Authors: Vivienne Harris-Scott
She
was beautiful.
She
had on a soft pink and black silk gown that I had never seen before and
her body was oriented towards the bedside table, giving me and uninterrupted
view of her plunging neckline and mounds that were stretching,
squeezed against the fabric, her chest gently heaving up and down...
Her
left nipple was actually almost out of the gown, inviting...
Barely
held in position by her arm against it...
Begging
to be licked and sucked...
I
couldn't resist.
As
I approached the bed and fell onto my knees only inches away from her
body, still watching her, I knew what I was about to do was wrong.
My
last thought was,
“
I'm
going to hell for this.
”
as I placed a few kisses on her neckline, and
finally my mouth latched on the tender flesh of her nipple.
A
better man would have stopped right there. Hell, a better man wouldn
’
t have been in that room!
Her
nipple became hard in my mouth, my hand cupping her breast and rubbing it
while I was sucking and chewing; my balls started to hurt, and her body
tensed up.
I
felt her protest, felt her trying to pull away, but I didn't let her.
Instead pulling her warmth closer to me, I draped my powerful legs
over her own so she couldn't get away, and slid my other arm to her throat
before ripping the gown off her body.
Better
man be damned
…
I
couldn
’
t
—
wouldn
’
t stop.
I
needed her skin exposed. I had craved her warmth and her touch, but most
of all I had craved her. My manhood was hardening to the edge of
painfulness as I felt her nipple harden more against my tongue and
the closeness of her body turned me on beyond reason.
My
hand slid down her body, my leg pulling back and forcing her to open her
own, so my hand could glide between her legs, my finger trailing
down her slit until I found her moist opening. Her clit was swelling and I
told her so, as she was crying and trying to fight me off.
I
could feel her hips twisting, as she was trying to pull away, but it had the
effect to make me rock hard, and aroused me more.
I
kissed her. She bit me.
I
licked her neck as I could taste the blood, and pushed my member inside
her.
She
screamed.
I
wanted her, needed her.
I
no longer cared.
I
was acting like a mad man.
I
was a mad man.
Taking
my own wife against her will.
Raping
her.
I
couldn't think clearly anymore. A deep groan came out of my throat as I could
feel her muscles clenching around my pulsating member.
That's
all that mattered to me, as I pounded her more forceful, more needily, until I
finally felt the familiar tingling and knew I would come within seconds.
I
cried out when it happened, looking into her eyes, before collapsing.
I
lay there trying to catch my breath unable to utter a single word.
I
could see and hear her cry.
I
knew what I had done.
There
would be no turning back from this.
I
saw her get up, semen leaking from her body.
I
closed my eyes, the image, unbearable.
The
next morning, the rays of sun through the blinds of her bedroom awakened me.
I
was still on her bed, and within minutes, the recollection on how I had ended
up here came back to me. I felt bile rising in my throat, rushed to the
bathroom only to realize the door was locked.
She
was still in it.
I
went to our bedroom, used our bathroom, cleaned myself up, called my assistant
to cancel all appointments of the day, and went downstairs to wait for her.
I
didn't know what I would say to her, but I knew no apology would ever be
enough.
When
she came down, she saw me from the stairs, and as I got up to walk towards her,
she ran back up and locked herself in her room.
I
spent the entire day waiting for her in the living groom.
She
didn't come back.
I
spoke to Marina that evening explaining that Vic was ill and on bed rest and
would require all her meals brought to her until she was better.
I
was worried sick and wanted to speak to her but she stayed in her room for ten
days straight while I had been working from home as much as I could in the hopes
of seeing her. It didn
’
t
happen.
I
had to go to New Zealand for two days and couldn't cancel the trip. I was
terrified she would leave in my absence, and I asked one of my bodyguards to
actually watch the house from afar, and follow her if she ever came out during
that period. I wanted to know every detail of any activity while I was gone,
and he had me on speed dial.
The
first call came the same day, when the guard informed me she had gone to the
doctor's office.
I
figured she was still feeling some pain, and hoped with medication, she would
heal. At least on that front, anyway.
The
second call came the next day, and was much more alarming, when the guard told
me, she had driven to the police station and had stayed in over an
hour.
I
took that detail in, and rang my personal long-time friend and political ally,
the Commissioner of police asking him to find out exactly what had transpired
at that precinct, and call me back immediately.
These
were longest 39 minutes of my life thus far. He informed me of my wife
’
s allegations, and reassured me that the
report had been taken care of, and I was not to worry. He advised me to keep
the Mrs in check, though, because he could not guarantee his help if she
persisted. I exhaled, and took an hour break from my activities to think
about a plan.
Once
I had it, I made the call.
I
rang Vic with the intent to put the fear of God into her. I hated doing it but
I had no choice. Call it plain fear or survival instinct; I informed her that I
knew what had happened at the police station and that I was going to punish her
upon my return. I could hear her voice tremble as she had tried to deny it, but
when I told her I had her followed, she remained silent, and I knew I had won.
I
had no intention to harm her. Not ever again.
I
just needed her to believe I would.
Because
my wife was already afraid of me, -or so, I thought -, I didn't have to push
very strongly to convince her.
I
couldn't have the reality of what I had done to her hit the Sydney rumor mill,
or worse the newspapers. Never mind, criminal charges.
When
I arrived home that very late evening, she had been there waiting for me
completely submissive, dismissive even.
I
really believed, my plan had been working. That, I had gotten myself some time
to find a way to fix things between us. For the next 3 weeks, she had been
nothing but amenable when not aloof, never referencing to that fateful night.
She held her hand up every time I had tried to talk about it. And try, I did.
Not because I was looking to excuse myself
–
Let
’
s
be honest, an apology would be a bit short, wouldn
’
t
it?
–
,
but, because I knew what I had done would have long-term consequences for her,
for us, and to be candid, I was afraid. I raised the subject of helping
her get through the ordeal by involving third parties to support her: a doctor,
her friends, her bother even; and she stunned me with a calm response,
declaring,
”
It was a one-time shocking incident E. Nothing more
,
nothing less. I don
’
t need help. I need to
move on and so do you.
”
She had looked at me with empty eyes and
stated we needed return to normal and dwelling on it wasn
’
t the right path to achieve that goal. I
imputed her strange reaction to inner strength or intense denial. Either way, I
was glad she hadn
’
t
packed her bags, so I let it go, because truth be told, I was afraid voicing it
aloud would remind her she was sharing the house of the monster who did this to
her. I was a coward and followed her lead; it was the easy way out to
sustaining being in the same room together. We shared our meals when I was
home, and she did not even wince when I bid her goodnight before retiring into
our bedroom while she still stayed in her guestroom.
She
had even accepted to attend a public event with me: the Inauguration ball that
would happen like every year on March 17
th
, over a week away.
I
should have known better...
The
call came on March 9
th
, at 7:39 in the morning as I was running late
and almost at the door, about to leave for my office.
Dr
Glaser's secretary was calling to confirm my wife
’
s appointment for this very afternoon. She
declared the appointment had been rescheduled twice already and this time she
wanted to ensure Vic got the message and did not miss it. Her cell phone was on
voicemail; so, could I, please, transmit the information?
I
wrote down the correct time and told her not to bother my wife again as she was
still asleep. As I was going to hang up, she congratulated me, babbling
that I must have been feeling ecstatic since it was our first baby
…
The
call ended, and I remained in our foyer, stunned.
Vic
was pregnant.
My
wife is pregnant, with my child.
And
she hadn't told me anything.
Which
could only mean one thing: she didn't plan to. She planned to leave.
I
didn't say anything to her, gave the note to Marina to remind her about her
appointment, and left for the office.
It
took me almost the entire day to get my bearings back.
I
was going to be a father, and our baby had been conceived under the most
horrific circumstances.
I
needed to find a way to prevent my wife from leaving me.
I
’
m
going to be a father
.
I
’
m
going to be a father. What else am I supposed to do?
I
watched her like a hawk the remainder of that week, noticing the whispered
talks while the shower was running, the looks of hatred she would give me when
she thought I had my back to her, and I knew in my guts she would try to run on
the night of the ball.
The
truth is, it
’
s
one thing to know something is coming
,
but quite another to actually control
your reactions when what you fear the most happens. Tonight is the proof in the
pudding
…
I
had spoken to the same bodyguard who watched her for me a couple of weeks back
and asked him to follow her even to the ladies room that night and call me if
she stepped a foot out of the ballroom.