Marriage Trial By Tribulation

by Kenneth Harding


Illustration by Bishop


Originally published in Hogtie, Vol. 2, No. 2

Scanned by ekrayon and Transcribed by guardian46w

Jane Johnson had the usual misgivings which all brides-to-be experience about a week before the long-awaited wedding night. It was true that she and Philip Wentworth had been engaged for six months and had known each other for more than two and a half years, but all the same, going out with a man to dinner and a show, or the theater and ballet was one thing, while going to bed with him and surrendering up her body for his whims and foibles was quite another. They had a great deal in common, it was true. Philip, thirty-five, had certain professional qualities about him which, as she sat before her boudoir mirror now studying her reflection and wondering what it was going to be like next Saturday night, made Jane Johnson just a little apprehensive.

It was true that Philip was immensely successful in his business as a public relations man, owning his own agency. Yet last week when she had visited him in his office on North Michigan Avenue to invite him to lunch with her the next day so that he could meet her mother who was flying in from New York just to see and approve of her new son-in-law, she had caught him in the midst of dictating a lengthy presentation. His attractive, mature, thirty-year-old brown-haired secretary Phyllis had really been put through the paces, as precisely and imperiously as if he were a schoolmaster and Phyllis a somewhat backward child. And Jane had begun to wonder whether the man she was going to marry next Saturday might not lecture and scold her just as didactically as he had done his secretary.


Star Gazing


There wasn't any doubt that there was some physical magnetism between the two of them, Jane had to admit. As she stared into her mirror, she saw the vision of an oval face exquisitely set off by her short bobbed black hair, to accentuate her high arching forehead, and her dark brown eyes with their almost oblong slant gave her the look of a Eurasian. So, too, did her high-set cheekbones, her firm dimpled chin, the aquiline nose with its thin, widely flaring wings, and her small and rather petulant mouth. Her skin was olive and warm, furthering the illusion of some Polynesian blood. Indeed, they had planned to go to Honolulu for the start of their honeymoon, thence to the neighboring islands of Kauai, Maui and the big island of Hawaii, and wind up in Tahiti. It was certainly a romantic setting, but if you went there with the wrong man, it could be the, most boring and dreary time of all.

Jane Johnson was twenty-five, and although she was reasonably chaste, she wasn't a virgin. At seventeen, out of a scientific curiosity, she had lost her cherry to a handsome Austrian skiing instructor in Snow Valley. In college, in her senior year she had had a brief but very torrid affair with a bearded young assistant professor of psychology who had indicated to her that she had just a touch of the masochist in her, just enough to make her wildly exciting if she ever found a man who could be her true master. He himself was engaged, but his fiancée was in Buenos Aires doing work for the Peace Corps. Nonetheless, that month-long liaison with Henry Warburton had wakened her senses and given her an avid foretaste of what passion could really be like. She recalled the next to last night they had been together, when he had suddenly taken her over his lap and spanked her bottom so hard that she was crying, and then, without even apologizing rolled her onto the floor, bruising her inflamed behind painfully, then mounted her and fucked her savagely until she spent deliriously.

She didn't think that Philip Wentworth was capable of such ruthless savagery, and yet now she knew that that was exactly what she wanted.

She rose now, reaching for the perfume atomizer, delicately spraying the pulse hollow of her throat, the cleft between her high perched, widely spaced pear-shaped titties, and the soft niches of her armpits in which tiny sprigs of soft curly black love hair grew. She was wearing just a skimpy white nylon bra and matching panties, and she studied herself critically. Henry Warburton had praised her body, saying that it was lithe, pliant and elastic, and that a man could devote hours at a time just to a part of it. She shivered and closed her eyes, remembering the night they had spent in an abandoned little farm shack in Indiana when Henry's car had broken down and a blizzard had started to set in. He's taken out the car blankets and they'd headed for the farmhouse, and they'd found an old broken-down couch. They'd kept their clothes on while they made love, but his caressing of her thighs and buttocks, his kisses to her nipples and his licking them, had set her off into one of the wildest and most abandoned crises of sheer lust that she had ever known in all her life.


Sensuous Body


She was five feet seven inches tall, willowy, with oval shaped buttocks rather compactly set together, long gracefully chiseled thighs, sleek, sinuous calves. She had a tiny brown birthmark, oval shaped, high on her inner left thigh, and a beauty spot on her left shoulder near the dimple. After college, she had gone to work as a secretary in a commercial art studio for about two years, and the last two years she had spent working in promotion of the city's opera company. It was a part-time job but she loved it. That was how she had met Philip Wentworth, indeed. Actually, she had met him six months before she started the job, and they had had just about one date, but then, just after she had started the opera job, he'd come over to the office in the Civic Opera Building, old Sam Insull's white elephant, to buy some season tickets for himself and several members of his public relations staff. They had renewed their dating then, and it had been a casual thing. Mostly, their meetings had been intellectual, for both enjoyed good food in the finest restaurants in Chicago. But invariably Philip had taken her to museums, art films, even lectures and travelogues. That, indeed, was what had inspired them both to select Hawaii and then Tahiti as the locale of their honeymoon, for they had watched travelogues of those two fascinating areas in the glamorous South Pacific.


Hidden Animal


Yet strangely enough, though she had hinted several times that she wouldn't be averse to going to bed with him as a sort of trial before their marriage, even though they had become engaged, Philip Wentworth had scrupulously avoided taking her to bed or making what might even be construed as a serious pass at her. That was another thing which, as she now lit a cigarette and stared at herself in the mirror again, led her to wonder whether perhaps it was his very aloofness and his perfectionist qualities as a man which had challenged her rather than the actual chemistry of their bodies. And for him, did she, she wondered, possess the attributes which would unleash what real animal desire he had for her as a man who covets a desirable woman? Of course, she would find that out Saturday night, on her wedding night. And she hadn't told him that she wasn't a virgin, either. Perhaps that was a mistake, too. And of course, she could always tell him that on Saturday night, or when they left the church in the afternoon, she reflected.

It wasn't that he didn't kiss her or hold her or make her feel thoroughly like a woman. Quite the opposite. On the evening she had agreed to be engaged to him, he had brought her home and then very satisfactorily kissed her, his hands gliding down her back and resting at her hips until she had almost been audacious enough to rub herself tightly against him and waken him to possessing her. In fact, when he had released her, she had been trembling with desire, and if he had only given her some sort of look or said something, she could have been in bed with him that very night.



Learned Discipline


Last week, at a sort of combination pre-marriage and stag party which her best friend, Deedee Benson had thrown for both of them and for a select group of their friends, they had found themselves alone at the punch bowl for a few minutes. Jan had looked at Philip and whispered, "Don't you feel like getting away from all this, darling and coming to my place and making love to me?" That was the boldest she had ever been with him. And what had he answered? "Of course, I do, darling, but we're going to wait like sensible people until we're married. You mustn't think I'm a stuffy old bachelor who doesn't have ideas about a beautiful girl like you, but I've learned to discipline myself in my business, and I apply the same rules to my own life."

She was worrying over that remark now as she crushed out her cigarette and then feverishly lit another one. If he could be here with her right now, see her in just her skimpy bra and panties, what would he do? Would he be man enough, would he have guts enough, to rip them off her and take her as she stood here now, forcing her even against her will, carrying her over to that chaise lounge and giving it to her and showing her what a real man he was? Or would he simply tell her to get dressed and remind her that after all they would be man and wife on Saturday?



Philip Darling


The doorbell rang. She made a grimace of annoyance. Mother had gone back to New York (her father had had an amicable divorce from her mother about five years ago) and she wasn't expecting even Deedee. It was Tuesday evening, and it was eight thirty, and she had planned to curl up with a good book and maybe watch TV. Maybe she wouldn't even go to the opera office tomorrow afternoon, but just lounge around and sort of send thought waves to Philip so that on Saturday night he would be the man she was longing he would be.

She put on her robe and hurried to the door, opened it warily on bar.

"Yes, who is it?"

"The only man in your life, I hope," was the answer.

"Philip darling!" she cried eagerly, closed the door and swung aside the bar and then opened it. And then she uttered a stifled cry of mingled fear and surprise. The tall man who entered wore a stocking mask, corduroy trousers, a pullover wool sweater and sandals. She put her hand to her mouth and stepped back, because the voice had been Philip's, but the man here looked nothing so much as a creature from out of space with that grotesque stocking mask of his. And Philip was too impeccably groomed ever to wear dirty corduroys and have his bare feet in strap on sandals and wear a dirty old sweater.


Final Examination


Before she could say a word, the man had bolted her door and then lifted her up in his arms and was carrying her towards her bedroom. She kicked and struggled, "Philip — if this is a joke, I don't think very much of it — take off that terrible thing —Philip — let me down — what the devil do you think you're doing?"

But he didn't answer. He entered her bedroom and dumped her unceremoniously upon the bed. Then, closing the bedroom door, he delved into the pockets of his corduroy trousers and brought out two strong lengths of cord. Then he was on her before she could scramble off the bed, and in a trice, he had tied her wrists behind her back and bound her ankles as well. Now he unfurled her robe, and then suddenly he ripped off her bra. She uttered a scream: "Stop it! I don't like this kind of joke at all, it's gone far enough! Philip, are you listening to me?"


Frantically Helpless


But he didn't answer. Instead, kneeling beside her, proceeded to tweak her flinty nipples till they turned dark and stiff, between thumbs and forefingers which pinched and squeezed and manipulated them in every direction, sometimes slapping them back into the aureole, sometimes drawing them out until she uttered a gurgling cry of pain. Then, chuckling softly, he ripped off her panties, so that she was naked except for the widely spread bathrobe. Now again he delved into the pockets of his corduroy trousers, and pulled out a black bandanna. This he bound over her eyes, and now she felt frantically helpless. She tried to jerk her wrists free, but she couldn't. Then he rolled her over. And then a stinging pain burned her upturned naked oval cheeked behind as she felt his hand come down with full force, and then again on the other cheek. She tried to kick her legs, but he had tied her ankles much too tightly. He was kneeling beside her, and his palm was forcing her down by the middle of her back, and she was helpless. His hand rose and fell a dozen, twenty, thirty times, and she shrieked hoarsely. Her bottom felt as if it were on fire, the flesh was swollen and exquisitely agonizing at the very slightest touch. And yet his hand remorselessly continued. Now her hips were jerking violently, without control, and she was sobbing hoarsely into the tear wet sheets.


Buried to the Hilt


And then suddenly she felt herself drawn up, made to kneel, and his hands were gripping her cruelly by the edges of her hips, and then she felt the hot hard rigidity of his maleness, delving for the soft pink cleft of her pussy.

"Ohh, no, don't, I don't want you to — you brute — oh you beast — aahhh!" she groaned.

But by now his cock was well inside her, and he thrust inexorably forward until he was buried to the hilt.

Now his fingertips began to pluck at her swollen nipples, for a moment. Then he shoved her flat on her belly on the bed, mounted over her and imbedded to the balls. His hands forced their way under her titties, and began to clutch and knead them, while he began a slow in and out movement till, even against her will, she felt herself responding. Sobbing and gasping, Jane Johnson arched and writhed as she felt herself brought inexorably toward the brink of climax.

And then suddenly her body exploded and white-hot fire engulfed her as she felt the lash of his jet, and then she groaned aloud as she felt him draw away and leave the bed. A moment later, as in a dream, she heard the front door slamming.

She lay there, still bound, until finally she managed to roll off the bed and to crawl ignominiously and painfully towards the bathroom where she had a razor. About fifteen minutes later, twisting and contorting herself like an acrobat, she managed at last to saw the razor blade against the rope which bound her ankles, holding the handle of the razor in her teeth. A few moment later, holding the handle of the razor blade in her left hand, she sawed her wrist bounds free ...


Flash of Recognition

It was Saturday afternoon in the church. Tall and beautiful in white organdy, with a veil over her face, Jane Johnson came down the aisle to meet

Bish1323-A by guardian46w