He kissed her, forced her lips open with his mouth. She could taste the whiskey he had been drinking, feel his whiskers and the scab on his face. A wave of revulsion swept over her, and she pushed him away. As he fell back, the white bulldog moved toward her, his growl becoming louder.

“Ah, feisty, ain’t she, Luper?” Wilson stroked the dog. “Well, sometimes that’s the kind’s the most fun.” He turned and reached for the whiskey bottle and saw Baby holding it. “gaddammit! Give me that!” He grabbed the bottle, tipped it up, and took a very long drink. “I want you and the kids to get outta here,” he said to Baby.

“But, Zack–”

“I said get out! Take ‘em over to the soddie. Take ‘em someplace. I don’t care where.”

“Lemme just get a few things together for ‘em. It’ll take just a minute.”

Wilson sat down at the table, emptied the whiskey bottle, and stared at Sophie. She was terrified, felt sick with apprehension. She had no weapons, no hope of help. Paul was the only one who knew where she was, and there was no reason for him to come after her. What could she do? She couldn’t give in to Wilson. She couldn’t. But if she fought him, what might he do. He was stronger than she–and there was that dog. Every time she moved, the dog growled.

“Goddamnit, Baby! What’s takin’ you so long?” Wilson demanded.

“Just about ready, Zack, just about ready.” Baby stood in the doorway with the two children. She would not look at Sophie. “Zack,” Baby said, “she’s not his sweetheart.”

“Get your ass outta here!”

“You can’t do this, Zack, you just can’t. They’ll come after you. You’d know that if you weren’t drunk.”

He made a threatening move toward her, and she ran, jerking the blond-haired child off her feet.

As Wilson moved toward Sophie, she stood, but the dog growled menacingly, and she dared move no farther. Wilson grabbed her by the shoulders and put his face on her neck. He mumbled words she couldn’t understand.

She tried to steel herself, control her revulsion. All her instincts demanded that she fight him, that she kick, bite, anything to push him away, to get his hands off her. But her mind was moving rapidly. What would happen if she did? It wouldn’t change the outcome, merely delay it and bring her more pain and injury. She tried drawing within herself to a place he couldn’t touch, to a place from which she could watch him and hate him with a pure and unalloyed hatred.

He kissed her then, full on the lips as before, and he began to fumble with the buttons on the front of her dress. His breath, the whiskers scratching her face, his filthy hands on her flesh–suddenly…..

Fledgling writers are always advised to ‘write what you know,’ so it’s pretty interesting trying to determine what and who Lynne Cheney knew here, in this excerpt.

But TBOGG found it, Lynne’s complete novel ‘Sisters’, published by Mrs. Tarquin Biscuitbarrel, at Livejournal.

Wyoming, a drunken Zack and a white bulldog sure can play the devil on a woman’s fantasies. But it’s too much for me, so please excuse me while I go blush.