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Rape (CougarGirl and lowblow emma)

CougarGirl

CougarGirl

Star
Joined
Nov 5, 2013
Location
A place in Wales that you can't pronounce
It was time to get out of the stifling atmosphere of my family home where at the age of 20 I still lived with my mother and brother, to break free from the claustrophobic mentality of this small Welsh town, to get somewhere more vibrant and exciting, to start living my life. It would take an effort to break away from this suffocating comfort of what was so familiar. The only way to do that was to get a new job, so I searched online and found one that appealed right away. I had all the skills required and, best of all, it was in London, 250 miles away and full of life and opportunities, its streets paved with gold. OK, I didn’t believe that last bit, but it had to be better than where I was. Anywhere was better than that, almost.
I was selected for interview at the firm’s headquarters. Dressed in a smart new business suit and crisp white blouse, I caught the early train for the two and half hour journey. This wasn’t my first visit to London, but as I was swept off the station by the flood of commuters I looked at it differently. I was no longer visiting as a tourist, rushing around packing in as many sites as I could. I saw the City through the eyes of someone who was going to live and work there. I imagined being part of the river of people who flowed out of the railway station and into the numerous shops and offices, like the huge glass complex where my future employer was based. They asked me to wait after the interview and told me before I left that they would like me to come for a second interview in a fortnight’s time. So far, so good.
Two weeks later, London no longer felt strange. I knew my way to the tube station and walked to the office as if I were just one of the commuters heading into work. This time I wasn’t asked to wait after the interview. They would notify me ‘in due course’ as they said, but I was confident that I would succeed. This job felt so right to me; they were sure to feel the same.
The letter arrived the following week. It was there on the mat when I got in from work. I held it for a while, alternately excited at the prospect of moving to London and nervous that it might tell me the worst news, that after all my hopes and dreams I hadn’t got the job. Eventually in the privacy of my bedroom, with my heart racing and my hand trembling, I opened the letter and read what it said.

"Dear Ellie Rogers
"Congratulations on passing your second interview. There is now one final stage in the selection process. We have outsourced this to specialist consultants who will test your initiative. The date and time of your appointment are attached, together with a map showing the location.
"Remember that this is a test of your initiative and it begins as soon as you arrive."

I checked the details provided. The appointment was for the following week at 3 pm.
What sort of test could this be? I surfed for details of initiative tests and found a lot about initiative and a lot of tests, but there were so many and they were so different from each other. In the end, I gave up; none of the results were any use. I just didn’t know what to expect and there was no way I could be prepared for what was going to happen. That, of course, was the whole point.
 
This is wrong, I know, but it’s her fault, not mine. Anyone else in my position would feel the same. This is just a natural response, but one that society has outlawed. Well, that’s society’s problem, not mine.
She has only got herself to blame. The way she flaunts herself is bound to cause guys to feel like I do. Tight trousers, short skirts, figure-hugging blouses, low-cut bras, high heels. She even wears those stockings with a seam. How am I supposed to feel when she parades herself in front of me like that?
She’s definitely doing this deliberately. There can’t be any other explanation. She’s intelligent, observant. How can she not know the effect she’s having? And if she knows, she must be dressing to have that effect. It’s as simple as that. Basic logic.
And it’s not just how she dresses. Look at how she behaves. Wiggling her ass as she walks, her tits bouncing as the minces down the street with those high heels click-clicking. Flirting with those eyes, flashing her lashes laden with mascara, looking up at me from under those lids. Touching too. She’s a toucher, any excuse and she has a hand on me, pretending to smooth my shirt or flick off some imaginary speck of dust.
It’s not as if I can avoid her. She’s around all the time. I only have to turn a corner or open a door and there she is.
She thinks she’s clever. Thinks she’s going to get away by looking for another job. Proud of getting through the interviews. Well, her pride has played right into my hands. She’s not going to work me up into this state and then just leave me, abandon me for a new life in the big city while I steam with frustration back here. She has to be punished for what she’s done to me and she’s going to be.
This is so easy; I can’t believe she fell for it.
 
The day of my initiative test dawned fine and clear with a forecast for a warm day. I was booked on the late morning train that would allow me plenty of time to get where I needed to go, so I could afford a lie in. Even my lazy brother had gone out by the time I got up and dressed in a pleated dark blue skirt, professional but cool, with a light blue blouse and, to show a touch of individuality, red shoes. I emptied my handbag and took only the minimum necessary so as not to clutter myself: lipstick, train tickets, phone, credit card and some loose change. I was half way down the street when I remembered I had forgotten to bring the details of the location for the initiative test.
That reduced the time I could spend with my boyfriend who had taken the morning off to spend some time with me before I caught my train. He’d been really supportive of me throughout, but I knew that when I got this job he wouldn’t be coming with me. We’d not discussed it, but secretly I was sure he realised. As we snuggled up on his sofa, I felt the passion was already draining away. Our kiss as I left was like we were saying goodbye.
The last thing I wanted was to arrive in a fluster, so I planned to find the test centre first and then go for a walk, but it was harder to find than I had expected. There was a confusing maze of side roads and alleys, many with road names. After a series of frustrating wrong turns, I eventually traced it to a narrow side street in the shadow of an abandoned warehouse. Finding it must have been part of the test. By now there was still a little time to spare, but the area was rundown and not a place I fancied walking, so I decided to arrive early. What better way to show initiative?
The name of the company was on a small card below the single bell push next to a shabby door with peeling green paint. I tried the door but it was locked so I pressed the bell. There was no sound of ringing from inside, but I heard a click and pushed the door. This time it opened to reveal a short hallway and a steep staircase light by a single light on the landing. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I began to climb the narrow stairs. When I reached the third step, I heard the lock click shut behind me.
 
She’s early. Lucky I was here already to check that everything was in place and working. I needn’t have worried. It looks complicated, but actually it’s really simple. A new lock, a few basic switches, and some miniature cameras with night vision that fit into the lights, that’s all it took to give me complete control of the electric circuits and to watch whatever she does. All operated remotely and controlled from my phone, which flashes as she presses the bell push.
Time to begin.
I let her in and watch from the camera concealed in the light at the top of the stairs. She begins to climb. The fly has entered my web. When she is halfway up, I lock the door. She pauses as she hears the mechanism behind her, but she doesn’t know what’s ahead or that she won’t be able to get out until I release the lock. After a moment she continues up the stairs to the landing. I switch to the camera in the corridor in front of her and watch as she walks past my door at the top of the stairs towards the room at the end where the door is open, inviting her to enter. Come into my parlour.
I switch to the camera in that room and watch as she tries to work out what to do.
 
At the top of the stairs, there was a corridor with doors on either side. They were all shut except for the one at the far end, which was open with a light shining invitingly. I headed along to the open door, expecting to find a receptionist. Instead, I found a table, a few ill-assorted chairs and a desk with a telephone. The curtains were drawn over the windows. There was no one in sight. No papers on the desk. On the table, there were a few out-of-date magazines that litter waiting rooms the world over. I called out, but there was no answer. There must be someone here, otherwise who had opened the door. I flipped through the magazines just in case there were some instructions there, but found nothing. Perhaps I should try the doors, so I set off along the corridor, knocking at each before trying the door. They were all locked. So back to the waiting room, if that was what it was. Perhaps I should just sit down and wait, but that didn’t show much initiative. So that left the telephone. I put down my handbag and lifted the receiver, hoping to hear a message, but heard nothing, not even a dialling tone. Looking down the side of the table revealed the reason – the line had been cut.
That was when I heard a sound behind me, coming from along the corridor, like a door opening.
I looked down the corridor. The light seemed dimmer than it had been but it was bright enough to show a figure at the far end, dressed from head to toe in black and wearing a hood or mask.
That was when the lights went out.
 
It’s amusing watching her. She’s trying to figure out what is going on. Making all the obvious moves, calling out, checking for a note, even searching the magazines, trying the phone, checking the doors. She’s thorough. I cannot fault her for that. There’s one thing she hasn’t tried. I make a mental note of that, something I hadn’t thought about until know, but I’ll need to deal with it as soon as I can. I am not troubled by this oversight. I thrive on pressure and my mind is already working on a solution.
She still provokes me, even when I’m watching her on camera. The pleats of her skirt rippling as she sways around on those high heels that send out flashes of red as she walks. Even that blue blouse – not my favourite, I prefer her in white – is buttoned tight enough to show the outline of her bra.
The slight stiffening in my cock reminds me that I am not here to watch her on camera. It is time to show myself. Then the fun – no not the fun, this is much more serious than that – this is when the business can begin.
I unlock my door and step out waiting with my finger over the button that will turn off all the lights as soon as she has seen me.
She looks out into the corridor. I allow her a second or two to take the black form that stands silently blocking her escape. Then I press the button.
It’s dark now and I have to move quickly.
 
The light switch was on the wall by the door, right in my line of vision as I saw the black figure. I reached out and …
CLICK
No light. Someone had pulled the fuses.
I needed light, so if the lights were off, I needed daylight, which meant I needed to open the curtains. I fumbled my way round the table to the window and pulled the curtains aside.
Still complete blackness.
I felt for the glass but found only metal. The window had metal shutters.
My idea was right, though, I needed light. There must be other windows in those locked rooms and at least one of them must have been opened to let that man out.
Now why was I sure it was a man? There was no time to stand thinking. I needed to find the open door or, if necessary, force one open.
There was no time to waste in this room. I rushed out into the corridor towards the doors, intending to start on the left, the side that looked out over the street.
‘OUCH’
I cried out as my shin caught something in my way and I tumbled, cracking my knee on the obstruction as I fell in a heap. Reaching out, I felt a chair. The man must have put that in my way, which meant that he had got it from somewhere, like one of these rooms, so one of the doors must be open.
There was no need to find one in the dark, as a hand caught me by the elbow, lifted me up and propelled me against a door, which flew open and slammed behind me. I spun round and found the handle; the door was already locked.
But I was sure he hadn’t followed me in and the window must be opposite. I walked slowly across, feeling ahead for any obstacles. There was some furniture but I reached the window unscathed.
Only to find another shutter.
Then I heard the door open behind me and shut again. He was inside the room with me.
 
That little problem was easier to solve than I expected, even in the dark. Now it’s time to get to grips with little Miss Perfect in there.
She’ll have heard the door shut, so she knows I am probably in with her now. It’s impossible to use my phone without giving myself away, so I can’t be sure exactly where she is. I’ll just have to rely on my senses. That’s OK. They’re finely tuned, more so than people would think. And, of course, I’ve a good idea of where the furniture is.
I stand with my back to the door, just in case she makes a run for it. Not that she can get away. There is no sound, not even breathing. She must be holding her breath just as I am, waiting for her to give herself away. I wonder if she realises yet that this isn’t an initiative test like she’s been expecting.
As I begin to edge to my right something smashes against the wall over to my left. She’s throwing things at random hoping to hit me or make me reveal my position. I reach out to feel my way along the wall and touch a sleeve. She instantly tries to pull away, but I am too quick. I take a firm hold and move towards her. She’s pulling away in the direction of the window, but I still have hold of her blouse. My other hand reaches round her waist and pulls her back against my body.
First contact. The first contact of many.
I can let go of her blouse now. My free hand slips down over her hip, pulling her skirt up with my fingers until I feel the bare flesh of her thigh. First contact with flesh. The first of many.
My hand works up towards her panties. I wonder what colour they are today.
‘OOWWW.’
 
I couldn’t see him, but then he couldn’t see me, so that made us equal, sort of. He’d be familiar with the layout in here, may even have set it deliberately to trap me. After all, he was the one who’d thrown me in here.
I stood rigid, not daring to breathe lest I gave my position away. I kept my eyes shut in case their brightness might show him where I was. I strained to hear any movement. I knew I was near some piece of furniture; I could feel it next to my knee. Inconveniently positioned to obstruct anyone trying to work round the room.
This was an initiative test, so why not use some. Slowly, imperceptibly, I reached down and carefully wrapped my fingers around the edge of what turned out to be a small side table. I lifted it and hurled it across the room. A lucky shot might hit him. Even if I didn’t, he might jump at the sound and I’d hear where he was.
No sooner had the table hit the opposite wall than I felt a tug on my sleeve. I immediately tried to move away, but he tightened his grip and then grabbed me by the waist. If I’d had any lingering doubt whether this was a genuine test, I lost it then. This wasn’t the way a reputable tester would carry on.
I had to get out of that room, out of that building, or if I couldn’t I had to get help and there was one sure way to do that. But first I had to get free. My mother had always told me that if I ever got attacked or worst, the important thing was to say calm. Thanks, mum. That’s easier said than done. But I stayed as calm as I could, even when his cold hand pulled up my skirt and started heading north.
Gambling that he’d be distracted by the pleasure of touching my flesh, I lift my left foot and swiftly stamped hard on his toes.
‘OOWWW.’
With a yowl of pain, he slackened his grip enough for me to pull free. I reached the door and slammed it behind me, moving to the right and making as quickly as I could for the desk in the end room and my handbag that I had left there. My hands were shaking as I fumbled to open the catch and groped inside. I searched fanatically. Everything was there … except my phone. He must’ve taken it.
 
‘OOWWW.’
That bitch, it feels like she’s broken my toe. She’ll pay for that. I’ve got a plan, but I’m not going to stick to it rigidly. I’m too smart for that. There’s flexibility built in to take account of unforeseen contingencies, like this unprovoked assault on my foot. The plan can be adapted, just so long as it ends in the same way. Which it will.
But at least I can use my phone now to see exactly where she is.
Just as I expected. She’s realised this isn’t an initiative test and she’s gone for her phone. Lucky I realised that I’d overlooked that possibility. No one’s perfect, not even me. Well she won’t find where I’ve put it and even if she does, it won’t be any use without a battery, which is in my pocket.
Now where is she going? Just standing there. Now she trying to hide in a corner. What on earth is the point of that? Maybe she hasn’t worked out that I can track her movements? She must be even slower than I thought.
 
I cursed myself for not keeping hold of my bag. But it was no use crying now that it was too late. I had to decide on a plan. I was trapped in here by someone who wanted … well, wanted what exactly? He hadn’t gone to all this trouble just to play hide and seek in the dark. I wondered if he planned to kill me, but if he did this was a complicated way to go about it. It was more like he wanted to frighten me and then … OK I let the thought form in my mind – rape me.
I remembered my mother’s advice – whatever happens, stay calm. I came here for an initiative test, so I decided to treat it like that. What would I do if this were a test? I kept alert for any sound of that door opening, while I thought this through. He was able to find his way around quickly and knew where I was. He must have some sort of tracking system in here, cameras perhaps, or sensors in the floor. So he knew where I was, but I didn’t know where he was.
Still no sound of that door opening, which confirmed my suspicion. He was monitoring me somehow and waiting for me to move. So I decided to lay a trap. I’d position myself so that I’d know where he was coming from. And the only way I could be sure was if I were in a corner. So that was the obvious place to go, into a corner in this room. He couldn’t sneak up on me from behind there.
So I worked my way cautiously until I was in a corner and then I waited. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before I heard the door of the room he was in open and close. He was on his way.
 
The silly little tart. She’s behaving like she wants to be caught and raped. Can’t get enough of it, that’s her reputation back home. It looks like it’s true. Well, her wish is my command. If that is what she wants, who am I to deny her?
I deliberately make a noise as I open and close the door. Let her know that I am coming. Let her be afraid. Let her be very afraid.
I pause in the corridor to make a final check before switching off my phone, memorising her position. She hasn’t even bothered to move any furniture into my path. All I need to do is take aim and walk straight up to her.
Which is what I do. Slowly. Quietly. Letting her worry whether I am coming or now. I know these rooms like the back of my hand. I know how far I have to walk before I am standing just a few inches away. I hold my breath and listen to her breathing. She is trying to control it, to stay as quiet as she can. She is wasting her time, because I am already here. Standing directly in front of her. Just outside her reach. I’m going to move in fast, grab her before she realises what’s happening. Pin her so she’s can’t move. Prevent her making any smart more smart moves like that stamp on my foot.
Now I move, swift and true, my hands aiming for those breasts.
 
I’d heard him come out the room and I was sure he knew where I was. All I had to do was wait. He took his time, probably trying to catch me off guard. Well, he wasn’t going to do that. I was primed and ready.
I sensed that he was near, although I wasn’t sure why. I could see nothing in the total blackness. I had heard nothing. But I was sure he was right here, close to me. Maybe I’d picked up some slight sound that didn’t register in my senses or maybe there was some subtle smell, some odour about him.
My heart was racing as I tried to control my breathing to steady my nerves so that I could remain calm for the next crucial moment. I’d have to respond as quickly as I could. He’d be bound to move in close and fast so that I couldn’t stamp on him again. He needn’t worry; I had no intention of doing that again.
My only concern was that he might move onto me from one side. Then I’d need to turn to face him. It would be best if he came from the front.
Then I felt it. A slight rush of air as he moved towards me. I waited until his hands touched my breasts. Then, instead of cringing back as my instincts told me to do, I pushed my arms up between his, knocking them aside and moved forward. One short step with my left foot. Then I brought my right leg forward, the knee moving up fast, aiming for the tops of his thighs, driving hard and fast. I felt the gasp of air as my knee squashed his balls against bone, which was my cue to drop my knee slightly before ramming it home again, harder this time now that I knew where the target was, then grinding until I felt his body begin to collapse to the floor.
Then I ran. Not caring what was in my way, keeping to the side of the corridor in the hope that any obstacles would be in the centre, dragging my hand along the wall so that I could count the doors as I passed. I’d just passed the final door when my foot caught something protruding and I fell, carried forward by my momentum, and then I was toppling sideways, through the air, bouncing off the stairs and the walls as I tumbled down. I landed in a heap, my left leg twisted under me, cracking my right elbow on the tiled floor.
I dragged myself to my knees and fumbled for the lock. It didn’t work.
I slumped against the door. There was no way out. I had two choices: lie here and wait for him to come for me or take the fight to him. Right now, I didn’t have the strength or the will to fight.
 
I’ve got her. Got my hands on those pert tits of her.
But she doesn’t pull away, instead she moves towards me, catching me off balance. And then …
I stop. The world stands still. Something has happened, but I’m not sure of what. Then a fraction of a second later …
The pain hits, sharp, cutting me in half up my belly, like she’s driving a knife deep inside me.
Fuck.
Then another pain, sharper than the first.
Fucking bitch.
Slowly my brain begins to function again through the pain, registering the crushing feeling my legs.
Fucking vicious bitch.
My lungs are empty and I’ve no strength to fill them again. My legs give way. As I double over, I feel her bare leg brush against me.
Behind me, I hear her running. There’s no doubt where she’s heading – to the door. Then I hear her cry out and the sound of crashing. She must have fallen down the stairs.
Satisfaction provides a brief respite from the agony filling my belly and brain before another spasm cuts me in two. Time for her later; she can’t get away. Right now all that concerns me is the disaster taking place between my thighs. There are hot skewers piercing my balls, which are being roasted over a fire, the flames licking at my crotch and eating through my flesh.
Every time I try to rise, another spasm doubles me over. Slowly, the pain begins to subside allowing me eventually to scramble to my feet, supported delicately on legs that feel like jelly. I wobble to the desk and rest there while I check my phone. She is lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
I work my way along the corridor, supporting myself on the wall and pausing as further aftershocks of pain bite me. I reach the top of the stairs and pick up the chair that she fell over. She won’t catch me off guard again. I switch on the lights and, while her eyes are flooded, I throw the chair down the stairs on top of her. Only when she is struggling to extricate herself do I start to descend.
 
The sudden light blinded me and I held my arm up to shield my eyes. I saw only the shadow of the chair as it flew towards me. It caught me on the arm and one of its legs jabbed into my breast. By the time I had pushed it aside, he was down the stairs and standing over me.
Battered by my fall and bashed by the chair, I could only cringe against the door as the blows rained down. His fists pummelled at my head, my breasts, my belly. Wherever I put up my arms for protection, his blows found a way under my guard. The guy was in a frenzy. Through the pain of his blows, I could hear him gasping for breath from the effort he was expending. In the end, I gave up trying to fend off the blows and just curled up into a ball.
That was when he started kicking me. On my back, my ass, my thighs, my arms. Anywhere that was exposed. He had lost it, he was totally out of control.
In the end, the pain no longer registered. I wasn’t aware of the individual blows any longer. Just an overall pain. And in the midst of this, a thought slowly crept into my mind. Why was he doing this? Why didn’t he just rip my clothes off? That was what he had been trying to do earlier. Why didn’t he grab hold of me? That was what he had done upstairs. He wasn’t trying to rape me any longer.
And that gave me courage. Not to fight him. There was no way I could get through the relentless blows. There was hope there; they would surely wear him out before long, giving me the upper hand. But in the meanwhile I might be able to get to him mentally, so I taunted him.
‘What’s the matter? Is this the only way you can show what a man you are, by beating up a defenceless girl? Does this make you feel good? Does it make you feel like a man? You must be so proud.’
Of course, it didn’t come out all in one go like that. I had to gasp it out as best I could whenever there was a brief lull for him to recover or shift position to get a better angle of attack.
And as I spoke, I began to understand why.
‘You can’t get it up can you? You can’t get hard, even with a defenceless woman at your mercy. Your tiny little cock is all soft and floppy, isn’t it? You’re just pathetic. You’re IMPOTENT.’
I spat the last word at him, proud that I had understood the reason for this attack. I was just talking, talking without thinking, trying to distract him, trying to establish some sort of dialogue. I didn’t think about what reaction this might provoke. I only saw the blur of movement as his fist hit me on the jaw and knocked me back against the door.
 
As I descend the stairs towards her, I plan what I’m going to do to her. This little tart has teased and tormented me for years. And for that, she is going to pay … later. Right now, there is something much more important on my mind. She’s trashed my balls. That just shows her lack of respect for me, something I’ve always suspected. And for that, she is going to be punished.
If this weren’t so serious, I’d be laughing at the way she is tangled up with that chair. She has only just struggled free when I hit her. The first few blows are weak, although she cringes away and tries to protect herself from them. She makes me work to find her weakest spots and to sneak my blows in under her guard. And that is good, because it makes me focus on what I’m doing. I cease being angry and become calm, very calm, frighteningly calm. And as I work methodically at beating her, I feel my strength returning and my blows getting more powerful.
But then, perhaps sensing my renewed strength, the strength she tried to sap, she curls up. That leaves me no option. It’s no good blaming me for this. What is the point of punching her ass or her thigh. The only sort of blows that she will feel there are kicks, hard kicks and that is what she gets.
I’m just coming to the end of her punishment when she starts to get disrespectful again. Abusing me. Shouting at me. Saying dirty words that are probably turning her on. Calling me impotent of all things. Impotent I definitely am not. I know from the effect she’s been having on me for years. And right now, my erection has been growing, longer with each punch, stiffer with each kick. I’m simply not prepared to take that sort of abuse. She’s unfurled herself now. Staring at me, challenging me. She’s left me no choice. I punch her in the mouth.
That shuts her up. Now we’ll see who’s impotent.
I grab her by her blouse and drag her up the stairs. The buttons pop – no surprise as it is far too tight for her – and eventually the material rips, dumping her onto the stairs. I tear it off and grab the waistband of her skirt. This holds out until we reach the top, when it snaps under her weight and dumps her on the landing. I tear it off, leaving her in the flirty skimpy lacy bra and panties. They won’t last a second, which of course is why she wears them, so that any man can get them off without a struggle. That leaves me no choice. I take a firm grip on her hair and drag her into the second room on the left.
 
I still don’t know why I did it. Whatever possessed me to provoke him? How could I ever have thought it would make any difference?
The blow dazed me. I was only vaguely aware of my legs bumping up the stairs and then a sharp pain in my side as my blouse split dropping me with a jolt and my side catching the edge of stair. That roused me so that I was more aware of the bouncing motion as he grabbed my skirt and half carried, half hauled me up the rest of the stairs, before I was tipped onto the landing, sending a jolt through every aching muscle.
But there was something worse than the pain, something that cut me much deeper, feelings I knew would stay with me for ever.
Lying there under the harsh light of the lamp on the landing, I felt embarrassed, embarrassed that this stranger was seeing me in my underwear, embarrassed like my brother had walked in while I was dressing as he did once. And worse, I felt dirty, dirty feeling this stranger’s eyes on me dressed as I would only show myself to my boyfriend, dirty knowing that it was having the same effect as it had on him.
If I’d had the strength, I’d have covered myself with my hands as he dragged me by my hairs along the corridor.
 
This is the room where I will rape her. There is an iron bedstead with a mattress. I keep my grip on her hair with one hand and put my other hand under her ass to heave her up onto the bed. She seems frozen, but I can’t take any more risks. There are handcuffs at the head of the bed, one attached at each corner. I snap them on her wrists. She makes no attempt to struggle, let alone try to escape. Then I tie her ankles to either side at the foot of the bed. Still she does not struggle. She is now spread-eagled and held secure. There can be no escape. I stand over her and stare down. She is at my mercy now, no longer able to taunt and tease me as she has done for so long.
One final thing before I put out the lights.
I unzip my jeans and show her my tackle. My cock stands stiff and proud. I wave it in her face. The desire to scream in her face is almost overwhelming: ‘Do you still think I’m impotent?’ But she must not hear my voice. She must not recognise me.
 
My body and my mind were separate by now. My body was frozen in terror. I had never understood what that meant before, but now I do. I was incapable of moving any limbs, not just because of the pain from my beating but because of the paralysing fear of what was going to happen, what I was powerless to prevent. But while my body was frozen, my mind was racing, jumping from frantic searching for any way of turning the tables on my attacker and partly thinking of what the future held. I imagined the police questioning of every intimate details, the physical examinations, breaking the news to my family, and to my boyfriend. How would he feel? Would he ever want to touch me again? Could I ever show myself to a man again?
I was only distantly aware of the man tying me to the bed and of him standing over me displaying himself like some disgusting flasher getting his thrill by showing himself to children in the park.
And then the lights went out again. I strained to hear what was happening, my hearing becoming more acute in the darkness, but all I could hear was a rustling and the sound of feet on the bare floor.
 
I strip off and fold my clothes over a chair. On the top I place that suffocating mask. Now I can stand in front of her as I am. Naked and proud. If only she could see me.
I cannot see her in the dark, but I can see her in my mind. Her arms are outstretched in invitation and her legs are open in welcome. But I need no invitation. I am coming in whether she welcomes me or not.
This is not something that can be rushed. There is no hurry. She will not be catching the train she has booked.
I begin with her feet, caressing each foot, separating her toes and massaging each joint, before moving along the arch to her ankle. Then up her calves and thighs, my fingers brushing the fine hairs that stand out light and bright against her tan. And behind my hands, my breath, which I let trickle through my lips which form into a kiss to guide it along the trail left by my fingers.
I skirt her panties - time for them later – and work across her belly, tickling the hollow of her navel. Fingers, followed by breath, moving inexorably towards her breasts. Like her panties, her bra can wait. In the meantime, I work along her arms, before returning and stroking her throat and face, resisting the temptation to kiss her neck.
Now I return to my clothes to collect my knife.
 
His soft touch felt like a rat’s claws and his warm breath that pursued it felt like the rat’s tail dragging and swishing across my skin. In its trail, it left insects that ate through my skin. They ate deep into my flesh, gnawing at my nerves down to their roots.
Vomit burnt my throat but I was determined not to show my revulsion at his touch, forcing my breath to stay shallow to calm my nerves, preventing me from shuddering and shaking.
My mind raced ahead, anticipating the rat’s arrival at my crotch. I held my breath and felt pathetically grateful when it jumped across my panties and its claws worked around my abdomen. I almost wanted to call out and thank him for what he hadn’t done.
Again with my breasts, the vermin avoided them and worked along my arms instead. I could have cried with relief. As his face came close to mine, I smelt the scent of his soap. A fresh clean smell that I imagined cleansing me as it passed over my body.
Then there was a pause. While my brain told me this was only temporary relief, my mind felt that it was an act of kindness, drawing me closer to this man who was violating me, grateful for his small acts of consideration.
I strained to hear what he was doing, but could only hear occasional steps and rustling. Then I felt the cold steel on my thigh. If my throat hadn’t been paralysed I’d have begged him not to cut me.
 
Let her feel my blade, feel the steel, the cold steel, the cold sharp steel. Let her worry whether I’m going to cut her. You know something, I’m not sure myself. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. It just depends on how the fancy takes me. And on how she behaves of course. She may need to be punished again, like she was for kneeing my balls like that. She deserved to be sliced for that. But that’s in the past now. Over, but not forgotten – how could it be, when they still ache. Gone, but not forgiven – and it never will be, when she has dared to assault the very centre of my manhood.
I slide the knife over her body. Let her feel the metal as I trace the line of her thighs. Let her feel the blade as it crosses her abdomen. Let her feel the point as I press it hard into her throat. Does it draw blood? I can’t see so I can’t be sure, but I don’t care. She will know if she feels the trickle of warm blood.
I move down from her throat to her breasts. I scrape the blade across each breast, feeling the lumps of her nipples. They are hard. Is she aroused? Or is she afraid? She should be afraid. Oh yes, she should be afraid. Maybe I should slice them off, cut away the sign of her arousal. I push the knife under the bra and poke at the soft flesh of her young breasts, moving towards the nipples.
Two swift sharp movements with the knife and it is done – the lacy material is in shreds, the bra falls away and her breasts fall to the side, flopping now that they are free of the frame that held them in place, smaller now that they are no longer pushed up and out to taunt and tease me.
I bend over to kiss them.
 
My mind was becoming confused. One minute he was threatening me with the point of his knife piercing the flesh at my throat. Then he was caressing me as if I were a lover to arouse. I fought against the feeling. It would have been so easy just to lie there and take the pleasure that his touch would have given me, if I had allowed it to. It would have been so easy to surrender, to let the physical sensations wash out of my mind the reality of what was happening, to let the darkness that surrounded me hide the truth of what he was doing to me.
I was afraid, not of what he might be going to do to me, not right then anyway. No, what was scaring me as he began to kiss my breasts was that I might let myself become aroused. Not that I wanted him to touch me, nor that I was sexually excited by the prospect of being raped. It was just that I might become wet as a physical reaction to what he was doing to me. In my mind, I could hear him giving evidence in court – there was no doubt in my mind that it would come to that, that I could get through this and that he would be caught – telling the jury that I had consented and he knew because I had become aroused. There was a risk that the jury might believe him, but what really troubled me was the embarrassment of having to admit, standing there is front of the judge, the jury, the lawyers, the public in the gallery, the reporters, that yes he was right, that my reaction to this horrifying ordeal was to become damp, as damp as I would if I had been with my boyfriend.
And, strangely, those thoughts helped me to dissociate myself from what was happening, to maintain a distance, to remain detached, like I was watching what was happening from outside. Helping me keep sane.
 
With my face between her breasts, I can smell her sweat and, cutting through the sour smell, I detect her delicate fruity perfume. As I work down her belly, kissing her soft skin, I pick up another smell, growing as I progress, yeasty, fishy. Even in the dark I know I am approaching her cunt. But even here I pick up her perfume. The little tart has sprayed her crotch. She’s always ready for any unexpected visitors.
My balls tighten and I know I am ready. Time to show her my strength. I take her panties in my hands and rip them apart, tossing the rags into the air to fall where they will.
She is naked now, lying fully exposed. Her arms stretched open, her thighs spread wide. She is very familiar with this position. I am no longer interested in arousing either of us. What I need now is practical information – her precise position on the bed, so that I will not fumble around in the dark. Her cunt acts like a magnet for cocks back home, but I’m not going to take any changes.
I reach down and grab come flesh – a leg – thin and hard so it must be her calf, she has quite thick thighs. I keep hold and reach out, until I grasp her other calf. I move my hands up to her knees and push them wider as I climb between, then I use my knees to force her wide.
My balls are pulled tight into my crotch, my cock is so hard the skin feels as if it is stretched almost to breaking point. I feel her trembling but I am calm. I guide my cock to her pussy and rub it to locate her cunt. I put my whole weight behind my first thrust.
 
What’s it like to be raped? What woman hasn’t asked herself that at some time in her life? When she hears a noise behind her in a dark alley? When there’s a creak in the house in the middle of the night? When she sees the taxi driver’s eyes on her in his rear-view mirror? In her darkest fantasy?
For me, the answer came as a surprise. To start with, I was ashamed. Ashamed to be lying here naked and exposed, my legs stretched wide and in front of a complete stranger. Because he had to be a stranger. Someone I knew wouldn’t be treating me like this, would they?
Then, I was embarrassed. My pubes desperately needed a trim but I’d been too busy to get round to it. My boyfriend told me not to bother, he likes a thick bush, but I like to keep myself neat and tidy down there. They were getting long and straggly and there was stubble around the edges. Would he notice? Would he care? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I cared.
Why did I feel like that when the guy couldn’t see me? You’d need to get to see a psychologist to get to the bottom of them.
I didn’t even feel fear, until I felt his cock rubbing against my pussy, searching in the dark for the way in. I opened by mouth to scream, but it didn’t come out. All I felt was an intense pressure as he tried to force himself into me. Then I realised, he couldn’t get in. I was too tight and dry. Was that what all that kissing and stroking had been about? Was he trying to arouse me? Maybe he wouldn’t be able to rape me after all.
Then another thought crept into my head. If he couldn’t rape me, what might he do instead?
 
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