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Rape (CougarGirl and lowblow emma)

He’s been here. Right here, in my home, in my bedroom. I went for a shower and put out my clothes on the bed. When I came back, they had gone. There was no one else here to take them. Mum and my brother are both out. So someone came into the house and took them. There’s only one person it could be and he’s left me a message as plainly as if he’d sent a text. I can get to you whenever I want, wherever you are. That’s what he’s said and that’s what I’ve understood.

He got into my home, walked up to my bedroom and took my clothes. Maybe even stopped by the bathroom door and watched me in the shower. How did he know I’d be there? He must have been following me. How could I know I’d be alone? He must have been watching the house. How could he possibly have known I’d be in the shower? He couldn’t have, which only means that he didn’t care. He could have walked right into me on the stairs and he didn’t care. That’s how brazen he is, how confident he is, how determined to frighten me and control me like he did in London.

A few days ago, I’d have locked my door and hidden under the covers. But not now. No longer. I have to stop this. Sally is right; I am not a victim unless I choose to be and I choose not to be. I am taking the fight to him. I can’t take him on alone, but I have family, friends, my boyfriend. Together with their help we stop this, perhaps even find out who he is.

Do I want to know who he is? Because if I do, there’ll be a trial and I’ll have to stand up in court and say what he did, every little detail, and be cross-examined as if it were all my fault or I made it up. I don’t want that, but I’ll take one step at a time.
 
That was fun. She had no idea I was there. I just walked right in through the back door. No one had bothered to lock it. As I was wandering around, I saw her feet walking along the landing. As soon as I heard the shower, I walked up the stairs, calm as you like, not bothering whether I made any noise and stood there in the doorway. The shower door was steamed up, but I could see her clearly, spinning around in the water, soaping her body, rubbing her breasts and between those heavy thighs, letting the water trickle over her body to wash away the suds. I didn’t move until she reached out for a towel. Then it was easy to slip into her bedroom, grab her clothes and walk downstairs. I heard her going back along the landing as I closed the back door. That will have made her think. She’ll know I’m around now. It couldn’t have been clearer if I had left her a note.
 
This bastard has tried to wear me down, but he has only succeeded in giving me strength. It is time to confront him. I need to contact him and the only way I know to do that is by phone. He has never withheld his number when he rings me, so all I need to do is ring him.

I am on the verge of doing so several times, but my courage fails me. He’ll know it’s me so he won’t let me hear his voice. Should I say anything if he answers? What could I say? I need to be prepared.

I need to draw strength too, as I have been doing from, from my closest supporters. I finally feel ready as my mum is driving me, my brother and my boyfriend to a restaurant for a meal. I know what I am going to say. I will simply ask him why he raped me.

Mum and I are in the front and the guys are in the back. I don’t say what I am doing. I just take out my phone and ring the number. But just as it starts to ring, a phone starts ringing behind me in the car. I can’t talk to my rapist while one of the guys is chatting about something else. So I ring off, just as the phone stops ringing in the back. I try again a couple of times, but the same thing happens. In the end, I give up. Fate isn’t on my side tonight.
 
Shit. I should have turned off that fucking phone. She’s won’t have noticed though. She’s too thick, that the truth of the matter.
 
I keep chatting, just like nothing’s happened. But my heart is racing. That was too much of a coincidence. The ringing of that phone starting and stopping when I rang my rapist. Three times. That’s just too much. And I know his phone; I’m familiar with its different tones. That wasn’t one of them. How could he do that to me? If he had a problem with me, why didn’t he just come right out with it, like a man?

Does he know I noticed? Will he try to dump that phone? It doesn’t matter, because the police have got his DNA. I was covered in the stuff. But I’ve got to make a decision. My mind is racing. Do I want to put myself through the trial, the cross-examination, reliving all that happened, being called a liar, a fantasist? I wouldn’t be named, but what good would that do. People would soon associate me with him, put two and two together to make four. And they’ll blame me. Not openly of course, but secretly, behind my back, with their closest friends or family. “She must’ve known what he was like”, they’ll be saying. “You can’t be that close to someone and not know they’re capable of that sort of thing.” “He might have gone after me next, or my sister, or anyone.” “Look at the way she dresses and flaunts herself about.” “She was asking for it really.”

And do I really want to put him through it? What an odd thought, but it’s there. This isn’t some stranger, it’s someone I know, someone I’m close to, someone I trusted and called my friend. This is a man I care about. A man I cared about.

But will he stop now? Will he stop these silly games? Will he stop raping or will he have the taste for it now? Don’t I owe it to others to expose him?

These thoughts whirl through my mind as I keep up a mindless chatter about inconsequential things, like the traffic. Am I talking too much? Am I giving myself away? I have to make my mind up, quickly. One thing I know for certain. I can’t sit down and eat with this guy.

‘Mum, sorry, I don’t feel like eating anymore.’

The guys protest. My mum asks if I’m alright. That is a question and it deserves an answer.

‘Yes, mum, I’m fine now, better than I’ve felt since I was raped. Forget the restaurant. Drive me to the police station.’

I twist in my seat and ask the question that has been in mind since the start of my ordeal in London.

‘Why?’
 
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