Her Beautiful Man

In order to preserve your self-respect, it is sometimes necessary to cheat and lie.

~ Robert Byrne

It wasn't that Cheryl didn't love Martin. He was once her very best friend, but marrying him had been a big mistake. Martin worked hard and made a decent living at the software company, but there was just no passion in their relationship. She thought she could learn to get over the twinge of disgust she felt whenever Martin touched her. Father Dutton said that with time the passion would come, but he certainly turned out to be the wrong person to ask. What could a pedophile priest know about passion between a man and a grown-up woman? Of course, no one knew about Father Dutton's unwholesome proclivities, until he was literally caught with his pants down.

The latte she picked up at the drive-thru espresso bar tasted like dirt. Cheryl wondered why she continued to patronize the place—the quality of the beverages was so hit-and-miss. She considered going back and complaining, but she was in a hurry. That's where they get you, she thought. Everyone is in such a hurry that nobody goes back and complains. Besides, the barista with all the facial piercings looked like the kind of kid who would spit in your coffee if you complained, and she certainly didn't want that.

She checked her make-up in the rearview mirror. Cheryl was quickly approaching her 24th birthday, but she still had the youthful appearance of a teenager, especially when she had her hair up in a ponytail. What did Martin say this morning? “You know, I read that a woman is twice as likely to be raped if she has her hair in a ponytail.” What an ass, she thought. He didn't even look up from his computer screen—too busy playing World of Warlocks. She had gotten up in a particularly good mood, and her husband had to throw in his typical morning buzzkill. She silently responded to his admonition with her middle finger. He didn't see it. He had goblins to kill.

She adjusted the mirror and turned her head to the side. The star shaped tattoos behind her right ear were visible whenever she put her blond hair up. As much as she hated to admit it, her mother had been right; Cheryl regretted getting the tattoos, especially since Martin had an identical set on his neck. They had just turned 18 and Martin talked her into getting the body decorations as a permanent declaration of their friendship. Now, the tattoos seemed more like a brand—a symbol that she was forever Martin Miller's property.

In spite of the tattoos, she was satisfied with her appearance. She was wearing a new bodysuit that showed off her perfect little figure. She wondered if he was going to be in the gym this morning. He hadn't been in for several days and she was beginning to fear that he had moved away or found another place to work out. Walking toward the main entrance of The Body Shop, she was delighted to see him on the Stairmaster: her Beautiful Man.

Jack Benson, Jr. was the undisputed leader of his amateur cycling club: The Portland Cyclones. A natural athlete, like his father and grandfather before him, he was born with the body of a Greek god. He had just finished an early morning ride with his exclusive set of training buddies, but he felt he still needed to work out a few kinks in his quadriceps. The Tour of Cascadia was coming up in three short weeks and Jack wanted to make sure he was more than ready for the contest. The Tour was the home field race, so to speak, and a member of the Cyclones had brought home the yellow jersey every year for the past three. An hour on the Stairmaster was just what was needed, according to the complicated training schedule he had devised for himself.

Jack noticed the cute little blond the minute she walked into the gym. He had noticed her several times before, in fact. This morning she was wearing a red leotard that left very little to the imagination. Great, he thought. I'm already having a hard enough time concentrating on my workout. She was showing her ID to the girl at the front desk, and he had a perfect, unobstructed view of her tight little frame. She certainly did have a gorgeous body. She looked young, though, maybe 17 or 18. “Seventeen will get you twenty,” he said aloud.

“What was that?” said the pinch-faced matron on the next Stairmaster over. Jack was listening to his iPod and didn't realize how loudly he'd spoken.

“Oh, nothing. It's just a rap tune I'm listening to. Sorry.” Jack pointed to his headphones. The older woman scowled at him disapprovingly.

“That misogynistic garbage is demeaning and promotes violence against women...”

“Sorry, I can't hear you. Headphones.” Jack pointed toward his ears again. “Seventeen will get you twennie—bumpin' wit you hunnie!” His rap was atrocious.

The woman gave a loud “Humph!” and went back to watching a soap opera on the flat screen monitor mounted on the wall.

During the exchange, Jack had lost sight of the cute blond. When he looked up again, he was surprised to see her climbing onto the treadmill directly in front of him. Great, he thought. This workout is going to be totally worthless.

Cheryl prayed that she had gotten her Beautiful Man's attention. It was worth the sneer the girl at the counter gave her. Of course, she knew wearing a skin-tight body suit to the gym was ridiculous, and every woman in the place was looking at her like she was some kind of pariah. Screw them. As she trotted on the treadmill, she wondered what he was thinking. Is he looking at me? She was certain that he had noticed her on previous occasions. They shared a smile at the drinking fountain the other day and she hated herself for being too timid to say hello.

What was she doing? She was a married woman—a newlywed, really. She had taken a vow to honor and cherish Martin, and here she was parading around in a revealing outfit that she had purchased for the sole purpose of attracting another man. Her cheeks suddenly flushed, but not from shame. She was excited and the thought that her plan may be working gave her a thrill that she had never before experienced.

Cheryl started to get restless. This is taking too fucking long, she thought. When is this guy going to make a move? She decided to take matters into her own hands. What the hell, here goes nothing.

Cheryl dropped her towel onto the running treadmill and it shot backwards. With near-perfect choreography, she reached back for the towel and pretended to stumble. One step, two steps, three steps back. With a stylish pirouette, she reached the back of the treadmill and was looking directly into her Beautiful Man's gorgeous hazel eyes. “Oh! Excuse me! How embarrassing!” she exclaimed, as she crashed landed against the Stairmaster.

“Whoa! Are you okay?”

“Oh, I think...I think I hurt my ankle.” Cheryl limped away from the machines, and Jack was off the Stairmaster taking her arm. It worked.

“Hey, let me give you a hand.”

Game Time

“Oh, honey, are you sure you don't mind? I haven't seen Becky since graduation, and this little trip to Cannon Beach sounds like soooo much fun. Just us girls rummaging through the antique stores...” Martin interrupted Cheryl with a grunt and a dismissive wave. He was busy leading a raiding party against a clan of Orcs that had been giving everyone in his guild a hard time for the past two days.

Son of a bitch, she thought. I could be standing here butt-naked and he wouldn't even notice. Jack would notice, though—boy, would he notice.

Cheryl felt no love for her husband at that moment and absolutely no regrets about the romantic rendezvous she was planning with Jack. They had reservations at the Sea Breeze Inn and Spa. Every room came complete with a custom hot tub and a king-size bed. Three days in a private room with Jack's sculpted, athletic body—her nipples tightened at the thought.

Of course, Jack had a bike race on Saturday morning. She would spend most of the day browsing through the quaint shops in town. Jack would bring back the trophy and Cheryl would give her champion a special prize that night.

“What the fuck is up with you? Are you high or something?” Cheryl was so engrossed in her fantasy that she didn't notice Martin get up from his computer chair. He was carrying a beer and a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and was on his way back from the kitchen.

“Huh?” was the only reply Cheryl could muster, as the vision of her lover's muscular form slowly faded from her mind.

“Huh? I swear to God, Cheryl, you are a total numbnuts. I asked you three fucking times to get me a beer and you just sat there with that dumbass grin on your face. Don't go spending all of my money at those fruity antique stores. I can tell that's what you're dreaming about. We can't afford that kind of bullshit right now.” Martin interrupted his own tirade with a loud belch.

Martin was wearing threadbare flannel pajama bottoms that had probably last seen the inside the washing machine a month ago. His “Black Goat of the Woods” t-shirt hadn’t been off his torso for three days. He had never been a handsome man, and the thirty extra pounds of pudge that he’d added to his mid-section over the past few years did little to improve his appearance. Cheryl couldn’t believe she shared the same bed with this slob.

“I'm paying for this trip with my own money, you asshole!”

“Yeah, like you ever made any money on your own. You've been livin' on somebody else's dime your whole life.” Martin put on his headset and parked himself in front of his computer monitor again. Leaning back in his chair, his too-small t-shirt hiked up over his hairy gut. He absent-mindedly picked a large piece of lint out of his navel, brought it to his nose for a sniff, and summarily flicked it to the floor.

“Red Leader 6, this is Blue Leader 3. Looks like you took out that nest of Orcs over in sector 19, but they're regrouping in the Shadowlands. FUCK! Didn't you see those guys coming up the battlement on the north tower? STUPID FUCKERS! I can't even get up to get myself a beer! Thanks a lot, Cheryl, you stupid ditz!”

Cheryl started to answer with a few epithets of her own, but she realized that he couldn't hear her over the Orcs' battle cry. Martin was right about the money, she thought, but he didn't have to be such a dick about it. He made good money as a computer programmer—more than enough to furnish their apartment with something better than the IKEA crap he loved so much. It was his idea that she move in with him and quit her job at the restaurant. He didn't like the idea of her parading around in that skimpy uniform. He was obsessively jealous and possessive before they got married—now, he didn't give a crap what she did. Well, she'd be doing Jack this weekend. What do you think about that, you chubby fuck? Cheryl smiled and kept the thought to herself.

“I'm going out, jerk. I'll be back by dinner.”

“Hey! If you're going to the store, bring back some more Cheetos and a 12 pack of PBR. Some of the guys from work are coming over for a LAN party tonight. Remember—PABST. I don't want those cheap-ass losers drinking up all the good beer. DAMN IT! Reggie! Didn't I tell you to move those archers into position at the gate! FUCK! We're all going to get killed by that Uber-Demon again! You prick! You're out of the guild! Go back to level 50, you butthole!”

As soon as she was out the door, Cheryl ran to her car; mainly to escape Martin's loud, expletive-filled droning, but also to get to Jack's apartment before he got home from work. She had new g-string panties on and was eager to see the look on his face when she peeled off her jeans. Martin could go to the store and pick up his own goddamn beer.

Cheryl found the key to Jack's apartment just where he said it would be—behind the fichus in the corner of the landing. When she started to put the key in the lock, the door slowly moved inward. It had been slightly ajar. Jack must have forgotten to close it all the way. That's not like him, she thought.

“Hello?” Cheryl found herself feeling very tentative about going any farther than the entryway. “Jack? Are you home, honey?” There was no answer. Cheryl left the front door open and slowly entered the living room. From there, she could see most of the one bedroom apartment. “Hello?”

A quick check of the bedroom and bathroom satisfied Cheryl's apprehension. There wasn't anyone lurking about inside Jack's place, and everything appeared to be in proper order. She shut the door and situated herself on the couch. She tousled her hair and reapplied her lipstick. What the hell, she thought, as she pulled off her sweater and jeans. I'll make sure Jack is really glad to see me. What a perfect surprise for her Beautiful Man.

Jack's apartment wasn't the typical bachelor pad. It was tastefully decorated—he admitted to paying a professional to do the job—and there wasn't a single piece of cheap, Swedish furniture to be found. Of course, the prints on the wall depicted sports and outdoor scenes, but they were behind glass and in expensive frames. Martin's idea of room decoration consisted of a WWE poster pinned up with two rusty thumbtacks.

Cheryl picked up a newspaper and glanced through the headlines for a few minutes. She checked her watch—5:15. Jack was usually home by five sharp. What could be keeping him? She exchanged the paper for a copy of GQ that had been carefully positioned on the coffee table and switched on the faux Tiffany lamp.

She was starting to feel stupid and self-conscious lying around in her underwear. She went to the desk to get the cordless phone. That's when she noticed that the computer was on. A session of World of Warlocks was running on the 24 inch LCD monitor. What the fuck?, she thought. Jack never plays computer games. That's a Martin thing... She felt a sick turning begin in the pit of her stomach. There was a yellow stickie note on the screen. Written in deliberate block letters: PLAY ME, OR LOVER BOY DIES.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Cheryl screamed. Her twitching fingers hovered above the handset. What if it's Jack? What if it's...someone else? The realization that Jack may be in trouble and in need of help pushed Cheryl beyond her fear. She picked up the phone and forced herself to take a breath. “H-hello?”

“Sit down and put on the headphones, bitch.” The voice sounded mechanical, as though it was being disguised by some kind of electronic device. Cheryl felt another scream start to well up from her solar plexus, but she managed to somehow keep it inside.

“Who the hell is this? Marty? I know it's you, you BASTARD! What did you do to JACK?”

“What did you do to JACK?” The voice mocked her with robotic sarcasm, followed with a sinister, tinny laugh. “I don't know anything about any Marty, but I know your pretty boyfriend won't live another minute unless you sit down and put on those headphones, Cheryl. And don't even think about doing anything stupid. I'm watching you.” Cheryl turned toward the window. The drapes were drawn.

“I know what you're thinking. The curtains can't keep me from seeing you. Those sure are some skimpy panties you're almost wearing. Does your husband know that you're running around practically naked in another man's apartment?”

Cheryl instantly felt violated. He could see her—but how? There had to be a hidden camera somewhere in the room. That would be no problem for Martin to install. He was a freaky genius with everything electronic. Cheryl grabbed a throw that had been carefully draped across the back of the couch and tossed it over her shoulders.

“Hey, that's not fair. I was enjoying the view,” said the voice. “I guess I'll just have to be satisfied with this...” Instantly, the computer screen switched to a video of two naked bodies undulating on a four-poster bed—Jack's bed. It took a minute for Cheryl to recognize the people engaging in the exceptionally athletic love-making session.

“You FUCKER, Marty! Stop this right now! You're SICK! What did you do to Jack?”

“What did you do to JACK? Wah! You're such a whiner, Cheryl. Really, I don't know how Marty puts up with your incessant hissy-fits, and then there's the whole cheating whore thing... most fellows find that to be a big turn-off. But I digress—SIT DOWN AND PUT ON THE HEADPHONES!”

Cheryl tried to think of a way to summon help, but quickly decided she was out of options. She knew she could simply run from the apartment and call the police, but something told her that if she did, Jack would never come home again. She sat down at the computer desk and put on the headphones. “Now what?”

As soon as the words passed her lips, a computer animated character walked onto the screen in front of her. She had watched Martin play World of Warlocks enough to recognize the pudgy figure of a Witcher Guide, elf-like creatures charged with escorting newbs—newcomers to the game—through the first 10 experience levels.

“Greetings, harlot! I am Doritrios the Elder, and I've been expecting you!” The pudgy male figure changed into a scantily clad female and then into a black cat. Witcher Guides had the annoying ability to morph into any character or object. Cheryl had almost forgotten how irritating they could be. “Are you ready for your first quest?” the cat purred.

A dialog box appeared on the screen: Accept Quest? Below the question, there were two checkboxes marked simply: YES and NO.

Cheryl checked yes and the screen went momentarily blank. When it came back on, Cheryl found herself watching a cut-scene video. A young man on a white stallion was proceeding alone into a dark forest. Behind a large boulder at the end of the path, two ogres could be seen laying in wait for him. Cheryl couldn't help noticing that the muscular, regal young man looked a great deal like a computer-animated version of Jack.

“Prince Jacobian looks a lot like your sweetie-pie, doesn't he?” hissed the tinny voice through the headphones. “Watch what happens next!”

As the prince approached the ambush, his horse let out a tentative snort and stopped a few steps in front of the boulder. “Onward, Klapacius! We have demons to slay!”

“What a dumbass!” said Cheryl's tormentor. “His horse has more sense than he does!” Instantly, the ogres sprang forth from their hiding places and approached the prince.

The camera aspect of the screen moved back and slightly upward. Cheryl recognized that the game had entered battle mode. She would now have to engage in some selective strategy to defeat the ogres, using weapons, magic spells or any special powers her character had come across during quests. The Weapons Menu opened and Cheryl was disappointed to see the prince was only equipped with the most rudimentary sword and a mace. There were no spells in the Magic Menu. This would be a difficult fight. The ogres both had heavy armor and huge battleaxes.

Cheryl selected the mace and directed her mouse at the ogre with the blue armor. The prince took two looping swings and missed both times. The ogre's ax hit it's mark solidly, however, and the prince's Lifeforce Meter instantly dropped to half. The red ogre advanced quickly and his single blow killed the prince immediately.

“Oh, that was a terrible effort,” said the tinny voice, sounding truly disappointed. “I really thought you'd defeat at least one of the ogres.”

“FUCK, YOU, ASSHOLE!” was the only reply Cheryl could manage. “Only nerds play these pathetic RPG's!”

“That may be true,” hissed the voice. “But losing this game has some serious consequences...”

The computer screen went blank for a moment and then displayed a video of a man duct-taped to a chair. The chair was situated in a corner constructed of cinder block walls. Rusty pipes jutted from the ceiling. A basement? Cheryl didn't recognize the room. A large piece of duct-tape covered the man's mouth, but even with the face partially obscured, Cheryl did recognize him.

“Jack! Oh, my God, Jack! What the hell are you doing to him?”

The camera registered the shadow of a door opening and closing just out of range. There was a look of wide-eyed terror on Jack's face and he began struggling violently against his bonds. Cheryl soon found out why.

A stocky man wearing a hockey mask entered the frame. He was also wearing a filthy, blood-stained butcher's apron, black rubber gloves, and carrying what appeared the be a rusty hacksaw.

“No! What the fuck? What are you doing, you crazy bastard?” Cheryl was hysterical. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO JACK?”

The man in the hockey mask grabbed Jack's right index finger and jerked it upward toward the ceiling and then back further toward his wrist. The hand was taped to the arm of the chair with what appeared to be a half roll of duct-tape. All of Jack's fingers were exposed and vulnerable. The index finger was obviously broken when it was bent backward. Jack's whole body shook with spasms of pain.

Suddenly, with Cheryl still dumbfounded by the assault she had just witnessed, the man in the mask went to work on Jack's finger with the hacksaw. It only took half a dozen furious swipes with the blade to remove the digit. Blood showered the hockey man's apron and splashed across the floor. Jack's silenced scream was still evident in his frantic, ever-widening eyes.

A large, tiger-striped dog entered the frame. Cheryl recognized it as a Bullmastiff. Marty hated dogs. He was actually quite terrified of them. A German Shepard bit him in the face when he was nine years old and he still had visible scars from the attack. No way was Jack's torturer Marty.

The man in the mask whistled a command and the monster of a dog stood obediently at attention. With a quick flick of his wrist, the man tossed Jack's finger to the dog. The Bullmastiff was clearly well-trained and exceedingly well-practiced at the trick. He didn't miss the catch, and the finger was devoured instantly.

Cheryl screamed for what seemed like an eternity. This just couldn't be happening. Some degenerate was forcing her to play a video game and the penalty for losing was having to watch her lover get hacked to pieces and fed to a dog... The computer screen went blank and Cheryl felt like she was going to pass out.

“Shush, shush, shush, you stupid little twat. If you don't shut up and calm yourself, the next thing I'm taking is lover boy's HEAD.”

To be continued...