked.

Elizabeth jumped to her feet. "I, um, I was just looking for you," she said, already breaking her promise not to sin by lying.

"You look—" His eyes scanned her from head to toe. "Is something wrong?"

Elizabeth fussed with the loose hairs trying to stuff them into her hat, but gave up when more fell out. "No, I was just wondering what you wanted for dinner." Another lie! Then, after a pause, she said, "What's the matter with Johnny Whitney?"

A troubled look came over the minister's face and Elizabeth regretted having asked him. Milford had made it clear to Elizabeth early on that he didn't talk about church business, that he respected people's privacy, like a psychiatrist. But Johnny had looked so upset she had blurted it out. Milford's face reverted back to his kind, caring one.

"He's having some problems with the other boys. He doesn't want to talk to his parents about it so I've been counseling him. Johnny's a good kid. I'm sure I can fix things. As to dinner, how about chicken?"

Elizabeth realized she was standing in church talking to her husband with no panties on. And her panties were in her pocketbook. And those panties were soiled with a man's semen.

"Chicken is fine," she said, hoping the redness burning her cheeks went unnoticed.

Elizabeth rushed to her house and then up the stairs to her bedroom.

Milford is so good with children, she thought as she slipped on a fresh pair of panties. I hope I can give him a child soon. If I had a child, things would be different.

A few hours later, Elizabeth was silent at the dinner table. Her secret had been discovered and Jeff was using it against her. He had made her do things that were sinful, and adulterous. But what troubled Elizabeth more was that she had been aroused doing them.

After dinner, Elizabeth sat alone in her small living room. Mozart played on the stereo, a piece that usually soothed her. But even the great composer came up short. She sat on the couch rubbing her palms on her thighs. Milford, as usual, was working in his office.

She pounded her fist on the couch cushion. Why couldn't she go to her pastor when troubled? Johnny Whitney could. The other children could. Their parents could. Everyone could, everyone except her. It wasn't fair. She slammed her fist again.

Never in her whole life had Elizabeth felt more alone.

She took a long, hot bath to soothe her nerves and then climbed into bed. When Milford entered the bedroom, Elizabeth looked up from her book. She loved him so much and needed to show it.

The minister joined her in bed, leaned over to kiss Elizabeth on the forehead, and then turned off his lamp and placed his head on the pillow facing away from her. Putting her book on the end table, Elizabeth turned toward her husband. She rolled onto her side and slid an arm under the cover, draping it over his body.

Milford stiffened.

She hugged him, beseeching him to turn around and return the embrace. She desired him more than she had ever before, and she wanted to show him how much she loved him. The guilt of pleasuring another man was overwhelming. Her husband deserved the pleasure she had given a complete stranger.

Pressing against her husband with her chin on his shoulder, Elizabeth felt the warmth of his body. She loved him so much. Her hand slid down his chest to his belly. It wavered, hard to overcome a lifetime of preaching that it was a sin to enjoy sex. However, the love for her husband was stronger. Her hand continued downward, past the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms, inside them, onto his penis.

The minister recoiled as if he had been touched by a live electrical wire, banging the back of his head into Elizabeth's cheek. His body slammed into her so hard she tightened her grip. Milford grabbed Elizabeth's wrist and yanked her hand off his dick as he sat up and spun around. Elizabeth scooted to the far edge of the mattress and brought her knees up, curling into a ball, something she had done as a child when her father yelled at her. She rubbed her bruised cheek while gawking at her husband.

"What are you doing?" Milford said.

"I thought you would like it."

"What gave you that idea? Since when have you become so wicked?"

Elizabeth was at a loss for words. She had been wicked, doing sinful things, but this wasn't like that. Milford was her husband and she wanted to please him, to love him. Why was that wrong?

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said with downcast eyes. "Please forgive me."

Elizabeth glanced up at the silence and saw that Milford's stern face had softened. She flinched when he leaned toward her, but relaxed when he kissed her forehead. Seeing the warmth on his face, she returned it with a weak smile. He had forgiven her. Her husband was a great man, filled with compassion.

After Milford rolled over to go to sleep, Elizabeth turned off her lamp and lay on her back staring into the darkness. She could please him by being a loving wife. That was real love. It was wrong to do what she had done. It was wicked, sinful. What had come over her?

It took Elizabeth a long time to fall asleep.

 

Chapter 6

Long Shore Drive was nearly twenty miles due east of Pastor Hathaway's church. It ran parallel to the ocean's sandy beach. Rocco Natoli scanned the weathered houses from inside his dark blue Chevy as he eased it to a stop. The hordes of people spilling onto the street formed a formidable barrier. What should have been a peaceful street near the beach was filled with a flurry of movement as people ran as one mass thinking there was safety in numbers—or, as Rocco thought while watching them dodge in front of his car, were they thinking at all?

With a foot on the brake pedal and fingers tapping the steering wheel, Rocco waited for an opening. He lifted his foot. The car inched forward. He slammed his foot back down when someone jumped in front of the car. A frustrated blast of his horn caused a few people to turn his way with dirty looks. The middle finger of his left hand was halfway up before he lowered it back onto the steering wheel.

"I guess this is as far as I drive," he said to an empty passenger seat.

As soon as he stepped out of the car, Rocco paused to smell the salt in the air. There was nothing like being near the ocean. He abandoned the car and shoved people aside as he trudged through the crowd. Although most were taller than him, they were disposed of like paper dolls. His thick neck, barrel chest, and Popeye forearms compensated for his short stature. But Rocco was in no hurry. He knew what awaited him and was content to enjoy the magnificent spring day before being cooped up inside the house.

However, there was always one in the crowd.

"Hey, shrimp, get lost," a man over six feet tall shouted as he thrust an elbow into Rocco's chest.

Rocco absorbed the blow without so much as a step backward. He looked up at the man, his left hand disappearing inside his suit jacket. He whipped out a pistol and pressed the cold steel muzzle into the flesh under the man's chin. The blood drained from the man's face as his head tilted back.

"Do you have a problem?" Rocco said in a voice as abrasive as sandpaper.

"N-No. N-No pr-problem."

He's not so tough now, Rocco thought with his finger eager to pull the trigger. Look at his eyes. He had seen that fear so many times.

Rocco's thoughts flashed back to his childhood in a small mountainous village in Sicily. At an early age, he had learned the power of the gun. The local Cosa Nostra boss had controlled his village with guns. Actually, the fear of the men who carried them. But not his father. A simple shopkeeper, he had been too proud to be intimidated, and he instilled in his two sons an attitude that bordered on arrogance. It was the foundation of Rocco's personality. And had led to his brother's demise.

The memory of the fateful day caused Rocco's fist to tighten as he clutched the front of the tall man's shirt, the finger of his other hand twitching on the trigger. It would be so easy to blow his head off. The Mafiosi in his childhood town had taught him to hate bullies.

On that day so many years ago, his mother had sent him to his father's shop to find out why he was late for dinner. Young Rocco had balked about going out in the rain, but he was a good son and obeyed his mother. Wearing bright yellow galoshes and carrying a partly bent umbrella, the ten-year-old stomped every puddle as he made his way through the dark, deserted streets.

Even at that early age, Rocco had a sixth sense to warn him of impending danger. He paused outside his father's shop. It was dark inside, but something was amiss. The front door was wide open. Rocco tilted his head to the side and listened. All he heard was the tink, tink, tink of rain pelting metal gutters.

He ducked inside with a young boy's agility, grateful to be out of the pounding rain. The wet rubber galoshes squeaked on the linoleum floor even though he took small, deliberate steps. Dropping the umbrella, he leaned forward with his hands resting on his thighs, his butt sticking out, and squinted into the darkness. A loud, thunderous boom shook the building. Rocco flinched and dropped to a knee. The flash of lightning preceding the next boom illuminated the shop for an instant, long enough to see a shape on the floor.

Once again cloaked in darkness, the young boy crawled in the direction where he remembered his father to be. His hand slid forward in something wet and bumped into the prone figure. Rocco laid a hand on his father's arm and shook him, whispering, "Papa. Papa," but the only sounds were his voice and the rain pelting the roof.

In the pitch blackness of the stormy night, Rocco traced his father's arm to where his hands were bound behind his back. The next flash of lightening burned the image of his father's face into Rocco's memory, the tape sealing his mouth and one open eye staring into oblivion. Nothing was left of the other eye except for blood oozing out of an empty hole. A single bullet to the back of the head changed Rocco's life.

What followed was a blur that Rocco remembered little of. His mother, fearful for her children's lives, hastily said goodbye to their friends and booked passage on a ship to America to start a new life, one where her sons and baby daughter could grow up without violence. But that was not to be. As poor immigrants, the Natoli boys soon learned to use their fists to survive, and Rocco's older brother, Salvador, joined a gang which later accepted his much smaller brother as a member.

Being small in stature, Rocco had to prove himself. He was the first to throw a punch. He grew strong, if not tall, and others feared him. He was becoming the kind of man his father had despised. Rocco's mother tried to set him and his brother on the right path, but they had become streetwise and wouldn't listen.

Rocco was sixteen when the local crime family took notice of Salvador. He saw the money Salvador brought home and was eager to follow in his older brother's footsteps, just as he had by joining the street gang.

One day, Rocco heard a knock on the front door. Lighting a cigarette, he let it dangle from his lips. The smoke drifted upward causing one eye to squint as he opened the door. His left hand was on the knife tucked inside the waistband of his pants. The cigarette fell from his mouth when his jaw dropped.

Salvador, on his knees, clutched his belly. Blood oozed from between his fingers.

"Sal, what happened?" Rocco cried out.

"Rock, I'm hurt bad. I was collecting for Moose and got jumped. It fucking hurts, man. Real bad. Don't let Mom see me like this."

"Sal, what can I do?"

"Be a man. Be tough. Don't take no fucking shit from no one. Take care of Mom and Maria. Be strong. I'm counting on you, little brother."

Salvador looked down at the blood on the floor. "Shit, Mom's gonna kill me."

He looked up into Rocco's face and grimaced, and then crumbled onto his side.

After the funeral, Rocco's mother made him promise not to do what Salvador had done. He loved his mother and saw the pain in her eyes. As the sole remaining son, he was the man of the house and responsible for his mother and little sister. They needed his protection so he had to be there for them.

Rocco gave his mother his word.

If it hadn't been for Mr. Kaplan, Rocco may not have kept that promise, but with the old man's help, Rocco did.

Although Rocco had left the gang and didn't enter a life of crime, he never lost his violent nature. So when the man on Long Shore Drive thrust an elbow into Rocco's chest, something inside him triggered his reaction. Before he even knew he had done so, his left hand reached inside his suit jacket and withdrew the gun from its holster, shoving it under the man's chin.

"Sergeant," a uniformed policeman called from nearby, "is there a problem?"

Rocco glanced at the policeman and then up at the tall man. The fingers of his right hand gripped the shirt more tightly and the gun's muzzle sank into the man's flesh a little more. The man rose onto his toes.

"Is there a problem?" Rocco asked.

The man's mouth opened, but no words came forth. He moved his head slightly from side to side. His crossed eyes stared down his nose at Rocco's hand.

Sergeant Rocco Natoli, Rock to his friends, lowered the gun. He backed up and restrained from smirking when he saw the dark wet spot on the front of the man's trousers. The man spun around and knocked a lady to the floor as he stampeded through the crowd. Rocco helped her up and looked at the faces of the others around him. He had seen it before, both in his small village in Sicily and on the streets in America's slum—fear! He holstered his gun and moved toward the yellow police tape.

"Rock, this is a gruesome one," the uniformed policeman said.

"When aren't they?"

"I guess you homicide guys are used to it."

Rocco nodded his understanding and ducked under the yellow tape the policeman held up. He glanced at the crowd. It gave him a rush to see their expressions when he entered the restricted area. It made him feel important.

"How's Mac doing?" the policeman asked.

"Saw him the other day. It'll take a while. Bullet tore his lung. Lost part of it. He'll be in the hospital for a while longer and then—" Rocco looked to the side and then back at the policeman. "I don't know."

"Desk job?"

"Don't know."

"Tough losing a partner."

Rocco's jaw clenched. "He's still my partner."

"Sorry. I, I meant—"

Rocco placed a hand on the young policeman's shoulder and nodded.

"I just hope I never get into a gunfight," the policeman said. "Did you ever kill anyone before?"

Rocco stared at the young policeman. "I better be getting in there."

He took a deep breath and walked to the front door. Policemen were rushing in and out of the house. Inside, others were bustling about, each doing a specific job. Rocco stepped around a cordoned patch of blood and paused to take the scene in. He was proud of being a policeman and belonging to a precinct that functioned so efficiently.

"Well, Rock, we got another one."

The sergeant turned and looked up to see his large lieutenant standing with his hands on his hips. Rocco nodded. He learned long ago that it was easier to make the small gesture than to speak.

"What have we got?" Rocco asked.

"Best if you take a look for yourself."

With his patented nod, Rocco walked in the direction of the lieutenant's pointing finger. Entering the bedroom, his eyes settled on the naked man lying on the floor with his hands tied behind his back and knees folded. The ghost-white body lay in a pool of blood, like a splotch of white paint flicked onto a red canvas. Rocco's knowing eye saw the deep gash along the dead man's throat.

"I guess we can rule out suicide," Rocco said with a snicker. "Any idea who he is?"

"Yeah, Jack Boatright. Single, living alone, a loner from what the neighbors say. He didn't socialize…didn't seem to like people. Stayed by himself. According to his driver's license he's, um, was twenty-eight. We haven't located any relatives yet."

Careful not to contaminate the crime scene, Rocco strolled around the body like a golfer sizing a putt from every angle. He dropped to one knee behind the corpse and stared at the knots binding the victim's wrists and ankles. They were the same as the others murdered.

Rocco smiled when he remembered studying a picture of one of the serial killer's victims. Patrolwoman Jennifer Storm had leaned over his back and said, "That's a French Bowline."

That was a preview of Sexual Awakening. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Sexual Awakening» to Cart