Introduction

This story is somewhat graphic. It entails the pain of a woman in an ongoing drama; I call it circular pain. A death occurs in the family. An illness takes place. Torment, and fear run around in circles. We are talking now of a period of time in a woman's life; when, for the most part, she was successfully employed, yet disguised herself and family, children that is--as a solidly lower middle class happy family. Gracefully she kept the secret. It was far from a nurturing family, it was if anything a household filled with silent nasty cries for help, vulgar at times, an empty joke of an existence. But she faced it, turned it around, and took the best out of the worse. To get the full impact of the story, you must follow up on reading the Afterward.

The Story

A Woman in Pain

The Bed

The moment Judy took off her cloths she knew something was wrong. She never understood the reasons for such an alert instinct; maybe it was built over the years by need, unconsciously. Like an animal, survival or die; but she was cautioned.

She paused at the head of the bed. Standing naked except for her panties, overlooking her alcoholic husband slowly emerging from a light sleep. The chair to her right held her blouse and skirt. She had been married to him for 22-years, ten of which belong to a slow but progress disease called alcoholism. He looked up at her with an air of superiority; it was an old look now, and getting much too familiar. Her stomach started cramping, and she started to sweat. A studded came from her mouth, no real words, just, "aw awwwww aaaa...' as if she might need to say something, if it was expected, not quite knowing what to say. She could smell the pours of his skin; they were drenched with alcohol, reeking like garbage after you open a bag of it up after a week.

She didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, in the room, his cloths were laying all about, torn off him as usual; his shirt, a button missing. As she picked it up to place it over another chair, and then went back to her bed, standing as she was but a minute ago; she had just hoped he would not have woken up. It came again, his solid fearsome stare, a wild evil look, like a black cat in the middle of the night. He wanted fear installed in her as usual. This wasn't a friendly smile, almost a smirk, not quite, for he wanted something, but he wanted her to undress herself for it.

"This wasn't the man I married 22-years ago," she told herself for the 'umpteenth time.' This one had a demon in him. He made sounds like a dying pig, a groaning demon for life.

As she entered the bed, by lifting up the covers, sheet, blanket, putting her leg and thigh down on the bed, watching every eye movement of his, holding the covers with the left hand, securing her right hand on the bed in case, just incase she had to run, or something. His muscular arm hurried to her hair, he pulled hard on it. She fell face first into the pillow. It blurred her thinking for a minute. Mentally she was becoming stressed and drained. "But not this again," she thought. Then he pushed up his body, so he could see her, and peered over her like a rattle snake ready to devour a frog. Whatever he wanted he would take was written all over his face. He was the scum of the earth right there, his hoer, his bitch and his pussy.

She closed her eyes, knowing whatever happened maybe; just maybe she could hide like an ostrich. Hide from this madman. A tear was hidden beneath her eyelid. "He wants to see the tear, I know it, but I will not let him SSEEEE..." she told herself.

He shot a glance directly into her eyes, as she opened them to see what his right hand was up to. It was on her thigh, stroking it like a man ready to rape. But then she thought, "I have been raped a thousand times, one more, just more pain. It sounds the same, 1000 or 1001 or whatever. After the 1st time, the second, third, you get accustomed to it. It seems normal." Like a thief in the night, he grabbed her groin area, and plucked out some hair. Then he did it a g a i n,

A N D

A

G

G gggggggggA

IN

A N D A G A I N.

The sound of her agony was seeping out of her body, as if it had its own language, for she was silent as far as she knew. Her body twitched here and there. You could hear the pulling of the hair, the stretching of her groin. It hurt. She wiped the tears with the pillow. "He saw that one," she cried. "He likes seeing me cry." She didn't know way, he liked it, but his face only got more excited when she did, an awful excitement. She was in a dark anxiety, a world no one came to the rescue to; a black hole of a dream, but it wasn't, it was reality.

She thought, God made this human being: Broad shoulders, strong, nice looking, brown hair; He didn't make him to do this: To treat my body as if it was an abomination to mankind, to womanhood. "I was a pretty woman at one time. People told me so. I was cute, they said, pretty, thin."

She read his thoughts, after 22-years, one can do it pretty well. He said, "Don't say a word, don't wakeup the KIDSsss. If you dare womaN, you'll be sorryyy."

She remained silent, and used. His breath was a stink beyond words. She tried to shift her face away form his, as he tried to stick his long lizard tongue in her mouth. It was full of white foam. Saliva dripped upon her face, slobbering on her breasts, and neck. He bit her nipples, and covered them with her hands. He gritted his teeth as if he wanted to bite them off. He was playing, but she wasn't. His breath was like toilet waTERrr. "God," she said to herself, "This is the man I love." She shook her head asking herself, "Who is he?" She again asked herself, then out came the word "love, love. Oh what kind of love

LOVE

L

O

V eeeeeeeeeeee was this." She cried repeatedly to herself as he shoved his whiskered face against her face, scratching it, as if it was wood on sandpaper. He liked it; she knew that. "He feels like a man's man now," she told herself.

He now moved his body, positioning himself over her. She was all of one hundred pounds; he was close to two hundred; his rustic half ripped off her panties impulsive, not even knowing what he was up to. He took his off, ripping them with his knees, and swearing all the way until he tucked them at the end of the bed under the covers with his feet, as if to say, out of sight, of mind.

She told herself, "NOW, he will want the sex, intercourse, fucking, not making love, just the F U C Kkkkkingggg part, just sex."

Having thought that, he pushed his body close to hers, and somehow, got her legs spread; they were tight, and her muscles were contracting like the contractions when a woman in labor. He put his hand on her pelvis as to secure it like a horse about to be ridden. Her legs and lower part of her body didn't want to obey his commands, they were resistant, they were trying to give him a message, as one does when the body is dying, but his body weight, and his powerful legs dominated hers, and she was subdued. As gasp of air come from her stomach, her eyes opened up as if to pop out. Pressure was on her back, her spine going in spasms. Her whole body seemed to go into shock, disbelief, but not her mind, "Thank God," she said as she caught her breath, and knew she was conscious.

The gentleness that once came along with this act of husband and wife, making sexual love, was gone. There was no soul or feeling involved. As she understood, love to be; it was missing. The enjoyment of sex, the preacher talked about at church was no more. His enjoyment was pleasure, a high, a relief, not happiness that is supposes to come with it. All he wants her to do was suck his dick like a pop sickly, do it and be done with it. "Love making use to be 24-hours a day, that is to say, it was the little things throughout the day, that made it so good at night: The touch, the smell of his aftershave, the smell of his skin, his hair, the warmth he gave over the phone, when he called me at home. I'd keep the phone to my face for a moment longer after he hung up, just caressing his warmth. It was all gone now. Like the apples in the tree when fall comes, a new season had come."

The Pain

"God," she said out loud, "please". He didn't hear anything, although she wasn't crying for help from him, she was just hurting and needed to hear herself; God was with her, she knew it, because the pain was too deep to endure for one person; the emotional roller coaster was on. He was over her now, and pumping her, fucking her like there was no tomorrow. In and out like she was a machine. She didn't know why she accepted the endless hurt, maybe it was like the addict, or alcoholic, she never really understood, she was caught like a fly in a spider web. Where do you go with your life, it's here, or was it?

The pain filled her every pour, he wouldn't let up, and it was colored with shame, and self-pity, and worthlessness, adjectives of helplessness and unworthiness. And the physical was disjointing almost. Her bones shifted with his body. Sticking to his sweat, he pulled her up closer to him by her ass, squeezing it as if it was a teddy bear, until she gowned.

As he continued with his act of pleasure, she thought: "who would ever have me, now." And he pushed his weight, up and down; as if to get her attention, get her out of her dream spill, her thinking. He wanted her to feel it, enjoy it, like him. But there was no way possible for that, she was numb. His cock stuck inside of her like a dogs. She was dry, and he was not merciful.

She said to herself: "he's treating me like a cow, a piece of used meat, property. Sucking on my breasts, as if trying to get milk from them. Slobbering, wet all over my torso. My legs, my arms, my stomach, my love area; I am no more than a commodity, like sugar. Who then would treat me with...C A R E, L O V E?

A P P R E C I A T I O N,

R E G A R D?

W

O

O

Oooo W....?

She allowed him to push harder on her pelvic bone, it seemed like it was going to break. She dare not say a word, though. She had learned that the hard way: she was better of not coming home than say no. She had to wear dark glasses to work many of times when she said that word. He never remembered either. He broke a few ribs when she defied him once. But the black and blue eyes came more steadily.

She said to herself, "I'm no more than a horse, being ridden by this man. No more no less. Just a quicken horse." Her mind was trying to keep up with the shock it was enduring. Reality would set in tomorrow morning.

"Can't ...h...e... see what he's doing?" she cried as she stuck her head in the pillow. But instantly he pulled it out by her hair.

She was screaming inside "STOP, STOP...stop, no more!" But he continued, with a face that showed no mercy, no love. For all concerned, he could have smoked a cigarette doing the act, but he knew his dick would shrink, and he'd loose the pleasure, and then be would be mad as hell. She knew this to, and was hoping he'd pop before the cigarette entered his mind. "God Forbid," she thought, "if I have to stay up half the night sucking his dick to get it hard for a fuck he couldn't deal with. And on top of that go to work in the morning, all smiles."

She thought, "If I was to be judged, let it be by God, not man," for she saw no pity from him. He had a hard time getting a hard-on. And now that he had inserted his penis, he had a hard time maintaining an erection. Nothing new. But if you got to endure it, at least keep it hard.

He was trying to hurry in fear he would loose it completely. He wanted his climax, his high, like his beer. He was almost in a bear hug with her, trying to get that moment, the climax, than he'd fall to sleep. "The only difference between his liquor and me" she thought, "was the act." One took a hand to hold, as in a bottle, the other to shove his penis into my private part.

She thought, as he was going faster and faster, "Don't slip, you'll rip me." And sometime he'd miss, and she'd jump a mile. He thought it was his big penis, but it never got big anymore.

She thought, "I hope I do not have to guide the asshole so he wouldn't rip me like a hog. He never knew the difference sometimes between what areas to enter me in. Thinking my asshole was my vagina."

He was in ecstasy now. "Oh...ooo," he said in a drunken stupper. She was even more hurt now; the pain was in the core of the heart, knowing he was drawing pleasure from her hurt. He was climaxing. "Oh God," she cried, "why, why does he do this to...to MMMMMeeeeee!" The tears were rolling over her cheekbones to her lips, salty, but pure.

She thought "He is shaking his head as if he is getting it off good. He even turned his head from me. He said '...indy', he's even thinking of someone else." Like a giraffe he arched his body to get the last ounce of cum from his body out. Then took a deep breath, and like a falling pillar pushed one harder until he sunk into his nest.

"Oh Lord, she sighed, "I'm so glad only you can see this."

He pulled his penis out as fast as he put it in. She was ripped from the roughness. She was now bleeding. Then like a rat gnawing on a piece of meat, he started plucking her groan area, again. He chuckled. She starred at him with fright, almost in a coma of shame. Then looking at her naked pitiful body he said, "You liked every minute of it bitch." She didn't respond. "How far from the truth can a person be," she thought. She abhorred it, despised it. Words could not describe her surface feelings. This was not a man thing to say, for she knew him when he was not a drunk, and was very careful in love making, it was a demon-possessed thing.

She moved from his sight, to her side of the bed. She was feeling, excruciating, emotional, and physical pain. He turned to his side as one would shut a car door and positioned to go to sleep. It was all of 10-minutes. The crisis was over. The man was an island, alone in a house full of love and wanting him to heal, she thought. He speaks a different language than the rest of us; he only understands it. It is his world, his demon made world.

"He can't love," she told herself. "Love is giving, he isn't capable; he loves the alcohol. He is kinder to it than me," she thought, "he treats it better than me. Makes love to it, caresses the bottle. Not like me, who he treats like a horse."

Thinking

Her inner self was analyzing the evening. "Hell," she said to her spirit deep within her mind, "He'll wakeup in the morning not remembering half what he did--a black out--and I'll be left with the scars.

Even if I told people the way he was, what I had to put up with," she thought, "they wouldn't believe me." And so she never did tell.

"In God's name why does he come back, back, back, stay gone," she cried. Adding, "I don't feel like I am a strong or a woman with courage, I feel simple, a survivor, and not so good at that either. Tested under fire if anything."

"I would cry hardship, not sure if you get any more points from heaven for it. At 45-years old I had more wrinkles than an 80-year old woman. We all want heroes, I did, then all I wanted was a man of honor, I didn't even get that; he was no more honorable than I was happy.

He stays because I take care of him. Put up with him. Is there no escape from this hell? Every time I walk in this room he's dead drunk, the walls whisper, 'trap, trap.' But I still come in" She tortured herself with.

As she looked over her shoulder, he moved like an uneasy and dying buffalo. Then she said out loud, but in a low voice, "Why do I go on like this, am I sicker than you?" The more she starred at him, that question flooded her brain.