Peter, Prue Ch. 02

It was an expression of utter abandon.

Swiping the image he saw another, taken from the left. The naked back he'd seen proved to belong to a white man, still pretty young. His face couldn't be seen. His body was connected to Prue's where their privates were. Prue arched her back and the man gleamed with sweat. Pete swiped and Prue had a fat cock in her mouth, a black man's cock. He swiped faster. Prue rode another man. Swipe. She was sandwiched between two men, one white and one black. Swipe. Swipe.

Swipe.

The phone pinged. Another message

"Now you know what he looks like," it said. "Or rather: what they look like."

Peter Hawkins rose from his bed. He walked into his den and on to a cupboard. The bottle with the 10 on it was still almost half full. He poured two fingers. Swallowing it all at once made him cough, but he poured another two fingers.

***

Prue crawled out of a ruined bed.

It wasn't hers, nor was the room as far as she could discern. She walked around on jellified legs, feeling her way into dark grayness. She was the only one in the room - in the house, it seemed. She tried using her voice; it felt like tearing her throat open. Then she found a bathroom and it was spotless.

The shower was hot; it gave her the illusion of getting clean.

The soap had a nice fragrance and there was body lotion. Her pussy felt raw and hot like glowing coal; her anus burned.

She sank to her knees, letting the water drum on her back.

When she came out of the glass cubicle, she found a towel and a fluffy white bathrobe. Walking back into the bedroom she avoided looking at the filthy bed. There was a door and it led into an apartment.

At last she recognized the place; it was Julia's.

"Jules?" she said, repeating it louder.

There was no answer.

The living room looked empty, so did the kitchen. She wasn't hungry; even thinking of coffee made her nauseous. Taking a bottle from the fridge she drank deeply. The icy coldness of the water hurt her chest. She coughed.

She ought to go home.

Where were her clothes - the flimsy dress, bra, stockings, and heels? The little bolero-type wrapping she'd worn against the cold? Her clutch? Her keys and her money?

"Jules?" she yelled, only reaping a little echo.

She went back to the bedroom rummaging through the reeking ruin on and around the bed, finding nothing. She opened a closet door. Picking up panties, a blouse and a skirt she dressed in clothes two sizes too big for her. Then she slipped into sneakers and found a jacket.

"Money," she whispered. "I need money for a cab; it's too far and too cold to walk. Where the fuck is my wallet? And where's Jules?"

"Wow, I look good on you."

Julia stood in the doorway, wearing a rain-splattered coat. She brought a gush of fresh air with her as she carried a big paper groceries bag. Prue ran to her, grabbing her by the shoulders. A cucumber fell from the bag.

"What happened?" she cried out. "What did you do to me?"

Julia took a step back, shaking her head sideways, chuckling.

"Moi?" she asked. "Nothing, alas. You, on the other hand..."

She passed Prue by and walked over to the open kitchen, putting down the bag. Walking back, she picked up the cucumber, wiggling it in her hand.

"God, girl, I guess you needed it," she said, giggling.

Prue stood speechless.

"Needed what?" she then stammered. "I don't remember a thing. I feel sore all over. I stunk when I woke up and had filth all over me, but I remember nothing. What happened?"

Julia squeezed her eyes half shut and used a childish voice, while waving her hands frantically besides her head, the green vegetable still there.

"Ooooooh! Oh yessss! Ha-harder, deeper. Oh my, yessss... Oh God! God! Haaaarder..."

"Stop it! It isn't true!" Prue cried out, covering her ears and stamping her foot. "Stop it!"

Julia's face returned to normal. She shrugged.

"Have it your way, honey," she said. "But I truly feared the neighbors would call the cops."

Prue sank down on the couch. Leaning forward, she covered her eyes. Her shoulders shook. Julia watched her for seconds. Then she rushed over and held her in a hug.

"Now, now," she cooed. "No need to be sad. You made quite an impression on the gentlemen, honey. They walked mighty funny when they finally left."

She chuckled. Prue jumped.

"They?" she cried out. "Men? More than one? My God, what did I do? Did you drug me?"

Julia pulled back, looking upset.

"Drug you? What do you think I am?"

She rose and stepped away.

"This is really vintage Pruts, honey," she said, arms crossed under her breasts. "Always finding someone else to blame."

Prue looked up, her face blotched, her eyes red.

"S-sorry," she said. "But I really don't remember."

Julia sank on her knees in front of the girl, holding her.

"Stop worrying, honey," she said. "You drank a lot and you had to get rid of a lot of shit: all the stress and frustration damn Pete saddled you up with. The bastard made you doubt yourself; you had to compensate. It's perfectly normal, Prutty. Believe me."

"I feel so... dirty."

Julia hugged her tighter.

***

To Peter half of the next Saturday was a swamp.

One moment he sank into it, surfacing the next - there was quicksand to suck him down, stinking gas bells to belch him out again.

He hadn't slept all night.

Of course he'd tried not to look at the pictures every half hour, but of course he had. He'd studied the bodies, the utter, alien lust on his wife's face, the sheer aggression of the men.

Three different guys he counted, two white, one dark. Only two photo's showed cock, big cocks - one where Prue sucked it, another that was shot right after pulling out - or was it before pushing in?

Most of his attention went to Prue's face - her bliss, her contorted expressions, and the globs of sperm on it. Her body must be aching like mad after the relentless bending and arching and stretching.

He shrugged.

Maybe she was used to it?

The one emotion Peter most prominently felt through his nausea must be jealousy. There was pain, of course, the sheer hurt of being betrayed. But all through that was a quiet bitterness. Would he ever again be able to even think of Prue without seeing these pictures - let alone if he met her?

Paralyzing was what the pictures were.

They mocked his very essence, tearing at a tiny, deeply buried kernel of doubt and pulling it to the surface. He knew it had always been there: the doubt that he would one day stop being enough for Prue.

He guessed it was a doubt that lives in every married man, especially the ones married to young and attractive women. It was all pretty banal, wasn't it? He often felt ashamed about it, but the doubt kept penetrating his zone of comfort when he saw Prue flirt or dance or talk intimately with a man.

Curiously enough he'd always had trouble blaming her for it. He rather blamed his own immature insecurity. But now, seeing the pictures, he knew his deeper, secret feelings had always been right.

Hadn't they?

Prue was a cheating slut, and when he challenged her, she divorced him in the blink of an eye. Which was silly, of course, but who understands women? Why did she keep it a secret all this time if she wanted out all along? Why take the action? Shouldn't he have been the one to divorce her?

After all he hadn't been the cheater.

The bitterness of his thoughts, his emotions, his fatigue and the ever- present nausea engulfed him like the tide - rolling in and out, in and out.

Around two in the afternoon he took another shower, shaved the stubble off his face and went out to have a belated breakfast - ah well, just a glass of orange juice and a carefully sipped latte.

He sat at the street window of a small place, a kind of a tearoom two blocks away. It looked out on a tiny park, frequented by young mothers, their children, and little dogs. He'd bought a paper, but he couldn't read - just skim the pictures and the headlines.

His cellphone rang.

It buzzed around like an angry insect on the chipped marble tabletop. Staring at it he remembered hearing about 'guilty landscapes;' paintings or photographs of places where horrible things had happened. It was how he felt about his phone. It made him hesitate to pick it up.

Finally he did. Julia Connors, he read on the screen. He sighed.

"Hello?"

"How are you, Pete?"

"I feel great." He grimaced. "My loving wife sent me pictures."

"Pictures? Pictures of what?"

He snorted.

"Of her being fucked by three men."

There was silence. Just when he wanted to go on, she interrupted.

"She sent those?"

"Or her lovers," he said, spitting out the word. "What do I know? Why should I care? She fucked them all."

Another silence.

"You must feel awful, Pete. The bitch. I'm so sorry."

"No need for that, Jules. She did it, not you."

Silence. Then he heard a sigh and a soft "ah, well." Her voice returned.

"Maybe I'm partly to blame, Pete," she said. "You see, I took her out last night, dancing. At the Zoozoom, you know?"

He didn't really know the place, but its reputation. Julia went on.

"I guess she had to get the stress out of her system. She drank a lot and was like a tiger on the dance floor. About midnight I lost her."

"You lost her."

"Well, you know how packed the place can be. I just lost her for a few hours, until the crowds thinned out. She was a total mess by then. I took her home with me and tucked her in."

"Is she with you now?"

"Not anymore. I took her to your apartment... well, her apartment now, I guess."

He didn't comment.

"Still there, Pete? God, you must feel horrible. I didn't know she could be this mean, to send you those pictures."

"Jules," he finally said. "Do you think she's always done this? I mean, fucking men, cheating on me - all the time we were married?"

He heard her clear her throat.

"Well, I haven't seen her that much the last two years. You know that. She was pretty wild at college, before she met you. But after? I don't know..."

Her voice died away; he said nothing.

"Really, Pete," she resumed. "Her actions are just as surprising to me as they obviously are to you."

"I guess so," he said, looking over at the little park with its children and dogs. A squirrel tore at a McDonald's box next to a dustbin.

"Care to talk?" she asked. "Are you home?"

Home, silly word.

"No. I'm having breakfast at that little tearoom thing on Carlton Park. What's it called? Mitzy's."

"Breakfast?" she said with a touch of humor. "Stay there, I'm on my way."

Did he want to see her? Did he want to see anyone?

He finished his latte.

***

Home alone, Prue spent the rest of her Saturday sleeping. The fatigue of her body had finally overruled the adrenaline her mind kept pumping into her system.

The sleeping pill helped too.

When she woke again dusk darkened her window. The soreness had been transformed into an almost pleasant tingling of her muscles, a warm, rosy feeling. Like after a nice workout, she thought sarcastically.

Except for the muted throbbing of her asshole.

Sipping tea in her kitchen, she tried to analyze what had happened since that damn Friday a week ago. Analyzing wasn't a logical process with Prue, though. Her thoughts jumped around, associating happenings in the most random ways.

So she'd been drunk and had allowed men to fuck her.

But Pete could hardly blame her. She'd fucked the men after he cheated on her, and after she had papers served on him. And... and she didn't remember. She could recall nothing at all since dancing in the Zoozoom - ah, well, bits and pieces, but not really. She'd been drunk, maybe even drugged.

Yes, of course: drugged.

She didn't remember a thing, and for what you can't remember, you aren't responsible - are you?

The thought was typical Prue. She didn't realize it, of course, but it was yet another reflex to put the blame outside her. It might take her only two more associative jumps to put it firmly at Peter's doorstep.

She sipped.

She'd always been true to Pete, hadn't she? Always. And then he came home acting weird. Everything that happened afterwards had proven why he acted weird, hadn't it? He cheated on her, the messages told her and they had been right.

So what she did last night would never have happened if he'd not done what he did - the acting weird, the accusing her, the cheating. He was to blame.

Yes, he was.

And besides, she didn't remember a thing.

She emptied her glass and rose. Heat stabbed her asshole. An electric tingling ran through her legs. She sighed.

***

He saw her walk along the tall iron fence of the park.

She wore her trench coat, but it seemed a lighter and shorter version, showing more leg. Her blond hair danced around her face. Her eyes hid behind big sunglasses.

Even from a distance he saw the signal red on her lips.

Why did she want to meet and talk? He'd seen her maybe three, four times in the last year. Of course Prue must have been around her more often, but why would Julia suddenly be interested in him? Their contact had never exceeded the stage of a second hand friendship - the word acquaintance might be too indifferent, but their conversation hardly ever went beyond politeness.

The glass door opened, triggering an old-fashioned doorbell.

She saw him, took off her glasses and smiled. He rose and they embraced. Her cheeks had an outdoor freshness; she smelled nice. Helping her out of her coat he saw she wore the same jersey sweater he'd seen before, but in a different color - a pale kind of blue. She also wore a tight, short skirt.

Waiting for their coffees, Julia leaned forward, her eyes alive as she studied his face.

"Poor Pete," she said.

"So you've come to gloat?" he asked, regretting the words as soon as he saw her wince.

"Of course not," she said.

"Then why, Jules? Why are you here?"

Her smile vanished; so did the sparkle in her eyes.

"I want to come clean with you," she said, leaning back as the waitress put coffees in front of them. He waited until the woman left.

"Clean," he repeated. She shrugged, making her breasts work.

"Clean, yes." She touched her coffee cup. "You see: it was me who made and sent those pictures."

Her fingers kept fondling the cup, but her eyes never left his. He shook his head to clear it.

"I don't understand," he said. "You were there? But you said..."

"I know," she interrupted. "I lied about that. Those photo's were taken in my apartment, my bedroom."

Pete's eyes roamed the room before returning to her.

"But why?" he asked.

"To show you," she said.

His mouth just opened and closed. Her hand found his arm.

"To show you who she really is, Pete."

He slowly nodded, taking away his arm.

"I see," he said. "You set it up. You picked the men. Did you drug her too? Is that what I saw?"

"No, Pete," she answered, her refused hand still hanging in the air. "No drugs. I would never do that. And she picked the men herself. You see, she's done it before, picking up men and using my apartment. She has a key, you know?"

He shook his head in denial.

"It makes no sense, Jules," he said. "She filed for divorce already. And besides, why would I believe you? You lied - your own words."

She nodded.

"I did," she admitted. "I was ashamed. But I'm not lying now. And anyway, why would I tell you this if it weren't the truth? Why come here just to give you a bunch of lies?"

He tried to follow her logic. Then a thought struck him.

"Were you also the one who sent the messages that started it all?"

She shook her head.

"No," she said, softly. "Those messages just forced my hand. I saw the damage they created and just had to show you how things really were."

Pete pushed away his cup, staring silently at the blonde.

"And how are they - really?" he finally asked.

***

"Mommy?"

A simple word can throw us back in time. It can affect our voice and influence our mimic, even change the pronunciation. The word 'mommy' certainly did that to Prue. She said 'mommaay' in a voice higher than normal - and with a whining twang.

Mrs. Florence Vanderbilt Gascoyne wasn't a 'mommy' at all, let alone a 'mommaay.' She was a massive woman with a square frame and a face that seldom laughed. Her voice contained more steel than an ocean liner - rusty steel, for she was a heavy smoker, which gave her a rasp. Her unladylike preference for Scotch furthermore added a dark, hoarse timbre.

No, Mrs. Gascoyne wasn't a mommy.

But anyway, she wasn't the woman Prue was calling. The woman she called was Alice Johnson, who'd been her nanny ever since she'd been born. Alice Johnson also was huge, wiggly soft - and black.

It had been her task to spoil little Prue rotten. And she'd been very successful.

"Hi, mumkin," she said, her voice remarkably high and tiny for such a big woman. "How's my sweet lil princess now?"

Just hearing the familiar voice kiss her ear caused all the stress and fear to leave her body, floating out on a rush of tears.

"Oooooh, my lil one," Alice cooed, applying the salve she'd been using forever on the easily bruised soul of the child she'd brought up. "Wassup, sweet thing, still sad about the ugly man? Don't cry."

Prue had been calling Alice the very morning Peter left. She'd hardly been able to push an intelligible word through her choked up throat then. But just listening to the woman's voice brought back the save, velvet cocoon she'd lived in so long, blowing away all the bad, the mean and the ugly.

Ever since that first tear-soaked call she'd phoned Alice morning, afternoon and night - right through the inhuman ordeal of her divorce. For of course she forgot how she had started the whole thing, throwing herself into the robot-like arms of the lawyers.

The world was to blame, and that included everyone, except her sweet-voiced mommy.

"He... he never calls, mommy," she wailed.

"Mmmmm, that's not nice of him, mumkin." It was the right answer, utterly useless and deliciously beside the point, so it was perfect for her little princess.

If the world were a nice place, where would that leave Alice Johnson?

***

At Mitzy's tearoom by the park, Julia gathered her thoughts after Peter asked her how things had really been. She frowned, filling her lungs, pushing out her chest.

"I guess they're as bad as you think," she said, following his eyes on their predictable journey down. "Things, I mean."

"You know," she went on, "Prue's world is what she decides it is. Engaged or not, married or not, her place at the center never changed. When she made me her, ehm, best friend back in college, I was just an ingredient she needed at the time - a guardian against her solitude. Then you came, the big romance she needed to complete her little girl's fairytale life. Everything fell in place, right where she needed them to fall. Knight in shining armor; love of her life, bla bla... every cliché in the book. So she dumped me."

Pete watched her frown and saw the irritation tugging at her mouth. It surprised him.

"You see," Julia went on, leaning closer. "Prue used us, you and me. She didn't intend to, but it's just the way she is - the way she believes the world works. Call it defense. At the heart of things she is a very lonely girl. She learned as a small child how to leave the indifferent world she found and build a brand new one for herself."