If I cannot prepare myself for the unknown then all I can do is be brave and accept whatever comes, when it comes, as best I can.
I pulled myself off the floor and stood tall and brave. What a joke. I wasn't a brave woman. A brave woman doesn't tremble in terror. I was using every ounce of strength in my entire body just to keep standing upright and Rick wasn't even in the house yet. For all I knew, he might stay away all evening. He might not come for me until the darkest hour of the night. Maybe he would go to a bar after work and stay ‘til close, getting stinking drunk, and then stumble home in an alcoholic rage, completely out of control, and beat me senseless.
Even if that's what I deserve, I'd never have to courage to endure so much punishment. Of course, after a certain point, courage no longer matters. What I had set in motion would play out whether I was brave or cowardly, whether I fought back like a tiger or curled into a ball and took a beating without a whimper. A bad time was coming and there wasn't a damn thing that I could do about it.
But I had to be honest with myself. Rick wasn't going to beat me half to death. That wasn't his style and it wasn't his assignment. He wasn’t a sociopath. His assignment was to rape me. Rape me bad. Sooner or later, he was going to walk through that door, push me down and force himself upon me in whatever ways he could imagine, using as much violence as necessary to get his way. That was the deal. I had been clear and explicit about that.
My only option was to wait and for him to get here and then accept whatever he wanted to do to me.
Or was it?
I had a daring thought. I could run. I could sneak out right now, before he got here. I could get in my car and start driving. To where? Anywhere. I could drive to a random motel on the edge of town and hide until my offer to be a rape victim expired at noon tomorrow. That would work. A few bucks for a room for the night and I would suffer nothing. No pain. No degradation. Nothing.
I looked at his email again. He says, “No mercy.” I say, “Fuck that.” I asked him – no, begged him – to call it off and how did he respond? He threatened me all the more. Well, I'll show him what his “no mercy” means. It means that I'm out of here.
I practically ran down the stairs, paused to pull a pair of shoes on and grab my purse and raced out the front door.
INR, my ass, I thought as I slid behind the wheel of my car. I don't need raping. I need to get out of here, that's what I need.
I popped the shift of my lovely red Explorer into reverse and pulled out of my driveway. I charged through our neighborhood full speed ahead. I didn’t run down any of our neighbors or their dogs, but I definitely did not waste any time sightseeing. I only cared about getting out of Dodge before high noon. On the drive across town, a couple of other drivers glared at me when I cut a little too close to them and one honked at me, so maybe I should have been a little more careful.
I was more than a little distracted by rushes of pure terror and punctuated by moments of elation at the prospect of escaping unscathed.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the lot of the Valley Motor Inn on the highway out of town with no accidents and no new moving violations added to my already spotty driving record.
The middle-aged clerk looked as bored as lumber as he took my credit card imprint and handed me the key to Room Eighteen. He acted like single, beautiful, thirty-something women with no luggage checked into his motel every afternoon. Maybe they did. How would I know?
The motel had exterior entrances to the rooms and eighteen was on the ground floor, giving me easy, anonymous access. It was on the highway side but I parked in a space behind the building so that my car couldn't be seen. I had to walk around from the back to let myself into the room.
It was a pretty standard motel room, sparsely furnished but cleaner than I expected.
Before anything else, I closed the heavy curtains over the windows so that Rick would not be able to see me from the street if he happened to drive out here and thought to glance in the windows. The probability of that happening was infinitesimally small, but I was taking no chances whatsoever.
I had no luggage to unpack so I dumped myself on the bed, grabbed the remote and clicked the TV to life, not caring about anything but the joy of being safe, pain-free, and unraped.
Running like a coward and hiding in a hole might not be the most dignified thing to do but it left me with a hell of a lot more dignity than being forced to bend over a dining-room table and raped from behind. Or worse.
Tomorrow, I would apologize to Rick for standing him up for our little rape date and cook him a special dinner. He liked spaghetti and that was easy enough. Cheap, too. Maybe, if he accepted my apology, I would let him make love to me. Nice, gentle, happy lovemaking. Not rape.
Before I could find a channel to watch, I heard a sharp rap on the door. I clicked the set off to hear better. “Yes?” I called out.
A low voice mumbled, “Manager. You forgot to sign your registration card.”
What a compulsive idiot. Who cared if I signed the damn card or not? I bounced off the bed, cracked the door open and stuck my hand out. “Give me the card,” I sighed through the crack.
Instead of feeling the card slip into my hand, the door slammed into me, throwing me back, and a man wearing a plastic clown mask burst into the room. I started to shriek until he held a huge shiny knife in front of my face and hissed in a low bass growl. He didn't articulate any intelligible words, he just hissed. I understood what he meant. He wanted me to shut up. And his knife could make my silence permanent if that was what I wanted. I clamped my mouth shut tight and forced myself to say nothing more.
He slammed the door shut behind his back and advanced on me. I stepped back automatically, keeping distance between me and the knife, but he shook his clown-masked head and waved the knife slowly, the point weaving toward my face.
I stopped moving.
As soon as he was close enough, he grabbed my arm and twisted me around so that I was facing away from him. As I was turning, he slipped the arm holding the knife around my neck so that the sharp side of the blade pressing lightly against the side of my throat.
I dared not move for fear of sliding against the razor-sharp edge and slicing my jugular vein or carotid artery or whatever vital blood vessel was nearest the surface of my skin in that particular spot.
He grabbed my right wrist and moved it to the small of my back, then did the same with my left. I dared not resist and left my wrists exactly where he put them. I heard chirps of a ratchet and felt cold steel caress each wrist in turn. He had cuffed my hands behind my back.
From that point on, compliance was my only option.
Staying behind me, he raised the knife from my neck and held it in front of my face again, this time pointing it directly between my eyes with the edge facing down. He held it there for a long moment while he moved his left hand up to grab my throat and pull me back against his chest. I was terrified that he was going to stab me in the face. I dared not so much as squeak for fear that it would set him off. I wanted to stay alive. Oh, God, did I want to stay alive.
His breath whistled harshly though the plastic mask in my ear. My breath sounded even louder as my lungs bellowed in terror.
My eyes stayed fixated on the point of the knife as though I were instantly hypnotized by it. I followed its progress as he continued turning it and slowly lowered it until the tip was resting against the soft hollow of my neck just above the collar of my tee-shirt. Though I could no longer see the tip itself, I continued to watch as much of the blade as I could. I felt a stab of pain as he nicked me and I whimpered involuntarily. He hissed a quick shush in my ear and continued to slide the point of the knife down to the lower extent of my throat. I could feel it slipping underneath the edge of the crew-neck collar and saw the white cotton tenting away from my skin. He pulled down slowly, applying more and more force until the shirt’s collar was digging into my neck at the sides and stretched almost to my cleavage against the razor-sharp blade. Suddenly the fabric
parted and slit across the blade. Once the blade started the cut the shirt, the man pulled it slowly downward, first revealing my breasts encased in bra cups, then past my waist, unveiling my midriff, until finally the lower hem was severed. The front of my tee-shirt was left hanging open like the curtains parted to expose my chest.
The man raised the knife again and used the tip of the blade to slide the remnants of cotton off my shoulders. I could feel the cold steel sliding along my skin and looked to assure myself that he was not cutting me. Yet.
When the ruined tee-shirt was hanging from my wrists around the handcuffs at the small of my back, the man brought the knife back to the center of my chest to slide the point down my sternum into the cleavage between my breasts, the sharp edge still pointing away from me. When he severed the connection between the bra cups, my breasts sprang apart, falling away into their natural position, still loosely covered.
My first thought was that I could no longer wear either my tee-shirt or my bra. When the man left, he would be leaving me topless. My second thought was that he wouldn't care if I were topless if he intended to kill me. And if I were dead, I wouldn't be worrying about being topless, either.
He used the point of the knife to push the bra straps off my shoulders as he had with my tee-shirt. When the remains of the bra slipped down my back to join the tee-shirt around my cuffed hands, my breasts were left naked to the cool air in the room. I looked down to see that my nipples were erect and the aureolae puckered. From the cold? Fear? Arousal? I hated the thought that I might be aroused despite my humiliation and terror, but it was the truth. I knew that I would already be wet between my legs, too. Sometimes a woman can hate her own biology.
He pulled his hand away from my neck. A second later, I heard a rip and then something covered my eyes. Duct tape. He had blindfolded me with a piece of duct tape. I felt him press the tape hard against my forehead, across my nose, and tight over my cheeks. I could see nothing but pure black.
Nothing happened for a long time. What was he doing? Closing curtains? No. I had already closed them. Searching through my purse? Maybe. Looking for something to steal? Probably. Looking at my naked tits? Almost certainly.
While I stood there with my tits on display, I thought about the man. Was it Rick? I prayed that it was only my husband doing what I had asked but I didn't see how that could be possible. Rick had not come home before I'd left. If he did not leave work early, and Rick seldom left before quitting time, then he would be at the office for at least four more hours. And even if he had left early and had arrived shortly after I left, he would have found the house empty and would not know where to find me. That was the whole point of running and hiding in this random motel.
This man had burst through my door within a couple of minutes of my having checked in. Even if Rick had been looking for me, there had not been enough time for him to have found me. This man had come prepared with a hunting knife, handcuffs, and duct tape. When would Rick have had time to assemble a rape kit?
Despite my prayers, I knew in the pit of my stomach that this man was a stranger. A violent sociopath who was as likely to murder me as not. Who was he? The manager of the motel? Probably not. The manager couldn't leave his desk for this long without someone noticing and coming to look for him. A friend of the manager? That was more likely. Maybe a friend had asked the manager to call and let him know if a woman of a certain age checked into his motel alone. Or maybe he was just an anonymous sociopath who parked on streets near motels and waited for beautiful women victims. It didn't matter. I was helpless in the hands of a violent stranger and did not doubt that he was going to rape me very soon.
I began to pray that he would get it up quickly, get it over with quickly, and get out without killing me. I had heard somewhere that failed rapists were more likely to kill their victims than successful ones, if just to keep the woman from reporting their impotence to anyone. If this man had trouble getting an erection, then he was going to blame me for not being sexy enough and kill me.
I wished that he'd free my hands so that I could help massage him erect. I was good at getting Rick erect. It was one of the few things that I did well in bed.
I flinched when I felt his hands slip into the waistband of my jeans. I sucked in my stomach so that he could more easily unbutton them. When the button let go, he unzipped them and pulled them roughly over my hips. When I felt them fall around my ankles, I stepped out of them, being careful not to lose my balance and fall over. I hated myself for being such a pathetic, eager, accommodating victim but what choice did I have? I went further and raised my feet, one foot at a time, so that he could pull my socks off.
Standing blind, I was naked but for my panties. I wondered if he would pull them down or tear them from me.
I felt the tip of the knife slide across my stomach. He was going to cut them off. And cut them he did. The fabric pulled into my crotch and against my hips as he forced the blade through the material. There was a sudden release and I felt the soft flutter of shredded cotton against my thighs as the bits of material fell to the floor.
Now there was no barrier, physical or symbolic, standing between any part of my body and my rapist.
Hard hands fell on my shoulders pushed downwards. I understood what he wanted and dropped to my knees. I parted my lips and teeth to make it easier for him to push himself into my mouth. There was no end to the lengths that I was willing to go to satisfy him. I wanted to earn my life by giving him pleasure. But he did not want to enter my mouth. At least not right now. When I was on my knees, he went behind me – he must have squatted – and unlocked my handcuffs.
If I were going to make a break for it, this was the time. But I couldn't escape blind and I'd never get the tape off my face before he caught me and cut me to bloody ribbons. I waited passively with my unbound wrists still pressed to the small of my back to see what he wanted.
He grabbed my right wrist, moved my hand down to my side and pressed my fingers around my ankle. Then he did the same with my left hand and left ankle. It was a strain but I gripped both ankles as tightly as I could. I heard another ripping sound and then felt sticky, clammy duct tape against the back of my right hand. With a few clumsy twists, he bound my right hand to my right ankle. Then he ripped off another strip of tape and added it over top of the first, I could feel my fingers and ankle merging into a single, solid unit. Then he moved around and did the same with my other hand and ankle.
Holding the position was a strain, but the tape gave me no choice. It was already difficult to tolerate but I could tell that it was going to get a lot worse before long. My knees would soon be screaming from the constricted circulation. I wondered if I would live long enough to feel the pain when it reached its zenith.
I felt a hand wind itself into the hair at the back of my head and begin to drag me across the carpet. This new pain was intense. It felt like he was going to pull my scalp off. I scrambled to crawl as best as I could manage with my hands taped to my ankles. The skin was being scraped off my knees; the industrial-strength carpet was as bad as sandpaper.
At least I would be leaving some DNA evidence for the crime scene investigators. Of course, they would have an entire body's worth of my DNA when they found my corpse. I wondered if my rapist would leave any of his own DNA inside me or if he would use a condom.
In my struggles I found that I could relieve some tiny, just noticeable amount of strain on my shoulders by spreading my knees and ankles wide apart. It made my crotch feel exposed but, at the moment, that was or less concern than relieving the tension in my joints.
He unwound his hand from my hair and left me alone for a minute. I heard a zip and rustle of fabric near my ear, then a creak of bedsprings in front of my face. Hands wrapped themselves in my hair again, this time one hand at each side of my head. My face was pulled forward toward him.
I knew that my face was at the level of his crotch so I was not surprised when I felt the smooth head of his cock against my lips. It was erect, tha
nk God, so I stuck my tongue out and began licking and sucking like my life depended on it.
My life did depend on it.
As I drew the flesh into my mouth, I prayed that I was working with all my skill on Rick's cock and not some stranger's. As I tried to work my erotic magic on the man, I cursed myself for not giving my husband a lot more head. I had only had him in my mouth a handful of times, never for long and not more recently than five years ago. I wouldn't know the difference in size and feel between him and any random stranger. What kind of wife doesn't know the feel of her own husband's cock in her mouth?
I was going to die wishing that I had been a better wife to my husband. If I survived this and lived to be ninety years old, would I regret that I had not served my husband's needs better than any callous whore would have eagerly done for a few bucks? As I sucked some stranger, using all my meager and rusty skill to excite him to climax and fill my mouth with his cum, I vowed that my husband would get a lot more head from me from now on. Never again would I be unable to recognize the feel of my own husband's cock in my mouth. I made that unholy vow to God with utmost sincerity.
As I worked, I heard my rapist grunting quietly and felt him pulling on my hair and pumping harder into my mouth. When he hit the back of my throat, I gagged, but he ignored my distress and kept banging into me as deeply as he could. I tried to open my throat wide to admit his entire length without gagging but nothing helped.
I struggled against my bonds but my hands remained uselessly taped to my ankles.
I dared not relax my jaw for even a second lest I accidentally nick him with my teeth. My jaw was aching horribly when, after an eternity, he finally filled my mouth with his salty spunk. I was surprised how long it took. I always thought that a man squirted a couple of times and that was it, but he kept pulsing on and off for a long time. Even after the last pulse, he did not withdraw, but kept his cock in place as it slowly relaxed. I could feel even more cum dribbling across my tongue as his cock slowly retreated. In my estimation, only a portion of his semen was ejaculated in the first, biggest squirts. Most of it followed later. I was embarrassed by the amount that I was learning from this foul stranger rather than from ministering to my own sweet husband.
A Bestiary of Unnatural Women Page 21
