125 comments/ 172964 views/ 23 favorites Bad Luck By: ohio Maggie and R.J. had a good marriage, except for one thing. In fact Maggie and R.J. had a terrific marriage, except for one thing. They'd been together nearly nine years, married for six, and they were still very much in love. They enjoyed spending time together, talking with each other—in fact each one would have said that the other was "the most interesting person I know." The sex was great. Some weeks it was only once, other weeks three times or more, depending on how each of them felt and whether R.J. was traveling. But whenever they did it, they had a good time. They had their favorite positions, but they also liked to experiment occasionally. But most of all, each still found the other very attractive, and their love-making was passionate and satisfying. They even liked one another's families. R.J.'s parents were dead, but Maggie loved spending time with his older brother David and his wife and two children. And R.J. was happy whenever Maggie's parents visited from California, or whenever he and Maggie flew out there to see them. Maggie was unable to have children, but that was okay with both of them. They enjoyed being aunt and uncle to David's kids, and seeing some cousins of Maggie's from time to time. But R.J. was on the road a lot, as a service rep for a medical instruments company, and it would have been hard to be the father he would have wanted to be while keeping up with his job. Maggie worked as an executive secretary to the Chief Operating Officer of a manufacturing plant. After eight years in the job she knew the place better than he did; he counted on her for everything, and paid her well. So they were quite happy—certainly much more so than many married couples—except for the one thing. That one thing was Maggie's temper. Margaret O'Connor Sullivan was Maggie's given name. She was Irish on both sides, and lived up to the Irish reputation for fiery temperaments. All she lacked was the red hair—hers was coal black, which went perfectly with her strong features and bright blue eyes. She was a beauty, as R.J. never tired of saying. But she was a handful (as he said only quietly, and never when Maggie was around). R.J. sometimes marveled that a woman as loving as Maggie—so sweet, generous, considerate and affectionate—could turn so quickly into a madwoman. Her outbursts weren't frequent, but they were frightening. The worst period had been during their engagement, when there had been a few fights that prompted him to seriously consider calling the whole thing off. One of them occurred on a Friday night when he'd been held up at work by an emergency meeting and had forgotten to call her. He showed up at their apartment more than two hours late for dinner, apologizing as fast as he could. The roast stuffed chicken she'd made was overcooked and nearly inedible; the mashed potatoes were cold; the dressed salad was limp. And Maggie was apoplectic. It didn't matter what he said; it didn't matter that he was sorry; it didn't matter that he swore it would never happen again. Nothing mattered. Maggie shouted, she swore at him, and when her fury reached its peak she grabbed a rolling pin and hurled it at him. Fortunately he ducked and avoided having his skull broken, but the rolling pin shattered a glass cabinet door, sending shards of glass all over the kitchen. R.J. stared at her in horror. But far from apologizing, or acknowledging that she'd gone too far, she yelled that he was an "inconsiderate fucking asshole" and stormed out of the room. Moments later a slamming door announced that she'd left the apartment as well. R.J. had more than an hour to clean up the broken glass and salvage himself a dinner out of the ruined food before she returned. They didn't speak another word that evening, and R.J. slept on the couch. The next day Maggie apologized to him—sincerely, with tears in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, honey. I know you weren't late on purpose. It was just, I was so excited to have cooked us a real dinner, something nice like married people eat—and then I got so disappointed when you didn't show up to eat it. I started pacing around, and the more I waited the angrier I got." R.J. held her, kissed her, apologized again for not calling, and before long they were in bed, renewing their affection with some very sweet make-up sex. There was another blow-up just four months before the wedding that wasn't even R.J.'s fault. They were out to dinner on a Friday night with Eileen Anderson and her husband. Eileen was Maggie's best friend at work, and on the way to the restaurant Maggie had told R.J. all about the plans that she and some others had been making for a big party for Eileen's 30th birthday. Unfortunately, the party was a surprise—and Maggie neglected to tell R.J. that. So as the group sat around waiting for their appetizers, R.J. said, "Eileen, I hear your birthday party is going to be quite an affair—Maggie was telling me all about it." All he had in mind was making pleasant conversation, but it ended the evening in a hurry. Eileen looked at him blankly, and Maggie screamed at him in a voice you could hear across the restaurant. "You goddam idiot! It was a surprise party—I can't BELIEVE you fucking did that!" She stood up, dumped her glass of wine all over R.J.'s sport coat, and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving her stunned husband and equally stunned friends staring after her, while a room full of shocked diners watched the whole thing. That night R.J. didn't even go back to the apartment he and Maggie were sharing. He went and bunked with a friend, and didn't return home until mid-afternoon on Saturday, not knowing quite what to expect. Maggie sat in the kitchen and glared at him coldly. She wasn't hysterical any more, but she was still awfully unhappy, and she didn't even let R.J. speak first. "It's all right," she said, "I'm calm now. But honestly, R.J., you have got to be the world's biggest moron!" "Maggie," he replied, "I think we need to re-consider whether to get married." "What!" she gasped. "After you make a—" "Just listen to me. First of all, it wasn't my mistake. You never told me that the party for Eileen was a surprise, so how could I know?" Maggie gaped at him, and then her face began to grow red as she realized what she had done. After a long silence she said quietly, "oh, R.J.—I am so—" "Never mind that," he said. "Even if it HAD been my fault, your reaction was totally out-of-control. You were like a crazy person!" "But R.J., I—" "But nothing. What you did was intolerable; it was unacceptable. "Maggie, I've never loved anyone the way I love you, but if you won't go for anger-management counseling I'm calling off the engagement." She gasped again, and he said, "please think about it. I'm going to eat dinner out—I should be home by about 8:30." Looking right into her face he added, "I mean every word I said." Then he turned and left the apartment. When R.J. returned after dinner he found a different person. Maggie was tearful, abashed, and frightened. She clung to him, wouldn't let go of his hand, apologized over and over. "You're right," she said, "I get out-of-control sometimes. I'm so sorry, honey! And I'll go see whoever you want me to see. Just don't give up on me, please!" R.J. was pleased and relieved. He held her, kissed her, reassured her. And then they made love for half the night, bathing one another in touches and kisses. The next week Maggie began a 12-week Anger Management program, with a company R.J. had located through the Human Resources Office at his company. She went twice a week for two hours to a kind of "group therapy" class with 9 other people, led by a middle-aged social worker named Roberta Simmons. They told one another their stories, did exercises on "re-focusing" and even "deep breathing", and learned a lot from one another about their own issues. At home Maggie was remorseful and loving to R.J. The class made her much more aware of how outrageous her angry behavior had been, and fueled her determination not to let it happen again. When the course was over and the social worker had told Maggie she'd done well, she went straight home, apologized to R.J. one last time, and dragged him into bed early. Needless to say R.J. was thrilled by her progress, and the wedding went off as planned. And in the years of their marriage Maggie had never gone as far off the deep end as she did during their engagement. This is not to say there were never problems, however. Maggie didn't throw things at R.J., but there were still occasional screaming matches. The big difference was that (usually) Maggie could remember what she'd learned from the program and stop herself, short-circuit the emotional spiral, before she completely lost control. But when R.J. forgot something or let her down or hurt her feelings, he could expect to get an earful from his wife, and not a pleasant earful at that. Sometimes the tirade was followed by hours or even a day or two of the cold shoulder. Needless to say, R.J. didn't enjoy any of this. He knew he was far from perfect himself--he was occasionally absent-minded, and he could seem distant and unaware when he had something on his mind--but he wished that his wife could handle life's routine disappointments without taking it out of his hide. ******************* It was a Friday night in January when things went to hell. R.J. had been working extra-hard, trying to help cover the territory for an incompetent sales rep in his firm who'd been let go, and he had been on the road more than usual. Needless to say that didn't please Maggie at bit. So they'd made a special date for that Friday—dinner and dancing at one of the nicest restaurants in Columbus. She'd bought a new outfit; he'd had his best suit dry-cleaned and his shoes shined. And he'd promised on his honor not to let anything interfere with his taking her out that night, even though (as it turned out) he'd be in Louisville that morning. "Yes, honey, I know it's a 200-mile drive," he said on the phone from his hotel the night before. "But I promised you, and I will be there in time for dinner—trust me!" What happened really wasn't R.J.'s fault. He'd nearly killed himself to wrap up his sales calls in Louisville by 12 noon, whereupon he grabbed a sandwich and hopped into the car. Under good conditions he'd be home by 3:30 or 4:00, so even allowing for bad weather and Friday traffic he'd have plenty of time to shower and change before they went out to dinner at 7:30. But R.J. didn't count on the jack-knifed tractor-trailer. On US Route 71 North, just past the exit for Route 3, the driver of a big 18-wheeler braked sharply to avoid some idiot in a red pickup who had cut him off, and the enormous truck skidded on an icy patch and swerved violently into the path of R.J.'s Corolla. He had absolutely no warning and no choice—veer off the road onto the shoulder or smash into the underside of the truck, which might well take the top of his car off (and his head with it). So he veered—and as his car left the highway the front right tire dropped into a pothole just off the tarmac, and the car flipped over several times as it slid down the embankment before smashing up against a pine tree. R.J. had his seatbelt on and he wasn't killed; but he was knocked unconscious, and the upside-down car was folded in all around him. Several drivers used their cell phones to call 911 and a rescue crew arrived within 30 minutes—but it was immediately clear that it was going to take a couple of hours to get him out. Maggie didn't start to fret about R.J. until 5:45. She was absolutely sure he'd be back, and in fact she'd expected him a lot earlier, but only as the time crept towards 6:00 did she start to get worried. She'd come home from work early to take a long shower, put curlers in her hair, do her nails, and generally spiff up for their special night out. And as 5:45 became 6:00, and then 6:15 and then 6:30, her worries started to turn to a simmering anger. He wouldn't, he COULDN'T stand her up tonight, could he? If there was some serious delay he would have called! Unless—unless he was too chickenshit to even face her, knowing he was going to break his promise! At 6:20 she called his cell phone for the first time. It went immediately to voicemail and she cursed at it. Of course, she had no way of knowing the phone had flown out of R.J.'s shirt pocket and lay crushed in the wreckage of the Corolla. She called back about every ten minutes, at first hanging up each time she got his voicemail announcement, then finally leaving a blistering message making clear just how furious she was. That was at about 7:00, as she sat at the kitchen table, dressed and made-up, looking as lovely as she could get. A few minutes later a sudden thought checked the rising tide of her rage, and she gasped and grabbed the telephone book. What if he'd been in an accident? But surely someone would have called, wouldn't they? She switched on the TV to the local news, muting the sound, and started calling all the local hospitals. It took her twenty-five minutes to learn that none of the 11 hospitals she called had had any accident victims brought in that day. Well, actually one hospital had a victim, but she was a teenage girl involved in a small fender-bender who complained of a headache—nothing to do with R.J. While the various hospitals had her on hold Maggie went around all the local news stations, scanning for anything about car accidents. Ironically, the local network affiliates all did run brief stories about R.J.'s crash, relying on footage shot from the helicopter belonging to WSYX Channel 6, the ABC affiliate. But they ran them at different times—when Maggie was watching ABC the footage showed on NBC, and so on. If she'd only kept the TV on any one network she would have seen her husband's terribly crumpled car. By 7:30, now convinced that nothing had happened to R.J., Maggie was once again furious. That bastard had stayed late to make sales calls and now he was afraid to face the music! She angrily dumped out her purse onto the kitchen table to find her cell phone—maybe he'd left her a message there! But the phone showed no messages or new missed calls. Furious, she hurled it through the doorway into the living room, where it skidded under the couch. Maggie stormed into the bathroom to take one final look at her hair—then she marched back into the kitchen, poured everything back into her purse, and headed for the door. If that asshole was going to stand her up tonight of all nights, she wasn't going to sit at home and wait for him! Maggie had just backed her car out of the driveway when the phone in the house began to ring. It was a woman named Alice Burns, the operator at Riverside Methodist Hospital, the tenth of the hospitals Maggie had called. Alice had told Maggie they'd had no accident victims that day. But just moments later Alice took a call that she routed to the Emergency Services Department—an accident victim was being brought in from a wreck on US 71. She immediately checked her call log and dialed Maggie's number. But, of course, Maggie had left—so Alice left a message. ******************* At first Maggie wasn't sure where she was going—she was too mad to think. But then she decided, hell, I'm all dressed up and I look great, I'm going to find a place to have a couple of drinks, dance with strange guys, and enjoy myself. Fuck R.J., that inconsiderate bastard! She was an immediate hit at the Mynt Ultra Lounge. It was upscale enough that her fancy dress didn't seem totally out of place, and Maggie was more than good-looking enough to insure that she'd have plenty of male attention. Within an hour she'd accepted offers of a drink from Brad, Michael, and Andre, and had danced with each of them and a couple of others besides. The attention pleased Maggie, and the fact that she'd forgotten to have dinner meant that she got drunk a lot faster than she'd meant to. Actually, she hadn't meant to get drunk at all, had she? She couldn't quite remember, being out of breath from dancing and laughing with so many guys. All she was sure of was that she wasn't going to sit at home wondering where her snake of a husband was. At about 10:15 it occurred to her to check her cell-phone, to see if R.J. had finally bothered to call her. But for some reason it wasn't in her purse, so she gave up worrying about it and had one more Vodka Stinger with Michael, along with a few peanuts. He was sitting close to her, his knees pressed against hers at the small table, nuzzling his lips against her cheek every minute or so and making her giggle as she pushed him away. He was sweet, but a silly boy, she thought. She remembered that the "one more" drink was going to be her last, but here came another one, in the hand of the cute blonde waitress. "Where did tha' one come from?" she asked Michael, and giggled again. "Jus' drink up, baby," he replied, lifting his own glass. They touched glasses together and drank. In a few minutes Maggie's eyes were closed, and she had her head leaning on Michael's shoulder while he had his arm around her, stroking gently up and down her arm. It felt good; she felt dreamy, relaxed, contented. Not even angry any more, she realized! She uttered only a small murmur of protest when Michael stood up, pulled her up from the chair, and guided her towards the door of the club with an arm around her waist. ******************* R.J. reached Riverside Methodist in an ambulance at 7:42 pm. He was in serious condition, with a moderately severe head wound, a broken ankle, a broken arm, four cracked ribs and various bruises. He was unconscious, very cold and in shock but stable. The attending doctor in the ER took one look at him, ordered a blood transfusion and a neurology consult, and sent him up to ICU. It had taken more than three hours to cut R.J. out of the car, and until they had him out no one knew who he was. The first few minutes in the ambulance were spent trying to stabilize him and determine the extent of his injuries. Only as they approached the hospital did a paramedic get R.J.'s wallet out of his pants pocket and learn his name. The phone calls to R.J. and Maggie's home number began by 7:46, about nine minutes after Alice Burns' initial message. Hospital staff called at least once an hour until 2 am, leaving several messages when no one answered the phone. Beginning at 10 pm the hospital also called Maggie's cell phone, having found the number on a slip of paper in R.J.'s wallet—but there too they got no answer and left several messages. Since the hospital was unaware of any other next-of-kin, they stopped making phone calls. Instead the staff in the ICU devoted themselves to keeping R.J. alive. ******************* It was probably the ringing phone that woke Maggie up, but she wasn't sure. She thought she remembered hearing it, but it could have been a bad dream. God, her head hurt! Light was streaming into the room, and she raised her head a little and saw that the bedside clock showed 9:24. She sank back down, groaning, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it was 10:05. This time she noticed that she was still wearing last night's dress—and it all started to come back to her. R.J. standing her up, the drinking and dancing, Michael—oh my God, Michael! What had she done? She jumped out of bed and staggered a little, grabbing the night table to keep from falling. Where the hell was R.J.? She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: her hair was a mess, her make-up was caked on her face, the bodice of her dress was torn and her tights were gone. First things first, Maggie thought, trying desperately to keep at bay the panicked thoughts whirling through her mind. Was R.J. home? Bad Luck Always Come in Threes I was, am the typical English housewife, and devoted mother. Typical of many of the mothers you see in the shopping centres of the United Kingdom. I never thought of myself as stunningly beautiful. But neither did I consider myself ugly. However, 2006 was a huge turning point in my life. Looking back, 18 months on, I started 2006 as a typical woman, wife I guess, though how do you define typical? I was then 30, having been married to my husband, who is slightly older then me, for 5 years, and was, am, the mother of a lovely son then aged 3, who I adored, as I did my husband. We would spend weekends walking with him in the local parks, still very much in love. We both worked, my husband in IT, and I in science research, which was rather flexible and really helpful to a young mother. As I said, 2006 was a changing point in our relationship, but more importantly in my life. My husband, was, still is a member of the British volunteer reserve forces. In late January, he received an envelope, as did many others from his unit, requesting him to support the current operations in Iraq. Obviously I did not want him to go, and he was apprehensive. But he had been in the volunteer reserve forces since he was at university, and had enjoyed the benefits, and now he reasoned it was pay back time. However, more importantly, he knew his men needed him, and he needed them. They had trained as a team, and as a team leader, he felt obliged to go, and so in March, he left for a six-month tour. The first two months or so seemed pretty easy, getting emails and phone calls from him regularly. Work too was being helpful, and so whilst looking after Zac was at times hard work, I was able to cope, until that fateful day in May when I had a phone call from the nursery he had started to attend. There had been an accident at the nursery, and several of the children in their care had been injured, a gas boiler explosion or something. I was not sure of the details as I dropped the phone, and ran literally from work and into my car, driving in a rush to hospital. He was okay, but would require days, if not weeks in hospital while he recovered, though the prognosis was for a full recovery. He started to recover well, and was soon up and about looking the cheeky boy that he was. For the following month or so, I was at the hospital every afternoon/evening, working mornings, before heading over to see him mid afternoons, and leaving him in the evening, heading home, to my solitary bed, an extra large gothic wrought iron bed, that was spacious with two, on my own I often felt lost. Often I would lay there in my bed, despite my body being tired; my mind would be very active, wondering if Zac would recover, whether my husband would return from Iraq. Even if I was not initially aroused, during those lonely days and weeks, I found the best cure for my insomnia was a good orgasm, a good cum, once I woke up with the small vibe still inside me... Guess I should tell you about my sexuality. I was straight; I had never looked at a woman, though as with most girls I guess I had briefly been curious about sex with another girl, another female. But the thought was soon dismissed, and I was happy with my sex life, especially with Adrian. We were, maybe still are, what I would consider open minded sexually. Whilst neither of us was into Pain, Domme/sub lifestyles or anything else like that, we were more adventurous then the plain vanilla sex that many peopled seem to indulge in. We used toys, would play games, and we both enjoyed tie and tease, and apparently the technical term is a switch, we were both switches; enjoying being teased and doing the teasing. That was one of the reasons why we had that bed, the iron frame allowed silk restraints, or used stockings to be used to tie the victim to the bed. For me in particular, lingerie and clothing could, did play an important part in our sex life, and another use for the corner posts, hanging up in use bras to air in between wearing. I liked then, and I still do, to dress in a smart manner, rather then a 'slut' style appearance. My figure was, is slender but with curves, and I dress to accentuate those curves, but with a sexual elegance. Whilst I have short 'mini-skirts'; I prefer to wear longer skirts with revealing slits. I prefer to wear blouses of pastel shades, light, and wear a complementary darker bra underneath, like a deep blue bra under a pale blue blouse. If I wore a plunging neckline, I would wear a lace camisole, the lace obscuring my cleavage. Guess I like to tease, as a lot of us do, but in a more refined manner. Another fetish that I inherited from my husband was boots. He loved to see me wearing knee high boots, and would buy them for me as presents or gifts. During those first few weeks of his time in hospital, I was befriended by a petite nurse, who I shall call Liz. She was slightly taller then myself, and of a similar age. She was soon friendly towards me, and over a period of time, we developed, well at the time a rapport, but I guess with hindsight it was something more. Alas, again with the benefit of hindsight, it is obvious now that may be she wanted more, then a professional relationship, friendship which was what I was expecting; wanted, nothing more. Even though she was always kind, polite, and very complimentary, I wish Adrian would pay as many compliments as Liz did. As the days went by, I saw Liz almost daily, and a couple of times we ended up in the coffee bar at the hospital, as I bought her a coffee and thanked her for all her support to us both during what had been a difficult time. We would sit there, talking about our lives, careers. Finally I heard the news that I wanted, that Zac would be released on Friday, and that I was to make arrangements to collect him and take him home. Shortly after I was given the news, I saw Liz, in her uniform. As we hugged, I felt her hand lightly caress my bum, I am sure, but in the excitement I do not fully recall much except it felt slightly odd. In the moment, I asked her for dinner, maybe at my place, or a restaurant, and she accepted my offer to visit my place, and Wednesday night was agreed. I left the hospital feeling on top of the world, the slightly odd caress during the embrace had slipped my mind completely. For the supper, I had decided on a simple pasta based meal, something that was fresh, and quick to prepare upon my return from hospital. And not long after I had finished preparing it, the door bell rang, and it was Liz, looking rather wonderful. I had not really appreciated her simple yet pretty face, and almost for the first time I had seen her out of her uniform. She had chosen to wear a wrap over top and skirt, the plunging neckline of her top revealing the delicate curves of her breasts. Some how, I found it striking, maybe out of place, but maybe she was heading out afterwards? We got chatting, and out came a bottle of wine, and we had the starter, to keep in the Italian theme, I had prepared fresh mozzarella cheese, and beef tomato. I cleared up, and returned, from the kitchen with the main course, and again sat down, and started to talk, eat. It was the first time I had really drank since Zac had been admitted to hospital, and very quickly started to feel the effects, or so I thought, but I continued to eat, and talk, feeling generally relieved, Zac was coming home, as was my husband, who had been able to bring forward his leave on compassionate grounds. He had offered to try and come home earlier, but with Zac in hospital, I suggested that coming home when Zac was out was more sensible, so we both could spend time with him. The rest of the evening, was, is still slightly vague, though I did find out why. After we had finished eating, we continued to talk, before I suggested we move over to the sofa, which she agreed was more comfortable. However, as I stood, I felt my knees give way, falling almost into Liz's arms, grip as she supported me to the sofa, and helped me to lie down on the sofa, my back supported by pillows, cushions. My eyes were fogged up, my head seeing double, as I lay back on the sofa, hearing her worlds of support, before I heard the clatter of crockery, cutlery being cleared. My eyes closed briefly. How long, I feinted, slept I am not sure, but I soon felt her tender touch, and her caress, as she started to talk to me. I cannot recall what she said totally, but they were full of compliments, telling me how pretty I was... I closed my eyes again, feeling strange, groggy, my legs rather weak, as did my arms; I felt her lips on mine, a soft probing kiss, and I tried to push her away, but my arms too had no strength. I wanted to scream, to shout, but again I had no strength, and that her lips were on mine, slightly arousing, in hindsight. The remainder of the evening was, still is a blur... I woke up, to the sound of the dawn-chorus, suddenly aware that I was not alone. I turned over and saw her, HER laying in my bed, both of us nude, as I gasped, the soft echoes of the dawn peering past the curtains, curtains that had the impression of being hastily drawn. My breathing was suddenly fast, heavy, as I tried to recall what happened the night before, after dinner. My hands softly stroked my form, remembering a soft sensation, and an intense orgasm, did I, did we? My fingers felt my matted hair, trimmed but still matted, my labia still softly swollen... "Oh my God!" My tongue licked my lips, tasting a strange taste, a taste of stale wine, saliva and something else; a taste that seemed familiar yet so different. I remember walking around the room, looking at the floor, seeing our clothes, thrown, strewn across the floor, obviously discarded with some sense of urgency. I saw her hand bag, in the corner, open, in which what looked like a drug packet exposed. I walked over, checking to see if she was asleep still. I turned my head, and saw two capsules had been burst, the contents empty. Twisting my head, I could make out the letters, the name of the drug, the name sounding familiar, but unable to place it, wandering back to the dressing table, looking over the room, as I glanced over in her direction as she slept soundly. I remember leaning against the dressing table still nude, looking at her from the back, as she slept, trying to remember what happened the night before; piecing the pieces of the jigsaw together, and the significance of the drug, as its name rolled off my lips I remember saying it out several times to myself. The room was still relatively dark, interrupted from the streaming sunlight passing through between the curtains. Slowly I was able to start assembling the jigsaw puzzle, piecing the memories of the night before, as my memory came and went, like the sea breaking in on the beach, my thoughts ebbing in and out of my consciousness. I remembered her leaning into me, a cheek being caressed, feeling her breath on my lips, my cheek as she kissed me, in between saying the sweetest things. Her lisps, as she suckled on my lips, bit them gently, my hands tried to push her away, but no strength, no co-ordination. Just her relentless insistence, as she kissed, shivered as I remember her parting my lips, her tongue in my mouth, kissing me. Did I respond? What was she saying, about how attractive I am, and boots, she emphasised my boots. Oh yes, and she, She, SHE was caressing my boot clad calf. I remember vaguely sighing, my hands touching her, as she kissed me, softly gently, unlike any other lover. I tried to resist the kiss, but had no strength. But I remembered that I vaguely started to respond, opening my lips to hers, feeling her tongue past my lips, as the kiss deepened, intensified. I am sure at some point, I tried again to push her away, but she bore down on me, kissed me even more forcefully, I felt her cup my breast, my nipple, sending a charge down my spine, as I realised it was responding, as I was responding. "How did we end up in my bedroom?" The room I have only slept with my husband in until now... Oh god, not only was I raped, I was raped, violated in my own matrimonial bed" "Rohypnol" as I suddenly remembered the name, a drug reported to have been used recently in a date rape trail; as I wandered back to the dressing table, trying to remember the significance; my memory still patchy from the night before. I gasped loudly standing there, as the events of the night before started to sink in, starting to make sense now, why I felt weak, and my memory so patchy, I was drugged, had I been raped? "Rohypnol!" I blurted out, causing Liz to stir, as she rolled onto her back, exposing her slender breasts to me, gasping, her nipples were still erect. My eyes caught sight of something, a red mark below her breast, as the sight refreshed my memory. Slowly, I looked up, into a mirror, as I saw myself nude, and a matching mark, together with faded outline of lipstick marks.... On my flesh, on my breasts, on my abdomen. Oh god, we marked each other to show our affection, so we could remember what had happened between us.... I became aware of my breathlessness, my breathing lightly panting. My eyes continued to survey the scene, as my memory flash backs came and went. Seeing a hair brush, on the floor, I picked it up, the handle slightly sticky, a smell that came stronger as I brushed my hair... "Oh god, I need to cum, I need to be filled" entered my mind, suddenly remembering lying on my bed, my legs wanton as she fucked me with the brush. During those minutes, before Liz woke, more and more fragments from the night before entered my consciousness. I remembered being on my side, in a 69 style position, visions of seeing a woman's sex, her labia, her entrance, her clitoris so close to my face, too close. I remembered hearing a gasp, a loud cry; did she call out my name? But she came, and she came hard, as I, intoxicated by the drug; by her scent continued to pleasure her, feeling her pleasure me, and I guess I came as well, as she performed oral on me... "Good Morning Miranda." In a normal, morning manner as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened the night before, rolling onto her back looking up at me with a soft but sly smile upon her lips. "You bitch" I screamed, as I called her names, telling her to get out. She stood up and walked towards me, ignoring my order, my request, and my pleas. "You raped me you bitch, you drugged me up and raped me you lousy stinking bitch!" My hand reached out, swung in from a height as I slapped her cheek, feeling my hand, palm sting, before I burst into tears. Rather then leaving me, she just held me, gently, as I sobbed, cried, calling her every name under the sun. She pulled my head onto her shoulder, softly, as she spoke. "Maybe I did take advantage of you Miranda," she replied in a soft, gentle almost reassuring voice; "but can you remember what you said, as you came on my lips, as I came on yours...?" "Stop it you bitch," I cried, starting to hit out at her with clenched fists, tears rolling down my eyes, my memory vaguely remembering that orgasm and how intense it was, how wanton I had become in Adrian's absence. Her hands grabbed my wrists firmly, and before I was able to say anything, her lips were on mine, What shocked me the most I am not sure, whether it was her kissing me, intensely or rather that I responded as passionately. The kiss grew in intensity, as the two mouths, tongues became one, Liz's hands were caressing, stroking my nude form. Pulling our pelvises together. Instinctively, I started to buckle, grind into Liz, pulled her close, and wrapped my arms around her, around Liz before Liz pushed me onto the bed. She stood in front of me, smiling, as she knew she had me beaten, that I was hers. Epilogue: During the spring of 2006, having been intrigued with the ideas of coercion, specifically one female coercing another female, I thought of three story plots that I wanted to put together. All three stories were conceived within days of each other, but Miranda's Desire and Friend or Foe were finished and accepted pretty quickly. The plot for this story though, was conceived as I reviewed for a friend a true Rape story, in conjunction with a date rape trail here in the UK at the same time. But for various reasons it took me a while to finish the work, partly due to reality calling up on more of my time, but also the controversial subject of this story. Despite trying to describe what happened in a sympathetic way, Date rape drug is an unpleasant experience for the victim. As such I am unsure what response this story will receive, but I still decided to publish it here on Lit erotica. But please remember it is fiction, as far as I am aware, the names and story are not related to anyone alive. Again, I will enjoy reading your comments. If they are negative, I do not mind as long as they are constructive and thought full, and if appropriate I will respond. Thank you for taking the time to read the story and to reach this part. Also my thanks my appreciation goes to those individuals who read this story and made suggestions to improve it. Miranda April 2007 Bad Luck Of all the bad luck! She and R.J. went out to dance maybe once, twice a year? And of all the places they could go, it had to be Millions--on a night that that goddam Michael was there. She sat over her coffee for another half-hour, staring out the kitchen window, silently willing R.J.'s car to turn into the driveway. Finally, around 11, she picked up the phone and called his cell. "Hello, Maggie." His voice was cool, distant. He sounded tired. Maggie gulped, suddenly realizing she had absolutely no idea what to say to him. "R.J., I ... please come home! I know that I've hurt you, and I ... please come home and let me explain!" There was a silence on the other end of the line, and she rushed on. "It's not what ... what you must be imagining. I mean, I did something awful, I know, but ... please, honey, it's not ... I'm so sorry!" Without meaning to, Maggie suddenly found herself crying, big sobs bursting out of her. She held the mouthpiece away from her so that R.J. wouldn't have to listen to them. Finally he said, "I'll be home in an hour. We can talk then." Without waiting for her to reply, he hung up. ******** They were sitting in the living room, Maggie on the couch and R.J. on a chair opposite her. "Can I make you some breakfast, honey?" she'd asked him when he came into the house. But he'd shaken his head, saying, "I got something at the motel. Let's just talk, all right?" And now he was waiting for her to begin. He looked to her like a bored juror in a trial that had gone on too long. But she knew that behind that uninterested expression he had to be hurt, and absolutely furious. How different they were! When she was angry, she could no more conceal it than flap her arms and fly. "Baby, I ... listen, you know how much I love you, right? I could never--" "That's not what I want to hear, Maggie!" His voice was sharp. He'd leaned forward, looking at her intently. "You love me, blah blah blah. Okay, I get it. Fuck all that!" She looked at him in shock--R.J. never ever swore. "Just get to it: the cocks you've been sucking, the other men you've been fucking. Let me hear it all, and then I can figure out what the hell I'm going to do." She nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Okay, honey." She took a breath. "It was only once. One time. And it was my temper." She told him all about the day of his accident: of waiting, getting angry, calling the hospitals, checking the TV, then finally leaving the house in a rage. Without her cell phone, which she'd flung into the living room. She told him about going to the Ultra Mynt, flirting and dancing and getting drunk. Quite drunk, because she hadn't eaten dinner. And getting taken off to a hotel room by Michael. R.J. sat quietly, unmoving, listening to every word and watching her face. "By then I was very drunk, honey." She was speaking quietly, sometimes looking down, sometimes right at her husband. "I wasn't even that angry any more--just mellow and, I don't know, confused. When we got into the room he started taking my clothes off. I knew we were going to ... to have sex, but it just seemed ... it seemed fine. "But when he started to ... when we ... he ... was too drunk to keep an erection. He ... put it inside me, but ... it kept slipping out. So he told me to ... take him in my mouth." She was staring at the floor, not daring to look up at R.J. "So I did, and ... it never even got much harder, but it ... he suddenly came, right into my mouth, without even having ... without even having a real erection. "And then he fell asleep, just like that." She laughed bitterly. "That was it, my great fling! It was horrible." She looked up at her husband, seeing him gazing steadily at her. "I pulled my clothes on, went back across the street to the bar, got a cab and came home. I fell fast asleep on the bed, in my clothes. It wasn't until the next morning that I checked the answering machine and found out about your accident." She'd been calmer, telling the story, but suddenly she was crying again. "I'm so sorry!" Her head was in her hands, and he could hardly understand her. "It was ... I was just so angry! I was sure you'd stood me up, after all your promises, and I ... and now I've ruined everything!" She cried and cried, and he sat, waiting, watching her. He felt numb--and furious. He was calm, and yet at the same time he was burning inside, like something searing his guts. Finally she calmed down, wiped her face, looked up at him. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Is that the only time?" His voice was still cool, under control. "Is this asshole Michael the only guy you've ever fucked around with?" She was hurt, even angry for a moment--then she thought, well of course he'd ask me that. No more than I deserve! "He's the only one, R.J. That's the only time since I met you I've even ... anything. No other man has ever even kissed me." She waited, watching as he stared at her, then looked away, gazing at the window looking out into their backyard. He stood up, suddenly. "I'm going out. I need to ... walk around, to think. To get away from you for a while." Frightened, she nodded her head. "Should I ... do you want me to make dinner?" "I don't know. I'll call you. I don't know how long I'll need." Without another word he turned and left the house. She heard the sound of his car starting, then driving away. She sat on the couch, hugging herself, miserable, and very frightened. ******** On a sudden whim R.J. decided to drive up to Chicago to see his brother David. He'd take Monday off from work; his boss had been very understanding since the accident, and R.J. was sure it wouldn't be a problem. He used his cell to leave a message for his boss for Monday morning, then called David and Angela to tell them he was coming. Finally he texted Maggie, since he didn't want to speak to her: "going 2 David's 2nite. back probably 2morrow" Part of the visit was great--relaxing even. R.J. loved his nephew and niece, who bounced around the house with that wonderful clueless enthusiasm that young children have. And he enjoyed the lively hour at the dinner table, with Angela urging him to have seconds, while he and David had a couple of beers and talked about growing up, sharing some of their funny recollections with Angela and the children. But David could tell that R.J. had something on his mind--and when the two men sat together in the study after dinner, R.J. let it all come pouring out. That wasn't so great; that was painful. David listened quietly, with obvious sympathy. He'd always liked Maggie a lot, but he was well-acquainted with her temper. The story surprised and disappointed him--and he was furious at her on his brother's behalf--but David could see how it might have happened. When R.J. was done, David asked quietly, "do you have any idea what you want to do?" R.J. shook his head. "It's just too soon. I know I love her--you know how happy we've been, David--but I just can't stop seeing her in that asshole's hotel room, naked, his ... "The whole scene. I just can't get past 'How could she do such a thing?' All I've ever done is work hard, try to make a decent living, a nice life for us both, and love her with all my heart." David could tell he was near tears. They sat quietly for a while. ******** R.J. talked with David some more the next morning over breakfast before he drove back to Columbus. All R.J. knew was that he wasn't ready yet to go back home, to be around Maggie. "I'm going to see about renting one of the apartments my company keeps for visitors. There are two of them and they're almost always empty. I can probably get one on a week-to-week basis. Beats the hell out of actually renting a place, and having to worry about a security deposit, and furniture, and all that nonsense." David nodded. "And what will you say to Maggie?" "I don't know, really." R.J. sighed. "I guess just, 'I don't know what's going to happen, but I need to be away from you right now.' "I know it's going to upset her--but then, I guess I'm a wee bit upset myself right now!" He smiled ironically. "Pretty much everybody's upset in the ol' Renschert household...." ******** R.J. got back to Columbus in mid-afternoon. He went straight to the office, arranged to take the apartment on an open-ended basis (it wouldn't be needed by the company for at least a month), then headed home. Maggie's car wasn't there--she was presumably at work. In 45 minutes R.J. had packed two suitcases with clothes and his Dopp kit, retrieved his laptop and some business files, and was headed to the company apartment. He paused on the way out the door to leave her a note. "Maggie-- I can't be here right now. I'm staying in one of the company apartments. R.J." ******** Maggie came in the door around 6:15 carrying two bags of groceries. She'd stopped off to get things for dinner, hoping to make R.J. his favorites. But his car wasn't there, and all her plans came crashing down around her when she saw his note. She sat and cried, right there in the kitchen, cried until there were no tears left. Finally she mopped her face and sadly got up to put the groceries away. She pulled a TV dinner out of the freezer--she'd never felt less like cooking in her life--shoved it into the oven, and went to the bathroom to wash her face. After eating her dinner without tasting a bite of it, Maggie picked up the phone. "Roberta? Hi, it's Maggie Renschert. I'm so sorry to bother you at home, but I ... but I--" She broke off, and started to cry again. ******** On Tuesday after work Maggie sent her husband an email. She'd discussed with Roberta how to say what she wanted to say, and she took more than an hour to get it just right, even though it wasn't very long. "Dear R.J.: I know that I did something awful, and hurt you very badly. I would give everything I have in this world to take it back, if only I could. I let my horrible temper get the best of me--that's why I've been seeing Roberta ever since your accident. Please don't give up on me, and on our marriage. If you can find it in your heart to give me another chance, I swear that I'll never never do anything to make you regret it. Being your wife has been the very best thing in my life. I love you-- Your Maggie" It made her cry just to re-read it; and out of silly superstition she closed her eyes and crossed her fingers as she hit the Send button. ******** R.J. was angry; and lonely; and sad. After a couple of solitary evenings in the apartment, he realized that he was in danger of going crazy. So the next night he joined a couple of co-workers at St. Basil's, a local bar that they often hung out at. When they teasingly asked him how he'd "managed to get free from the old ball-and-chain" (they were still single), he just smiled and said, "my wife doesn't call ALL the shots." He had absolutely no desire to tell them what was really going on. So he had a burger and a few beers, played a little darts with his friends, watched a few innings of the ball game on TV, and went home to a somewhat better night's sleep. His evening out certainly didn't solve all his problems, R.J. thought, but it had helped him feel a bit better. He'd made no reply to Maggie's email--he was letting it rattle around in his head, not rushing himself about deciding what to do. On Thursday he sat at his tiny kitchen table and made a list: the Pros and Cons of staying with Maggie. The list of Pros was nearly four times as long; but the items in the Cons column were some big ones: --she cheated on me --can I ever trust her again? --how do I know that her temper won't get out of control again sometime, and lead her to do something else awful? At that moment his cell phone rang, and he saw he had a text message. It was from Maggie: "Can u come 4 lunch on Sat? We can talk, or go 4 a walk, or whatever u like. Love M" R.J. thought about it. One step at a time, he realized: I don't need to decide whether I'm going back to her, just whether I feel like seeing her on Saturday. He decided that he did, and texted back: "I'll b there @ 12" ******** Over the next few weeks R.J. and Maggie got together several times--always at the house, always when she invited him for lunch or dinner. They kept it low-key, friendly, even casual. Maggie quickly discovered that R.J. didn't want to hear "I love you so much, honey", didn't want to be told how sorry she was--didn't want to re-hash the whole thing at all. So she stayed away from the subject. They talked about their jobs, about their niece and nephew, once even about possible vacation plans. Maggie was silently thrilled--if R.J. could talk about a trip to Aruba, then he surely wasn't planning to divorce her! Or so she hoped. And once, Maggie carefully brought up the subject of Roberta Simmons. Treading very lightly, she made sure R.J. knew that she'd been seeing Roberta regularly. She was coming to understand more fully how her temper not only came from her Irish ancestors, but from the attitude in her family growing up. And as soon as R.J. looked the least bit uncomfortable, perhaps remembering the close connection between Maggie's temper problems and her terrible, horrible mistake with Michael, she backed off and changed the subject. As for R.J., he didn't quite know what to think. Several times when he was by himself--alone on the road, or in his office at work--he'd rage at Maggie, at the inexcusable thing she'd done, and vow to throw her cheating ass out. But he kept accepting her invitations--pretending to himself that it was mostly out of kindness to Maggie, or because she was a terrific cook and he wasn't eating so well on his own. And when they were together, he had to admit that he had a good time. He'd always loved being around Maggie, and their low-key, unpressured conversations about everything under the sun (except of course her adultery) reminded him so much of the blissful early days of their relationship. He'd loved everything about her! Her beauty, but also her laugh, her way of jumping in to interrupt him when she got excited, only to apologize with a coy look on her face. Her interest in him and everything he said. Her kindness and generosity about people. Each time when he left, he'd say, "well, thanks for the dinner, Maggie." And she'd touch his arm, kiss him on the cheek, and say, "you're welcome, honey--thanks for coming." That was it. No pressure, no emotional scene, no begging. It made it a lot easier to say yes the next time she invited him. Each time they were together, things got a little bit more relaxed, almost imperceptibly more friendly and intimate. ******** For her part, Maggie was just proceeding carefully; and hoping. But there were times when she couldn't help but fear the worst. It had been five weeks since that awful night when they'd run into Michael at the Café, the night that her happy life fell apart. And while R.J. seemed content to see her a couple of times a week, perfectly willing to eat her meals and chat with her, he showed no signs of going any further. He said not a word about their future together, gave no indication he was thinking about moving back in, and wouldn't even let her steer the conversation gently towards her love for him. She kept trying; kept seeing Roberta; kept inviting R.J.; kept her hopes up. Sometimes, though, it was just awfully hard, and she spent part of her evening crying quietly. On a Tuesday evening just after work when was coming out of a CVS downtown, fumbling for her car keys, when she heard a man's voice say, "Maggie? Maggie Sullivan--is that really you?" She looked up--and there, dressed in a suit and tie, his beard neatly trimmed, was Eric Horstedt. "Eric--my God, just look at you!" They each took a step or two forward and suddenly they were hugging one another tightly, babbling at the same time about "what are you doing here?" and "how have you been?" and "do you live here now?" Eric had been Maggie's one serious college boyfriend--the first true love of her life, in fact, long before she ever met R.J. She and Eric had been together for two years, and had even talked about marriage. But he had graduated a year ahead of Maggie, and he knew he wanted to work overseas. In fact he'd committed to three years of Peace Corps work in Madagascar. So, with regret, they'd said goodbye to one another, vowing always to be friends. For a couple of years they'd stayed in touch by mail, and an occasional email; then the correspondence had lapsed. It had been more than 12 years since Maggie had seen him. She said, "yes, I live in Columbus now--how about you?" "I'm just here for two days, for a conference on international food aid to Africa--I work for an NGO now. Mostly I live in Washington, when I'm not overseas." She stepped back to look at him. He was so trim and tidy--a far cry from the hippie-looking guy with long hair and a scraggly beard she'd known more than a decade before. "Listen," she said on impulse, "unless you're committed to a dinner or something, come on home with me and I'll make us something. It would be so great to catch up!" He said, "well, uh--sure, why not? I was going to eat with some of the conference people, but I'd much rather spend time with you!" ******** They sat in her kitchen, talking and laughing, while Maggie whipped up some chicken breasts, pasta and a salad. Eric had a host of great stories to tell, about some of the wilder situations he'd faced in Africa, and Maggie had time to remember all the things she had once loved about this man: his energy, his sense of humor, and his desire to change the world for the better. "And how about you?" he said. "I can tell that for all practical purposes you pretty much run that place where you work, but what about the rest of your life? Where's the lucky husband who goes with those rings on your hand?" He could see in an instant, from the pain in Maggie's face, that he'd said something wrong. "Maggie--I'm sorry, what is it?" She shook her head, and wiped a tear away quickly. "Eric--well, my husband isn't here right now. We're--we're having some problems at the moment, and he's moved out." Eric immediately looked concerned. "I'm so sorry, Mags. Do you want to talk about it?" She smiled up at him. "Not now--maybe later, thanks. Let's just have a nice dinner, and you can tell me more about the poisonous snakes and the black flies and all the other things that make life in Africa such a treat!" They talked and laughed over dinner, finishing off most of an open bottle of wine, and then Maggie made some coffee and they sat in the living room to drink it. The stories flowed on; but then there was a pause; and Eric said, "not to pry, Maggie--but would it help to talk about it?" She looked at him and nodded. "Well--you remember how I always had something of a temper?" Eric laughed and said, "not easy to forget, Maggie!" "Well, I got really, really mad, and I did something really, really stupid--and now..." she started to sniffle, "now R.J. is furious at me, and I'm afraid I've really lost him!" Maggie broke down into sobbing, and Eric moved to the sofa next to her, taking her in his arms and letting her cry on his shoulder. When she'd finally calmed down, she told him the whole story--what she'd done the night of R.J.'s accident, about his rehabilitation, their happy months of his recovery, and then the horrible night they ran into Michael. She and Eric talked until well after midnight; and, as befits a true friend, he was patient, kind, and supportive. He didn't try to deny that she'd done something foolish, but he praised everything she'd done since then to try to make it right, and he encouraged her not to give up.