Firefly. Part 15

"That's better," Bull said. He guided her other hand to the bedside table and made her set down the gla.s.ses. Then he poured the whiskey into each, an inch deep.

He lifted one. "A toast!" he said, smiling again.

Reluctantly, May lifted the other. Suppose she threw it in his eyes, and escaped while he was blinded? No, his reflexes were better than hers; she probably wouldn't score, and if she did, she would only provoke immediately what would otherwise take time. She was better off stalling.

"To us!" he exclaimed, and sipped his drink.

"Us," she agreed faintly, sipping her own. She had hated whiskey ever since her first encounter with his use of it. The very smell of it made her want to retch.

"But you look so, if you will forgive me, frumpy and formal in that outfit," he said. "Why don't you change to something more feminine?"

"I don't have anything feminine." But she knew that would not stop him.

"Your nightie, then. We'll call it an evening gown. I always loved the feel of it, and of you in it."

He was going for s.e.x! She hated that, too, for his way was not fun. But it might stretch things out, and postpone the violence long enough. She would have to do it.

She set down her drink, returned to the bathroom, stripped as slowly as she dared, and donned her nightie. She turned-and found Bull standing in the doorway, watching her.

"You've lost some weight," he remarked. "Too bad; I prefer full-bodied women."

"Maybe you should go find one, then," she retorted.

He moved so quickly she couldn't react. His open hand caught her across the left ear. She cried out, reeling, and fell against the bathroom cabinet, feeling the corner gouge at her right eye. She sank to the floor, to her knees, and then to all fours, her head ringing. She stayed there, her hair hanging down across her face, unable to think of what to do next. Now the pain began, welling up, but she did not make a sound. He had made her cry in the past, but her three years of developing pride stiffened her reaction.

A spot of red appeared before her. She stared somewhat stupidly at it. It occurred to her that it was blood. She put her hand up to her eye, and her fingers came away wet. Yes, she was bleeding.

"Sorry I had to do that," Bull said. "Now mop yourself up and come to bed." He turned and walked away, satisfied that he had made his point.

Oh, yes, he had done that! He expected no resistance and no back talk from her. The penalty for infractions was pain. How could she have forgotten, even for an instant? He wanted nothing less than her complete submission and humiliation, and perhaps somewhat more.

She had to get away from him! But how? The desperate question still had no answer. Bull was not a stupid man, however gross his other faults might be. He had found her, after three years, and he intended to make her pay for her temerity in leaving him. He would have all the bases covered.

She hauled herself up and faced the bathroom mirror. Her left ear hurt, but no damage showed. Her right eye was somewhat numb, not yet discolored, but the gouge just below it was leaking blood. She wadded and wet a paper towel and dabbed at it, flinching. She would have a black eye, but her sight didn't seem to be impaired. She smoothed it over with a bit of cream, hoping this patchwork would do. She was starting to get a headache, probably as much from tension as from the physical blow, but that was the least of her concerns.

The bleeding abated; it was more bruise than cut. She brushed her hair, smoothing it into dark brown curls around her ears. Then she went over her brows and eyelashes, framing the brown of her eyes. Bull was less likely to hit a pretty face than a plain one. She also adjusted the nightie to show the upper rondure of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were full and they sagged; she would make an abysmal score on the pencil test. But partial exposure could be quite kind.

She had to escape, but it would be no easy thing. Her best chance was to obey Bull implicitly until an avenue opened. After drinking, violence, and s.e.x (in that order), he usually slept. Then she might be able to sneak away.

She entered the main room, taking a breath to enhance her figure. He was right: she had lost weight since fleeing him, but she remained what was most delicately described as full-figured. She was no fresh young thing. So why didn't he go for something young and shapely? With his appearance and manners he could hook a girl of any age, and it would be some time before she learned the downside. Just as it had been with May.

But she knew the answer. Not all women accepted Bull's kind of treatment. He would be taking a definite risk that one of them would file charges and make them stick, and he would be marked even if he got off. After that, any repet.i.tion could land him in deep trouble. He would be unable to indulge his particular appet.i.tes safely. May, on the other hand, had the spine of a jellyfish in this regard. She had made a mistake with him, and had never been able to admit it to any other person. Her whole effort was not to expose him, but to escape him. Thus, protecting her secret shame, she protected his too. She would cover up for the blows and the degradation. He knew that. She was his safe harbor.

Also, there was an element of pride. He felt affronted that she should have a.s.serted her independence by escaping him, and he wanted to erase that insult. He had married her, and by his reckoning, that made her his property. Unfortunately, to a considerable extent society and the law supported that view. So a man beat his wife; she had probably asked for it. If she didn't like it, she could divorce him.

How much easier said than done! May no longer honored the forms, but she had been born Catholic, and the notion of divorce appalled her. Bull knew that too.

"Finish your drink, April," he said from the bed. He had stripped naked, which made it evident that he had no erection. The mere sight or proximity of a woman didn't do it for him; his tastes were more channelized than that. He lay on his back, relaxed.

She approached the bed and picked up her hated drink. She tried to imagine it was brandy, but her imagination failed her. She a.s.sociated whiskey with all things foul-in other words, with Bull Shauer.

She gulped it and blinked, feeling the sting of it. Meanwhile Bull reached around her derriere, and she schooled herself not to flinch; handling was better than violence. She had to please him, for the next hour, so that she could emerge from the far end of this tunnel and recover her freedom. She had, in fact, to put aside all thought of the future, for he could read her feelings, and make her pay for them. He was her personal devil, who truly knew how to make her suffer.

"You're my woman, April," he said, sitting up, drawing her in, and putting his face to her bosom. "You always were and you always will be. Now are you ready to apologize for annoying me?"

It was his way. How well she remembered! If only it would stop there! "Yes, Bull."

"Very good, April. Do it."

"I apologize most abjectly for making a smart remark and causing you distress, and I promise not to do it again."

"Thank you, April." His mouth nuzzled her left breast through the thin material of the nightie. Then he drew the decolletage down and bared her nipple. "And the other?"

"I apologize also for deserting you for three years."

His lips closed on her nipple. "And?" he said around it.

"And I promise not to do it again," she said, tensing.

His teeth closed savagely on her nipple. She stifled her scream of pain, so that only a thin squeak and rush of air pa.s.sed though her nose. If others heard her scream now, they would know, and she couldn't stand that. This was part of the torment he inflicted: forcing her to cover for him, though she hated him.

"You were lying," he said, licking the blood welling around the nipple.

"I was lying," she agreed, blinking out the tears of pain and humiliation. It was no good to deny it, for that would only bring more punishment, and indeed, it had been a lie. He had forced her to lie, knowingly, because she hated falsity almost as much as she feared him.

"You deserve anything I give you," he said, kissing the nipple.

"Yes I do, Bull," she agreed.

"You're a f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h, April."

She felt his teeth poised again. "I am a f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h," she echoed. He knew how she hated either to hear or to use that language.

His hand slid down her leg to the hem of the nightie, then up inside until it cupped a b.u.t.tock. "And you want me to f.u.c.k you, don't you, b.i.t.c.h?"

She gritted her teeth. "I want you to f.u.c.k me, Bull."

His fingers pried in between the cheeks of her posterior, touching her genital region. "And I am going to oblige you, April. Take off your outfit."

At least he wasn't hitting her, this time. Maybe he would just do it and go to sleep. She lifted off her nightie and stood within his grasp, naked.

He stood, disengaging. "Stand where you are. Lean over. Put your hands on the bed."

She didn't like strange positions. He knew that too. But she turned and bent over, putting her hands down. He played his hands over and around her bottom, ma.s.saging her b.u.t.tocks, then running a finger into her v.a.g.i.n.a. She was wet, not from desire but from a perverse reaction to his punishment. She hated the notion that she could be a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t, but somehow she did get a s.e.xual reaction to his abuse.

He had an erection now. There was no question about him: he was a s.a.d.i.s.t, and he was s.e.xually turned on by her physical and emotional pain. He poked his finger into her again, and brought it out, and put it in again, evidently transferring fluid to his member. To facilitate entry? Hardly; he had never been that kind. It must be just to make her know she was his, even to this disgusting familiarity.

He touched her with the wet tip of his member.

A cold s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through her. Suddenly she realized his intent. "Oh, no, please, Bull!" she said.

"Are you begging, April?"

"Yes, I am begging," she said, knowing it was useless but unable to stop herself. "Please, not that way!"

"But you see, it's been three years," he said in a reasonable tone. "Something special is called for."

"Please, please, no," she whispered.

He pressed in. It hurt more than physically.

"Please, please," she continued, gritting her teeth against the awfulness of his penetration, knowing that he delighted in this pleading, but meaning it all the same.

He thrust harder. The pain increased. Her arms gave way, and she collapsed onto the bed, but he was right with her. She gasped as his weight pressed her flat, but his terrible thrusting continued.

Finally she felt the spurt of his climax, and knew that this aspect of her punishment was mostly done. But when would the memory of it ever pa.s.s?

After a time he slept-but not before he had confiscated her purse, her clothing, and her luggage. He had everything jammed under the bed, and his arms overlapped the edges. He had had military experience; he slept lightly when on guard. She would not be able to get anything without waking him, and it would be exceedingly foolish of her to make the attempt. She had the freedom of the room, but she couldn't dress, couldn't drive her car (the keys were in the purse), and had no money. And if she did go out despite all this, what would she tell anyone else? She would die before she let the truth be known: that she had suffered herself to be sodomized.

And Bull Shauer knew it. He had really fixed her, this time. He had bound her morally as well as physically. He well understood her scruples. He knew she would have to behave herself, by his definitions, to prevent him from doing it again. He would allow her to maintain the semblance of decency as long as she gave him no trouble at all.

Yet he had misjudged her, slightly. He thought she would remain with him, once he had humiliated her and broken her will. But she had had three years of independence, and in that time she had thought about her past life, and she had concluded that death would be better than a return to it. But she was not the suicidal type.

That left two alternatives. She could flee despite the feeble chance she had to make it good-or she could kill him.

She considered the two seriously. Killing him seemed to be the better choice, for then she would be free of him, no matter what. But she had no weapon-and if she somehow succeeded, she would be a murderess, and doomed to trial and imprisonment. At the very least, her guilty secret would be exposed, for they would examine her medically. She couldn't stand that. This, too, Bull surely knew; it was why he trusted her. He figured that life with him was better than the alternative, and that she had the sense to know it.

So she would flee, hopeless as it seemed. She went to the bathroom and took a towel. It wasn't the full bath size; it wouldn't cover her completely. She wrapped it about her waist and tiptoed to the door. She worked the lock with excruciating care, avoiding any noise, her eyes fixed on Bull.

It clicked open. She froze, but Bull did not wake. She cracked the door open and peered out. It was late afternoon, and no one was in the hall. There was a phone at the end; it was there she would make or break her chance to escape.

She eased out and closed the door. Barefooted and bare-breasted, she walked down the hall; if anyone came she would pretend she had been trapped outside her room by accident after a shower. Such things happened.

She reached the phone. She would call Mid-no, she would get his answering machine, and have to wait for a callback, and that could be in thirty seconds or in twelve hours, binding her to this phone throughout. That was no good. She needed someone local who could help her quickly, and who would keep his mouth shut.

That abruptly narrowed it down to one. Fortunately, she made it a policy to memorize numbers she depended on. She dialed Deputy Sheriff Tishner's home number.

It rang; then Tishner's wife picked it up. May squared her shoulders and her voice. "This is May Flowers. May I speak to Frank Tishner, please?"

The woman didn't answer. Instead, May heard her call to another person. "Frank, it's that reporter woman."

In a moment he picked up the phone. "Something new?"

"No. Frank, I'm in trouble. Can you pick me up immediately at the hotel?"

"Trouble?" he asked, startled.

"Personal trouble. Bad. I'm naked and must hide. Can you help me?"

"This isn't a joke?"

"Believe me, it isn't. My husband found me. He-he's a brutal man."

There was a pause. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Exactly where will you be?"

"In the hall if he doesn't wake. If he does-can you arrest me or something?"

"I'll get you out of there," he promised. "On my way."

Weak-kneed with relief, she hung up the phone. Fifteen minutes-that was her window of freedom. Once Frank got her away, she could contact Mid, and things would get put back together, somehow.

Now she felt her injuries. She might have a concussion from the blows to her head; her right eye was throbbing, her left breast was burning, and so was her r.e.c.t.u.m. She feared something had been torn.

She would need to get to a doctor-yet if she did, he would find out, and that could not be tolerated. So no doctor; she would have to hide out and recover on her own, hoping that no permanent damage had been done.

She was also standing in a semipublic hall, with a bath towel around her waist and bruises which were surely beginning to show. If anyone came by in the next fifteen minutes- She cast about desperately for some hiding place. All she saw was a broom closet. That would have to do. She hurried down to it and opened the door. It was tiny, filled with mops and vacuum attachments, but there might be just enough s.p.a.ce for her. She moved things to the sides, squeezed in, and pulled the door closed.

But in fifteen minutes she would have to come out-and Bull had taken her watch too. How would she know when?

She counted seconds. With each sixty, she closed a finger into her left palm. When she finished the fingers, she started with her right hand. Then with the left again, this time stretching the fingers out. When she finished that, she knew it was time. She would have to go out and- And what? Go half naked down the stairs and out to the street to flag down the deputy? Some private pickup that would be! No, she would have to wait in the hall, hoping he had the sense to come in.

She put her hand on the handle-and discovered the door was locked. It was one of those one-way doors, openable from the inside only-only the hall was the inside. n.o.body was supposed to close the door from the closet side! She could not get out.

She stifled a surge of panic. She could scream-but the first person to hear might be Bull. Anyone else would be almost as bad. Open the closet to discover a forty-year-old, battered, bare-breasted woman? She did not want discovery!

She heard the heavy tread of someone coming. Was it a stranger, or Frank Tishner, or Bull? It was time, but Tishner might be late. She had one chance in three: should she cry out or keep silent?

The steps halted. Was it Frank, wondering where she was, or Bull, doing the same? Should she speak, and risk being recaptured and punished more horribly than before, or be silent and risk losing her chance to get away? She could do neither; she was in an agony of indecision.

"May?" The voice was m.u.f.fled.

It was Frank! "Here!" she exclaimed-and realized too late that it could be Bull, toying with her, using her adopted name to fool her.

A hand came down on the k.n.o.b. It turned. The door opened, and light flooded in. Blinded, she could make out only a solid male figure.

"G.o.d, he really beat you up!" It was Frank's voice! Now she could see him more clearly.

She hugged him. "Oh, Frank, I'm so glad it's you!"

"Uh, sure," he said, embarra.s.sed.

Then she recoiled. "What am I doing?"

He held out an overcoat. "Put this on. Best I could do on short notice. Just walk with me; no one will notice."

Numbly, she did so. They went down the stairs and outside-where her bare feet touched the hot pavement. "Oh!"