Madge's Medal
Copyright (c) 1994, Franchot Lewis
All rights reserved




                    MADGE'S MEDAL

                  by Franchot Lewis

          There was no honeymoon, because the day after we got married
     was a monday, and on Mondays, I had to go to work. Madge had to go
     to her job too. But that Sunday night of our wedding day, I'd planned
     to go to work on Madge. She was a sweet girl, a nice girl. We got
     married at noon in a church. Her mama and grand mama sang a hymn.
     Her father gave us a nice reception that went on all afternoon and
     into the early evening. So many of her relatives were in attendance
     and there were so many toasts.
          Madge sat on the bed rubbing her hand over the small medal of
     Jesus dangling from a silver chain around her neck. The silver figure
     of a hippy-headed Jesus that looked like a young Errol Flynn had a
     polished shine. She rubbed upwards over the flawlessly engraved nose
     and on, around the face. She then got off the bed, went and stood
     in front of the full-length mirror. She held the chain with
     reverence as an enormous sigh shook loose from her belly. She thrust
     her chest forward, causing the medal to bounce and swing from side
     to side. She then turned and returned to the bed where I, her newly-
     wedded husband, waited, wearing my fireman red wedding night briefs
     that she brought for me to wear. I'd prepared myself carefully in
     the bathroom [cologne, aftershave, a touch of musk, a tonic of
     ginseng root that I was told gave a man an extra measure of strength;
     not that I felt I would need it, I felt more than ready for Madge].
         I'd only a second before laid down on top of the sheets. My
     patient eyes zeroed in on the shining medal of Jesus [The face - the
     silver colored engraved eyes looked like little gleaming bumps].
         "This is Jesus, my good luck piece," Madge said. "Now, Honey,
     let's pray before we start our wedding night." She smiled as she
     pulled back the sheet and slid in to the bed with me. We prayed.
     After the prayer, I thrust my hips to hers and held us together.
     Using every bit of my strength, I pulled her closer, persistently,
     until the hard shining medal - pinching, scraping, grating - hurt
     my chest too much.
         "I hope I don't get permanent scars," I said softly. [Mumbled,
     maybe. Groaned. Muttered ...]
         "Oh, excuse me," she pulled away, politely.
         "What's that!" I asked. [Maybe barking, a little. Just a
     little.]
         "My Jesus? My medal?" she bitched. [Barked. Maybe asked just a
     little too annoyed.]
         I asked, "Are you going to keep it on?"
         "Yes," she answered, a little louder than I'd expected. "I don't
     take it off, not even in the shower."
         "We're not in the shower -"
         "Don't start raising your voice to me. Ever since the day I
     accepted my Lord and have been saved and have come to love Jesus
     very much I have worn this. This medal is something that will keep
     me in luck. I made a promise never to let it out of my possession."
         As she told me this, I started to remove her night gown. Her
     young breasts re-fired quickly my passion, and took my attention and
     caused my caressing hand to - 'Lord, have mercy!' [I may have
     mumbled this.]  - Oh, I had the intense desire to cover her breasts
     with my chest, and as I did, the brutal medal caused my chest pain.
     The medal was incredibly rough, like a claw, scratching my skin raw,
     causing a red bruise and pricking a small drop of blood. From that
     moment on I became determined to get her to remove the medal. She
     would not, and so, the wedding night was a night of misfortune, of
     me trying to embrace her and of me complaining about the medal.
     Eventually, I had to abandon the activities I had long planned and
     hoped for, for that night. My bride accused me of being only
     interested in carnal sex, and of caring more about carnal sex than
     having Jesus there to bless us and to watch over our marriage.
         I attempted a few times to remove the medal. She repeated that
     she would not take off the medal. "Not ever!" she snarled. [Yeah,
     like a dog. A certain female dog, I'm sorry to say.]
         I told her, I would not embrace her until she removed the medal.
     I said that being married didn't warranted being marred by that
     trinket of Jesus and given scars that would last for a life time.
        She got pissed, said I had an attitude, was being mean and was
     acting in a sinful, terrible way. "A groom doesn't act like you
     toward his bride, " she said with her own attitude. And, so, as
     I've stated, I gave up in despair.
        The strong, natural urge to consummate the marriage grew stronger.
     By the next day I was irritable and nervous. I believe I came to the
     edge of a nervous collapse. I even sought the help of a work buddy,
     an older man whose opinion I valued. I did not like what he had to
     say. He told me there was nothing he could advise, except I should
     snatch the medal from my wife's neck and get down to some immediate
     relief. He said, if I didn't take action I would definitely end up
     in a mental institution.
         That evening I was in the bathroom, breathing hard, aroused with
     intense carnal thoughts. My bride stretched to adjust the shower
     head.  I could see her clearly through the transparent curtains.
     She in the sensuous all-together - The shower water falling down, and
     around her fine, firm figure. She was a sight, excitingly good to
     to the eye to watch. Hanging down between her breasts, on the chain,
     was the medal of Jesus. That darn medal seemed to nip and tear
     another raw place in my skin as I watched my bride take a long
     shower. She scrubbed the cloth down her legs, stopping at her chins.
     Her bent butt with her broad hip bones made me scratch my head more
     and more, and yes, I said a little prayer to Heaven for help. Soon,
     she was out of the shower and standing on the bathroom floor mat,
     dripping, drying herself with my HIS of our set of HIS and HERS
     towels, and the medal of Jesus was dangling down on its chain. She
     rubbed her luscious body, pausing to stare at me. It looked obvious
     that she wanted to cuddled with me.
        "It is bizarre," she mumbled. She stroked her legs with the towel
     and I stroked the scalp of my head. My head began to feel thinning on
     the top as if hair was falling out from stress. I stared at the
     Jesus medal, at it glare, its reflection of bathroom's bare ceiling
     light. I could swear, I winced from the glare.
         "Stop being high and mighty," I said. [Maybe plead]. "Will you,
     long enough to permit me my husbandly duty? [I'er - maybe I put it a
     little plainer, like: 'let me have you, baby,' or 'come on, girl.']
         She surprised me, sounded as if she was hurting almost as much
     as I. "Stop being a jerk, you think I don't want you? But, I am
     your bride, not somebody to have her faith torn from around her neck
     just for your convenience." She looked more determined to resist
     removing the medal. She stood straight, her back straight, her
     breasts out. She let the long bath towel fall to the floor. She
     took a walk to the bedroom to her chest of drawers for underwear.
     She spent a full minute working a frilly trimmed pair of pink undies
     up and over her legs and her sexy hips. I scratched my head like
     crazy as my bride finally tugged the underwear in place. Naked with
     the exception of her drawers, Madge was now at her sexiest, and she
     wore a proud expression on her beautiful face. She stood before me,
     her husband. She was incredibly beautiful and she knew that I knew
     it. She stood up to me, her soft hands on her hips, her magnificent
     breasts bared and challenging, and that medal, that darn medal, like
     a weapon at the ready, resting on those bare, bodicious breasts.
         Suddenly, my hand darted out, took her arms and ... quick like a
     stroke of lightning, pulled her tightly to me. Anxious looks took
     over her face as I would not let her pull away. For a brief moment,
     neither she or I saw the blood that dripped from my chest at the
     point where the medal tore a small hole. My eyes must have looked
     glazed over during that moment. Her eyes kept widening. The small
     flow of blood ran down our [held closed together] chests and reached
     her drawers. My mind was busy, my body was shuddering, experiencing
     a strong kind of intense relief; then I stepped back and she broke
     loose and darted across the room away from me. As she moved away, I
     said softly, "There is a line nobody should have to cross. I saw
     what you were doing. Shall I apologize, no?"
         She started talking slowly, having much difficulty speaking.
     She was extremely tight. She saw the blood and the wound. The wound
     was still small, the blood was still bleeding out.
         "You actually want to hurt me?" she said.
         I said, "I don't."
         "Why do you?" she asked.
         "Wait a minute?" I said. "Do you have an idea what you do? You
     do things to me like -"
         Her eyes got fierce and bored into me. "Do you realize that you
     are crazy?"
         "Yes."
         "You actually admit it?"
         My eyes were wandering over her body. "I'm crazy about you, " I
     said.
         "I-I had to meet a man like you," she stammered. "That's the way
     I am."
        "And me," I said.
        "What are you going to do? Hurt me more?"
        "You don't know how much I love you. You don't know? I'm going to
     kiss you, squeeze you, hug you tight, never let you go." [Yes, I
     spoke like I was quoting from a love song.]
        "I'm bruised and you're bleeding ..." she said.
        I moved closer. "You're my wife, my WIFE. I'm going to squeeze
     you tight, get ready."
        "Wait!" she said. "Wait ..." She made the sign of the cross,
     removed the chain and laid the medal reverently on top of her chest
     of drawers.

