The Missing Link 02: Liza

"He raped me!" I cried, my voice shrill with despair. And I went on to describe the violation of my body. "He hurt me, Steve. He hurt me," I sobbed.

"Rape," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "He raped you and of course you screamed for help. You ran to the neighbors afterwards. You called the police, you called me..." I just stared at him in the silence that followed.

"But no," he went on. "You didn't do that, did you, Liza? You didn't do anything like that, did you?"

I cried, and the tears came amazingly easy. Through my fingers I kept checking on his responses. Then I looked up and told him about my poor broken body and mind after the rape. I'm afraid every larmoyant hint at misery was a lie. Oh, sure, my ass hole had burned from the brutal assault, but deep down I'd felt almost delirious, shaking with the heady, long forgotten mixture of violence, orgasm and humiliation -- back then a mere touch would have gotten me off. But this was hardly the moment to tell Steve about that.

I made up the threats Robert never mentioned -- about how Steve's new business would be endangered, throwing in a veiled threat to little Eric's life. Roger had told me to use them. I had protested for a while, but here they were. I ended my story with Robert's order to wait for his call. That one was true.

Steve's face never lost its disgust.

"So you waited for his call," he said. "Being a good girl for Daddy; never telling me anything." Again his voice had this infuriating passiveness.

"I don't think I had a choice," I said.

"Yes, you didn't think," he sneered.

"I did think, Steve," I assured him. "He threatened everything I love -- you, Eric, our marriage... What else could I have done? He scared me to death."

His heated 'fuck you' shook me. With rising anger he shouted at me how he hated me whoring myself out with the excuse of protecting him. Couldn't I have at least talked with him? Did I think so little of him, killing his self-respect?

Then all his passive fatalism disappeared into a blood red cloud of rage.

"You can't have been as silly as that, bitch -- not then, not now. Don't you see how ridiculous your words are? Fucking the bastard and his degenerate buddies to protect the ones you love? You believe that? You think I believe that?"

It was silly; I knew he was right. But being regarded silly wasn't my biggest worry, right then. I had played him like Roger predicted. I had shaken him out of his lethargy and put him on the right track -- feeding his frustrations and his simmering rancor. Resentment had to replace his useless fatalism. God, how I wanted him to straighten his spineless back and stiffen it with a healthy dose of raging jealousy.

But that wasn't how Roger planned it. Before he left I had to push him into the right pissed-off mindset. So I gasped and stuttered at his attack. I crouched and groveled.

"It...," I started, whining. "It was all I could think of. Please, you must believe me. I was so scared, Steve. They would have killed you, us. You, you don't know him, don't know him like I do. He is a monster."

Roger had been right. My little girl's awe for the threatening Alpha male pissed Steve off royally. He sensed how I considered him inferior, even when I didn't say so, and maybe deep down he agreed. But that didn't make him happier. He rose. I saw him stumble just a bit when he did so. Bitter gall tainted his voice.

"Yes, Liza," he said. "I'm sure you know him better, much better. But if he is a monster, he's your monster, all yours."

I saw his pain and involuntary reached out. He turned away.

"There will be new divorce papers," he said. "You won't have Eric; not like this. Good bye, Liza."

And he left.

I felt shaken. I had played him as Roger planned, but it only left me drained. Steve's threat to take Eric was an empty one, I knew. But even in my brainwashed stupor I saw the pain in the eyes of an essentially innocent man. Even if he was a weak and maybe despicable specimen, sexually inadequate, there was this one other thing: he unconditionally loved me and the son we had. I tortured him, but he could not shed that love. It made him linger in a place he should have vacated long ago -- and that was all my fault. Or was it?

I should have hated myself for what I did to Steve and little Eric. But I bet I should have done a lot of things differently in the eyes of 'normal' people. Still, I resist being called evil. If there was evil in my deeds, they were Roger's and his father's. I was just a weak puppet -- I was a victim like Steve, an addicted, pliable creature. I couldn't help being molded by the determined minds of cruel, strong and loveless men.

But yes, I was guilty for being thrilled by it.

***

I didn't see Steve again until that horrible moment, more than two months later. He never picked up Eric anymore, nor did he answer my calls and e-mails. The only contact was through our lawyers, but that consisted exclusively of requests and declines to sign the divorce papers.

The boy once more became the little pest that he had been when he missed his father the first time. But after two weeks of rebellion he seemed to accept reality. My heart ached, watching him suffer. I felt relieved when he gave up, but disappointed too, in a way. He might become as fatalistic as his father, accepting every blow life dealt him. But I was grateful for the peace and quiet it gave me.

I needed my rest, as Robert seemed determined to exhaust me as often as he was around. Finding people to take care of Eric while I was gone became increasingly difficult, especially on the occasional long weekends when I was flown to Vegas, New York or even Paris. My mother never objected, but the frown on her face made me reluctant to ask her all too often. Friends were okay for the occasional sleep over. But I definitely balked when Robert proposed to use professional sitters the boy didn't know -- only to give in when he insisted, of course.

Roger played with my inability to resist him too, but he never fucked me -- even though he must have known I silently begged for it. At times I wondered why his teasing melted me into a senseless puddle. I knew I was playing with fire; Robert might kill me. But maybe that was exactly why I did it. Being with Roger seemed to block all danger signs; there was nothing I could do about it. So I just stopped wondering, exactly as I stopped understanding myself.

One afternoon Roger told me to open my blouse and play with my tits. We were seated in the lounge of his hotel. When I pushed up my soft bra to reveal my nipples, he rose and left the lobby. I just sat and waited, half-heartedly covering my chest. He never returned, but a man I didn't know sat down across from me, looking intently at my chest. I wrapped my blouse tightly around me and fled to the ladies'. I waited there for almost an hour before daring to leave.

I had no idea what Roger wanted from me. He hated his father more than ever, but he never told me not to see him. He knew Robert used me as fuck flesh for his friends and business relations. I once had a lunch-date with Roger where I could hardly sit from the soreness of a previous night's gangbang. He sometimes asked me to finger myself at the table, only to tell me 'stop!' when I was almost there. I don't know if it was by design, but after a few weeks he had me flowing the moment I heard his voice on the telephone.

Through all this, my eagerness to see Robert dwindled. It might have been because he increasingly gave me away to his friends, sometimes not even being there himself -- or the fact that I started imagining Roger to be the one that fucked me. I began finding excuses. I bet Robert understood I was slipping. I also discovered how far he would go to make me feel he would not accept that. One weekend he had me picked up by his chauffeur and driven blindfolded to an unknown place. I was flogged there and punished for a whole evening, night and morning until I passed out. I never saw Robert or heard his voice. I also wasn't fucked or even touched other than by whips and canes. My treacherous body teetered on the brink of coming all through the ordeal; I would have welcomed any one of my torturers in my ass, mouth or cunt. I know I begged for it until they closed my mouth with a gag ball.

By the time I passed out, all thoughts of Roger had left my mind. When I came to, I lay naked on a bed. Robert stood over me, clad in a formal tuxedo. He spit on me. I started crying and sobbed my apologies. He turned and left the room.

I felt heartbroken.

They returned me home. My body was on fire for days. I had to wear long sleeves and jeans to cover my bruises. My mom asked if I was all right when I came to pick up Eric. I don't think she believed me when I said I was. But I truly was. I floated in a cloud; my addiction satisfied. In my madness I didn't know I was lost forever. On the contrary -- I thought I had found myself, whatever was left of that.

Roger called and I hung up on him. So he came over. Through the door I told him I could not see him anymore. He just laughed. So I told him that seeing him meant betrayal of the man who owned me. I heard his key turn in the lock; he obviously had one. A mere shove dislocated the chain and he stepped onto the doormat. He had stopped laughing.

"Undress," he said. The door stood wide open. I didn't move. So he produced a small knife, grabbed my blouse and cut through the fabric. Soon I was naked, standing in a scattering of cut-up textile. His eyes travelled down my body, no doubt noting the bluish remnants of bruises that still marbled my skin. I tried to subdue my rising arousal. It tightened my nipples and sent debilitating waves through my limbs, clouding my mind.

"Roger, please...," I said. I had no idea what the 'please' meant. He closed the door.

"I love you, Liza," he said. "I never stopped loving you." He stepped forward and took me in his arms. I stiffened; then melted. His kiss was urgent, intense. It destroyed my resistance.

They say there is a difference between sex and the making of love. I guess Roger made love to me, that afternoon. I just came, feeling no difference. When we lay on the bed, sweating from our exercises, he told me to divorce Steve and leave Robert. He would protect me, marry me and adopt Eric. We would run off and live in a little tropical paradise. He was sure no one would be able to find it.

I yawned and told him it sounded boring. His eyes flashed as I said it. He sat up, turning away from me. He muttered things I could not understand. Then he pushed himself off the bed, turning again to face me. His torso was nicely toned and gleaming with sweat. He was a handsome man, no doubt about that.

"Why do you have to always humiliate me, Liza?" he said, his face the sad mask of a kicked dog. My gaze left his chest, finding his eyes. All the steel I had read into them had gone. Just another Steve, I thought -- another goddamned hangdog. I sat up against the headboard.

"Don't ask me why I do things, Roger," I said. "I have no idea. It sure isn't to humiliate you. But I do know now that I am Robert's creature. I won't ever betray him again. For a short moment I thought you could challenge him. You excited me no end, you know? The young wolf challenging the leader of the pack? But you are just another lamb, Roger, a sickening, weak little victim, just like Steve." His hand rose in a futile gesture of protest. Then it fell back and I knew I was right.

"I love you, Liza," he repeated. What on earth could he mean? I shrugged.

"Don't waste your love on me, Roger," I said, throwing my legs over the side to get up. "I wouldn't know what to do with it." I guess that left him speechless. I went into the bathroom to clean myself up. When I stood in the hot steamy clouds of my shower, I heard him leave.

Robert never called; neither did his chauffeur ring my doorbell to pick me up. After two weeks my bruises had healed, but my cunt was swollen and sore from incessant masturbation. Memories of my punishment kept invading my mind. When I talked with clients, I lost track of our conversation. When I played with Eric, I sometimes had to excuse myself to go to the toilet and get myself off. I was awake until deep in the night, pushing toys against my screaming clit, fingers knuckle-deep into my ass hole. I was in the shower for ages.

Robert never called and I started fearing that the punishment had been his way of telling me it was over. Would he know about Roger's visit and his fucking me? He must really have been disgusted with me, I thought -- he spat on me, didn't he? And he didn't call...

I wallowed in self-pity and all it did was breathing air on the embers of my hunger -- a sick hunger that gradually lost its focus and became just that: hunger. So when Robert at last phoned again, I almost came from hearing his voice. It took me minutes to find my own. I doubled over, almost dropping the phone.

It turned out that I needed no words. He just told me to expect him this evening and be prepared. Then he hung up, the short quick beeps mocking my breathless moaning.

He arrived around nine, tore my negligee off my body just inside the front door and fucked me hard without any foreplay. My body rushed towards climax, but he beat me to it, shooting his hot slime up my cunt, pulling out and leaving. Maybe three minutes had passed. I lay on my doormat, gasping.

The ban had obviously been broken; the punishment ended. Through the next weeks Robert visited me on and off. He was mostly alone and only once stayed for the night. That was when he brought a black girl to share our bed. She was awfully young, but quite a bit older when she left the next morning.

So, within the madness of it all, things were quite normal again that one Friday night when he came over and even had dinner with me before taking me upstairs to fuck. Eric was with his grandmother, whose disapproving eyes I had learned to dodge.

Robert was everything he had always been. He took me in all my holes -- hard and mechanical. He slapped me and tortured my nipples. He vocally abused me and bruised my throat, pounding his cock mercilessly into it while his fingers tore at my hair. He slammed down my ass hole without care or lubrication. My hell was heaven. My mind was on permanent leave.

He stayed and we slept together. I made him breakfast in the nude, most of my body still burning. It was surrealistically cozy.

The deafening gun shot took me so much by surprise that I only knew something was wrong when Robert's hot blood splashed on my naked skin and his body slumped in my embrace. There was a second shot and the thump of a heavy body falling. Then I saw Steve.

He looked ghostly pale, his mouth open and his eyes wide -- a gun in his hand. It rose to point my way; I screamed, letting go of Robert. His blood-slick body slid down my naked flesh.

Steve seemed to want to talk to me, but another man jumped forward and hit him on the head, making him crumple before my feet. It was Roger. He stood breathing hard, a wrapped up baseball bat in his hand. He stepped over Robert's fallen body and hugged me, never minding the blood. He kissed me hard, his aggressive tongue muffling my protests until they stopped. He let go of me, but his eyes held on to mine.

"You are mine, you treacherous whore; just so you know," he said. "No more Daddy to run to and betray me with. No more Steve to play with, just me." His face was contorted with rage, but it was the rage of a little boy, she thought; a spoilt, unreasonable little boy. Then the cloud passed and his face turned to stone.

"The police will arrive soon," he said. "I was never here. If you betray me, I'll kill you and your son. Tell them everything, but for the life of little Eric -- not about me being here. Promise me!" He kissed me again, hard, cold. I just nodded, breathless and stood shaking on my legs. He turned and quickly slipped past the back of the house, disappearing through the narrow passage that led to the woods behind our backyard.

I crumbled and sank beside the bodies of my lover and my husband.

The police was there before Steve came to. Men in white suits did things like taking pictures and samples. Other men went into the house to search it; yet others asked me questions, but I hardly heard them. I felt a warm blanket being wrapped about my chilled body. I only nodded and shook my head at moments I thought some answer was expected. Robert was dead; his body had been taken away, as was his guard's. I saw Steve being carried off on a stretcher, a plastic mask over his mouth. A steaming cup of tea warmed the insides of my hands. I felt lost; like an orphan. I felt nothing.

Later that day two detectives came along. The men in white coveralls had left by then, the porch had been cleaned and all the cars had left. I stayed in the house, as I had no use for all my curious neighbors. I called mom and asked her to keep Eric one more night. She didn't ask what had happened; I didn't tell.

The detectives wanted to know if I had seen other people beside Steve. Someone hit him on the head. Other traces might point in that direction too. I denied. Roger had told me to; it seemed the thing to say. They also had all kinds of questions about things the neighbors had seen or heard, like the big black car that had waited at the curb, but driven off after the shooting. I said that I had only been outside to say goodbye to my visitor, when the shooting took place. After that I saw nothing -- they should understand I was too upset for that. I guess they understood. Then they asked what I knew about Robert. I told them he was someone I'd met and that we occasionally dated after my separation from Steve. No, I had no idea what he did, business wise. I knew he was rich.

They noticed that I hadn't been to the hospital to see my husband. I didn't comment on that and they didn't ask about my reasons. They did investigate about Steve, though. Character questions, like if he was a violent man. Or if I thought this was a crime of passion. I told them to ask Steve. They must have thought me to be a cold bitch; I didn't care.

I called the hospital after they left. They said they couldn't give information on the phone; I had to come by. I didn't. I went for my third shower that day. Robert's blood had splattered all over my naked skin. I guess the first shower took it all off, but I had to be sure, so I took a second. Maybe I was getting obsessed, but I had to take a third one. After that I called Roger on his cell and at his hotel. He wasn't there. I didn't leave a message, but I took a fourth shower.

I started drinking. The second glass of white wine cut through my apathy. It left me shaking. The father of my child murdered the man I had taken as a lover to cheat on him. He had shot him while I embraced him on my porch, stark naked, his sperm still in me. Then my other lover, who had once been my husband, had suddenly appeared and clubbed my husband before he might have killed me as well -- or himself. He kissed me hard and ran off. There was no way to reach him.

I threw away my wine and poured me some whisky. The shaking stopped. Evening fell.

The back door must have been open. Roger was in the living room before I heard him enter. He looked cool, wearing a spotless Italian suit, white dress shirt and tie. From his hand dangled a bloodied shirt.

"Get naked," he said. The words hardly registered on my drunken mind. He repeated them and grabbed the collar of my robe, pulling me off the couch. I heard the fabric tear at the seams. In a haze I undid the satin belt that held it together. I hadn't bothered to even get panties on. He threw me the soiled shirt.

"Put it on," he said. The shirt must have been the one he wore this morning; the blood must be Robert's and gotten on it when Roger hugged my splattered body to kiss me. My hand shook, holding it away from me.