by Skye Warren
I braved a look down to see his dark, almost black pubic hair mingled with my light brown hairs. It didn’t hurt, having him inside me. It must have been because he had prepared me, like he said, but this was worse. I was being violated, but he was so gentle—it felt like sex with a lover.
He loomed over me with his cock inside me. He put most of his weight on his arms, which rested beside my shoulders. He thrust slowly first, maybe to enjoy it more, I wasn’t sure.
I watched his face, with his glazed green eyes and silky dark brown hair, mesmerized. His lips were tense as he focused on his pleasure. He looked like an angel.
A fallen angel.
I tried to think rationally. The fact that he said sorry was a good thing. I had read somewhere that sociopaths never felt empathy, never felt sorry, and couldn’t restrain themselves from violence. The fact that he’d been willing to stop was even better.
This man seemed to not want to hurt me. He said he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. He wanted to fuck me, and I could live through that. I had before.
He pulled his hand up to cup my breast lightly. Catching himself, he pulled his hand back, almost guiltily, as if caught doing something inappropriate, which was ludicrous considering he was already fucking me. His cock was inside my cunt, but he wouldn’t touch my breast with his hand. What a strange dichotomy he presented, a gentle lover and cruel abuser.
He sped up. He looked down to where his cock slid wetly in and out of me. His eyes slid upward, up my stomach and to my breasts. Then further up, his eyes locked on mine.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said thickly.
And how sick was it that a compliment from him brought me pleasure? I should have been revolted, not pleased.
That wasn’t my only problem. His quickened thrusts started hitting a spot inside me that felt good. So good, actually. I had to consciously glue my hips to the ground to avoid rocking into his thrusts.
I wasn’t sure why he’d stopped trying to arouse me when I’d asked him earlier—because it made his life easier, I supposed. That had to be a perk of being a bad guy, of abducting a woman instead of seducing her, not having to bother with making a woman climax. Still, there was no way to get out of this one. Excuse me, sir, but I’m finding this inconveniently pleasurable, could we perhaps stop now?
Pleasure raced through my body in urgent warning. Oh God, I was going to come. I was actually going to come. I could feel it getting closer. My body wanted to move toward it, to seek it by riding his cock, but even if I stayed still it would find me.
His thick muscles glistened with sweat, his handsome face stark with pleasure. He was undoubtedly the sexiest man I’d ever had sex with—if that’s what you could call this. He was the sexiest man who had ever fucked me, dangerous situation or not.
Why would a handsome man like this, one who could clearly have any woman want, resort to this? For the power trip? Maybe I wasn’t fighting it enough for his tastes. Well, all the better then. No need to make these men happy.
Except for the fact that they had the guns. And knives. And fists.
Scary men, though what I felt when this one touched me wasn’t fear.
I fought my orgasm. I tried to lay there like some dispassionate observer, physically connected to that cunt that was being fucked but unaffected by it. It was so hard. My hips bucked up slightly to let him in deeper. I wasn’t sure if he noticed while he was so deep in his lust, but I was mortified at myself. No, not me, my body—it betrayed me.
Then he came, groaning. All his muscles tensed, straining with his cock deep inside me, his face a mask of pleasure and maybe pain.
I sighed in relief. I hadn’t come. It would have been the ultimate shame. That I had felt pleasure, that I had sought my orgasm was bad enough, but at least it hadn’t happened.
He collapsed on me, breathing hard. With his soft cock slipping out of me and his body pressed down on me in a parody of an embrace, the moment felt too intimate. We were in that moment right after sex where our bodies had communed, where we could share anything and say anything because we were together, except—no! That shouldn’t happen here. I should hate him. I should fight him. Instead he lay on me, sated. I dimly heard lewd laughter and applause from the other side of the room.
Finally he pushed off of me and looked straight into my eyes. God, what I saw there. There was gratitude first, which I’d never seen before after sex, not even from completely consensual lovers. Then guilt and pain, but also promise. Of what?
He blinked, and his face resumed that stern, slightly angry look that all the other men wore. Had I imagined it? Was the vulnerability I’d seen only the result of my own post-sexual haze imaginings? Maybe so.
The other man came up, the one who’d brought me here.
“My turn,” he said, sneering lewdly at my naked body.
“No. She’s mine.” Zachary placed a proprietary hand on my naked belly.
“Fuck that,” the other man said. “I found her, I fuck her.”
“That’s not what the boss said,” Zachary replied evenly. I wanted to shrink into him. We’d had sex and he was protecting me, just like he said.
Suddenly we were on the same side. Or maybe we had always been.
“He said you could fuck her first. What do you care what happens to her later?”
“You don’t just fuck women,” Zachary said. “You fuck them up. I still want to use her later, so fuck off.” He assumed a stance around me like that of a pit bull guarding a bone.
The other man turned conciliatory, “Come on, man. I’ll go soft on her. You’ll still be able to fuck her later. No permanent damage.”
Zachary looked at him, his lip curling up slightly. His answer was clear.
“I’m going to tell the boss about this, amigo,” snarled the other man.
“Go ahead.”
When the other man stalked off, Zachary turned back to me. He didn’t even look at my body now that he’d had his orgasm. At least the “later” when he’d use me again wasn’t now. He looked at a point on the ground next to my face.
“Get your clothes on,” he said.
I scrambled off the ratty sofa and picked up my clothes from the floor, where the other men had ripped them off of me. They were torn, but still wearable, especially considering the alternative.
His voice was so cold. I missed the old way he’d spoken to me, when he’d been inside me—tender. I stood uncertainly, holding the tattered clothing to my body as best I could. The warehouse was large, but I remained where I was.
Despite what he’d done—or maybe because of it—I felt safer with him and had no desire to wander off. He had already closed up his jeans and was checking something on his phone. He looked tenser now that the effects of his orgasm were fading. Or maybe he’d read some bad news on his phone. His semen trickled down my leg.
He looked up and seemed almost surprised to see me standing there, dressed. Well, he hadn’t seen me dressed before. Still, I thought: how unbalanced. I would always remember him and maybe even every moment about this. This experience would occupy my thoughts during sex, assuming I had any sex, and my nightmares. But him, would he even remember me in a few years—or even tomorrow? I was just a body, a warm body to fuck and then dispose of in a hopefully not-too-gruesome way.
Why did I feel hurt that he wouldn’t remember me? Was it good for him? I’d thought it was. Why did I even care? I told myself it was because then he would be more sympathetic to me.
“Come along,” he said, and he led me into an office. The warehouse we were in had once been some sort of factory. We’d been in the wide open storage space, filled with shelves and loading vehicles. The office was suffocatingly small and packed with brown furniture that had seen better days a few decades ago.
He turned to face me. “Listen carefully,” he said. “Things are going to be happening here, dangerous things, and I need you to stay inside here until I come to get you. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“I’m serious. Do not try to get away. If someone else finds you, I won’t be able to protect you.”
I nodded again. I didn’t bring up the irony that he wanted to protect me but also wanted to fuck me. I was honest enough to realize that it could be worse with the other men, a lot worse. I could think of this like a bargain: my body in exchange for his protection. It seemed like a worthy trade to me, if he could hold up his end.
“I—” My voice was rusty from when they had choked me in the van. “I understand.”
His eyes flashed. I drew back, frightened. How had I said the wrong thing? Maybe he didn’t want me to speak.
But all he said was, “Good,” tersely, before turning around and leaving. I heard a key turn in the door, locking me in. It was easy for me to find things to be grateful for—that I wasn’t at the mercy of those other men, that I had clothes and relative privacy, that he hadn’t tied me up or handcuffed me.
I sat down and coldness seeped into my skin, like I was slowly being dipped in ice water. My throat felt dry. What was happening to me?
I huddled in the corner furthest from the door. I slid down to the ground in kneeling position. I could tell that I had started to shake, at first in small vibrations and then in jerky motions. I tried to hold still, but the tremors were uncontrollable, like I was possessed.
I didn’t know how much time passed, but Zachary came back in. When he saw me in the corner, he strode over and crouched in front of me.
“Fuck,” I heard him mutter. “She’s going into shock.”
Chapter Three
Zachary pulled me away from the corner and lay me on my back with my knees up. Oh God, this was later. The later when he’d want to fuck me again.
“No, please,” I whimpered. “Not again. Not yet.” Scalding tears fill my eyes. Some distant part of me was surprised it had taken me this long to cry.
“It’s okay,” he soothed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“No,” my throat felt so hoarse, “Not hurting, but—not that, either. Please.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to do that either. Nothing like that. We need to get you warmed up.” As he said that I felt something heavy cover my upper body. It smelled musky—what was it? My fingers groped the edge. It was leather, his leather jacket. God, the warmth of it was amazing. It was almost too much, like hot pins pressing into my skin.
He pushed the hair away from my voice and was saying something to me, something I couldn’t make out, when I heard shouting from outside the office. He looked up sharply.
“Stay here,” he said to me. “No matter what you hear, stay in here until I come for you.”
Then he left. I lay there, listening to the sounds of shouting and then gunfire. I had no desire to leave the room. Maybe not ever.
I heard footsteps and the doorknob turning. Thank God he was back. No, the door was locked, he couldn’t get in. Rattling. It must not be Zachary because otherwise he’d use his key. I stayed quiet. The shaking on the door only got more violent. Then it crashed open and a man ran in.
He looked like a bad guy, too—not in the suave way of Zachary, but in the grimy way of a man who’d gone far too long without a bath. Like a man who would be homeless if he wasn’t willing to kill. His eyes said that he was willing, though.
He rushed in the room and slammed the door shut, flipping off the light. I froze. Dim light streamed through the blinds on the office window. His eyes scanned the room frantically, almost missing me in his panic. When he noticed me, his eyes widened for a moment in shock, then narrowed. He looked around the small office again.
“Qué haces?” he asked.
I whimpered and pushed back against the wall. It was the wrong thing to do. He smiled, showing dirty yellow teeth. He came towards me.
“Qué haces, mamá?” he said, taunting this time. Where was Zachary?
I eyed the door and considered making a run for it, but the man would only catch me. I would have to fight this time, though. I’d consented before, just on the threat of danger, just to get it over with.
There was something about Zachary—he was different. I gave myself a pass for that, but not again and not with this guy. I didn’t want him.
I knew it as a certainty: I would run and he would catch me. I had to try it anyway.
I bolted up, unsure how my arms and legs arranged themselves into standing so quickly. I was almost to the door when I was yanked back. Through the wrenching pain in my head, I registered that I was farther away from the door.
Then my back slammed into the desk, and I realized why—he was yanking me by my hair. Everything was in slow motion, but my limbs were too sluggish to be of any help. How obliging, I thought inanely, of women to provide a handle for rapists.
He shoved me down onto the desk and easily pulled my already torn clothes from my body. He squeezed my breasts and then pinched my nipples hard. I cried out and fought him, hitting him ineffectually on his arms, his shoulders, his head.
This was rape. This was how it was supposed to go. There were rules about these things, but I don’t know where I ever learned them. Rape was supposed to be dirty and painful. I was supposed to fight it, even though we both knew he’d win. These are the rules. I didn’t know who these rules are made for—rapists, I guessed, because they sure weren’t doing shit for me.
Then he grabbed both my wrists in one hand and slammed them into the table above my head. Pain shot down my arms. I jerked but his grip was painful and immovable. He reached down with his other hand to take out his cock. I struggled, trying to get some leverage with my legs, but they dangled uselessly off the edge of the desk like a little girl on a too-tall chair.
I think I was crying for him to stop. “No, please, stop, I’ll do anything, just stop, please.” How stupid is that?
He put his fingers inside me. It didn’t feel like sex this time. Not like Zachary, like a lover. It felt like burning, like stabbing, not thrusting. It felt like his fingers were enormous, thicker than even a cock, and covered in sandpaper or jagged glass instead of average sized and soft skinned like I knew his cock must be.
Calm down, calm down. You can’t stop this, let it happen.
But I couldn’t, because I’d already done this once tonight and I hadn’t fought it then. Maybe that’s a rule too. One free consent before I have to fight back. I should write a book: How To Get Fucked—I was an expert.
Oh God, Zachary.
Then, he was there, pulling the other man off of me. Wait, had I thought him up? Reality was out of reach.
I wiped my eyes, struggling to see what was happening. Why couldn’t I see clearly?
BAM! A gunshot in the room. You hear guns on TV but you never realize how loud they are until it happens in real life. It resounded in the room, ringing my ears. The man had a bloody circle on his chest as he staggered back. Zachary—where was he? Was he shot too?
I couldn’t see anymore—everything was blurry.
“Shhh,” I heard, nearby. I felt a light touch in my hair.
“Everything’s okay,” came in a soft murmur.
“Can you hear me?” Zachary said.
Yes, don’t leave me.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” he whispered. “You’re going to be okay.”
But that was a lie.
* * *
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I was cold. Again? Jesus, I was always cold.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Where was I home? It could be the alarm. Or maybe the smoke detector out of battery. Or an extremely annoying person at the doorbell. The dog next door would be barking. He acted as my guard dog, too, from the other side of the wall.
I opened my eyes. Motion to the side caught my attention and I watched a woman in blue scrubs press buttons on a machine.
And then it hit me. Shit. Fights breaking out in the bar. Walking to the bus stop after my shift. The van, the men pulling me inside. Being rough, hurting me.
Zachary. He had been at the bar earlier, check
ing me out, too. He’d left hours before me. He’d fucked me. He told me that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, but that had been a lie, hadn’t it?
I closed my eyes again. More. There was more. Another man. Then Zachary again, telling me I would be okay—more lies. I wouldn’t be okay.
“Oh, hello. You’re up,” said the woman in blue.
I opened my mouth, but only a croak came out.
“Shh,” she soothed. “Here. Try to drink some water. It will help your throat.”
She held up a cup of water with a straw and I took a sip. The water was cool as it slid down my throat. I took several more pulls until the paper cup was empty.
She smiled at me, “Very good. We’ll see how that settles before we try anymore.”
“Where am I?” I asked, because it was the first thing that came to me, even though I knew.
“You’re at St. Joseph’s Hospital,” she told me. “You came in last night. I’m going to bring the doctor in to talk to you.”
She came back in with the doctor and stayed while he gave me a run-down of my injuries. Of course, she stayed. That was probably normal for a victim, especially of a sexual nature. Or maybe that was standard operating procedure in our lawsuit-happy society.
My list of injuries sounded unimpressive. External bruising and scrapes, internal bruising—yes, I knew, I could feel it—and a hairline wrist fracture. I felt worse than all that. It seemed unfair to go through all that and feel this bad when my injuries made it sound like I fell off my bike. Maybe they should smash my leg or something so I could be the cool kid with the cast. I knew I couldn’t feel worse even if they did, although I’d been wrong about that before, hadn’t I?
When the doctor had finished explaining my treatment plan, to which I hardly listened, he left, and more men came in. More goddamned men. Was everyone in the world a man? Except nurses. Nurses were women and nurses were nice, but otherwise you had to deal with men.
