Distinguishing
Feature
“I
bruise eashily,” I mumbled, as he held me in his strong arms and squashed his
lips against mine. He was pushing me against a brick wall in an alley not far
from the pub where we met. I could feel the roughness of the bricks through my
thin cotton dress. The skin of my ass would be grazed, reddened. As he embraced
me I felt a monstrosity of a hardened penis press against my tummy. Whoa, I
thought, I hope I can cope with that, and I imagined it going in and out of me,
and each time he thrust it in, my belly would bulge out, and each time he
pulled it back, I'd go flat – bulge, flat, bulge, flat, bulge, flat –
would the exercise be better than the gym? Certainly more enjoyable.
Eagerness
and anxiety thrilled me as his hand slid up my thigh and fingers pulled at my
panties.
Someone
shouted, “Samantha!”
Oh
God, it was David. I tried to push my alleyway lover away. His finger was
sliding into me. I didn’t want to be discovered like this. Not with my panties
down, or even pulled over to the side. The man with the smooth hands, whose
name I couldn’t remember, asked, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s
my husband.”
“I
thought you said he’d gone home.”
“I
thought he had.”
It
was too late. Standing at the end of the alley, blocking out the streetlight,
was my beloved hubby. He looked bigger than he normally did, and I wondered if
he’d been bitten by a spider and turned into the Incredible Hulk, but I
remembered it wasn’t a spider. What was it that made the Incredible Hulk big and
strong? Guinness, maybe.
“Samantha,
is that you?”
What
was I supposed to say – No? He’d recognise my voice. The man without a name
removed his hand from under my dress. I felt relieved, but slightly
saddened. I’d been looking forward to a bit of excitement. At a rough
guess, the biggest I’d ever had.
“It
is you, you fuckin’ bitch.”
Oh
dear, this wasn’t going to be a night of pleasant memories.
“What
fucking scumbag have you picked up this time?”
He
lumbered like a grizzly bear down the alleyway towards us. Then, about five
yards away, he stopped. I wondered why – till I saw Mr Nameless had a gun.
“Fuck
off,” said Mr Nameless.
“That’s
my wife you’re with.”
He
made it sound like I was his property.
“David,
it’s not what you think. I fell over and he helped me…”
“Shuddup
bitch.”
I
shut up, wobbled a bit and fell over.
“I
said fuck off,” shouted Mr Nameless.
David
took a step forward. A shot fired, and I watched as my darling husband
staggered and collapsed.
Mr
Nameless ran off and disappeared into the street. David lay on the ground
bleeding and gurgling. I crawled over to him.
“Who
was that cunt?” he asked.
“I
can’t remember hish name,” I replied, rather unhelpfully.
At
the hospital I was questioned by the police.
“So
where did you meet him?”
“Who?”
“The
man who shot your husband.”
“In
The Queen’s.”
“Can
you give us a description?”
“Tall,
white, blonde.”
“Is
that all?”
“It
was dark.”
“So
was it dark in the pub?”
“In
the pub I thought there were two of him.”
“So
no distinguishing features?”
Was his
monster cock a distinguishing feature? Could I tell them about that?
“I
was drunk.”
David
said he wanted a divorce. He’d said it before. Once he was home I was sure I
could change his mind. I bought a leather corset, buttplug, and some new
handcuffs.
I've
always found that a tied up man stays with you for longer.
My
daughter’s attitude towards me changed. I was the creator of all the evil in
the universe. She started a new routine for herself. Instead of coming home
after school she went straight to the hospital to see her dad. She ate there
and did her homework with her father’s help. When she came home she went
straight to her room. I was persona non grata.
Then
the police arrested a suspect and I had to go to identify him. I looked at all
the men but I but I didn’t recognise anyone.
The
only way I could be sure was if he got a hard-on and pressed it against me. The
logistics were horrendous. There were six in the identity parade. They’d all
have to rub themselves up and press against me. Then I'd say ‘Hm, I'm
not sure. Can you do it again?’
What
if I didn’t recognise any of them. The whole process would have to be gone
through again. As much as the idea excited me, telling the police about Mr
Monster Cock would be far too embarrassing.
Because
I couldn’t give a positive description the suspect was set free. Two days later
he shot and killed a woman in a bungled street robbery. This time witnesses
came forward.
Apart
from my daughter’s disapproving attitude towards me and my sorrow about what
happened to David, I feel responsible for the death of a young mother. I can’t
help looking at her photo online and reading about her life and tragic death.
My only consolation is the absurd notion of taking someone to court based
solely on the impression their penis made on you.
“Did
you have it inside you?”
“No.”
“So
you only felt it push against you?”
“Yes.”
“Ladies
and gentlemen of the jury I think we can safely dismiss this witness’s
evidence.”
Even
so I feel guilty, wondering if I could have prevented her death.
Maybe
I could. It's something I'll never know.
