Primed to Kill

She was the greatest of my loves in a lifetime of loving: Quianna.

She had the tawny skin of an African American race, and she was easily the most beautiful of the beautiful women I had called wife. Her arms were bound by scarves at the wrist to the headboard, her legs by ribbons at the ankle to the footboard posts. The restraints held her limbs straight. The restraints were a metaphor for the loving bonds of marriage, that spiritual and social institution which we intimately, symbolically took upon ourselves. Our love was too great, too much almost to announce; some loves are so much more than the human experience can comprehend that they must be private, a secret of those so bound. Our vow was true if unwitnessed--but binding, nonetheless.

Her legs were spread for enticement, her arms stretched in welcome embrace, her body proclaimed, "I am yours. Take me. I love it. I love what you do to me. I love you." She was whispering to me, "I love you," she said it, barely audible. My right hand was on her throat and I could feel her breath passing. Her eyes were wide open, round, looking at me, love shining, wanton love shining. I could fall into those dark eyes, I could see myself in them. I was in her, I was one with her. She felt me as far up in her as a man could be, with pleasure and desire and fullness, and she opened her mouth and groaned silently, quietly. She threw her head right and left as ecstasy overwhelmed her. She pulled against the restraints. And I groaned too, finishing.

She relaxed then, to rest for another time that would never come, and I rested also. The night passed. It was May, the 17th month and my 8th wife. It was primal, this love I had developed with just a few women.

Before Quianna had been Avril in January, the first month and first wife, in Independence. Avril was blonde, a tall and heavier woman with heavy breasts and wide hips, a South African farm girl who welcomed my company and love developed from that. She had taken me with an energy that drained me that night, and I had been happy to satisfy her on her hands and knees. I had left her sleeping also, and our marriage had of course found success.

In February it was Bai Li, a lovely and tiny oriental woman who caressed me as no other of my wives. That was the Branson job. She had taken me in her mouth and swallowed of my essence, and her sleep that night followed time after time of justification. She had cried out for more in her language, and we had reached heights... Bai Li, the name of the second prime in the alphabet--a sweet, sweet memory.

March was a windy month and Carol blew into my life in Minnesota. She was a librarian, and wore the glasses of a woman trying to hide great beauty behind shyness. I found it. She and I were wed and her kisses tasted of strawberries. Her hair was light brown, her skin had a reddish tint and freckles that excited me. I remember sitting next to her in a theatre, in the dark, in a corner unnoticed, tasting those red berry lips and hiding my caresses from the audience. We escaped our daily concerns and our marriage consummated quickly. I was meant to be with Carol, and she with me. Marriage is everlasting in its love in heaven even when ended on earth by death. The third month and third of the alphabet, Carol is a special memory--a model of the good woman become the good wife.

In May the fifth month and letter were fulfilled in St. Louis, almost home; and with each wife love deepened, matured, satisfied. Ellie was a pixie, with active, playful eyes and a playful attitude. Ellie and I explored the world of love toys, and she settled upon a machine that brought her to rapture as I joined with her, and it was good. She cried out at her pinnacle, and slept with her head on my chest then. I woke her once in the night, when I thought she was yet asleep, so I helped her with loving embrace and caresses to her face and neck. Ellie--endurance in sexuality will be her legacy with me. I love that woman, and she loved me.

So these primal numbers marched into and out of my life, as there was Gennifer (actually Guinevere) in July--Gennifer who demanded we consummate so quickly, who suggested a new technique which we sadly never fulfilled as she fell to slumber before then, in such joyous union were we. Bound only by hands, she kissed me and begged for more and more until exhaustion claimed her. Gennifer I will always associate with July and all warm nights, and free rambunctious sex. She was a woman of many virtues.

As I journeyed through the primal months and letters of the alphabet I found myself capable of greater and greater love for women and a particular woman. Love grows over time. It is not cheap or tawdry. The bedroom is its own place, a place for that deepening and spiritual love to meet the animal love of the sex act--the body meeting the urges it so often must suppress.

So it was with Karen in November. Kansas City, Kansas. Karen was older than I, fifteen years or so, but a lovely, lovely woman with breasts just beginning to sag and hair just beginning to gray. I remember our first kiss--our only kiss, come to think--and the way her tongue fought with mine as I held her wrists behind her and she pushed her hips into my erection. Karen wanted sex like no other woman I have ever known, and we spent our marriage in exploration of one another, finding this spot and that touch and the other act. Karen was forceful and strong, and our mating was correspondingly powerful. She especially liked my lips on those heavy breasts, sucking at those nipples pointing down... She gave up to her bodily essentials with a loud roar almost, and then she slept and I could rest also. Karen was almost too much woman for me, if there is such a thing. Incredible woman.

The 13th letter and month were just two months later. I was barely recovered as I thought of the spirited love of Karen and November. But Mindy was the January wife I had always dreamed I would find: dark haired, medium build, gothic, with piercings and tattoos. Never had I been attracted to such a woman, and to find marriage with one? It was a whirlwind romance--I saw her one day and we were married within a few hours, but never to regret. There were rings to pull and staves to twiddle and art to trace. I entered this woman with a delicate touch, which surprised her, and she insisted on the ball gag, so that her ecstasy was not so vocal. We used chains for her hands and feet and up around her neck, then, and it was a completely new experience for me. Our time together was brief, but she was in blessed sleep that proved her satiated physically, emotionally, spiritually. I loved her tramp stamp: Property of (Enter Name Here). Mindy for M, the thirteenth letter.

I rested through the non-primes and then found Quianna. Quianna was special, even among all these specials. Tall and thin but heavy breasted, smiling, encouraging--she then turned into a raging hurricane in bed, with an honesty and purity that other women lack. I have loved all 8 wives, but Quianna was like a goddess among the others. Her love for me was obvious and genuine and her desire in bed insatiable. Quianna. The best.

Two months to 19, letter S. July. Oh, I remember. Love and marriage. 8 wives and no hint of bigamy. Morals are essential to family and other institutions. You see, I'm a monogamist. Mother insists.

*

"No, I tell you it is a pattern," Josh Mitchell was saying into the phone. His pistol and holster were in the drawer. "It's based in prime numbers. He attacks in the first, second, third, fifth, seventh, eleventh, thirteenth, and seventeenth month. He numbers the alphabet, and does the same for the women's names. He strangles them usually, although the one--uh, Karen, the oldest one--he broke her neck...Uh-huh, yeah... Well, if the pattern holds, it'll be a woman whose name starts with S and it'll happen in July. July is the 19th month since he started a year and a half ago...S is the 19th letter... Uh-huh. No, I didn't figure it out, it was my wife Linda. She's always doing Sudoku and I mentioned the case... I mean it's in all the papers. We have the DNA, we have MO, we have no idea who it is. No one in the database. No prints to match them to. The guy just started killing women and hasn't let up... Oh, one bit of good news--the prime numbers become farther between as we get higher... Uh-uh, okay, I'll get back." He hung up.

Mitchell hated rapists. He hated murderers. He hated thieves. He hated prostitutes. He hated drug dealers. Most cops came to see the world in black and white: you stole, or you did not; you murdered, or you did not; you dealt, or you did not. The world was black and white, because it was. It was a long-learned conviction, but he was sure.

Except for his wife, Linda. Now, she was a special woman. Probably the only woman on this side of the Mississippi who could have married him. Since he could see the Miss from his bedroom window, there were a number of women around who might have loved him had he had an interest in girls from Illinois. But he didn't. When you're married to Linda Mitchell you don't need another woman. Linda was more than enough for him. Or the Sixth Fleet, had they been near and she been interested, which she definitely was not. No. No. No. Linda had it good with him; he took care of her, and she took care of Josh. But he did not trust her. Women like Linda got hit on, flirted with, noticed. But she was his, and his only, he was sure.

Linda Mitchell at that moment was in a motel just across that same Mississippi--actually within sight of her bedroom window had anyone had binoculars to check out houses across the river. Her legs were spread as wide as she could spread them while her faux love, Paul Perrino, pounded his stiffly impressive member into her as hard as he could. Linda was getting fucked, and she liked Perrino to do it because he was not a cop, not stupid, not married, and not interested in her as a human being. She wanted to get fucked, and that cop she was married to was making the world safe by fighting crime. So she called Paul and said, "You wanna do it?" and of course he did. So they were doing it. It happened about once a month. Perrino didn't even have her number, but he had her eye so she called when she wanted some. It averaged out, one this month, none that, two the next.

She felt a little guilt--but really she just thought she OUGHT to feel guilt, so that might be what guilt felt like, ya know? This was the 7th time, by her reckoning. She'd probably stop calling him once her husband got promoted, but so far it hadn't happened and he'd been saying it would be soon for five years now. He just wasn't all that smart, she figured.

"Oh, Paul, put it in me, that's it, do it, I love it, it's so long, you got it all the way up me," she said, almost monotone, and he heard only, "You are the best fucker ever." But he aimed to please and those two widely spread legs of hers were long and smooth and angled toward a piece of snatch the likes of which rarely comes a man's way. Of course, that piece was rapidly losing its mystery as word slowly got around that it was available if only you had whatever Paul Perrino had--and that had included luck. Linda was a fine-looking lady. As a matter of fact, in this factory town, now a one and a half factory town due to closures, Linda was as beautiful as beautiful got. Maybe world class, with a little makeup to hide that sunspot on her cheek--that same sunspot Josh thought was endearing and wished she would not cover up.

A few of the guys at the DA's office knew Perrino was doing her, and even knew she was a police detective's wife, but instead of giving him up or telling the dick they just wished it were them instead of him. Well, except for Joseph Martin who didn't give anyone up for tawdry affairs on principled grounds (like anyone really believed in those anymore!). He would only give someone up if it affected the job, which he still considered a profession. This day he was filling in for one Paul Perrino who was unavoidably detained snatching that desirable snatch of Linda's. Martin was going before a judge for some crack case he knew nothing about until a half hour ago. Now it affected the job.

Finally Paul pounded Linda into tedium and himself into orgasm, and what counted for love making to some people ended in room 105 at the Elegant Rooms Motel, ended with Paul in a sweat and Linda thinking, I've become dank. Now his cum is going to seep out of me for an hour. His perspiration is all over me. I'm moist of him. Yuck.

She knew she should like this more. Something was wrong, she felt it, but she physically shook her head to clear it, and yet it lingered. Her husband was the issue. Josh was a dolt but he took care of her. Yet illicit sex felt good at the time, just like vodka feels good at the time, and she'd just hide the dank with a lot of Kleenexes in her panties. It had felt good at the time. She was trying to convince herself that it was worth it, it was fun, there was nothing wrong, she was not cheap, not bad, and it was no problem with Josh. She dressed as Perrino rolled out of bed and found his underwear.

Paul got a call then to see his boss, an important guy--not the inflated importance Perrino feigned to Linda Mitchell--but a guy who made the decisions, who said yes we will or no we won't, instead of just suggesting courses of action like Perrino did when he wasn't screwing around. Perrino did not realize his boss had figured out where he was, who she was, and what they were doing. He dressed, happy he'd substituted Linda Mitchell for some crack court appearance, and hurried to see his boss.

As Perrino pulled up his zipper, at the police station Josh Mitchell got a call to come see the captain, who was about five feet away in another room. Josh was there before the captain put down the phone.

"Josh, I just got a call from the DA. About your wife."

"Yeah, she's a special woman. Prettiest gal in two counties." Josh smiled proudly.

"She's fucking a junior DA."

Josh felt like he'd been hit by a truck. The captain did not mince words, did not make things up, and did not play games with his men. Mitchell just stared at him for some seconds and then felt his legs go wobbly. He sat down. "Sorry, Sir, I had to sit."

"No problem."

"Who is he?"

"DA says some junior named Paul Perrino. He thinks they get together about once or twice a month. Perrino's on the way out, partly because of this and partly because he's become somewhat arrogant and open about the affair and no one can stand him over there. DA says the guy's avoiding work, disappears a lot. Might have another lay, too."

Mitchell wondered what he should do.

"You can't hurt her," the captain said, anticipating Josh's thoughts. "You're not the first detective to face this problem. I'm on wife three. Kraus is between wives because his had an affair, also. Some guys actually work it out and save the marriage. Just don't lose it."

"Can I go home?"

"Want someone to go with you?"

"Nah. I been kicked in the gut before. Just not by her. I didn't see it coming. I feel angry and foolish." The captain nodded, staring at Josh with an expression that was meant as support but could have been oh, you poor sap. The captain just didn't have many expressions.

Mitchell drove home, taking a wrong turn, and still beat his wife there. She had to go around the long way to find a bridge across the Miss and actually passed in front of Josh's office then, and for him it was a straight shot into his neighborhood, but he turned for some unknown reason and it took him a minute to go around the block. He made some coffee and sat at the kitchen table. Linda breezed in fifteen minutes later.

"Oh, you're home, Honey! I didn't expect you," she said, seeing him there. She came right over to kiss him and to get by. She wanted to get upstairs and into the shower. She had an uncomfortable number of Kleenexes between her legs.

"Sit down, Linda." It was all he said, it was not his "loving husband" voice, more his crowd-control-firm voice although not loud. She was brought up then, startled. She knew something was wrong. He could not know, could he? she thought. No. After all, he was doltish. He was a lug.

"Please sit."

"Is something wrong, Josh?" She was scared now, and she took the seat beside him on the end of the table.

"Perrino is going to be fired, partly because he's been screwing you."

She inhaled sharply. She wanted to deny it, demand he rely on his trust of her, ask How could you believe that shit? Instead she played dumb, because that was what you do when you don't know how you've been caught. "What are you talking about?" She said it and then wished she hadn't. She knew Josh, and Josh would not make an allegation. He would state facts already proven. She put her face in her hands.

"How long has it gone on?" he queried.

Apparently the jig was up. She did not lie. "Five, six months. Once or twice a month. Just when you were working a lot, or not home. He was just a guy, a hobby. Someone to get me off. It was not love. Not really an affair, just sex with a good-looking guy and no commitment."

Josh was squeezing his hands into fists, looking carefully at them, studying the bones and sinew and skin.

She looked at him, but he would not meet her gaze. "I didn't mean to hurt you." She said it, the one billionth woman in the history of mankind to say it for that reason. She never knew she could have won free groceries for life or something, if she'd been the billionth of something else.

"Course not. Don't let it bother ya," he said with disdain, and she heard it and knew her dalliance was not a dalliance. Why had she rationalized? she thought. She wondered if these mistakes were recoverable, if the marriage could be saved.

"How many others were there? We've been married what--seven, no, eight years?"

"No others, Josh. I don't know why I did it."

"Was he better at it? Better built? Bigger?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Worse, if anything. But even bad sex is good..."

He just looked at her, and she realized her last words had not helped. She did not speak. Discretion is a part of valor. It's also part of intelligence and many other virtues.

He looked out the little kitchen window, at the blue sky, a wistful expression on his face. He thought out loud. "I am so embarrassed. So angry. So much in pain. I never knew it felt like this. I've dealt with cuckolded husbands dozens of times, and told them to be calm, and had no idea the terrible hurt they were suffering inside. I saw it, but I didn't get it. It's withering. Withering." He talked as if his personal experience would help him in his job. He'd be a better cop now that he'd discovered his wife screwed around on him. He should thank her, he thought ironically. "It's palpable. I can touch the pain. It feels like a surgeon could remove it." Silence. He looked at her.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked. "Or do you want to?" She tried to imagine pain for adultery, for betrayal. Nope, nothing there. Josh wouldn't screw anyone but her, she knew. And if he did, she'd think about it then.

He asked, "Did you ever do it here?"

"No."

"Who knows about it?" he asked.

"No one, unless they saw us going into the motel. Probably people he works with, missing him in the day. Covering."

Josh rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, but Linda knew he would not hit her. The wall, the table, the refrigerator were more likely targets.

"You can stay. I don't know what to do. The captain got a call from the DA, told him about you and Perrino, and sent me home to deal. With it. With you. But I don't know what I want."

Linda got up and made a cup of coffee in the Keurig. She sat back down.

"Are we gonna make it, Josh?" she asked.

"I don't see how," he said. "Maybe. No. I don't know." Did she want to make it? Would her nature lead her down the path she'd started, now? He wanted to strangle her. Now maybe he could get her to that psych, if he could just keep from throttling her.