Terror

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Wife takes grisly revenge on cheating husband.
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Martin Boston effectively signed his doom two weeks before Christmas. He thought he had it made - he was seeing Natalie one night a week and telling Christine that he was working late: always the same night, always a Friday. He explained it as a kind of compulsory overtime, and of course he was always exhausted when he arrived home, because Natalie was demanding. He would leave work early, it was a joke with his boss, because his routine never varied. 'It gives me a long weekend,' he would say, and his boss would smile a knowing smile, because Martin did not fool him. But he was good at his work, and Campbell, his boss, was prepared to turn a blind eye. 'Drive carefully,' he would say, and both men would smile, because Martin commuted by train.

They would meet at the station and walk the short distance to her apartment, and Martin would marvel, because Natalie, always so prim and proper in public, would turn into a real harlot the moment she closed her door. No scratches, no bites, no bruises, because Christine was always watchful. But Natalie would turn with the closed door behind her, and guide his hands to her small breasts as they began kissing, and then kneel on her carpet before him, to cup his manhood in her hands, and the urgency within him would make him pull her to her feet and push her before him into her small bedroom, and they would entwine their bodies together until their passion released them.

But once was never enough, and they would couple again, and sometimes again, with their sweat flowing freely, until time crept up on them, and Martin would glance at the small alarm clock on her bedside table, and Natalie would make him fresh coffee. Always fresh, always newly ground.

Neither ever mentioned Christine, though her presence always hung like a menacing shadow above them as they clung together. Neither spoke of the future. Martin wanted children, but Natalie was proud of her progress as a medical technician at the local hospital - they had met when Christine had been to see a specialist, to be told that she was possibly barren. 'One day', each of them would silently mouth to the other, in between kisses, and 'one day' would drift away into a land of dreams. Meanwhile both were content.

Then Martin made a fatal mistake. He had promised Christine that he would do some Christmas shopping, bring home some champagne for Christmas Day dinner - they were expecting Christine's parents, and possibly his own. Christine had planned a big treat, with roast goose and stuffing, and carefully chosen presents for all: they were not short of money, because she worked as well. Martin's parents had telephoned her to confirm their acceptance, and she had telephoned Martin to tell him to buy more: perhaps four bottles, perhaps even five. But he had left his work early, and forgotten to brief a new office boy still learning the ropes. The phone had rung, and the office boy had answered before Campbell could intercept him. 'He's gone home,' the boy had said, ' he always goes home early on Fridays', and he had looked at the phone in surprise as the woman caller had hung up abruptly.

It had been Christine, of course. Campbell had shrugged, but had never mentioned the call, and the office boy knew his place. So Martin had known nothing of the incident. But whilst Christine was a trusting wife, she had also brooded on the incident, and her brooding had made her suspicious. She had asked a male colleague at her travel agency, a man who sometimes shared a lunchtime table with her in the little Italian restaurant two doors down the street, to call Martin at the same time the following Friday, with instructions to hang up if Martin should answer. 'It's a game,' she had told him, and the man had nodded wisely. But of course Martin had already gone.

She had said nothing, biding her time, until Christmas had passed. They had dined with both sets of parents, and Martin's mother, who was not privy to Christine's defect, had joked about 'the patter of tiny feet'. The remark had not gone down well. Then they had toasted in the New Year at a smart restaurant, and Christine had pondered what she should do, whilst Martin drank a little too much and pictured Natalie standing naked and waiting for him.

Finally Christine decided that she must know for certain. She waited for three weeks into the New Year, and then took a Friday afternoon off from the travel business where she worked. She sat patiently in a small coffeehouse in the same street as Martin's office building from midday on, seated at a table where she could see and not be seen, smiling politely and shaking her head when men sought to join her, for she was a good-looking girl, pleasant and neat, the kind of girl men like to take home to meet their mothers. She had watched, and waited, and seen Martin leave his building at a time when he should have been working, and anger had begun gathering within her. She had followed him to the station, always lagging some way behind, and hidden behind a pillar, her anger now mounting, because she had glimpsed a smugness about him that augured bad tidings. She had jumped into the carriage next to his as his train began moving, and taken a window seat. The carriage was virtually empty. It was still early in the afternoon.

She had seen him leave the train and had followed like a shadow. Martin should have seen her, because the platform was virtually empty, but his mind was filled with Natalie, and it was his undoing. Natalie was waiting for him outside the station, and they did not embrace, because they had no need, so close to their pleasure. But Christine saw the way they walked together, hand in hand like two lovers of long standing, and followed them to the corner of the street where Natalie lived, and saw them enter her apartment building, and her anger was a cold wind of fury. Ice filled her heart, and for a moment she thought of finding a hardware store, of buying a long knife and standing outside the entrance, to watch and wait for him, of confronting him with his shame and extracting a reckoning. But she took a deep breath, and walked back to the station.

What was the point? She might kill him, but she would suffer. She might merely injure him, and suffer more, thinking in some prison cell of him bedding his whore. She traveled back to their house, her eyes blank and unseeing as she sought in her mind how best to reap vengeance. She decided to confide in a friend, a girl of the same age as herself, whom she knew disliked Martin intensely.

She left a cold meal for him in their kitchen refrigerator and a note on their livingroom coffeetable to say she would be late, and dressed herself carefully. She was angry still, perhaps angrier than ever, but now her anger was a cold flame, controlled and deadly. She would make Martin pay, she knew not how, but in some way that he would never, ever forget. She would sear guilt through his soul, and brand him for life, in some way not for undoing, and trample his repentance underfoot. She would make him pay for his crassness, and balance her barrenness, in some way that would make him never want to look at another woman again. Ever.

Angela, her friend, was wholly understanding. "He's a bastard," she said, as she poured Christine a large whisky. They were sitting together on Angela's settee, and Christine's eyes were puffy and red from weeping out her fury and rage for vengeance.

Christine swallowed a mouthful of the whisky and began to cough. Angela moved a little closer, to thump her lightly in the small of her back. She and Christine were friends of long-standing, they had been through college together, alternately dating the same boys, comparing advances and defences. Christine had married, and Angela had come to her wedding, despite grave misgivings. She had counseled Christine to stay single, and build a career, but Christine had been drawn to motherhood, until she had discovered her defect. Perhaps that was why. Perhaps she had known inside herself that she could not bear children, and had sought to defy fate.

Marriage had worked against her: Angela was now an employer, a woman of wealth, with her own thriving business, a highflyer in data processing already talking of seeking a stockmarket listing, with fashion boutiques on the side and a slice of a smart restaurant, and still single, whilst Christine packaged tours. They lunched together, from time to time, and Angela always fed her the very best her restaurant could offer, as a sign of commiseration. They were friends of long standing, and once they had lunched too well, and Angela had hugged her closely. Christine had wanted to reciprocate, but she had not known of her defect at the time, and had thought it a distraction.

"What will you do?" Angela's voice cut into her thinking, and they looked at each other. Christine could see that her friend was watching her closely.

She shrugged. The whisky was warm within her, and dulled some of her pain.

"You want to teach him a lesson." It was as much answer as question.

Christine nodded, wiping away an errant tear triggered by her growing sense of impotence. She had wanted blood when she seen him with his woman, but had done nothing, and now she felt power slipping away from her. She fought to regain herself. "I want to make the bastard burn." Her voice shook as she spoke with the intensity of her feeling.

"We could do it together." Angela's eyes were gleaming.

Christine stared at her.

"We'll set him up." Angela smiled, and it was a look of cruelty. "We'll wait for him at your home, and pretend we've been drinking, we'll tempt him with sex, and he'll be ours for the taking." She tossed her chin, fanning her dark shoulderlength hair out in a halo, and forming her mouth into a cherub pout. "I'll make him think that I'm desperate, and you'll egg him on. Then we'll take him apart."

Christine looked doubtful. "He knows you don't like him."

"I'll pretend it's the wine."

She was still not sure. "And then?"

"We'll get him to undress, and tie him up." Angela licked her lips, and her eyes were like hard chips of obsidian. "We'll get one of your kitchen knives, the really sharp ones..." She let her voice hang on the word.

Christine's eyes widened. She could picture Martin's face, moving from lust to terror, and she felt a cruel, atavistic rejoicing sweep through her. "You wouldn't dare." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Angela grinned. "We could try."

Christine smiled back at her, and their eyes shared their expectation.

Martin arrived home the following Friday on schedule, feeling on top of the world, and still a little randy. Natalie had filled him with pleasure but not quite drained him of lust, because she had a hospital dinner that evening, and she wanted time to make herself smart. He walked up the street towards his house, wondering whether Christine might oblige with dessert, though he knew that she had rather lost interest in the physical side of marriage since seeing her specialist. He noted Angela's car parked in their driveway, and licked his lips. He did not like Angela, and he knew that she did not like him either, but he often thought of bedding her. It was a male fantasy, to overcome rejection and have it away with his wife's best friend. Sometimes he even thought of rape, forcing her back onto a bed and having his way with her, cutting her down in stature from her conceit in success to rank more acceptably as a mere woman. He licked his lips again, his mouth dry with a sudden adrenalin rush. Perhaps tonight dessert would be served in a double portion. Then his hopes subsided as suddenly as they had come. They were probably gossiping together, and Angela would leave, rather than have to talk to him, and Christine would sulk, because he had failed once again to charm her best friend.

His pushed his key at his front door, fumbling momentarily with the lock. The door swung back, just as he was about to push again, and he stood dumbfounded. Angela stood in the open doorway facing him, but it was no Angela that he knew. She was dressed as a maid: a housemaid, perhaps, in a shiny red and black uniform that gleamed in the evening sun. Martin swallowed. The uniform seemed to be cut in black latex or PVC, with red trimmings and borders, and it was cut very low, with a very short skirt, and Angela's legs were shapely in black fishnet stockings. He realised that she was smiling at him, and that her eyes were hungry, and he blinked to return to reality, because her breasts were full and large and nearly bursting out at him, and he could not believe what he was seeing.

"Welcome home, sir. I'm your maid for the evening." Angela backed away from the door, and he did not know her voice, because it was a kind of purr, a tigress sound, drawing him in. "Can I offer you something?"

Martin could not find words to speak. The shadow of little flesh pits surrounding one of Angela's nipples seemed about to break free, and he could do nothing but stare.

But she was still retreating, still drawing him in. "Come in, come in." Her purr was wholly enticing. "We have a little party for you. Some festivities." She stopped, and reached out as Martin made to close on her, and touched him with a black latex-gloved hand, stroking down the front of his trousers, and Martin realised that he was wholly erect. "Mistress Cane wants to chastise you a little for coming home late, before we move on to more satisfying things."

She moved to one side, and Martin hesitated. His livingroom door was half open, and he could see an open bottle of wine and two glasses set out on the table. He felt Angela's latex-gloved hand on his elbow, propelling him forward, and he gulped. Christine lay reclining on their sofa, garbed in a kind of bra and panty set in the same black latex, with shiny suspenders supporting tight black latex stockings, and she was holding a whip, and flexing it between her hands. Martin wondered if he was dreaming. He had sometimes seen fantasy pictures in sex magazines, or out on the Internet, and had often felt excited. But Christine had never shown any interest, though he had hinted once or twice that fetish sex might prove challenging, whilst Natalie had dismissed all fantasies as distracting.

"We're going to undress you, and then dress you up again." Angela's voice was gentle and coaxing, as if she was speaking to a shy child. "Apparently fetish clothing is all the rage, so I ordered some for my boutique. I thought a trial run might be fun."

Now she was close to him, and he could smell the latex of her uniform and a heavier odour, the scent of sexual excitement.

"I'll start with your jacket and shirt, and then we'll lower your trousers." She took his jacket and tie, and began to unbutton his shirt. Martin raised his hands to take part, but she brushed them away. "No, not you. Just me."

He realised that Christine had left the sofa and looked around, but he could not see her.

Angela knelt and began to unzip his trousers, pulling the zip down slowly, and Martin could feel himself bulging hard in his underpants, and then she had slipped his pants down over his thighs, and he was naked, his penis a rodlike pointer.

"Now I shall dress you."

Martin realised that Christine must be standing behind him, because unseen hands passed some kind of black latex harness to Angela.

She held the harness between them. "Now raise your arms."

Martin hesitated. The harness looked like a straightjacket of some kind, and he was wary. But now Angela's latex-gloved hand was caressing him, and a second, unseen, hand was running a smooth latex touch up and down his spin, and he could not resist. He held up his arms, and felt catches being secured behind him.

"Now we have a little helmet for you."

Martin felt a latex mask being slid over his head. He could see out through two eyeholes, and his nose and ears were free, but a kind of solid ball pressed against his lips. He felt trapped suddenly, and tried to move his hands, but they were wholly secured. He began to struggle, because now he was alarmed, and he heard a woman laugh harshly. Unseen hands pushed him against the sofa, forcing him to his knees, holding him down as he struggled, forcing his arms up behind him, and he could feel the harness tightening on him, restricting his movements, until he could do nothing but quiver. Then the hands forced him forward, driving his head in amongst the sofa cushions, so that he was kneeling with his rump out behind him. He heard a whistling sound in the air, and suddenly a sharp hot knife edge of pain cut into him. He tried to twist his body away from the burning, but he was locked into immobility. He heard the whistling sound again, and a fresh wave of pain seared into his back. He began to whimper, it was the only sound he could make. But fresh lashes rained down, each building on its predecessor, and he heard a voice counting, and his mind could hold nothing but the pain in him, and the terror of expecting a new blow, and the pain was beyond belief in its burning.

"That's forty now." Angela's voice was calmly conversational. She looked down with displeasure at the mass of red welts criss-crossing Martin's back. "He's starting to bleed."

"I'd better get something to put under him." Christine eyed her husband's back with distaste. Blood had begun to trickle out of the welts, and she wanted no mess or stains on the sofa or carpet. She left the room, to reappear a moment later with a large plastic sheet. "He can kneel on this."

They lifted Martin, manhandling him together onto the sheet, taking care not to get any of his blood on them, and then looked at each other. His blood had begun to coagulate into dark sticky rivulets, but it was still very messy.

"We need something to stop him bleeding." Angela frowned. "Have you got plenty of salt? I read somewhere they used to pour salt water over sailors when they whipped them."

Christine thought for a moment. "We could try bleach. That hurts like anything if you get it in a cut."

The two women smiled at each other.

Martin barely moved as they wiped his back. He was in agony, but his pain was past caring. He could do nothing but suffer. But in a small, secret corner of his mind he was plotting vengeance. Sooner or later they would have to release him, and then it would be his turn. He would make Christine pay, in suffering many times what she was helping to inflict on him. He knelt, and he was in agony, but it was not an agony that would last forever.

Then, for a while, the room was silent. He could hear the two women talking together, a little way distant, and the sound of glasses being filled, and a small tentative shoot of hope began to grow in his mind. Perhaps the two women had sated whatever crazy lust had driven them to this.

The voices began again, and now they were closer, very close.

"Now we're going to operate." It was Angela's voice again, and she sounded pleased with herself. "Look what we've got for you."

Martin pretended to be unhearing. But he felt himself being manhandled onto his back, and the pain was again almost beyond bearing, and he was kneeling on the plastic sheet in a sticky smearing of blood, with his back now to the sofa, and his legs doubled up under him. Hands scrabbled insistently at his genitals, closing and tightening around his scrotum and squeezing him hard, and a fresh sharp fire of agony shot through his loins. He tried to scream, but the gag in his mouth gainsaid him.

"Look, Martin." He heard Christine's voice, and it was not the voice of the wife he knew, but a hard voice, an unpleasant voice, a cruel sound. He blinked, and his teeth were tight again on the gag in his mouth, but he could do no more than whimper. He could see Angela sitting cross-legged in front of him holding a long black kitchen knife, deftly honing the edge, and all his attempt at bravado, all his hopes of revenge, fled from his mind. . He knew implicitly what she had in mind, and it was wholly beyond believing. He tried to scream again, but he could no more than repeat his earlier whimpering, and his terror was a great black cloud that enveloped him, driving him to the very boundary of his reason. He felt himself pulled backwards, so that he was almost flat on his back, with his legs cramping beneath him, and he began to weep, choking in his mask, and his noise was an animal sound mixing fear, and dread, and horror.

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