55 comments/ 37374 views/ 3 favorites The Missing Link 02: Liza By: angiquesophie Do I love my husband? I know I should be able to answer that question in a heartbeat. But I can't, so I guess that's an answer too. I do know that I must have loved him, once. Could I have fallen out of love -- or at least out of thinking I loved him? Many people say you can't fall out of love. If you do, they say, it can't have been true love to begin with. Ah well, love or true love, life isn't what the books say -- or what Hollywood tells us, for that matter. My life never was. And I never fell in love with my husband -- I slowly slid into loving him. So maybe I just as slowly slid out of love? Maybe I did, but I didn't slide out. I slithered. I am Liza, wife of Steve, mother of Eric and I know my husband loves me. I know he even loves me today after all I did to him. It would be easy to ridicule that love as a cuckold's delusion. It seems to be all the rage, nowadays, calling him a pussy-whipped wimp. I did. But the crazy thing is: I envy him for it now. Yes, I know it sounds sarcastic, but I mean it. I would give an arm and a leg for being able to simply love a person. I'd love to love someone the way Steve loves me. For one thing, it wouldn't have got me where I am now. I do know that I love little Eric. I don't even need a nanosecond to say that. Which of course speaks volumes on the quality of my love for my husband. You have read what happened between Steve and I. Or at least, you think you know what happened. But you don't, not really. That is not because he lied to you or kept you in the dark, no, Steve would never do that. But he can't very well tell you what he doesn't know, can he? He quoted others, but he can't vouch for their truthfulness. Steve has been lied to a lot -- by me and by Roger, but mostly by me. I would love to say that I lied to protect him from a truth that might have destroyed him and our marriage, and the safety of our son. But of course I did it also to protect my more personal interests. Does that make me evil? Maybe, but what options did I have? How honest can a person like me be for her own good? Can she be honest at all? I guess this is all beside the point -- I was neither evil nor honest. I was just weak. It is something I hate to admit, but yes -- I was a weak and selfish person who needed to hide behind the excuse of rape to enjoy her pleasures free of guilt -- and then crave for more. I was a slave who feared one thing the most -- to lose her chains. *** It was true that I was raped at the birthday party of Roger's plastic stepmother, all these years ago. But it wasn't true that Roger didn't mind. He was there, held in check by Daddy's gorillas, while his father pinned me down on the bed and rammed his fat, hard cock into my cunt -- claiming me like a medieval rogue-knight. Roger was there, screaming in rage. He had to look on, while his father riddled him with volleys of humiliating sneers. And when the Count at last lifted his heavy body off mine, he was replaced by an ongoing number of others, ravaging every orifice of my body. Roger wasn't gay, like I made Steve believe -- he was my boyfriend, and he loved me like crazy. The reason he was so eager to marry me was not to please his father -- very much the contrary. He married me to thwart his father's plans to set him up with a desirable party -- one that served his father's business plans, just like his mother had done. He married me out of love and that romantic notion excited me no end. It even made me wonder if I loved him too. But whatever love I had for him was efficiently washed away on that four-poster bed. I never had as many mind shattering orgasms as I had that night. I was nineteen, having only had a few rather fumbling experiences with high school boys and college kids; and Roger, of course, who was back then more of an enthusiast than a Don Juan. I had orgasms that affected my state of mind, tumbling switches I never knew I had. They changed me from a wholesome, no nonsense girl into a sick, groveling slut. I was prepared to give up everything to satisfy my newfound needs and grab the many perks that came with the package. Many people insist that such sudden changes aren't possible and they may be right. Perhaps Count Moreland and his gang of rapists only had to scratch off the thin layer of artificial decency that covered the monster I truly was. A very hypocritical monster at that; I needed to hide behind the blame I put on my rapists. I very much needed that. Robert Count Moreland -- 'Daddy,' as of that night -- knew me well. The morning after the rape, he just chuckled through all my indignant protests and threats. He concurred with all of my arguments and then bought me off with money. I still see the pain in Roger's eyes when he heard I took the bribe, but hey, what did he know? He'd been rich all his life, hadn't he? Then I missed my next period. As you know I told Steve that Roger paid for the abortion, but it really was Robert -- Roger never knew of the pregnancy. And there was no reluctance in collecting the monthly bribe for that. The year that followed was the time I call my 'crazy year.' Calling it that is another convenient way of removing myself from responsibility. It was rape. I had no say in it, I assured myself, knowing perfectly well that I could have stopped any moment. But I didn't want to stop, did I? I just had to find a way to live with it. So I embraced the excuse of being helpless -- they'd robbed me of my freedom. I praised my glittering cage, secretly fearing the day someone might reveal that its door had never been locked. 'Crazy year' might have been an excuse, but I truly was a mental case when I woke up at that hospital. The first face I saw wasn't a nurse or the psychiatrist I told Steve about. It was not even the police -- it was Roger. It made me wonder. I had hardly ever seen him that year. Had he at last stood up against his powerful Daddy? Or had his father finally tired of the fucked-out slut I had become? I don't know. I do know that I hadn't seen Count Moreland for weeks toward the end of my roller coaster ride. It was mostly his cronies and business friends that fucked me by then -- total strangers, really. I guess Roger hooked me up with the psychotherapist. She was good. Later on I learned that she also was a liaison to Roger, who'd never stopped having these romantic notions about loving me. After recovering and returning to college, I told him I was thankful for rescuing me; I would never have made it without him. But I started turning him down when he asked for a date. I guess I used rather lame excuses. In truth I wanted a clean slate; I didn't need him to help me remember the shameful disaster. Of course I never told him that -- you know me by now. I started to avoid him and began dating Steve. It was a conscious move to fight my way back into sanity -- Steve being the epitome of sanity. Roger was part of the craziness that almost ruined me -- at least that was what I told myself. Fear and guilt made me place the causes of my ruin outside myself. It seemed the shortest way to recovery, so I had to avoid him and everything else connected to the year of disaster. Yes, I guess I was always better at being selfish than at being fair. Through the next year I gradually convinced myself that Roger accepted the new reality. I had a hard time understanding why he kept hovering around, though, even becoming friends with Steve. I only much later understood that Roger Chesterton might well be the most patient person on this earth, trained to perfection by a cruel father and the impossible circumstances of his youth. If I'd been sensitive enough to care for his pain, I might have discovered the tell tale pattern of an obsessive stalker -- but I guess I wasn't and I didn't. I just 'slid' into love with sweet Steve, gladly drowning in his sea of normalcy. It was a deceptively calm ocean, though. It neatly covered the deep, eternal storm that raged at its seabed, throwing up dark clouds of long-forgotten emotion. I easily convinced myself that I loved Steve -- he is an agreeable person to be with; I know no one who doesn't like him. I also loved the way he put me on a pedestal -- me of all persons. We were the perfect couple in everyone's eye, so who was I to doubt a love so wonderfully fitting my needs? I also see now how the rumor came into the world that Roger might be gay; he never dated a girl during the rest of our college years. Again, I guess I was too insensitive to understand why. I soon forgot all about him after he left for Europe, trying to climb a career ladder that wasn't owned by his father. Steve and I married and had little Eric. Life was good. It lulled me into its vanilla comforts; soon I had a hard time separating my real orgasms from the faked ones. Imagine the impact of Daddy's return. His blunt rudeness tore as easily through the cobwebs of my complacency as his rampant cock did through my dormant cunt. I was what they call a sitting duck -- or rather the torn up ragdoll version of it by the time he was done with me. I could only nod to his casual order to await his phone call. I was repossessed; pushed back over the flimsy fence I had built between my old, outrageous self and the farce of married mommy-hood. The childish fairytale of my marriage had ended. A more decent person than I would have sat down with Steve and told him what happened -- what truly happened. But I am a coward; of course I am. How else could I have been weak enough to fall that easily for my rapist again? The following months were a balance act of keeping my new madness away from my husband -- and most of all: keeping my new lifestyle away from sweet innocent Eric. To my own amazement I succeeded. I even thought I misled the therapist I still consulted. Robert was careful too; he had a meticulously constructed public image to protect. Despite his bullying indifference, he only called when Steve would be away -- he seemed to be well informed. He always phoned a few days early; one time he called even before Steve had had the time to tell me his schedule. He organized everything, even Eric's babysitter if I didn't have one. He never fucked me in the house again. Most of the time he had me picked up or he gave me the address of a house or a hotel. But you know all that. You also know he sometimes brought friends and business relations. I didn't mind. He'd pushed me over the edge and I just kept coming like the good little whore I was -- again. Then Steve found the cufflink. It confused me no end to see it lying on the table, right between a zonked out Steve and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. I picked it up and saw that it must indeed be Robert's. I'd often enough seen him take them off. No one else would have a set even similar. Panic overwhelmed me. How had Steve gotten hold of it? Robert never ever fucked me in the house -- not because I asked him not to, I asked nothing. I guess he decided it was convenient that Steve wouldn't know; at least for a while. He might have changed his mind about that by then. Had he visited the house while I was out? But why? He could just as easily have called Steve and told him about us. Thank God I'd returned from a fuck-date the day before Steve was scheduled back from his trip; so I was home on the Friday he returned early. On Wednesday night I'd been the main attraction of a multi-cocked fucking party at the Hilton, two towns over. Robert hadn't even bothered to bring me home. He had his driver do it, who pulled my head down into his lap for his usual tip before letting me go. It was right in front of our house; I was only protected from curious eyes by the dubious safety of tinted glass. Anyway, that early Saturday morning when I found the link, blind panic made me stop wondering about the how and why. I slipped the object into the pocket of my robe. From then on it was all instinct and improvisation. I became a chased rabbit, cutting corners to outrun the hunting dogs of truth. Ironically it was a truth I knew as little about as Steve. I stubbornly thought that denying everything would be the way to save our marriage. And I had to save it -- it was the only protection of little Eric while his mother fucked her sanity away. I was sure it was also what Robert wanted. There was no way I could contact him. I supposed he would discover the absence of his precious cufflink and call me, but he didn't. I pushed it into the nether regions of my purse, where I could almost feel it burn whenever I clutched the thing to my body. When Steve didn't buy my denial and left me, I was conflicted. Of course I feared for our marriage, but what I also sensed was relief. I guess it was just the natural reaction of the hunted rabbit at last escaping the hounds. The constant intensity of Steve's eyes and his questions had worn me down. I was getting too exhausted to mask my true feelings, I guess. After watching him leave, I returned to the den. Right then my cell phone rang. The little square showed an R for Robert and my heart leapt. It always did. "Oh God, Daddy," I said, using the name he insisted upon. "Steve found your cufflink in our bedroom!" There was silence; then his arrogant voice boomed through the connection. "Impossible," he said. "Describe it." I did, studying the link from all sides. "Wait," he said and I heard the sound of his phone being laid down. I waited for minutes, my anxious heart counting each second of them. "Can't be mine," he at last replied. "I have three sets and they are all complete and right here. Was it in your bedroom?" I confirmed and told him that Steve had left me because of it. He just gave off a gruffly sound. Why should he care? "You got the link?" he then asked and I said yes. "Get to the Excelsior. Now," he barked and hung up. The Excelsior was the place he stayed while being over. It was ten miles outside the city, part of a country club. He had leased the penthouse suite permanently. I knew most corners of it intimately, although I was usually too preoccupied to give it much attention. He let me stand while he sat down at a low table. There were two small boxes in front of him, each one containing a set of cufflinks. The third set was in his cuffs. He extended his hand, palm up, moving his fingers impatiently. I understood, found the link in the chaos of my purse and placed it on his palm. He turned it around, watching the smaller square intently. Then he snorted. "Roger," he said. *** Roger hadn't been on my mind much since he left for Europe. The way he gave in to his father when I, his wife, was raped, claimed and bought in front of him, hadn't done much to earn my respect. His puppy-like sweetness after he rescued me and helped me return to sanity only deepened my contempt -- irrational, yes, and deeply ungrateful, but it was how I felt. I guess I have the true slave's heart. Whomever my new master told me to despise, I loyally despised. Robert despised his son with a vengeance, so I did too. He sometimes told his cronies what a wuzz he thought Roger was. He called him a closet homo in public, only encouraging people's ideas on the subject. That Roger did everything to prove his father wrong by playing James Dean, strengthened my contempt. It even made me wonder if his father could be right, although I knew first hand that he could never be homosexual. He was just a sensitive and decent man, I guess, just like Steve, and well, you know about my attitude towards decent men. So Roger had put a cufflink in our bedroom? Why, I wondered. Moreland must have read the question on my face. He chuckled and pulled me onto his lap. "You see, little cunt," he said, pushing his hand under my skirt, where the heat of his skin invaded mine, "Roger never forgave you for pushing him aside and choosing Steve over him. But being the wimp he is, he couldn't just take you away from the other wuzz. He sulked and goddamn pouted, just like the sissy he is. He started stalking you, no doubt wallowing in his disgusting self-pity. God, how it made my stomach turn." I felt his fat fingers jamming into my bare cunt. I never wore panties when he summoned me and I had been wet ever since his phone call. I moaned as I pushed my face into his shoulder -- hating myself, but loving his fingers. "I guess in the end he even got sick of himself. So when he graduated," Robert went on, "he went to France. I guess he at last grew up and gave up on you." Robert chuckled, hooking his fingers into my soft flesh. "I suppose he wanted to make a belated point concerning his independence. He buried himself in work and did amazingly well. He's good, you know, businesswise, I mean. He's this really conscientious little hard working manager type -- impartial in his decisions, a true motivator, loyal to his people, blah blah." He said it with a sneer on his face. His fingers, three now, stabbed hard up my cunt, hurting me. "God," he sighed. "Isn't it so like the little twerp to wait for years before getting his vengeance, and in such a weasel-like way? You must feel honored, little whore! Two losers fighting over your treacherous cunt!" By then I came, squirting my juices over his hand. He slid his fingers out of me, rubbing them clean on my skirt. Then he pushed them inside my mouth; I started sucking at once. "Well now, slut," he said, grinning, "Do you think Stevie-boy will divorce you?" I was too deep into the afterglow of my orgasm to concentrate on his question. He spread his legs and made me fall through his opened lap. His hands were on my shoulders as he pushed me down until my face was in front of his crotch. My fingers went to his belt automatically, efficiently. I opened his fly and produced his half erect cock, taking it into my mouth. His voice droned on behind a curtain of wet, sucking noises. "Never mind, girl," he said. "No need to worry. Hubby is too much of a wimp to dump you." I felt his big hands on my head as he pulled me down the fat pole, choking me as he slid past my throat's entrance. "He adores you, you know? And there is the brad, of course. He'll never give the two of you up, trust me. Just keep denying until he doubts his own memory. It'll teach him to doubt you. In the end he'll beg you to take him back. Make him beg. Make him tell you he's sorry and he'll be your cunt-lapping puppy... for... the... rest... of... your... life." His speech started following the pumping rhythm of his cock. As he delivered the last words, I felt his flesh swell like it always did right before coming. The hot, wet gushing of goo never failed to send a wave of warmth through my body. It spread an indescribable feeling of sweet content. I groaned around his flesh, making bubbles of sperm pop and splash. He smiled down on me, patting my head while I swallowed his salty gift. "Good girl," he said. "Now clean me up and run. Don't worry about hubby or Eric or little Woger Wabbit. Everything will be fine." *** But I did worry. Steve might have become a pathetic softie in my brainwashed imagination -- to little Eric he was a hero. The boy's incessant questions about Steve's whereabouts ran me through all kinds of emotions -- from irritation through guilt, sadness and utter frustration until I reached despair. Eric didn't enjoy beating me in his videogames at all. He laughed with deprecation as I offered to play ball with him. He flat out refused to be read from his favorite book before sleeping -- he said I had all the Greek names wrong and never the right voice for the right character. Then he started waking me up at night. Something had to give and I knew it had to be Steve. I started calling him. His cell phone was shut down and I had no idea where he might be. On Monday I called him at work. His girl stonewalled me, the little bitch. How could she? I had personally helped picking her, hadn't I? The Missing Link 02: Liza At last Steve answered. He agreed to talk if he could see Eric as often as he wanted. He hung up on me when I tried to be smart, but I succeeded eventually in meeting him at a restaurant. Why did I have to dress as sexily as I did? Why float into the restaurant on a cloud of perfume and strut with the airs of a catwalk model, made up to perfection, wearing the highest heels Steve knew of? It was pearls to the swine anyway; he didn't even rise to greet me. All he wanted to know was if I'd found a better story. I chose to attack, not even realizing that I casually accused him of amnesia, ill health and lack of mental capacity. When he pointed that out, I saw how disastrously wrong my strategy had been and tried to repair my mistake. It only made it worse. I went all-out, lowering my voice, squeezing his hand, my lips trembling. In the end I was close enough to how I truly felt, but it proved just another huge mistake. "I don't lie!" I said, vehemently. "There never was a cufflink on the table. You must believe me!" "Why do you defend him so, Liza?" he asked. "Is he so important to you that you'd rather break my heart than break your secret?" Oh God, what soap opera did I get into? His sad puppy-eyes made my stomach crawl. I jumped to my feet, moaning with disgust. I grabbed my purse and left -- or rather fled. So you said it would be easy, Daddy? I decided to play it down for a while, allowing Steve to see Eric again. At least it improved my relation with the little guy and gave me undisturbed nights. It also gave me time to contemplate my concern with a marriage to a guy I cheated on in the most shameless ways. That's when Roger phoned. "Liza?" "...Roger?" There was a chuckle on the other end. "I won't ask you how you are, Liza. I know. And I need to see you." The steel in his voice confused me; it had never been there before. "...?" "It is about Robert. Meet me at the Luxor in an hour." "Roger?" But he'd hung up. The Luxor is an old and rather exclusive hotel in town. It has a lounge bar, which is a popular meeting place for business people during weekdays. Roger was hard to miss; he is tall and very good-looking -- a taller and slimmer version of his father. He smiled easily; I felt stubbles on his cheeks when he hugged me. I hardly shared the hug before stepping back. He smiled apologetically and bade me to follow him into a niche, cut off from the main lounge by an overgrown trellis. "What about the cufflink?" I asked, ignoring his invitation to sit down. I wasn't there for small talk. He smiled. "Hello Liza," he said. "How are you doing? You look as lovely as ever." Standing around started feeling awkward. I sat down at the low table, across from him. I wore slacks and a beige sweater, the dullest outfit I could find. My hair was in a loose bun. "What can I get you to drink?" he asked, but I refused to be distracted. "You smuggled it into our house, didn't you?" I asked. He sighed, raising his hands, still smiling. "Guilty as charged," he said. I searched his eyes. They didn't reflect the lightness of his voice. What was going on? "So after years of absence," I said, "you break into my house, invade my privacy and destroy my marriage. Fuck you, Roger!" His hands rose. "Shhhh," he hissed. "This is a decent place. Mind your language." I tried to see if he was mocking me, but he seemed dead serious. His hand touched my arm to keep me from rising and leaving. "I know I shouldn't have," he said. "But I'm glad I did. I know about you and Daddy. Steve has to know too and Robert has to be stopped. He'll destroy you and your family. I won't allow it." For seconds I didn't know what to say. Then I laughed. It sounded forced. "This is ridiculous," I said, rising. He hurried to his feet too. "You say me fucking Robert will break up my marriage, and to prevent that you break up my marriage? This is insane. Besides, if Robert wanted to end my marriage, all he'd have to do is call Steve, wouldn't he? Just tell him what we do or mail him a picture -- a video even. But he doesn't, because he doesn't want me single. He wants me tied, guilty, cheating, humiliated." His hand touched my shoulder. I shook it off. "How would you know about all of this anyway?" I said. "What is going on?" He shrugged. "This isn't about you, Liza," he then said. "Not about your marriage or your son. This is about him and me." I just stared. "My dad and I hate each other, you know that," he went on. "It goes back to way before you and I met. I must have disappointed him ever since I was a boy. I took sides with my mother. I refused to learn 'manly' sports or go to a 'decent' college, as he put it. I refused to study much at all. I refused to accept the girls he threw at me. And then I went working for the competition, making a success of some of his worst enemies." Roger once more tried to touch me, but I didn't let him. He shook his head and went on. "Just short of killing me, he wants to destroy me, Liza. He always has. He refused to fund anything I wanted for myself. And he took away everything I loved, including you. By now, I don't know if I would stop at killing him." I slowly sat down again, thinking, confused by what he said. "So you dropped the cufflink to spite him?" I asked. He didn't respond for a while. Then he grabbed my hand and didn't let go. When he started talking, his voice sounded urgent. "I have been trying to get you back, ever since you returned from your 'crazy year.' Suzan Atkins was my eyes and ears, sorry for that. I went as far as becoming friends with Steve from the very moment you picked him, just to be close to you... to be there when you'd dump him. I was certain you would, but you didn't. At last I accepted your choice and went to Europe. And now, after the asshole grabbed you back, I returned to fight him." I heard what he said and knew it should have touched me and maybe it did. But I guess I am who I am -- his obvious loyalty hit my warped mind as weakness. It disgusted me and made me laugh sarcastically. "You? Fight him?" I said. He winced at the venom. Then he shrugged. "I know your opinion of me, Liza." His voice was calm. "It seems that decent men go against your grain. You thrive on assholes, don't you? It is why what happened before will happen again. I don't care what you do to Steve ; it is your choice, your marriage. But at least remember: last time there was no Eric." The name hung between us. It caused a multitude of emotions to wash through me. There was irritation for his unwanted interference -- and of course the typical, amorphous rage of the true addict seeing her habit threatened. But there was also a spark of anguish, an underlying feeling that he was right, however inconvenient his truth might be. I sat down again. "Liza," he said, his voice warm. "I kept Robert away from you for years. I never told you, but he was enraged when I took you away from him and had you nursed back into sanity. He threatened to kill me, but I didn't give in; not again." I couldn't help being skeptic; weak Roger standing up to his father, to Daddy? Back then I had never wondered why Robert had left me alone. I just assumed he was done with the used-up slut. "My father is obsessed with you, did you know?" he went on. "He was hooked, right from the moment I introduced you to him, and he still is. I never understood, but there is something in you he can't get enough of. He almost loves you more than his vintage car collection." He said it without a trace of irony. "I never forgave myself for introducing you. It was like offering a lamb to a wolf." His voice trailed off; then he shrugged and focused his eyes. "He stayed off your track because -- let's say I had something on him, something that would destroy his corporate image. He loves his image even better than he loves fucking you, you know." My initial confusion slowly lifted. I had known Roger only as an immature, insecure boy, bullied by his powerful father. He'd been incapable of standing up for himself when his girl was taken away from him. But he had changed, I saw. He was calm now -- strong? My mind struggled to fathom the change, but my body knew. A warm tingle invaded it -- a familiar feeling. His smile turned sly; had he seen it? "Well," I said at last, invoking sarcasm yet again to drown out the sudden turmoil inside me. "So you tamed the mighty predator? I'm impressed, but it seems things have changed. The magic must have worn off, honey. The wolf has his teeth in the lamb again." I stopped short at making a mocking 'bah' sound. I saw he wasn't amused. "Brave girl," he said. "Just a pity you are not as brave when he summons you. I know what's going on, Liza. I know where you are headed. And yes, he made someone betray me and took away what I had over him. That's why he returned and grabbed you again -- and why he is so reckless with you. Soon he won't care about you, your marriage or your child; he thinks he's untouchable." I had to hang on to my sarcasm. Maybe it was to control the weakness in my knees. Whatever, I couldn't resist; so I laughed. "He took something away from you?" I mocked. "Story of your life, isn't it?" His eyes flashed. Was it annoyance? Shame? A sudden sting startled me. His hand slapped my face, making my head spin. "Don't think you matter, whore," he hissed. His voice sliced straight through my artificial conceit. The venom in his words stripped me of my sarcasm. I shivered... the lamb knows the scent of a wolf -- a young, strong wolf, challenging the leader of the pack. "I am not your boy anymore, Liza. You are the pawn this time, you know?" he went on, losing the venom. "I decided long ago to stop playing the good son, being content with the crumbs that fall off the king's table. Now it'll be me who takes away. And you are the prize." The world became a tunnel. His eyes were at the end of it, almost black, raging with anger, hypnotizing mine. Had the boy finally become a man, and more than a man -- a giant? A monster? I trembled. I felt lost. He rose, walking around the table and taking my hand. He raised me to my feet; I had trouble standing. Then he pulled me against his body, my head on his chest. I smelled his scent. "Go home, Liza," he said. "Tell Steve what happened between you and Robert. He has a right to know. Don't worry about my father, I'll take care of him." *** The next days were confusing. Ever since Robert came back into my life, he'd taken over completely, even when he wasn't there. I was like a demented person. One short moment I had these flashes of clear thinking, feeling horrified, only to plunge back into long stretches of misty fatalism. I was truly out of my mind, having lost it in the churning maelstrom of my horny, aching body. From the moment he burst through my front door, Robert's dominance had become my sole motivation; he was always on my mind. I was an addict. Of course there were my day-to-day chores, like work, motherhood and household duties, but I executed them mechanically. All my social activities, like being around Steve or talking with my mother, friends and colleagues, had been conducted with a certain distance. With Steve I even faked my lovemaking and orgasms with the ease of a professional hooker. Or, maybe more to the point, I managed my addiction like a socially functioning drugs user. Then the discovery of the cufflink shook up my lethargy -- as did Steve's reaction to it. And, to complete my confusion, now Roger also rattled at my nice and secure cage. He re-entered my life and challenged the man I belonged to. Why did he plant the link? If not to hurt me or my marriage, then why? Of course I knew why. I had felt Roger's erection against my soft belly when he took me in his arms, and I knew I had become just what he said: a battlefield of the Moreland males. In the over-all scope of events, I decided to put my problems with Steve on a back burner -- it was just one problem too many, and not the one I gave priority to. Steve came to get Eric every few days. I just smiled and played the perfect mommy and understanding wife. The urge to talk it out with him became as scarce as my clear moments. The battle of the father and the son over my befuddled little person took all the energy I could muster. And then, on an afternoon three days after I met Roger, there was a loud knock on my door. There is a bell, but it wasn't used. The thumping had an alarming quality. Eric would eat and sleep at his father's that night -- they would go to a new theme park all day tomorrow. I was alone in the house, so I grabbed Eric's baseball bat before opening the door on its chain. First thing I saw was the wide backside of a uniformed man. He turned at the sound of the door opening; he was Robert's driver. My fingers relaxed; the bat fell rattling to the floor. "Count Moreland needs you," he said. "Now?" "Now." "Just a moment, I have to..." "Now." The Bentley drove almost soundlessly. The ticking of its flashing light interrupted the silence whenever we took a turn. The driver hadn't said a word after his summons. I hugged myself in the corner of the back seat. I wore a thigh-length t-dress over skinny jeans; my hair was in a tail, my feet were in flip-flops. We soon arrived at a large Victorian type mansion. I'd been there before. Two hours later I sat at the foot of a long table decked with china and crystal, sparkling with the light of tall white candles. I wore a long, slinky, cream-colored evening gown over my naked body. My feet were in silver heeled sandals, my hair had been done up to show long, pendulant earrings. Robert sat at the head of the table; two men were at my left, one more at my right. They all wore black tuxedos over snowy white shirts. 'Lots of cufflinks, no doubt,' I thought. I knew the men would all fuck me before the night was over. It was why I was here, the only female. Two of the men I knew; they had done me before. I made polite conversation with the guy left from me. His English had an accent -- French, maybe. Then my attention was caught by the sound of silver against crystal. Robert had risen; he was about to make a speech. "Gentlemen," he began, looking around the table. "It isn't often that dessert is already on the table before the entrée is served." The men chuckled at the joke, turning their heads my way. Then Robert droned on about business matters. I understood that the men were associates to be rewarded for another successful season. I didn't listen; I'd heard it before. I knew I would be the reward, together with a fat check, no doubt. I hardly ate, but I repeatedly had my glass refilled with the heady Sancerre wine. So, when the men had their cigars, and a good sniff off the elegant mirrors, my head buzzed on my shoulders -- a nice buzz that subdued any weak objections my mind still might have. I knew it was coming, but I felt surprised when a strong hand pulled me to my feet by the roots of my hair. I heard the loud clatter of china and crystal as someone cleared the table. My poor dress tore with a wail as it was ripped open from throat to hem. It obviously had more resistance in its fibers than I had, I thought, just when I was pushed down on the dinner's debris. A familiar fat cock split my cunt. I may have meant to moan in protest, but whatever came out was stomped into a gurgle by a second cock sliding down my throat. *** The next day I returned home. At the mansion I had slept until noon. After rising and showering I was amazed how fresh I looked. The mirror mercifully didn't show how I felt on the inside. It also didn't get a chance to show off my puffed, swollen slit, my stretched ass hole or the labyrinth of bruises on my tender tits. Since Steve left me, Daddy must have thought there was no need to hold back -- if he even thought about it at all. Arriving home in a cab, I saw Roger sitting on the porch. He had a present for Eric, a computer game. I told him the boy was with his father, as he followed me inside. I didn't want him to, but he grabbed my upper arm and pushed me to the stairs. We went up to the master bedroom. "Undress," he said. I didn't move. He slapped my face; then he held it in the vice of his large hands. His eyes were into mine. His body radiated cologne-scented warmth; I smelled it as I felt his fingers slide down my shoulders and my sides to the hem of the t-dress. He pulled it over my head and threw it in a corner. Then he opened my jeans, pulling them down my legs. Both bra and panties were soon gone. I did not resist or cover my ravaged body while his eyes inspected me. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath. Then he threw me my bathrobe. "I hope you at least enjoyed it." He walked over to the window, where he turned around. The fluffy inside of the robe rubbed against my sensitive nipples. It made me wince. I sat down on the bed. "I feel awful," I said. "Sure," he answered. "I do," I insisted. His sarcasm hurt me; I had no clue why. "Listen, Liza," he said, pushing his body off the wall and getting down on his haunches in front of me. "I never stopped caring for you, and seeing you like this makes me mad. I was devastated when you chose Steve over me, but at least he loved you -- loves you still. Robert doesn't give a shit about you; he only cares for himself. You're a prize now, but he'll destroy you. I want you to leave him." His eyes grew more intense, capturing mine. It caused a wave of heat to wash over me, like it had at the Luxor hotel. "You know I'd want to," I said with a trembling voice. It sounded unconvincing, even to myself. "But you can't," he added, matter of fact. I just stared. He rose to his feet. "Suck my dick," he went on. His voice had the same steel now as his father's. He unzipped his fly, freeing a half-erected cock. It was as long as Daddy's, but tighter, slicker -- younger. My fingers were around it before I knew. The tangy taste of his flesh spread across my tongue when I took him in. He never stopped until the head slid past the entrance of my throat. I didn't gag, but as his hands cupped the back of my head and he just started fucking my face, I produced wet, fleshy noises. He didn't come. After minutes of pounding, he suddenly withdrew, leaving my mouth empty, my throat producing spasmodic swallows. "Good girl," he said, stuffing the dripping pole back in his pants. The zipper hardly closed over his bulge. My mind reeled. My hands reached out for the hidden treasure as a moan of frustration left my mouth. 'Good girl," he repeated. "Now listen careful to what I have to tell you." *** When Steve told me a few days later that he'd met Roger again and wanted to invite him to our house for a small barbeque, I already knew. I also knew I had to seem surprised. That's why I acted as if I hardly remembered Roger and thought he was still in Europe. Did I feel guilty for deceiving Steve again? Not really. I was touched by the wonderful dinner he'd made for the two of us, but I knew his agenda was as double as mine. In a way, I thought, he was being just as deceitful as I was. Besides, by then my cheating on him had become such a routine that it hardly mattered anymore. When he called to propose our dinner-date I wasn't at the Mall; I was waiting for Roger, who had summoned me. I was soaking in a steaming bath in his hotel suite, preparing to be fucked all afternoon. He never showed up. I don't know why I came to the hotel when he asked me to, or why I kept waiting for him, but I did. Just as I have no idea why I submitted as easily to him as to his father. I also don't know why I cried when Steve left after dinner. It can't have been guilt. Maybe it was the innocence of the evening -- knowing that the sweet, easy closeness would be lost forever? I saw how my tears shook him too. It made me feel even worse. The Missing Link 02: Liza The barbeque went well. Waiting for Roger got me nervous, not knowing how I might act in his and Steve's presence. But just catching Roger's reassuring eyes was enough to calm me down. It even made the mild jokes and sentimental journeys back to our college-years sound natural. I don't think Steve had a clue -- we even touched each other and smiled in the comfortable, married way we always had. After Roger left, Steve took his car to pick up Eric. He hadn't left the street yet, when the sliding doors opened and Roger returned. He bent me over the table on the deck where we had been eating and drinking minutes before. Then he fucked me to the brink of orgasm -- and stopped. He started again and stopped -- and started again, leaving me screaming with frustration. He pulled out, tore the condom off his cock and dropped the limp, empty rubber on my naked back. "Remember what I told you," he said. Then he closed his zipper and left. I still lay panting on the table when I heard Steve return. I rushed into the bathroom, waiting for the heated flush to go away before meeting them. Steve played with the boy and put him to bed. I still glowed when we had one last glass of wine. I was nervous, knowing what I had to do next. Roger thought seducing Steve might work; he insisted I'd try. Well, it wasn't difficult to pull off as I was still boiling inside from the unfinished fucking I'd just gotten. So, even though I had my doubts Steve would fall for it, his refusal took me completely by surprise. I never expected him to be so rude. It shocked me and made me feel profoundly humiliated. Don't laugh. I know I have been humiliated over and over by Robert and his asshole guests. But sweet, naïve Steve turning me down hit me like a sledgehammer. When he pushed me away it felt like a stab. He had no right, had he? We were equals; he was as weak as I was; too inferior to treat me like this. The sheer contempt in his eyes for my exposed body caused a flood of unadulterated shame to wash over me. I heard my voice croak his name as the front door closed. Two days later a gray haired gentleman handed me a big envelope, informing me that I had been served. Ever since Robert and his son reappeared in my life, my behavior had become increasingly irate -- even crazy. The two men fought over me like dogs tearing at a bleeding rabbit. But now I knew a third man had joined the fight -- funny enough not by fighting for me, but by giving up on me. Finding out that I had no control over Steve shook me to the core. Until then I stupidly held on to the fact that my marriage and my son were the only remnants from a save but rapidly dwindling world. The idiotic inconsequence of that thought never dawned on me. I easily gave in to every whim of the Morelands, but I was devastated when the man I betrayed turned me down and left me. It wasn't fair -- I really thought it wasn't fair. So when Steve came by to pick up his son, I flew at him, beating him with my fists, raging. I guess my words were unintelligible, torn up by my throat-squeezing anger. A sudden flood of tears finally made me break down. He told me he came for Eric and I screamed he would never get the boy again, unless we talked. He had to listen to me. He had to. His filing for divorce had yanked the floor from under my feet; a floor I'd been denying even existed. I guess it was the intuitive clinging to normalcy of an addict going crazy. "I listened," he then said, his voice as cold as ice. "Remember? And all you did was show me you are a slut who thinks she can fuck her way back into my understanding. Do you think so little of me, Liza?" The hurt in his eyes was unbearable. "Who are you?" he went on, almost whispering. "Who have you become?" Good question, I thought; the question to end all questions, one might say. But he did have one more. "Liza," he said, holding me. "What can be so horrible that you'd rather ruin our marriage than tell me?" I took a step back, away from the soft, passive pain in his eyes. It once more irritated me -- filling me with disgust for his weakness and mine. What was the use? Why did Roger -- and his father too -- want me to stay in this charade of a marriage? Even Steve wanted out, although he was the only one who truly loved me. "Nothing!" I answered. "I told you over and over there is nothing; it is all in your mind. You tell me I lie, so I try not to repeat what you consider a lie. I try to show my love by seducing you and you divorce me! Now who is the crazy one here?" His eyes turned distant. "So you still think I 'm crazy?" he asked, or rather stated. His wallowing in self-pity sent another wave of disgust over me. "I NEVER SAW THAT GODDAMN CUFFLINK!" My exploding voice seemed to blow him away, so I grabbed him, apologizing, pleading to be believed. I once more tried to make him see how he maybe drank too much, doubting his memory. I knew it was the wrong strategy, but I was at wit's end. So I apologized. "I am sorry too, Liza," he said. "I am sorry I let you talk to me. First you try to fuck me into believing you. And now you try to fuck with my head." He pushed me away and turned to leave. I have no memory of what happened next. Things just got black. When the light returned, my frame of vision was filled with his face. I felt his hand under my head and my lips against the slickness of glass. Cold water seeped into my mouth. Then I felt his arms around me -- familiar arms. He carried me to the couch and I closed my eyes. My brain fervently reviewed what happened. It must have been exhaustion. The dogs at last tore up the little rabbit. It had been stress, surely; the unavoidable result of being in the middle of disaster, not knowing what really happened and why, not knowing which way to go. I had to choose -- Robert, Roger, even Steve, it didn't matter. I had to choose, or did I? Maybe, but wasn't the crux of my situation that I was unable to choose? Wasn't I just this insignificant, weak female creature instinctively doing what the caveman told her? It had been easy to choose between ruthless Robert and weak wimpy Steve. I only fought the divorce because Robert ordered me to, didn't I? But now there was Roger; an entirely different Roger, challenging his Alpha male father over me -- but also telling me to stay in my marriage. Why? Why not just steal me away, running off with me? I felt the warmth of Steve's face close to my mouth. He must have been checking my breath. A sudden feeling of sympathy ran through me at the gesture. I heard my voice even before realizing I had opened my mouth. "I never cheated on you, Steve," I desperately lied, not knowing why. "Never. I love you. I never want to lose you. The cufflink..." I stopped, checking myself before saying what I almost said. Not yet, Roger had told me, not yet. I stirred and sat up. His sweet face was worried. "The cufflink never existed," I went on, returning to my old adagium. I saw his face fall. "You must have either dreamed," I said, "or your memory must have been playing tricks. Maybe it was like sleepwalking? You told me you did that a lot, as a kid. Please believe me, Steve, I would have confessed -- even if I really had cheated on you. It hurts me that you think I could lie to you." It should have hurt me that I lied to him as blatantly as this, but it didn't. I was numb. I also knew it was useless; he didn't buy it. I almost tasted his anger while I accused him of yet another mental deficiency. He rose. I couldn't stop. "Please don't divorce me, Steve. I couldn't live without you. And little Eric..." He stopped me with a gesture. "Keep the boy out of it, Liza," he said. His voice had an edge. "And as for talking to you again, first stop lying." *** Robert told me I did well. Then he took me to a club and had me fucked by two men and a woman on a stage. Roger still refused to fuck me. He had a very good attorney for me, though, to stall the divorce. I saw that there was still a difference between him and his father: I didn't have to fuck the lawyer. The man advised me to stonewall every initiative Steve might develop until Roger deemed the time right for a different approach. I didn't understand, but I didn't have to, did I? He also told me to let Steve see Eric as often as he wanted. I would have anyway, remembering the little guy's previous objections to keeping his father out of his life. My craziness deepened as the battle drug on. It is hard wanting one thing while doing another and stay sane, I guess. How else could I explain my reaction to what Steve told me when we met at last in the conference room of my attorney? He said he'd had sex with a woman -- great sex with a younger, firmer, bigger-titted woman. "Just sex," he said. "Just an athletic exercise." I stared at him, speechless. Then my mouth exploded and the words tumbled out without any control of my brain. "YOU cheated on ME? You accuse me of cheating without a trace of evidence. You want to divorce me over it and now you tell me you fucked a slut? Get out, asshole. 'Just sex,' you say? Bullshit! You could never have 'just sex.' Not you. You betrayed me, you sanctimonious asshole. You'll never see your son again. Get out. GET OUT OF MY LIFE!!" Not one single moment did the utter irony of my words get through my blind rage. Here I had been lying and denying, fucking legions, acting and aching under the stress of it all, and I flip out completely as he calmly tells me he fucked some big titted bimbo. How could he? Then he started laughing. "I lied, Liza," he said. "I never cheated on you -- never, ever. You are right, I could never do that." His laughter took my breath away. I gasped. "You... lied?" "Yes," he said. "But why?" I asked. "Why lie?" "Why indeed," he said, suddenly serious again. "I guess I just needed a way to make you feel how it is to be lied to. On the other hand, maybe I am lying now and wasn't before. Maybe I did cheat on you after all. Or the other way around? Getting dizzy, honey? I only have your word, just as you only have mine. How does that strike you?" He was right, it made me feel dizzy. "You...lied," I mumbled. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not." "You... asshole," I whispered, but my heart wasn't in it. "I guess so," he agreed. Roger had instructed me to tell Steve a story he had concocted from facts, half-facts and lies. But I ought to make it look as if Steve forced me to at last come clean. So I had started with my well-worn litany of denials, declarations of undying love, hints at his fatherly responsibilities, and buckets of tears. It went well. I saw how his annoyance rose with every line of my speech and I was prepared to detonate my little bomb the moment he would threaten to leave. And then he threw the house-made hand grenade of his cheating, stunning me with inexplicable emotions. It took me minutes to shake the daze off. I treaded water like a drowning woman, grabbing blindly to find a straw I could hold on to. I felt completely lost. So I did what all lost people do -- I retraced my steps and returned to the securities I had brought with me to the talk. "No," I said. "No, Steve, you are not the asshole here, I am. But no more -- I've done protecting the true asshole." I saw his face relax. It caused the stress to leave my body with a trembling sigh. "Roger is a charlatan, Steve," I said. Then I told him how I married Roger in college to hide his homosexuality for his overbearing father. I said I was poor and in debt, needing the money he offered. I told about the posh lifestyle and the opulent wedding. I knew it made me look shallow, but as it was the truth, Roger thought it would add credibility to my story. I guess it did, although Steve was too stunned right then to notice. He shrank even further when I told him about the rape at the party -- Roger's father taking me brutally, followed by the nightlong gangbang and the ten thousand dollars to silence me. "I was nineteen," I said, staring him down. "I had gone through hell. I took the money." I saw the disappointment in his eyes. "Fuck you," I thought. "You weren't there, were you?" Then I lowered my gaze and went on about the abortion and the monthly pay-off that I'd had to collect from Roger's father. "He, uhm, fucked me every time I came to collect, but I was beyond caring. I was a little rich, mentally wrecked girl; I dropped out of college." His outburst about wanting to "kill the assholes" moved me. It also made me feel guilty, as the story I told hadn't been quite truthful. The poor, mentally wrecked girl never told him how she enjoyed every moment of every fuck fest, every jet set trip and every glittering day and night of the year that followed. As I summed up the memories, I felt my cunt flow. In the end it wasn't hard for me to whisper 'sorry,' even if the sorry was more a regret than an apology. In the silence that followed I tried to clear my head and make an inventory of the story so far. Then I considered how to tell the rest. Steve interrupted me by clearing his throat. "What made you change back?" he asked. The question took me by surprise. Of course, I realized, he is still one change behind. "Ah, yes, " I said, taking a gulp of water. "Change back..." So I went on about the fucked and drugged out morning in Vegas, and the breakdown in the bathroom. I was so concentrated on delivering the right story, that I forgot how explicit it was until I saw Steve jump up, white as a sheet, running to a waste basket and throwing up. Did it embarrass me? I guess so, but was it because his reaction touched me for its honest sensitivity or was it because I saw it as more proof of his weakness? After he recovered I suggested we go outside to catch some fresh air. My story wasn't finished yet, nor was his need to hear it -- even after knowing it made him sick. It felt as though I were the mother of two. When I reached for his hand in the park, he jerked it away -- like a stubborn child. I told him about my recovery, leaving out Roger's active part in it. It was another surprise for him to hear that our mutual friend Suzan was really my therapist -- and still was. It made him refuse my reaching hand again. So I shrugged and went on, once again accentuating Roger's gayness. "I think he really felt guilty for letting his father do to me what he did, " I said. "Bullshit," Steve responded. "Anyway," I went on. "Both father and son left me alone. And then I met you and it all became moot." He snorted. "You must have had a ball, joking with Roger Rabbit behind my back," he hissed. I had to deny it fiercely, telling him he was very mistaken, that I loved him and he was the best thing ever happening to me. I cried and grabbed him, but he shook free and started walking away. "I became friends with the creep, goddammit Liza!" he cried out. "Even last week, when I invited him, you were happy and relaxed around him -- all the time keeping this secret from me. Who do you think I am? Who are you?" I once again emphasized my love for him. "Nothing else matters." He didn't answer. He walked away another few steps. His leaving wasn't in my plan. Thank God he turned back again. "What about the cufflink?" he asked. I felt relieved. "I heard a million words," he said, "and we still haven't arrived at the retched thing." Time for my next step, but there was no hurry. I kept silent, causing the cogs in his head to start churning. I could almost see where his thoughts took him. The cufflinks... my obvious hesitation... Roger's return... the bedroom... and then the detonation came. "My God, Liza!" he bellowed. "I KNOW that the fucking cufflink is Roger's! His initials were on it, so was he in your bedroom while I was gone? Did you lie about him being gay? Did you fuck him for old times' sakes? Are you still with him? Do you want to leave me for him? Talk to me, Liza!" I still took my time, slowly shaking my head left and right. Then I said, almost whispering: "It wasn't Roger's." He slumped down on the bench across from me. It was obvious to him what the implications of my words were. I should have said there was no cufflink, as before. But I hadn't. "You lied to me after all," he groaned, listing all the tricks I had used to keep him in the dark -- calling him sick, a drunkard and a dreamer. "You rather drove me away from Eric than tell me the truth," he said, his voice broken. "Who are you, Liza? How could you? Who are you?" As he rose to walk away his words tore the gossamer cocoon of my addiction, pulling my naked sickness out into the harsh light of his disgust. And I cried -- I bawled, reaching out for his body as it vanished in a blur of tears. I knew they were not tears of regret, nor tears about lost love. They were tears of self-pity. *** When the hysterical flood stopped I felt oddly clean. Any decent woman would have felt horrible, but I felt purified. I guess every last lingering remnant of possible guilt, shame or reserve had been swept away by the torrents of my self-pity. Catharsis, they call it, don't they? I waited till ten the next morning before I called Steve on his cell phone. It went to voice-mail, so I asked him to call me. Even I was surprised by the genuine crack in my voice. "Call me. I'm alone, I'm sad, I'm sorry." I didn't lie. I was alone all right and sad because of that; it was enough to make me feel sorry. He phoned back immediately, sounding sleepy. "I'm so scared," I said. "I'm still drunk," he answered. It set the tone for maybe the weirdest phone conversation I ever had. We joked, making our silly remarks balance on the thin line between relaxed banter and bittersweet satire -- much like we'd done in a now irretrievable past. I said I wanted to talk more. He asked how much it would hurt him this time. All of the crazy warmth had seeped out by then. "You wanted the truth, Steve," I said at last. "So yes, it will hurt. It will hurt us both." We met at the tiny park behind our... my house. It once had a special meaning to us. I'd cursed under my breath when Steve suggested it as a place for us to meet. All this needless mixing up of the inevitable with the sentimental made me nervous. He started out about the cufflink at once. Damn you, Roger, for putting this at my doorstep. Or was it Roger anyway? Who should I believe and did it matter? I had to make a choice, not knowing the consequences. But there was no alternative, was there? I had to drop the intended bomb at last, if only to settle my crazy mind. So I choose. "It was his father's," I said. "It was Robert's cufflink." Of course he exploded, showering me with every venomous accusation he could find. How could I have betrayed him with the man who raped me -- the monster that used me as his whore, pimped me out to his buddies, drugged me, left me with a child to abort and then bought me and sold me? How could I have done that and in our own bed, no less? How could I indeed? He did his walk-away-and-return act again. Then he asked me: "You still see him? You still fuck him? You still let yourself be whored out by him?" I shook my head in denial, more out of routine than as a planned response. But I kept my silence. "Talk to me, Liza," he said and repeated it when I didn't. I remember actually wringing my hands, feverishly imagining how a contrite wife would act -- and overdoing it, of course. "I should have told you the first time he called again," I started my confession. I continued by telling him when and how it began -- the way Robert overwhelmed me, forcing himself into the house. "You let him fuck you again," he said, his voice dull -- resigned. It enraged me and I used that rage to fire up my voice. I denied. I heatedly told him I only loved him and would never betray him. "But he did fuck you," Steve repeated.