Tee Time
by Peter Loaf

It started out to be a pretty good day.  The May sun had driven away the last of winter, the trees were turning green again, the alimony check cleared two days early, and with that extra $50,000 he’s owed me for over a year.

All in all, a good beginning.

Too bad it all went so wrong.

After going to the bank, I was going out to the Country Club for my daily round with the First Wives Club. We four have a permanent 10AM tee time and I was running right on schedule.  Right up to the moment my car’s motor died, leaving me stranded out on that deserted five mile stretch of wooded blacktop between town and the club.

I reached for my cell phone but swore when I realized my ex had it.  I’d seen him at the nursing home, after my daily visit to Ruth, his invalid mother.  It had been there that he’d given me the check, handing it over with none of the barely concealed malice he usually displayed.  It was after he’d left, that I noticed he must have picked up my phone by mistake.

I immediately called my number from the home’s landline but got my voice mail, telling me he’d switched it off.  I left a message but knew he was leaving town that night for a few days and probably wouldn’t have a chance to get it back to me before Friday.

So there I was, two miles from the nearest phone and stuck.  I started to get out to look around when I caught a glimpse of movement in my rear view mirror.  I twisted in my seat and saw two large, ski masked men coming up behind my car, one carrying a coil of rope the other a black cloth sack.

I tried to roll up my window but the car’s battery was dead.  I tried to reach for my mace but before I could get to it I was grabbed and yanked out through the window.  Ten screaming seconds later I was hoodwinked and helpless.

They seemed to know what they were doing, as before I could marshal my thoughts they’d bent me over my car’s hood and bound my wrists together behind my back.

The gag ball they forced into my cloth covered mouth pretty much stopped me from protesting my treatment, at least verbally.

By this time I was pretty scared, so scared that I’d lost control of my bladder and soaked my designer jeans.

They stood me up and forced me to turn around several times, depriving me of my sense of direction.  They then noosed me with a length of rope and used it to guide me away.  As I was being dragged into the brush at the side of the road I heard the sound of a truck motor and then the beep beep beep of a wrecker backing up to take my car in tow.

We walked what felt like a mile, my jeans going from hot stinky wetness to dank, lip quivering chill.

At last the rope stopped me.  Hands came and turned me around several times again and then removed the gag and hoodwink, revealing a deserted wooded glade.

My two captors were nowhere to be seen.  Instead the hands on the other end of the noose rope were my ex husband’s.  I tried to bolt, only to jerk the noose tight around my own windpipe.

I fell to the forest floor, gasping like a landed fish.  Hubby bent down and released the noose a little, allowing me less than half the air I thought I needed.  "This time you won’t get away from me my dear," he said gripping my hair and hauling me back to my feet.  Dragging me backwards, he forced me to stand close to a small tree in the middle of the clearing.  I hadn’t noticed before but this tree had been shorn of all branches to a height of three meters.  Tying the noose rope to the tree, hubby then retied my wrists together behind the tree.  Then, just to be cruel, he used the extra wrist rope to draw my elbows together and bind them tight as well.

He retied the noose rope using several wraps of it to both gag me and restrain my head back against the tree.

Jerking my piss-soaked jeans down and off, he said, "Now Darling, lets talk about your alimony, shall we?" before tying my ankles out to the ends of a meter of rough hewn sapling.

Still gasping for air, gagged with a wad of rags held in by the wraps of rope, I suspected I was not going to do a lot of the talking.  I was there to listen.

Even as he pushed my shirt up and cut off my bra, I still clung to hope.  I knew he was not a nice man but he wasn’t this evil, was he?  Wouldn’t his idea of God prevent him from torturing me to death?

It’s not like I haven’t earned the money, putting up with his chauvinistic bullshit long enough to get half his wealth and income for the rest of his life had been the hardest thing I ever did.

If it hadn’t been for the support of the Sisterhood, I’d never have stuck it out.  He’d been cagey enough to make me sign a three year no-fault clause that said until I’d been his wife for three years or until I presented him with an heir, I would get only a small severance package if we divorced.  Three days after the wedding I knew I’d made a big mistake.  Hubby did not want a wife, he wanted a trophy wife.  He wanted a decoration for his arm, a servant and a broodmare.  He wanted me to cook, clean, act as hostess, manage his home, serve his every desire and most of all, bear him children.

He didn’t seem to care much for sex, at least while at home, preferring the exotic to my home-grown Caucasian beauty.  When with me, he gave the impression of a man performing a chore.  I was never loved, only serviced.

I knew he liked girls, Oriental girls, Latin girls, black girls, Hindi girls, always the younger the better.  The secret, password-protected files on his computer were full of pictures of and email from young girls he’d fucked while on his frequent business trips.

I made hard copies of everything and kept them in my safe deposit box.

Keeping my double tubectomy secret, I told him I was trying my best to get pregnant.  After a year of trying we started going to fertility specialists. So as to keep my little secret, I always went to Sisterhood doctors.

The longer he waited for me to get pregnant the colder he became toward me.  After a while he just gave up trying to impregnate me, giving a whole new file to my safe deposit box.

It took some doing to keep him from divorcing me before the three years were up but I was helped there by his mother’s need for invalid care.

But as soon as the three years were up I filed for divorce, ending up with half of everything he had or will ever earn.  My lawyer too was from the Sisterhood.  My safety deposit box was my ticket to the First Wives Club.

The Sisterhood was my sorority in college, my power base, my ace in the hole.  Something similar to Skull And Bones only with a feminist "bent", the Sisterhood has always taken care of its own.

But now the Sisterhood could not help me.  I was tied to a tree, more than half naked and having my ex husband stretch a knotted bungee cord up through my pussy, pinning my clitoris to my hip-bone.  "I want to know how you hacked my password," he said, cruelly jerking up on the crotch crusher before letting it snap against my tummy.

I grunted around the stuffing, protesting the abuse.

He caressed my nipples, then pinched them savagely, twisting and seemingly intent on pulling them off.

Again I screamed, this time in desperate need for rescue.

He grinned at me and twisted harder, making stars float in my vision.  "Nod your head if I’m on the right track.  Understand?" he said, bending to suckle the pain from my body.

Between my legs the crotch band was getting wet, they always do.  Whenever I submit to the Sisters I always stink up the place before they are done with me.

To distract myself from my pain I thought back to my week of service at the Sisterhood house.  I’d been just eighteen, semi-virgin and ready to try anything.  I’d heard wild stories about what went on at all the sororities but one house stood out.  It was called the Sisterhood and it was supposed to be dominated by a bunch of bull dykes.

It was the only house I pledged.  It sounded like heaven.

The initiation was a week in service to the Sisters.  It was performed in the house cellar, in tight bondage, and always hoodwinked so that you never knew who did what.  By the end of that week I was known as supersubbie, the pain slut. 

One of the upper-classwomen was assigned to each of the new members.  It was her duty to teach her charge the ropes.  Literally.  My teacher was Marta Van Klamp, the Denver Dyke.  She still is.  I go and see her whenever I need some more lessons, say twice a month.  She is also my divorce lawyer.

Did hubby know about my secret love life?  I had no way of knowing.  Did it matter if he knew?  Not a bit.

The only thing that mattered at this point was what Hubby was going to do to me.  I had no say in the matter.

The most terrifying thing was the stack of tinder dry tree trimmings and deadfalls he had piled up nearby.  Was he planning to burn me at the stake?  I knew he believed in burning witches, it comes with the package.

Cutting down and stripping the leaves from a bunch of whippy birch saplings he began stroking my inner thighs, not hurting me yet but savoring the perfect moment.

I wanted to run, I wanted to fly, I stood there, helpless and open, my labia hanging crimson over the now dripping wet crotch bungee.

"Now, did you plant spy-ware on my laptop?"

Filled with false bravado, I nodded against the ropes, trying to look defiant.  Besides, he knew that already.  How else would we have been able to get the movies, pictures and emails?

Again the birches caressed my hanging labia.  "Why didn’t you get pregnant?  Was it because you had yourself sterilized?"

I shook my head in denial, afraid of what he would do if he ever found out the truth.

He smiled, bent and suckled my nipple for a few seconds then stepped back and slashed my breast with the birches.  "Do NOT Lie To Me, BITCH!  He shouted, slashing my breasts with every other word.

When my head had cleared a little I heard him saying, "I found about the operation, Bitch, want to know how?"

I shook my head, still trying to deny the truth.

He hit me again, this time up between my spread legs, this time directly on my swollen, bungee-split sex.

I fought my bonds, half choking myself as I pulled the noose tighter around my windpipe.

Again he hit me, this time on the inner thigh.  I screamed and fought, gaining nothing yet unable to stand still.

"I hired those two detectives you met out on the road, bitch.  They found your surgeon." He said, whipping my burning body.  "She told us everything, before we were done with her.  The operation, the Sisterhood, the First Wives Club, everything."

I started feeling the passion welling up within me, the submissive, pain slut passion of my first sexual awakening, back in the Sisterhood’s cellar.  Hubby had never seen this side of me, had never known how I like to have my sex.

He’d been so quick to put me into the bondage of traditional trophy wifedom that he’d never stopped to consider I might like exotic sex just as much as he did.

I wasn’t fooling myself.  I knew all this was going to end badly for me.  Hell, after what he’d done so far he could never let me go.

But at that moment none of that mattered.  I was under the discipline of the birches, getting closer to orgasm with every stinging slash.  My body, still white with my winter pallor, was becoming crisscrossed with crimson welts.  My gag and noose choked screaming was reaching a crescendo, my hips were doing a bump and grind against the tightly stretched crotch splitter.

As I began to come someone shouted "FORE!" and a titanium driver crushed the side of hubby’s head, killing him instantly.

The Sisterhood’s First Wives Club had come to the rescue.