There was a knock at the door. Bob Trent slammed his bottle, onto the table, irritated. Who was disturbing his evening drink, just as he'd been getting into a good drinking rhythm? He went to the door and opened it to find his wife was standing there, looking nervous.
"What the fuck do you want?" he demanded angrily and slurring a bit.
"Bob, won't you let me in, please?"
"Why should I let you in?"
"Please, Bob, I want to come back," she pleaded, almost desperate. "I just want it to be like it was before."
"You want to come back," he repeated sarcastically. "You want it to be like it was before. Well isn't that nice? Before what, eh? Before you started fucking somebody else? Or before you got fucking caught fucking somebody else? Eh? You just want to waltz back in here and carry on like nothing ever happened. Then you can start whoring around with whoever you like--"
"Please, Bob!" she shouted, to be heard over his raving voice. "Do we have to argue out here? Can't I come in just to talk about it?"
Bob was still sober enough to care what the neighbours thought. Maybe shouting at his unfaithful wife on the doorstep wasn't such a good idea. He nodded and stepped back, letting her in. Then he turned away moodily and stomped back to the front room, where he had his bottle.
Rachel stood in the doorway of the front room. This was his house now, not theirs, and she didn't want to seem pushy by just acting like the place was her own. "Bob, I know what I did with Andrew was a mistake. I'm sorry, I--"
"A mistake? A fucking mistake? You jumped into bed with another man, and now it's a fucking mistake?"
"Bob, I was wrong! What I did was wrong, all right? And I'm so sorry! But Bob, you're still the man I love! Can't we go back to how it was--"
"Go back? How can I go back after this, you southern bitch?"
It was a cheap jibe. Rachel was from Salisbury, way down on the south coast. Up here on the Mersey southerners weren't popular. But Bob had been drinking. Rachel had come expecting to suffer her fair share of verbal abuse. She deserved it, of course, considering how she'd behaved. She let the insult wash over her and carried on.
"I know I've hurt you, Bob," she said, her tone repentant. "But I still want to be your wife. I know we can't go back to how things were, but ... there must be..." She groped for words. "We can't go back to how things were, so let's start fresh. I mean, a new way."
Bob stared at her as if he didn't really follow what she was saying. Come to that, she didn't really know what she was saying herself. She tried to compose her thoughts. Bob took a pull from the neck of the whisky bottle.
"Look, Bob ... I'll do anything if you'll let me come back. Absolutely anything. Whatever terms you want. You make the rules, and I'll stick to them. I just can't..."
"You'd never do anything. That's just talk. There's always gonna be things you won't do."
"Please, Bob. Please." She came over to his chair and knelt down, putting a hand to his knee. "Really, I'll do what you want, I really will..."
"You'll do anything? My rules, all the way?"
"Your rules, all the way. You're the boss, Bob."
"What if I want to give you a few good hard whacks, eh?"
Rachel drew in a sharp breath. She hadn't expected that. She'd run through this scene a thousand times in her head, tried to anticipate everything he might demand of her, but the idea of physical violence had never once crossed her mind. But then she hadn't realised Bob had descended into drunkenness. That was her fault too, of course. She had made him like this.
"I've spent the last month thinking of nothing but how I ought to give you the thrashing you deserve," he spat. "So what about it, eh? You ready to get your knickers down and let me give you a few good hard wallops on that arse of yours?"
Rachel Trent swallowed. She loved Bob. She had come here determined to agree to anything, to be a virtual slave, if he would take her back. Now he wanted to hit her, to vent his anger on the woman who had betrayed him. Well, she supposed she deserved that. She had let another man go inside her, and that was pretty bad. She was as guilty as sin, and having her hide tanned was just about what she deserved. She swallowed again.
"All right, Bob." Her voice trembled. "If that's what you want. You can ... you can ... punish me any way you w-want."
Bob looked at her in surprise. He'd never expected her to agree. His suggestion had been meant to get rid of her. He'd never thought for one minute an educated career woman like Rachel would let herself be knocked around by a man. He took another pull from the bottle. Well, if the bitch was up for it, why not? He could always kick her out afterward, and it would bloody well do him some good to teach her a lesson like she deserved.
"Shut the curtains, then." Thrashing the slut was one thing, but there was no need to give the neighbours a free show.
Rachel nodded, paused, then after a moment crossed to the windows and slowly pulled the curtains closed. Her hands trembled as she did it. Obeying that innocent-sounding command, she was agreeing to be beaten by her husband.
Not too long ago, if someone had told her one day she'd meekly submit to a man hitting her, she'd never have believed it. Her old self, the Rachel who had been faithfully married to Bob for three years, would never have been part of this. If Bob had so much as tried to hit her, she would have left him. She would never have believed the man she had married was capable of hitting a woman. But that had been before she'd embarked on her infidelity, before he'd started drowning his bitterness in the bottle.
When she'd made sure the curtains were well closed--she really didn't want anyone seeing this--she turned back toward him.
Nervously, Rachel started to obey. This wasn't part of their routine. When they'd been together, Bob had usually undressed her. The same had been true of Andrew, come to that. Standing there and stripping in front of a man was new and strange. Rachel chided herself mentally. This was her husband, and she had agreed to do what he wanted to get back into his good graces. But she couldn't help taking her time over it. When she had her clothes off, it was going to be time for--oh God!--for a thrashing.
She was willingly going to let a man beat her. Could a modern woman really go through with that? Wife beating was illegal, for God's sake! What had the suffragettes gone through to secure rights for women? Was she just going to give up all that, hand herself to Bob on a plate and be a piece of meat for him to do with as he pleased? As her hand hovered over the fastenings of her skirt, it came to her that the answer was yes. She'd put herself in this position by betraying him, and now she was going to do what was necessary to get him back. She'd made the decision and she was going to stick to it.
Rachel was taking her time, her decision obviously wavering, but Bob didn't rush her. He couldn't quite believe this was happening. Bob wasn't a violent person by nature. He'd been in a few fights at school, but not many, considering he grew up in the slums of Liverpool. In his adult life he'd never hit anyone, and he would never have dreamt of hitting his wife until the dreadful day when he'd found out she'd had another man inside her. Since then he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. He'd imagined every kind of beating he could give her--canes, belts, whips, a punch in the face to knock her teeth out and leave her ugly--a thousand violent scenarios had run through his mind. But he had never thought he would really do any of them. Now it was about to happen for real. He took another pull from the bottle.
Once she was completely naked, her clothes piled neatly on the couch, Rachel Trent came over and stood in front of her husband. Her knees were pressed together with trepidation. She didn't know what to do with her hands. They fluttered nervously about here and there, close to her hips.
Bob sat in his chair, then patted his own lap. Rachel took a deep breath and took the plunge. She started by kneeling on his lap, her breasts waving in his face. Then she turned sideways, and put her hands on the left arm of the chair. She extended one leg backward, settling her knee on the chair's other arm, then put the other leg out to join it. After that she lowered herself down and shuffled her position so her groin was above Bob's lap. The arms of the chair came up higher than the top of Bob's legs, so there was a small gap between her naked flesh and his trousers.
Bob put his hands on Rachel's body. His left hand was on the small of her back, and his right touched her thigh. He stroked it up, over her seat, then down again. He took a deep breath, and lifted his right hand. Rachel breathed in hard and held it. Bob was sweating. It was hard to believe he was about to do this but the drink had broken down his barriers. He raised his hand even further, then brought it down as hard as he could. There was a harsh, flat sound as his palm clapped against Rachel's rear. For a moment she just felt the physical pressure of it then a fraction of a second later the pain kicked in.
"Uhh!" Rachel let the stored air out of her lungs in an ungainly grunt, mouth opening like a gulping fish, and her head flicked backward. She tightened her fingers on the arm of the chair and braced herself for another. Bob licked his lips, then lifted his hand and brought it down again.
"Nnn!" Rachel's cry was a little more dignified and ladylike this time. Instead of opening her mouth wide, she gritted her teeth. The sides of her mouth stretched wide toward her cheeks, compressing her lips into a tight line. Bob lifted his hand a third time, and she braced herself. Again his palm slammed into her bottom.
It was more painful every time, as his hand fell where she was already stinging. Rachel swallowed hard, looking for the conviction to hold her position and take her punishment. Again he hit her, then suddenly again and again and again. The three sharp whacks, so quick, took her by surprise. She didn't have the time she expected to prepare herself, and she yelled hoarsely. She felt her legs kicking in the air, and her pelvis pushed itself down toward Bob's lap, bending her spine backward. As she pushed into Bob, she could feel the hardness of his rod pressing up into her. Rachel gasped and tried to compose herself but before she knew what was happening, three more sharp bursts of pain flared in her backside and she was writhing again, head twisting so her long black hair flew about and hit Bob in the face.
"Get your bloody hair out me eyes!"
He grabbed a handful of her long straight hair in his hand and twisted it around. She squealed as he did it, not expecting this. He straightened his arm so the hand grasping her hair was pushed over her right shoulder. To lessen the pain, she had to turn her head to the left, but it still hurt.
"Aaah ... Bob!" she yelled.
"Shut your bloody mouth, you fucking slut!"
Before she knew what was happening, he started slapping her rear again. It was fast like before, but now he didn't stop with three. He kept on hitting her, and in a moment she'd lost count. She was yelling in pain and her body was thrashing about like a fish that had been pulled out of the water. She tried to keep still but it was impossible, and every movement of her head pulled her hair more. Her body was jumping up and down as her legs kicked at random, her thighs thrusting her up every time they spasmodically pushed down into the arm of the chair.
Her leg brushed something cold and hard, and there was a clonk. Bob stopped hitting her, frozen for a moment. "You fucking bitch!" he yelled. "You've knocked over me whisky! Fucking pick it up!"
For a moment Rachel's mind was awhirl with too much shock to follow what he said. Bob let go of her hair and pushed her naked body off him.
"Pick up that fucking bottle, you clumsy tart!" he cried as she tumbled to the ground.
Rachel's mind grasped the situation. She turned around on hands and knees and saw the whisky bottle, cap off, lying sideways on the floor. She scurried forward without rising, grabbed it and pulled it upright. It had already spilt the better part of its contents on the carpet.
"Clean it up!" roared Bob. "Clean up that fucking mess you've made!"
Cringing, Rachel rose and took the bottle to the kitchen, shoulders hunched in fear. All the cleaning things were where she expected them to be, and she did everything she could to get the spilt liquor out of the carpet. The room still reeked of it.
When she'd finished her attempt at cleaning, she saw Bob looking at her sourly. In his hands was an electrical extension lead. It was the type with a long plastic block housing four sockets in a row, and a thick cable coming out of one end. He held the block in his left hand, the loosely coiled lead in the other.
Looking down at what he was doing, Bob shook out the electric lead so its coils fell loose. He put the lead coming out of the plug across his palm then wrapped his fingers and thumb around the socket block, trapping the lead against the block. The lead fell from the end of the block in a single long loop, eventually feeding back under his hand.
Bob bent down and picked up the middle part of the free length of cable. He drew it up to his hand and hooked his thumb through it. The lead now fed out from the block, back to his hand, out again and back to his hand once more. Four thicknesses of cable hung free, running parallel. He swung the whole assembly thoughtfully in the air. It made a dark, heavy swoosh sound. The whole thing he had in his hand was crude, but menacing for all its ungainliness.
"You made my house dirty, you dirty bitch." His voice was low, husky, almost disturbed. He pointed to the floor beside the arm of the couch. "Stand there."
Rachel clasped her hands together in front of her and swallowed. Fighting for breath, she crossed the room. Once she was in place she turned to face Bob. He advanced on her and she shrank, hunching down in fear. As he got close, the loops of the cable brushed against the bare flesh of her leg. Bob took hold of her arm and roughly pulled her round so she was facing the couch. Her knees and thighs pressed into its arm. She held her hands over her belly, clenched into fists.
Bob took a step back. Rachel tensed and closed her eyes tight, pressing her lips closed. Bob swung the cable back, then smashed it into Rachel's behind. Even though she knew it was coming, the shock of it staggered her. Her eyes flew open and she cried aloud. Her battered rear tried to push forward and escape the punishment, but Bob had set things up to avoid exactly that. Rachel's legs pushed into the couch and stopped her from shifting forward. As if in compensation, her naked upper body danced on the spot, swaying so it looked as though she might fall over. Bob swung the lead back again, and struck harder. She yelled in pain again, and her hands clawed at the empty air in front of her.
Rachel's heart was beating hard, pounding in her ears. Every instinct she had told her to run but she fought for self-control and forced herself to stay there, meekly letting her husband punish her. She was breathing hard, panting irregularly. The biting impact of the cables came again, and still more fire blossomed in her rear. It felt as though her buttocks had swollen up like balloons under the hammering Bob had given them.
Bob was getting excited now, and started to hit faster. He swung back further too, hitting harder. Rachel jumped and wriggled after each impact when they had been slow. Now they came faster, and her body was pushed into a continuous, endless dance under the remorseless lashes of the extension lead. She had no time to calm herself after each blow, and her yelp of pain from one stroke had not ended before the next fell. Her rump and thighs, normally pale, were now traced with a network of pink and red and purple lines. She was constantly twisting and writhing where she stood like some demented stripper trying to pole dance without a pole. Her arms waved about, instinctively seeking balance. Her conscious mind was far beyond such considerations, simply trying to find the strength to hold out and finish what she had decided to start.
Bob was getting more and more excited as he watched Rachel's fevered antics under the impacts of the punishment. As her body jerked spasmodically, her breasts bounced in irregular motions. Bob could feel a huge hard-on straining to escape his underpants. Then he saw tears on her cheeks, and thought he would come right there. He needed to be in her, now, but at the same time he didn't want to give up this new-found joy of inflicting pain on her whore body. He gave her a few more whacks, even harder and faster, and the tears started to pour down her cheeks.
That was it for Bob. He had to have her. He tried to undo his fly with his left hand and still hit her with his right. It was impossible, and after a few moments he found himself dropping the socket block. Mumbling curses he let go of the whole thing and used both hands to open his trousers. After a brief struggle he got his cock out, hard as a rock, and there was already sticky white preek on the end.
Rachel was trying to regain her composure. The beating had suddenly stopped. Her rear and the backs of her legs were still on fire. She realised she was crying, tears and snot running down her face. She tried to wipe her eyes and nose with the backs of her wrists, but her hands were shaking too badly. She heard Bob muttering to himself, then he stepped behind her. His left hand pushed her roughly in the back and she fell forward, gasping with surprise.
"Get down, you bitch!"
She struggled to find a pose to hold, trying to keep her feet on the floor, putting her hands to the seat of the couch. Bob's rod pressed between her legs. He grabbed her waist with both hands, then he was in her. Bob slammed himself forward hard, and his body hit Rachel's sore, swollen nether regions. She cried out in pain at that, but the pleasure of Bob's horn in her was greater.
"You fucking bitch!" shouted Bob, carried away on a tide of lust. "I'll fucking teach you a lesson!"
He pumped her hard. Before Bob had learnt of Rachel's infidelity, they had made love three or four times a week. Now Bob had been without release, except for his own hand, for the best part of two months. His need was urgent, all-consuming, and he used his slut bitch of a wife like a mad bull. Rachel was crying out as he did her, great yells mixed with the pleasure in her womanhood and the pain in her legs and bottom.
Rachel had ended her affair with Andrew three weeks ago, and had gone without meat for that long. Her need was great as well, and she came quickly, screaming louder as the orgasm ripped through her. Bob carried on plunging with wild energy, still building toward his own release. Rachel couldn't believe the explosion that was going on inside her loins as Bob ripped into her at a breakneck pace, driving her up to even greater heights. Bob came too, spending over a month's worth of stored up frustration and anger inside her, but he couldn't stop. He was carried away with his rut, the need to pierce and stab inside Rachel, proving she was his and punishing her for her sin with endless thrusts of his spear.
They went on like that for the rest of the evening. At some point Bob decided they should go upstairs, but before they got all the way there he decided he'd been out of her too long, and took her on the stairs on her hands and knees. Eventually they managed to make it up to the bedroom and get Bob out of his clothes. Then they spent half the night going at it like rabbits.