She heard the door to the van open behind her as she held her sacks and fumbled in her purse for her keys. Before she could turn, a heavy cloth came down over her head and her world went dark. She squawked trying to twist away, but she was pulled backward until she landed on what must have been the floor of the van. Still clutching her purse she screamed, but her voice was deadened by the bag over her head and the weight of someone sitting on her. The sound of the van door rolling shut seemed loud until the lock clicked, then all was quiet.
One hand was pried from her purse, something tied around her wrist, then the other wrist was attached and both were pulled above her head. The weight moved down to her feet and they were similarly fastened down. The weight lifted, and she heard a sigh, then a man’s voice, “Try not to breathe too hard or you will pass out.”
She said, “Let me go, please. Let me go.” Her voice sounded muffled, barely audible through the heavy material covering her head.
Putting his hand on her shoulder and leaning in close to her, he said, “Listen up. You need to hear this.”
She had no choice but to listen to him, so she held her breath. His tone was calm and deliberate as he said, “The bad news is I am going to rape you. The good news is I am going to try very hard not to hurt you, at all. I’ll be using a condom, so you don’t have to worry about diseases. And when I am done, I will bring you back here to your car, and you can go home. Do you understand?”
The girl started screaming again, and he left her, saying, “Just sit tight while I drive. It’ll take about twenty minutes to get to where we are going.” He moved away from her at that point, the engine of the van started, and the sound of a classical music radio station drowned out all other sounds.
The girl was shaking, her body electric with terror, as she felt the vehicle she was in move and then bounce out of the parking lot, away from the mall, her car, and anybody who could help. Her hands were above her head, tied somehow, but she could not undo the ropes or pull free of them. She sat up as much as she could, but without being able to see, she could not orient herself. She felt dizzy, and had to lay down before she fainted. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed, and she occupied herself with prayers that tonight wouldn’t be her last night on earth.
The floor of the van was carpeted, it seemed, and she was jostled about as he drove. It may have been an expressway at first, but the last of the trip was going up a winding road. The van stopped, the classical music was lowered to barely audible, and she heard him say, “Okay, we’re here.” He sat next to her, and she heard, “What’s your name?”
She didn’t want to give him anything, so she remained silent.
“If I wanted your name and address,” he said. “I would look in your purse. Just tell me your first name so I have something to call you.”
She turned away inside the bag covering her head.
“It’s better if I have a name,” he said. “You will feel less like an object afterward.”
“No,” she snapped, worrying he might hit her for her refusal.
“Okay, I will call you Jane,” he said. “No, that sounds too much like Jane Doe. How about Marina? That’s a very pretty name for a very pretty woman. And you can call me… Marcus. Yes, Marcus and Marina. What a nice sounding couple.”
His tone was oddly pleasant, which made her think he was being nice in the way maniacs are nice in the movies before they come after you with a chainsaw. “I can’t breathe in this thing,” she said.
“Great,” he said. “I would love to see you better. If you like, I could cover your eyes with a blindfold, and take the hood off.”
She didn’t say anything, not wanting to be at all cooperative.
“Let’s try it,” he said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll put the hood back on.
The girl felt her eyes being covered by his hands under the hood. Fresh, cool air enveloped her as the hood was removed, and she breathed deeply. She still couldn’t see, but she could smell something she identified with the woods. Her head jerked around, as though she might be able to see him if she looked hard enough. “If you let me go, I won’t say anything, I promise.”
“A generous offer for which I thank you, but I am afraid I can’t accept.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“I am a rapist,” the composed voice said. “This is what rapists do.”
The contrast between what he said he was going to do to her, and his manner communicated to her through his voice was stark and confusing. “You… you don’t sound like a… one of those.”
“You mean because I am polite. The simple efforts of politeness are admired; even in those who are otherwise despised.* That’s a quote my mother taught me.”
“Did she teach you to kidnap people, too?” she said.
“A little sarcasm. That’s good,” he replied. “But the topic of what I learned from my mother won’t enhance our time together one bit. Shall we get started?”
“If you touch me, I’ll scream,” she said.
“That’s a sensible reaction. Just so you know, we are in a very secluded spot, so you are welcome to scream any time you like. It might be good for you to try one.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Scream.”
She didn’t know whether he was teasing her, or whether she should believe him. “It’s a trick. You’ll hit me, or something, if I do.”
“No, I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said calmly. “Give a good scream. It will help clear your lungs and you’ll feel better.”
She wanted to scream, so she yelled, ”Help,” but her voice broke and it wasn’t very loud.
“Louder,” he said, “Like this,” He loudly yelled, “Help, help.”
His voice didn’t seem to travel very far, and there was no echo, which made her think it might not even be heard outside the van. She decided to try anyway. Instead of yelling help, she screamed as loud and highly pitched as she could. She did it twice, then stopped.
“Good one,” he said.
“No one can hear me, can they?” she said.
“I said it would be good for you, I didn’t say somebody would come to your rescue.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I am trying to help you cope with a difficult situation. You will be mad at yourself if you don’t explore all the options; scream, try to get away, appeal to my better nature. There isn’t one, by the way, but feel free to try.”
“If you wanted to help me, you would let me go.”
“The trick in life is to balance your competing needs,” he said. “In this situation I have to get the pleasure of raping a beautiful woman without feeling bad about messing her up too much.”
”You’re crazy.” she said.
“Without a doubt,” he replied.
“I want to go home,” she pleaded.
“Of course you do. But let me tell you what’s going to happen before you get home. I am going to remove my clothes, then all of yours, then I will tie your hands, nothing too tight or kinky, just enough to keep you in one place, then I will rape you every way I can think of, dress you and take you back to the mall. Any questions?
“You can’t do this to me,” she said, her voice still pleading. “I’ve never done this.”
“What? Never done what?”
“I’ve never done… anything… sexual,” she said.
He paused as though he might be staring at her, then he said, “You’re kidding?”
“No, I am not kidding,” she said, insulted and angry. “I am a virgin.”
“I don’t believe it, he said. “Look at you. Your tits are gigantic, those hips look like they could deliver quintuplets, and your face has more pouty sexuality than a whole library of Playboy magazines. And you have never been fucked?
“I told you,” she said, indignant. “I’ve never done anything.” This wasn't exactly true, but she hoped it would persuade him.
“But you’ve been felt up? Fingered? Something?”
“No,” she said. “Nothing.”
His voice changed to irritated. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” she said.
“Holy shit,” he said. “You look like your thirty-five. When did you get your period?”
“That’s none of your business,” she said.
“Damn! It must have been early. When did you start wearing a bra, a real bra? Eleven?”
She didn’t want to answer him, but she vividly remembered being teased by the boys in her fifth grade class. “Ten,” she said.
“The pedophiles in your neighborhood must have been coming out of the ground like a swarm of termites to nest in you. And you’re saying nobody ever got to you, not even a little?”
“No. I’m a good girl,” she said.
“Ants always find the sugar, Marina, and it isn’t because the sugar is being bad.” He said, “I’m surprised you didn’t drown in all the drool dripping from the mouths of the men in your life.”
“Stop saying those things,” she said.
In response she heard him sigh. “Well, I am sorry. Having your first sexual experience be a rape is going to make it harder to get over.”
It frustrated her to no end that he couldn’t see the logical solution to the problem. “Then don’t rape me,” she said.
“Like I said, rape is what I do,” he said, “so you’re just going to have to adapt.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” she said. It was not a genuine question. It was an impossibility.
“Bad things happen to good people all the time,” he said. He sounded like her history teacher, so smug in his knowledge that he bored the whole class. “It’s like car accidents, or earthquakes, or being shot as a innocent bystander. You don’t deserve to have bad things happen to you. Just remember to be thankful for what you’ve got, and move on with your life. Don’t let some random act of unkindness drag you down.”
“That’s awful,” she said. “How can you say that, knowing what you are going to do to me?”
“Listen to the things I say, Marina. “It is very likely the things I say will be more helpful to you than anything priests, or counselors, or cops, or friends will say to you. Believe me, I know.”
Just like her history teacher, she thought. “How do you know so much?”
“Because I have raped a lot of women,” he said as he made rustling noises around her. “I know how they react, I’ve seen how they cope, and I know what works.”
It frightened her that what he said could be true, that she was really going to be raped. Then it angered her. “I think you’re full of crap.”
“You’re entitled to think that, Marina. Maybe I’m full of nothing but crap. You will have lots of opportunity to reflect upon that later.” After some more rustling, he said, “Well, I’m naked, now it’s your turn.”
“No, please… Marcus,” she said, starting to cry. “Don’t.” He was silent as she felt her platform heels being removed, and her skirt being unbuttoned and pulled down her legs. He untied her feet and pulled the skirt away from her. When he started to unbutton her blouse, she tried to twist away from him, then pulled her knees up to block him.
He stopped and said, “If you fight me, I’ll have to cut them off, which means you’ll look like a mess when you get home. You may decide not to say anything about the rape, plenty of women don’t, and if your clothes are torn that option will be lost to you. But it’s your choice.” He resumed unbuttoning her.
“I am going to tell everyone,” she said defiantly. “You can count on it.” Then she recoiled, fearing she shouldn’t have been so bold as to threaten him.
“Telling the police works for a lot of women, helps them feel more in control,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Good for you.”
“You’re not going to threaten me?” she asked.
“I don’t rely on threats to not get caught,” he said, unbuttoning the sleeves of her blouse. “They never work anyway. It either makes them so angry they tell to spite you, or you didn’t need to threaten them in the first place. There are plenty of reasons not to tell, without threats.”
“Like what?” she asked,
“Most women feel ashamed, like it is their fault,” he said. He untied her hands and pulled her blouse off. “In your case, you’ll probably tell yourself stuff like, I should have parked closer to the entrance to the mall, or paid more attention to my surroundings, or made someone walk me to my car. All of the ‘should haves’ make it hard to admit you were raped.”
She fell silent as he undid the clasp of her bra and pulled it from her. No one had every seen her naked before, and she imagined him staring at her, but her mind was preoccupied remembering the ride there. She sat quietly wearing only her thong, her hands folded in her crotch, her shoulders hunched.
“What?” he asked. “Were you telling yourself that on the way here?”
“How did you know that?” she said.
“I told you to listen to the things I say,” he said. “You will be lucky to hear one sensible thing from your family, or friends or anybody that is supposed to help. They won’t understand half of what you’re going through, and you will see the looks that say it was your fault.”
“Why did you pick me?” she asked.
“Great body, you looked like you had been fucked a few hundred times, and I like a woman who has been around the block,” he said.
“That’s it?” she said. “You picked me because I look like a slut? Because I deserve it?”
“Whoa, whoa, who said anything about deserving it? Given a choice, most men will always pick a great body, and I like that slutty, pouty look of yours. Some rapists pick old women, or housewives, or children. It doesn’t have anything to do with deserving it. It’s just whose sites you happen to fall into.”
She had criticized herself for getting into this situation a thousand times, and she felt stupid in spite of what he said.
“It is not your fault,” he said. It confounded her that he could sound so sympathetic. “Rapists are just ants, and you are not bad sugar.”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
“Now, you’ve got the right perspective,” he said, almost happy. “Lets get that last tiny little piece of cloth off you so I can be that sick bastard.”
“I’ll tell the police,” she said. “They will catch you, you know, and you will go to jail, if my father doesn’t kill you first.”
“Protective of his little girl, huh?” he said. “Well, he wouldn’t be the first to threaten to kill me, or try.”
She felt the thong being pulled down her legs, and off. “I’ll kill you if I ever get the chance,” she said.
“I advise against revenge,” he said, re-attaching her hands together, pushing her back onto what seemed to be a mattress, and securing her hands above her head. “It is just violence promoting more violence, and it’s too easy to loose yourself in the anger.”
“I’m supposed to forgive you?” she said, her tone again sarcastic.
“Likewise, forgiveness isn’t often helpful. You don’t forgive lightening for burning your house down,” he said. “Better you should accept the random nature of the universe and adapt as best you can.”
He brushed a tangle of her short hair from her eye. “Okay, I think you’re ready,” he said, lying next to her and resting his hand on her stomach. “Give your hands a pull to make sure you can’t get loose.”
“What for?” she asked.
“Give it a try,” he said. “You will be angry at yourself later if you think you could have gotten loose and hit me over the head or something.”
She pulled a couple of times, but said nothing.
“Okay,” he said. “Let the raping begin.”
“No, wait,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“Oh, good question,” he said. “I am a big fan of anticipatory socialization.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“Telling you what to expect,” he said, again sounding like her history teacher. “First, I’m going to familiarize myself with that gorgeous body of yours, a lot of caressing, and kissing, then a little cunnilingus, that’s sucking on your cunt, then some fucking in a few positions, you suck on me for a while, and when I’m ready I’ll come. Not sure where yet, I like to be spontaneous about where I come.”
“Please, take me home,” she said the tears returning. “I don’t want… any of those things.”
“Don’t cry,” he said, not sympathetically, but as though educating her. “You won’t like yourself after if you cry the whole time. Better you should think about what you know while I’m raping you to describe to the police.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said. “I’m blindfolded.”
“Yes, but you’re not in a tomb,” he said, his hand beginning to caress her stomach and hips. “You know what I sound like, what you saw of the van before I blindfolded you, how long it took to get here, what you’ve heard while you’re here, what you smell. You know more than you think.” His hand enveloped her breast, and he held it gently while his thumb teased her nipple. “Even if you decide not to tell the police, detailing your observations will keep you occupied doing something productive while I’m raping you.”
“How am I supposed to concentrate on what I know while your doing that to my breasts,” she said.
He kissed her other nipple softly, then said, “I am just trying to be helpful.”
She felt what she was sure was his penis fall against her leg as he brought his knee up over hers. She had never seen a live erect one but she knew what they felt like when they were stiff. Afraid of what was about to happen, she jerked her knee up as hard as she could.
He moaned and rolled away. “Shit, you got me right in the balls.”
“Good,” she said, testing the rope again.
He was quiet for a moment, the longest he had gone without talking at her since the van had stopped. Eventually, he pulled himself next to her again, and laid his head on her breast. “That was not very smart,” he said “If I were a mean rapist this is where I would beat the shit out of you, or cut your head off and fuck your dead body.”
Suddenly fearful, she said, “You wouldn’t?”
“Of course I wouldn’t, but I am not a mean rapist.” he said. “All that is going to happen now is that it is going to take me a while to recover before I feel like raping you. But if this happens to you again, save your big moves for when you have a chance to get away, not when you’re tied up and can’t get away even if you kill him. You could starve to death before anybody finds you.”
She was relieved at his reassurance, and annoyed. “Well, it’s not going to happen to me again, ever.”
“With a body like yours, I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t.”
“I hate men,” she said.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “We’re awful.”
His naked, hairy body was warm against her and a comfort against the cool air. He had started sucking on her breast, which she hated, primarily because it was making her itchy. His hand was massaging her other breast, and she disliked the sensation there, too. He pulled gently at her nipples which made them hard. “I’m cold, she said.
“You will be plenty warm when we get going, don’t worry.” His fingers encircled her breasts and then he dragged them down her stomach and across her crotch, and along her thigh to her knee, then upward again to her nipple, which he sucked into his mouth.
“My breasts… are cold,” she said.
He laughed. “They are not cold, they are aroused,” he said. “Stiffening of the nipple is a natural response to being sucked.”
“Stop it. I don’t like it.”
“It’s just new to you,” he said. “As a virgin, there are a lot of things that will be new to you tonight, none of which will do you lasting damage. Enjoy it if you can.”
“I am not going to enjoy it,” she said. “I hate what you’re doing. I hate you.”
“I am sure you hate me and the fact that I am asserting control over your body against your wishes, but that does’t mean your body won’t enjoy what my body does to it.” He grazed her face with his fingers, especially her lips, and continued downward along her neck and between her breasts. She felt something else drag across her breasts and stomach she was sure was not his fingers.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Do you like that?” he said. “It’s a feather.”
“Well stop it, it’s annoying,” she said.
“You can’t prevent me from raping you, so you had better learn to adapt,” he said.
He continued stroking her with the soft feather which she had difficulty admitting felt extraordinarily good. She began to shiver as the feather left a sensory impression on the sensitive skin surrounding her aureolas.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “like the engine in a race car. They always run rough at idle, but they smooth out and purr when they are revving fast. You were built for speed, Marina.”
“You make me sound like a slut,” she said, “and I am not a slut.”
“Slut is just a name men use to put down a woman’s sexuality,” he said. He continued using the feather to tickle one breast, and squeezing one with his other hand. “It’s a man’s way of blaming a woman for his own desire to rape. I don’t think you are a slut. I think you’re great, like a beautiful race car, and I just want to take you for a drive.”
“You’re fucking crazy. Stop touching me, I don’t like it.”
“Of course you like it,” he said. “You’d be crazy not to like it. People are designed to respond to touch. It stimulates the production of oxytocin in the brain, the same hormone produced when mothers nurse. It promotes bonding. You have to kind of separate your body from the context. Hate me, hate that I am forcing you, but enjoy how your body responds. It’s the only way to handle this, believe me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “How can you hate and enjoy something at the same time.”
“The brain has a magnificent capacity to hold contradictory feelings,” he said. “Take a Wall Street guy who makes a big deal that results in a thousand people being put out of work. He makes a hugh profit and considers himself a valuable member of society in spite of the damage he has done to it.”
She found herself trembling more as he caressed her.
“Or a drone pilot. He kills innocent people by the dozens from a distance with bombs, yet goes home every day feeling like a good person. You can certainly accept that you’re angry about not being able to get out of a bad situation, and that there are aspects of the experience your body enjoys. You just have to give yourself permission to be a complex person, like the rest of us.”
“That is so wrong,” she said.
“I think you will come to see the truth in my proposition,” he said, then he chuckled. “That pun is intended, by the way. For example, I’m going to slip my finger down here between your lips, and moisten it. See how wet you are down there? That’s your body responding to all that touching. That doesn’t mean you wanted to be kidnapped and raped. It means your body is functioning as it is supposed to. Evolutionarily speaking, your body is creating a favorable climate in your womb to maximize the chances of you getting pregnant.”
It was unnecessary to close her eyes under the blindfold, but she did, trying to blot out the flood of sensations blooming between her legs.
“Now that it’s lubricated,” he said, “I bring my finger up over your clitoris, and massage it like this. Wow, that’s a very large clitoris, you have there, Marina.”
“Stop teasing me,” she said, almost in tears.
“I am not teasing. I am in total admiration,” he said. “It’s so fucking cute. See how it perks up when I hold it?”
“Please, leave me alone.”
“I know, you’re young and you probably think it is unfeminine to have such a big clit,” he said.
He really loved to hear himself talk, she thought.
“Like it is supposed to be hidden, like you are supposed to hide your sexuality. Let me assure you it is not unfeminine to expose your clitoris and your sexuality, quite the opposite. I just love looking at it and touching it.”
“Stop it, it hurts,” she said with a whine.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said. “I am being very gentle, and you are well-lubricated. It feels good, you just don’t want it to feel good.”
She began to feel overwhelmed by the sensations, powerful enough to make her legs twist. She tried to squeeze them together to prevent his finger from touching her throbbing clitoris. “Stop, it hurts,” she said again.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she said, her tone more desperate, “but you are hurting me.”
He stopped abruptly. “What’s it feel like, this pain?”
“It burns, like it is being scratched,” she said.
“Does it feel this way when you masturbate?” he asked.
“I’m not a slut,” she said. “I don’t masturbate.”
“Everybody masturbates.”
“Well, I don’t,” she said, “because it hurts.”
“Oh, Marina,” he said. “I would have done this differently if you had told me.”
“Told you what,” she asked.
“That you were molested.”
She paused trying to comprehend what he was saying. “I’ve never been molested. What are you talking about?”
“Really?” he said, disbelieving. “It always amazes me that women never want to admit it. Who was it? Did that protective father of yours didn’t get his hands on you? Or was it some crazy uncle who put that hole in your cherry?”
Her words stumbled out of her mouth. “That was an accident.”
“Gentle, well-lubricated strokes of your clitoris feeling like pain wasn’t the result of an accident,” he said. “Somebody took some time to cross wire your sexual pleasure and pain, and that freaked you out so much you gave up sex altogether, or at least you tried.”
“You’re crazy,” she said.
“But not stupid,” he said. “Now, who was it?”
“You think you know everything,” she yelled, “but you don’t.”
He fell silent while she burst into tears. After a couple of minutes of her nose running she started sniffing ineffectively. He placed a tissue to her nose and told her to blow. It felt good, and she did it again into a second tissue, then he wiped her nose. The blind fold was soaked with her tears. She wondered if he was looking at her and what he was thinking.
“Don’t run from it,” he said. “You’re old enough to handle the complexity of feelings it stirred in you now. Let it out. It will do you good to tell someone who can understand.”
“Leave me alone, you fucking asshole.”
“All right,” he said. “We will do it the hard way.”
He started rubbing her clitoris gently again. The familiar sensation was a fusion of pleasure and pain, and it triggered the memories she had long tried to forget. “No please, please don’t rub there.”
“Did he do it hard,” he said. “Was that why it hurt? Did he squeeze it, or slap it? What did he do? I can pinch it hard if you want, I can call you names, I can make you feel as terrible now as you did then by hurting you and making you come at the same time. Is that what he did? Is that what you want me to do? You want to be my pain slut, like you were his?”
“Leave me alone, please,” she begged.
“This big clit of yours is stiff, Marina. You’re ready to come, aren’t you? It’s easy to come when you think about the pain, isn’t it? I am being gentle, but I bet if just threaten to hurt you and humiliate you, you’ll come. That’s why you swore off sex because you can only come when it hurts, and you hate yourself after because you think it means you’re a slut. So I’m going to slap your clit hard, Marina, so hard you’ll feel it for a week.”
“No, No, please don’t,” she said, but it was too late. His finger stroked tenderly but she felt the excruciating sting of his hard, but imagined slap. Her orgasm began like a slow burn in her crotch, her legs spasmed, her throat gurgled, and she felt the ecstasy wash through her brain, wave after flushing wave until she felt lifeless and benumbed, and as though she had departed her body. It had been a long time since she felt so good.
As her breathing slowed and she took stock of her self; felt her cool nakedness, his hairy warmth still against her, his hand now resting on her hip, and then the familiar fog of shame. She had never heard the term before, but she knew she was exactly what he said: a pain slut. The term encapsulated every feeling she had ever had about her sexuality; sick and wanton, worthless and disgusting in the eyes of all who saw her. She hated herself for being that way, and now he would hate her, too.
He covered her with something, a sheet perhaps, and cuddled against her, stroking her arm. “So who was it?” he said.
The tears flowed again, her body shuddered, and he kissed her on the forehead before offering another tissue. After he had wiped her nose, she took a breath, and said, “My brother.” She waited, expecting him to react, to condemn her, but he said nothing. All of a sudden she didn’t like his silence, so she said, “David was eight years older than me. There were only two of us and I looked up to him. I felt like he was my best friend before he went to Iraq, and I missed him terribly. When he came back he was different. Mom and Dad were worried about him, afraid he was going to hurt himself. I was only twelve, and I didn’t understand why he didn’t like me any more, and kept avoiding me. One night when my parents were out, I came downstairs and I saw him sitting in the big chair watching television and drinking. He always used to let me sit in his lap before when he read to me, so I crawled into his lap in my pajamas before he could say no, and hugged him.
“We watched television and I hung onto him, afraid he was going to send me away. After a while he started touching me. I was so happy he wasn’t rejecting me that I let him even though I knew it was wrong. He did just what you did, with his finger, and I had an orgasm. I had never had one and I thought it was wonderful, and I thought it mean’t we were friends again, and I kissed him. After that, I waited until whenever my parents were gone and he was sitting in the chair and I would climb into his lap. It was the only time he would let me be near him. I loved the smell of him, and the way his big hand slipped into my panties, and the way his fat finger slid onto and rubbed my bump. I knew he was hard because I could feel it on my butt, but he never did anything except finger me, and I loved it.
“He said very little at first, but then he started saying things, dirty things, and calling me names. And he started hurting me while he fingered me. He would stroke me gently, then all of a sudden slap my breast. I was self-conscious about my large bump, and he started calling it a dicklette, and he said it meant I was too much of a slut to be just a woman, that I wanted to be a man slut, too. He would stroke it gently until it was stiff, then flick it really hard until I yelled. When I cried, he would be gentle and make me come. Then he would do it all again. Sometimes he wouldn’t let me come, but make me beg for it, and then when I came, he would hurt me, and call me a piece of shit. I would come five or six times until he told me to go to bed, then I would cry myself to sleep feeling as bad as the names he called me.”
“When did you swear off sex?” he asked.
“He killed himself about a year after he came home. I tried masturbating as a way of thinking about him, but I always hated myself after, so I kept trying to stop. I keep trying, but I can’t.”
“I understand why you want to. He really crossed a few wires in your brain, didn’t he?”
She started crying again. “It was my fault. I liked the feelings, that’s why I kept going back. He never forced me, he never did anything I didn’t want him to. If I had said no, I’m sure he would have stopped, but I never said no, because I liked it.”
When she had calmed a little, he said, “So you were a twelve-year-old expert temptress who seduced an adult war hero brother into an incestuous and illicit relationship because you wanted to alter his previously kind and loving personality into a mean and sadistic one so you could gratify your own depraved need for sexual abuse. Damn, you really are bad sugar.”
“You’re confusing me,” she said.
“I am challenging your perception of the experience, because yours is not very realistic.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you liked your brother, and you wanted him to like you, and there is nothing more natural in the universe than that. I mean your sexuality confused your brother and he didn’t know how to handle it, so he did something inappropriate. I mean the pain and the pleasure became associated in your mind until it takes one to trigger the other. I mean sex is just sex. It is not depraved or beautiful or anything other than what we make it. I mean what you really feel bad about is you think your time with your brother is what made him kill himself, and if you had been a good girl he wouldn’t have done it. And I mean it is time to face facts: the war killed your brother, not you. You survived and he didn’t. It’s too bad, but it’s time to enjoy your body and your life.”
“You say the strangest things.”
“How about you think about it while I am raping you.”
She heard plastic crinkle, which she hoped was a condom, and he was on her before she could react. She thought it would hurt when he entered her, but it didn’t. It felt full, different than when he rubbed her bump, like he was penetrating her core. He kissed her, sweetly, she thought, for a rapist. She didn’t return his kisses, but she didn’t resist them either. She cried as he raped her, thinking about her brother and all the things Marcus had said. She felt her hands being untied and she was glad to bring them to her side as he resumed moving in her.
“Why did you untie me,” she asked.
He paused his thrusting, as though he wasn’t sure of the answer, then said, “It’s bad for the circulation to keep your hands above your head for so long.” He began moving again, slowly, deeply.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
She had never had a penis inside her. It felt… good, she thought. It was different than when her bump was rubbed, because that made her desperate for relief. Desperate enough to want to be hurt to achieve it, then feeling like there was something wrong with her for wanting to be hurt, then like she deserved to be hurt because she was sick. She hated her brother for doing what he did to her, for making her feel bad about feeling good, and good about feeling bad. She loved him and missed him, but she was glad he had died so he couldn’t confuse her any more. She hated herself for being glad her own brother was dead. She knew her friends enjoyed their orgasms, and she wondered if she would ever be able to.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “I’m not hurting you am I?”
“No,” she said, then added, “you can go harder.”
He stopped, “I am being gentle on purpose, so you can enjoy it without me being rough,” then he resumed.
She liked the gentle way he fucked her, but as she allowed herself to enjoy it, she wanted to climax, and to climax she needed something else.
“Go harder,” she said.
“This is plenty hard enough,” he said.
“Maybe, you’re just a pussy who can’t satisfy a real woman,” she said.
He stopped.
Her breath quickened. Why did she say that? She had been afraid the whole time he would hurt her, now she was provoking him. She couldn’t see, but she felt certain he was going to strike her for insulting him. She imagined the sting of the slap to her naked breasts. She hoped he hit her hard, because she deserved it for what she said.
He resumed his slow fuck of her, kissing her cheeks. When he kissed her lips, she kissed back, then bit his lower lip hard.
“Ow,” he said, “What the fuck?”
Now he would hit her, she thought. He was just a rapist, after all, not the kind of person capable of keeping his promise not to hurt her.
He pushed himself up as he thrust into her so she couldn’t reach his face. She reached her arms around his back, trying to pull him to her, but he wouldn’t allow it. “Please,” she said, “I need you to make it hurt.”
“Try to enjoy it without pain, you’ll feel better about yourself.”
“But I can’t come this way,” she yelled, slapping at his back.
“I thought you were a virgin?” he said.
“I am– I was, until you. But I’ve tried to stick things in there myself a few times nice, and nice doesn’t work.”
“Try,” he said.
“That dick of yours is smaller than my clit and it’s never going to do it for me, so be a fucking man and hurt me.”
He kept a steady pace of thrusts, saying, “Marina, I have been provoked by better pain sluts than you, and I won’t allow myself to be a button you can push to revel in your punishing self-hatred. I am going to rape you the way I want, gently, completely, until I come inside you. You can think about being abused if you want to get off, but I am not going to hurt you.”
She considered clawing at his back to anger him, but then noticed his back was rough and had bumps it shouldn’t have. If only he would pound at her harder instead of being so fucking gentle. She pulled her knees up a little to encourage him, wrapped her legs around his, and her arms around his neck. The gentle, deep thrusts continued and she wanted to get off more than ever. She knew if she thought about her brother, she could, but she knew how she would feel after. She tried to bring on her orgasm without thinking of pain, but it wouldn’t come. She gave up and allowed herself to go back because she needed the relief.
She snuck down the stairs so her brother wouldn’t hear her, then jumped into his lap before he could refuse. Her arms embraced Marcus’ neck and she kissed him, only it was her brother’s face she saw. She straddled his lap, pressing her crotch into his and waited. Sometimes she had to wait a long time, but if she kissed him and wiggled on his lap, he would get hard and start. Marcus’ gentle cock became her brother’s angry digit and she felt the pain of the first time he penetrated her with his finger. She wanted more and her brother started playing with her dicklette. He alternated between stroking and slapping it, making her feel so good, then making her cry out when he slapped it. Marcus was moving faster and she imagined his face contorting in pleasure, but then she saw the angry face of her brother calling her a whore. She clutched at Marcus’ back and twitched around him as she came, the numbing pain mixed with pleasure almost too much to bare. Marcus groaned a few seconds later, and she felt his penis spasm, an odd, satisfying feeling, and imagined his cum filling the condom.
Always before, there was pain with her orgasm, inflicted by her bother or herself the few times she allowed herself to masturbate. This time there was only imagined pain, and relief. The shame was there, though. She made her brother hurt her so that she could feel good, and only a sick person would do that. She was a sick as her rapist.
Marcus removed himself and cuddled beside her. After a minute he said, “You came.”
Her shame would not let her reply.
“It’s just a fantasy,” he said. “It’s not real. You are allowed to fantasize about anything you want when having sex.”
“You’re such a know-it-all,” she said. “You don’t know how it feels.”
“Everybody thinks their feelings are unique,” he said, “like they are the only one who has ever experienced them in all of history. You’d be surprised just how common what you are going through is.”
“Who else has ever had an orgasm while they are being sexually abused, or raped.”
“You mean who has felt betrayed by their body, besides anybody who has ever been sexually abused or raped, anybody who has ever gotten an STD, anybody who has ever been tickled so hard they wet their pants, or sneezed when someone threw pepper in their face, or been tripped by some joker. Other people make our bodies react in ways we don’t want every day. You’ve just attached a lot of meaning to it because it involves sex. It means about as much as it means when a person cries chopping onions.”
“Do you always lecture your victims?” she said. “It’s one thing to be kidnapped and raped, but to have to listen to you constantly talk is really too much.”
“You really have a feel for sarcasm,” he said. “You should develop that. Humor is a good adaptive– ”
She sat up abruptly, saying, “Just shut the fuck up!” She couldn’t see to move anywhere, so she laid down on her side and curled up facing away from him. He immediately moved in to spoon behind her, and again she appreciated the warmth of his body. He reached around and cupped her breast in his hand. She wondered if he was right about touch producing bonding or if he was making that up. For all she knew he had made up everything he said. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “Why are you like this?”
“You don’t want to step into the cesspool of my psyche, Marina,” he said, a soulful tone in his voice. “Better you should think of me as an ant. Did you know that almost all ants are female? They are the workers that do everything like hunt, store food, tend the young, protect the nest, and take care of the queen. There are only a few males who are kept around to mate with the queen. Once they’ve done that, they die and are eaten.”
“You’re not an ant. You’re a person. Not a very nice one, but a person.”
“They say men objectify women by turning them into playthings instead of people to justify raping them,” he said. “The irony is that the best way for a woman to recover from rape is to objectify the rapist. It’s better for you if I am not a person.”
“Why?” she asked.
“If I become a person to you, you may feel sympathetic,” he said. “Do you really want to feel sympathy for the man who raped you?”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “that’s not going to happen. I just don’t want to have been raped by an ant, okay? I get that it is not my fault, but I want to know why you, a non-ant, is doing this to me. Why do you rape women?”
“This isn’t going to help, you know. I’m warning you in advance. It will only be confusing.”
She blew air through her teeth in an audible frustration. “I want to know something about the man who cheerfully rapes me while offering friendly advice. You want to be so fucking helpful? Do what I think will help.”
He was silent a few seconds, then said, “I rape women because it is the only way I can get off.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think about fucking all the time, but if I’m not raping the woman, I can’t stay hard, and I can never come.”
“Why?”
“Crossed wires in my brain somewhere,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, then paused to process what she had heard. “What do you do?”
“I hold out as long as I can,” he said, “When it gets too overwhelming, I rape some very unlucky woman.”
“No, I meant for a living,” she said. “What do you do for a living?”
“Let me save you a lot of questions. I am about 30, I have a very boring job, no family, no friends, no girlfriends, I don’t participate in things. In short, I fit the profile of the average rapist.”
“I don’t think you’re like most rapists,” she said. “You’re… bizarre.”
“You know the only thing I really like doing?” he asked. “The one thing I am really good at?”
“What?”
“Raping women. It sounds crazy, but it’s true,” he said. “I plan well, my execution is good, and I never get caught. You know how some guys are sad introverts until they get drunk, and then they are the life of the party? That’s me when I’m raping women. I can stay hard as long as I want, and I come buckets two or three times. I’m friendly, I can say things I wouldn’t say in a million years to a woman. I’m even funny sometimes.”
“I doubt they laugh much,” she said.
“Well, no, they don’t laugh much,” he said. “But take my word for it. You have caught me at my best.”
She was about to give up asking him anything else, because every answer made less and less sense. She decided this would be her last try. “But why do you do it? How did those wires get crossed?”
He didn’t answer, but she felt his dick get hard against her butt, and he started squeezing her breasts. “I’m going to rape you again,” he said calmly. “This will be anal.”
“No,” she said. “What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything, Marina,” he said. “Get over that. I’m a rapist. I rape.”
She gasped at her discovery, “That’s a lie. It’s because I asked you why, isn’t it? You don’t want to answer why, so now you’re going to hurt me.”
“I know you think it will hurt, but I am a professional, and I don’t want it to hurt, so it won’t. Believe me it will feel completely natural, like you are taking the best shit of your life, only you’ll have an orgasm. It may mix those sensations up, but in a really good way. I knew a woman once who had an orgasm every time she took a crap.”
“Marcus,” she said, “that is so gross.”
She felt her butt being smeared with oil, a lot of oil, and she felt his condom-covered dick sliding up her crack. He pulled her upright and onto his lap with her back to him, and she said, “Marcus, don’t, please.”
“Don’t whine,” he said, “Adapt.” He told her to place her feet under her so she could crouch over him, then to lower herself onto his penis. She had to prop herself against the van to keep from dropping onto it too quickly, while resisting his steady pull on her thighs to bring her onto him. “The trick is to settle on slowly, get it all the way in there, and just sit for a while. That way your ass stretches, then when I start thrusting it doesn’t hurt at all, trust me.”
She felt the plastic-covered tip enter her and she prepared herself for the pain she was sure would come. His dick felt enormous, but she wasn’t sure if it was it’s size, or where it was going. The strain on her legs of supporting herself, her knees bent into a sumo wrestler’s crouch, was exhausting and she felt herself gradually ease onto the rigid shaft. It was such a relief to relax her knees that the piercing of her ass was less noticeable. When she felt her butt settle onto his lap she shuddered and took a few quick breaths. “Son-of-a-bitch that feels weird,” she said. Although her knees were still up, the weight was off them and she leaned back against Marcus who must have been propped up on a pillow or something.
He rubbed the back of her thighs and kissed her back. “Take deep breaths through your nose,” he said.
The breathing helped her relax and settle onto him even more completely. “It feels awful,” she decided.
“It feels great from this end,” he said
“Fuck you,” she said.
“It will feel better, soon,” he said. Wait until I start fingering you. You’ll see.”
It already felt better than at first, but not natural like he had said. It felt very unnatural. She tried to steady her breathing and relax, because the more she relaxed, the better it felt. The classical music was playing softly, and she found it was soothing to listen to. Marcus was oddly quiet, and she found herself thinking about her brother and how crazy the whole experience with him made her feel inside. She wondered if this experience would make her feel even crazier. “Marcus, I want you to tell me how your wires got crossed. I told you my story, now I want you to tell me yours. It’s only fair, and I deserve to know.”
“The universe isn’t a fair place where the deserving are rewarded,” he said.
“Maybe, but people can be fair to each other, if they want to, if they care.”
“Ants don’t care,” he said. “They just go for the sugar.”
“Ants don’t try to make the sugar feel good about being eaten,” she said. “Now tell me.”
“I think the utility of this metaphor has been exhausted,” Marcus said.
She leaned back on her hands and started turning on him, rotating herself on his penis. It was an odd, almost enjoyable sensation.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I want to face you while you tell me,” she said.
“You can’t see me,” he said.
When she had rotated herself and brought her knees up on either side of his chest, she said, “Cover me up. She placed her hands on his shoulders again. “I’m cold.”
He brought the sheet over her shoulders and she hung onto his neck. “Now, tell me,” she said. She had to wait a few seconds for him to begin.
“My mother left when I was nine or ten. After a while I couldn’t even remember what she looked like. Then my father started going to hookers all the time. Sometimes he brought them home, but usually he went to a motel. On my twelfth birthday he decided I should get initiated and he took me with him. I didn’t want to go, but he was the kind of guy who won debates with his belt. I was surprised when the hooker arrived because she was young, maybe your age, but she looked younger than you. I remember thinking she was cute and I wanted her to like me. They negotiated for a while out of ear shot, then she went into the bathroom and he pulled up a chair in front of the door, sat down, and called me over.
“He told me to take off my clothes, and said when she came out I was to do exactly what he said, and if I didn’t he would thrash me until I couldn’t move. I was embarrassed about being naked when she came out, and I had a hard time looking at her. He called her over, she was about the same height as I was, and he handed me a ball gag and told me to put it into her mouth.”
Marcus paused, but continued holding and feeling her breasts. “You sure you want to hear this, Marina?” he asked. “I don’t think it’s going to be good for you.”
“I’ve been kidnapped and raped by a crazy fuck,” she said. “I deserve to know how he got that way.”
He continued. “The girl pushed my hand away, and said, ‘No way, that wasn’t part of the deal.’
“My father looked at me and said, ‘She just refused you. Now I want you to hit her, and tell if she disobeys you again, you are going to beat the shit out of her.’
“The girl backed away, and I looked at my father incredulous. ‘I’m not going to hit her,’ I said.
“His lips parted in a sick grin, and he unbuckled his belt and pulled it out of his pants. I was scared, but I had been beaten before, and I figured I could take it. I guess he could see that, because he said, ‘If you don’t hit her, I will, and which of us do you think will hit her harder?’
“I would have run away, but I was naked, and he was planted in front of the door. He shoved the ball gag in my hand, and said, ‘Go over there, hit the bitch, and put this in her mouth.’
“As I approached her I could see the fear in her eyes, but more than that I could see that she hoped I was a kindred spirit, maybe near enough in age, or from similar horrible parents, that I would help her. There was no help for either of us, though. I slapped her to the ground, put the ball gag in her mouth, and followed my father’s instructions. I tore off her clothes, tied her to the bed, slapped her around some more, and had my first fuck inside her near lifeless body watching her tears soak the pillow.
“When I had finished, my father got up, and said, ‘The next time I tell you to hit someone, you had better not pull your punches.’ He beat her senseless and jerked off on her face while I wretched in the bathroom. I remember thinking I could try for the rest of my life, but there would be nothing I could do to prevent that cute girl from despising me.
“There are times in your life when things happen that you know will change you forever. You might think my first rape would have been one of those times, but it wasn’t. It was just more crazy shit from my dad, and I had known for a long time there was no sense to him or the things he made me do. I just pushed it away like everything else he did to me.
“The same thing happened a bunch of times after that. He never fucked the women himself. He just used me to act out his rape fantasies, while he grinned and stroked his dick. I always dreaded going, but arguing was futile. Then one night, I was about fourteen, he told me to grab the bag with rope and gags and stuff, and said we were going on a date. As we were driving to the motel, I knew that night was the night that would change me forever.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because that night,” he said, “was the first time I looked forward to it.”
She was stunned to silence for a moment, then said, “That’s terrible.”
“That isn’t the half of it, but it’s enough for you to absorb. Any more and you would be begging me to rape you just to make me feel better.”
“How can you make a joke about it,” she said.
“You want me to cry?” he said.
“It would be a nice change from me doing all the crying,” she replied.
“This rape has gotten way off course,” he said. How’s it feeling with my dick up your ass?”
“I guess I’ve stretched out,” she said, “or your dick has gotten smaller.”
He held her arms and rolled her onto her back, but he kept his dick inside her. Then he pulled her knees up and pushed his hips onto hers, driving his dick in even farther. It felt strange and full, but it didn’t hurt. He withdrew a little then pushed all the way in again, repeating the maneuver several times. It was strangely satisfying, and grew even more so as his thrusts grew longer and quicker. It was unlike anything in her experience so far, and she welcomed it more with each stroke. She could feel his dick grow stiffer and hear the pleasure in his soft grunts, and decided it was okay to let herself enjoy it also. Her own noises began to sound at the bottom of each stroke as he reached the limit of his dick in her guts. She had heard of anal intercourse, but she never imagined it would feel this good. She found herself wanting to come again, but afraid if she touched her clitoris she would get frustrated at not coming and need to hurt herself to get off. He took that matter out of her hands by placing his thumb on her bump and massaging it using the same tempo as his long strokes into her ass.
It felt so good she wanted to scream it out to him, but she thought that might lessen the intensity, so she just laid there and let him pound into her ass, and mangle her bump with his thumb. She was close to coming, closer than she thought possible without thinking of the pain, and she whispered her plea to him. “Make me come, Marcus. Fuck me hard in the ass and make me come.” He stroked and rubbed, and she couldn’t imagine him doing it any better, but she couldn’t quite get there. She knew it was because she was a filthy slut who needed to be punished for killing her brother, and she imagined her brother pinching her dicklette until she groaned her orgasm out into the deadened sound of the van and the cool night air.
He stopped rubbing her bump, clutched both of her tits, and rammed her ass in his steady, methodical way. She reached for his face with her hands wanting to know more of him, if only through her fingers. She heard him gasping and felt the wrinkled expression on his face as he groaned and twitched his dick into her ass.
They both breathed heavily for a few seconds, then he pulled out, she straightened her legs, and he put his head on her breast and threw his leg over hers. “Did it hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she said. She imagined him smiling with satisfaction, and wondered what he looked like. Would he look cruel like in the movies, or just distant and crazy, or like her history teacher? As he sucked her breast into his mouth, she said, “Marcus, there’s something I don’t understand.”
“What?” he said, letting go of her nipple just long enough to answer.
“I know that because I was aroused and hurt at the same time, I need to experience pain to have an orgasm. You were aroused while you were inflicting pain, so why don’t you need to inflict pain in order orgasm?”
She felt her nipple pop out of his mouth, “I do,” he said, then get sucked back in.
“But you said you don’t hurt women, and you haven’t hurt me, and you keep trying to help me in your own lecture-y way.”
He released her nipple and fell away from her, perhaps on his back. “I did kidnap, rape and sodomize you. Most people would consider that hurtful.”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “What you’re doing is terrible, but you’re doing it in a nice way. Why?”
“You’re starting to like me, aren’t you?” he said, sounding annoyed.
“No, I’m not starting to like you.”
“It’s called Stockholm Syndrome,” he said, “or identification with the aggressor. It’s very common among kidnap victims. It’s because you’re so afraid of being hurt, you hope that by liking me I won’t hurt you. It is a very unhealthy adaptive strategy. It’s why you should regard me as an ant, a non-person, so you don’t get confused about your feelings for me. I am your rapist, you are my victim. You shouldn’t care about me. I don’t care about you.
“I don’t believe that you don’t care about me. I just think your wires are crossed, and I want to know why they aren’t crossed like mine.”
“Marina, if I tell you it’s going to make me fuck you again.”
Something struck her about his phrasing. She said, “You didn’t say rape.”
“What?”
“Always before you said you were going to rape me. Now you’re going to fuck me. Is making love to me next? Then what? Simultaneous orgasms, marriage, raising lots of little pains sluts and rapists together?”
“Jesus,” he said, “forget what I said about sarcasm. Your’s is getting out of hand.”
She reached for him, found his chest, and said, “Marcus, why don’t you need to inflict pain to get off?”
“All right,” he said.
She pulled herself next to him, laid against his body for warmth, and pulled the sheet over them both.
“One day I came home from school to find my father waiting for me. He said he had a hooker in the bedroom and I was to go in there and rape her, and I was to make sure she knew she was being raped. When I got in there she was lying on the bed crying. She was about forty, I guess, but a good looking woman with wonderful tits. I was only eighteen, but I liked hurting the bitches as much as my father. Maybe more, since I was the only one actually doing the raping. There was something about her that really turned me on, so I got very creative. I cut her clothes off, slapped her, clamped up her nipples, and raped her every way possible. He had chains in the closet and I hung her in there and I kept at her for hours, and I came three times.
“The best part was making her come. She wasn’t prepared for that, and I think she fought it, but I just kept sucking and sucking on her clit because I could tell she was fighting it. I finally got the right motion to make her come and she squawked and bucked her hips so hard I thought she was going to knock my teeth out. She sang like a bird after that, groaning so much you couldn’t tell where one orgasm ended and the next one began. I knew she was mine then, and I kept at her with the vibrator and made her come again, then I hit her, and made her come again, and hit her, just like your brother did to you. You see, men like to make women come to prove they’re sluts, and then punish them for being so wanton. When I had worn myself out on her, she could barely speak she was so racked with the rapturous pain. My dad threw some old clothes of his on her and led her to the door. I said, ‘I like this bitch, Dad. I’d like another go at her sometime.’
“‘Well, he said, I guess since you’re so fond of the bitch, I should introduce you. Marcus, this is your mother, Sarah. Sarah, this is your loving son.’”
“I thought he was joking, but then I understood why she had looked at me funny the whole time. She must have known I was her son. If she had told me I wouldn’t have raped her, at least I hope I wouldn’t’ have. It’s always been a question in my mind. Maybe she thought I would feel bad if I knew, or she knew my dad would punish me if I refused and she was trying to protect me. Maybe she didn’t even recognize me, or maybe he was messing with my head, and she wasn’t my mother.
“When they left I searched through some old photo albums and realized it was her. I had just raped my mother, and I enjoyed it, probably more than any rape before or since. I threw up again, just like the first time.
“I left home after that, stayed with friends, went to college eventually, and tried not to think about raping women. It was too late, though, I was already hard-wired as a rapist. I fought it for a long time, but here I am.”
“So why don’t you hurt them?”
“Every time I rape a woman, I am thinking about my mother, and the look in her eyes as I hurt her. It’s what gets me off, but now the pain I inflict is only in my head. It’s a balance of opposing forces, a crazy kind of compromise, but it works for me.”
She took a deep breath. “Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For telling me,” she said. “It must have been hard for you, you know, admitting you enjoyed raping your mother.”
“I’m sure being raped is harder,” he said. “You’re handling it well, though. I think you’re going to be okay. Unfortunately, talking about that stuff gets me going. I am going to have to rape you again. I did warn you.”
“We’re back to rape, huh?”
“It’s what I am.”
“Is it?” she said. “Maybe you could be different if you wanted to.”
“Yeah,” he said, “and maybe you could stop enjoying having someone pinch your dicklette?”
“So that’s it?” she said. “You’re always going to think about raping your mother, and I’m always going to think about being abused by my brother?”
“You’re young, and not much experience. Maybe you can change. Maybe it isn’t necessary to change. I don’t know.”
“Wow, you actually admitted you don’t know something,” Marina said. “Did it hurt?”
He chuckled as he climbed between her legs and plunged his mouth into her crotch. She felt instantly greedy for an orgasm. He sucked her dicklette into his mouth and she had never imagined how good that would feel. It seemed like he swallowed it and spit it out a dozen times, and she clamped her thighs around his ears and groaned. His tongue was everywhere, even entering her asshole from time to time, but always returning to her engorged dicklette. She wanted to climax and she got very close just enjoying his enthusiasm, but she wanted to feel the numbness ripple through her again. Then she allowed herself to imagine him biting her small, tender dicklette until she screamed in agony, and her orgasm followed, washing over her in waves of relief.
She felt his greed as he climbed up and sucked a nipple into his mouth and he shoved his penis in her. Her nipples were stiff and tender and she wanted him to bite down. He was thinking about torturing and raping his mother as he fucked her slowly, she knew, but it didn’t matter what he was thinking any more than it mattered what she saw in her mind’s eye. Each slap of his crotch against her clitoris was a hard flick from her brother’s big fingers. She didn’t mind that he was being an ant, and that she was bad sugar because it was wasn’t real. What she felt as she grasped his scarred back and what she felt in each of his gentle thrusts was a connection engendered by their touching, their shared experience of abuse, and their impossible affection for each other. When he released inside her she enjoyed the little spurts of his ejaculation, and his trembling in her arms after.
As they laid there stealing each other’s warmth, she said, “You know what I was thinking about on the ride here, besides how stupid I was for allowing it to happen and worrying you were going to kill me? I was thinking you were a mean rapist who would brutalize me and I would get to enjoy it without the guilt of having sought it out. The idea had a lot of appeal for me. I would have hated myself after, but I would have enjoyed it, too. That’s pretty sick, huh?”
“It’s crossed wires, is all. Don’t give it more meaning than it deserves,” he said. “I should get you back.”
He sat up and she heard him rustling, then she felt him wiping her all over with a damp cloth. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Wiping you down,” he said. “I don’t want to leave any DNA.”
Her skin quickly cooled everywhere he touched, as though it was alcohol. “It makes me feel like a dirty glass,” she said.
“I”m sorry,” he said. “The act may seem clinical, but that is not the way I feel about you.”
“What, you’re in love with me, now? Is that one of the difficult things rapists have to cope with after; falling in love with their victims?”
“You’d be surprised how tenderly I feel toward my victims sometimes, after the lust is sated, of course.”
After he wiped every part of her, he helped her get dressed, stuck her purse and her shopping bags in her hands, and left her sitting on the mattress. They did not speak on the ride back to the mall. When the van stopped he came to sit beside her. She waited, wondering if she was really at the mall, and if he was really going to let her go. Perhaps all that had transpired between them was his way of making it easier to rape her, and the reason he had never been caught was because now he was going to kill her and dump her body somewhere.
He was quiet for a while, then said, “Are you ready?”
“For what?” she asked, suddenly scared her theory about him killing her was correct.
“When I open the door,” he said, “I’ll help you get out. Your car is right here. You should get your keys out. You can take the blindfold off after I leave.”
She reached into her purse, felt for her car keys, and clutched them in her hand, then waited. The next few seconds were quiet, then she said, “I can’t believe you don’t have something to say. No last minute advice on how to cope with being raped?”
“I don’t think you need it,” he said.
“Just so you know, I’m going to the police,” she said, her voice suddenly firm.
“I”m very good at what I do,” he said. “So, I’m okay with that.”
“I’ll tell them everything I can remember. How I bit your lip, the scars on your back, and that you are shorter than I am.” She was proud of herself for having figured that out from the fact that she could feel his feet and his head on her breast at the same time.
“They’ll want all the details,” he said. “You’ll have to describe every conversation, every feeling, my every penetration, and your every response.”
“I know,” she said, suddenly unsure.
“If you don’t tell them about the orgasms, your story won’t make sense. If you do tell them, you won’t be a credible witness, and they will snicker and think you are a slut.”
“I’ll just have to convince them I am a complex person,” she said, “that I am not bad sugar.”
“Well, good luck, then,” he said, a certain resignation in his voice.
“Hey,” she said, not at all sure what she wanted to say to him. What she finally uttered was, “Thanks for not hurting me.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
The van door opened and cool air washed over her face. She scooted to the edge, and held his hand until she stood on the pavement. She reached out and touched her car. She expected to hear the van door close. When she didn’t, she said, “You forgot something, you know.”
“What?” he asked.
“All that work to wipe me down, but you left a big splooge of your DNA in me that last time. Was it because you liked me so much you didn’t think, or because you wanted to be caught? Was that the ultimate gift to help me recover? Letting me be the one who catches you?”
She was frustrated there was no response from him. She almost turned and ripped off the blindfold to force him to say something, say anything.
The van door closed behind her, and she heard it drive away. She leaned against the car, trembling, then she removed the blindfold, used the keys to open the door, got into her car and locked it. She took a few deep breaths to compose herself before checking her cell phone. She realized she had only been with him three hours. Nobody will have missed her or suspected anything had gone wrong. She could go home and pretend she had been shopping the whole time, or she could call the police. She sat for a long time trying to decide what to do. Eventually, she dialed 911.
FINIS
*Quote by Bryant H. McGill. Callousness and insolence bring to bare unanimous social condemnation, while the simple efforts of politeness are admired; even in those who are otherwise despised.