She awoke to find herself on a bed tied by the wrists and a man she did not know straddling her waist. Was this a dream? Sometimes she had woken up in the morning with the remnants of a bad dream so vivid in her mind it still seemed real. He was tying the last knot into the long rope that restrained her wrists. The rope cut into her skin and she heard herself screech sharply in pain. That convinced her – this was no dream; it was real.
She tried to move her head - the room seemed to spin and her brain ached. A party… someone’s loft…an unfamiliar neighbourhood… some acquaintances, but no real friends… It was starting to come back to her. She was bored, wanted to meet new people. There had been loud music, lots of people, lots of drink… She remembered drinking and dancing… And a man who had been staring at her all night. He had stayed in the background, yet everywhere she went… there he was. She had caught him looking at her a few times – that wasn’t unusual, she was used to that… yet he was not simply looking at her but watching her. He was older that most of the others, much taller than her, had a rough beard, a long almost sharp face, piercing blue eyes. He was the man on top of her now.
“Too bad you woke up” he said, “it would have been better for you if you had stayed asleep. Me… I’m going to enjoy myself.”
She thought of screaming but noticed a penknife in his hand – small but sharp enough to slash her face. She spoke trying to sound calm and steady. “Let me up… It’s OK… We’ve both had too much to drink… I don’t live in this neighbourhood… I’ll just go home…”
He reached across her to an end table by the bed and came back with a notebook she recognized as her own. She had carried it to the party in her bag. If he read it then he knew…
“Let’s see,” he said flipping through the pages. “Humm… ‘I imagine being ravished by a much older man… he uses me entirely for his own pleasure without thinking about me… He makes me beg for him… I’m naked, helpless; he’s powerful and almost ugly… He’s all over me and inside me. It’s humiliating but this is my compulsive fantasy and it always brings me to orgasm…’” He threw the book on the floor and looked at her with a nearly blank expression as if he could scarcely express his contempt. “You’re getting off lightly: in your fantasy it’s ten men on you all at once.”
“You put the idea into my head,” he continued. “I never would have considered actually doing this if I hadn’t read your notebook. You’ve got dozens of pages about being tied up, forced to submit, gang raped. You’re obsessed with it…”
She could not see his face but somehow she sensed that his expression was twisted into a cartoon of fear and horror. She felt like a scream queen actress in a campy horror movie, but this was the real experience made into a cliché by the movies. When Dracula bit into the girl’s white neck; when the Creature from the Black Lagoon carried off the bathing beauty; when the Blob reached a slimy tentacle across the girl’s lovely face – this is what all the girls had been screaming about; this is what all the men distantly recognized and enjoyed in the horror movies.
With one hand he brought the dull side of the pen knife blade against her cheek then skimmed it down along her throat to her chest. One by one he cut the buttons from her sheer summer blouse. Slowly he brushed the light material aside and carefully cut the thin straps of her silk camisole. He pushed the camisole down over her breasts and touched the cold silver blade against her nipple that engorged with blood, swelled and stiffened against the bright steel.
When she was a little girl she had played Pirate with the boys in her neighbourhood. They chased her caught her, pretended to tie her up and exulted, “Now my proud beauty!” And if the boys did not chase her, she taunted them until they did. Isn’t that what she had done now: put herself at risk, pressed her luck, teased the men who had seen her drinking and dancing? She thought she could spring gracefully away like a bird avoiding a pouncing cat, but she had been stupid, clumsy and cut her luck too thin. Now she had been caught: his knife was the cat’s claw; her bound arms were broken wings. She was a sacrifice to keep the game exciting for all the other women who would take the risk and escape.
He straightened up, arched his back and lifted his hand to his belt buckle. Without taking his eyes off hers he slowly undid his belt and popped the button of his tight jeans. He twisted his fingers into her long black hair and tugged her face up against his crotch. “Unzip me… with your teeth.” She tried to pull back but he yanked her hair so hard he pulled some strands from her head. Emotionlessly he repeated his command, “Unzip me… with you teeth…” As she took the metal between her teeth, her tongue felt cold bitter metallic taste, and she pulled down as best she could slowly.
His cock was straining against the cloth, an angry dog about to break free from his leash. With one hand he pulled his boxers down off this waist. His leaden cock fell out of his pants and hit her in the face with a muffled thud. The cock was heavy and hard like bronze, but fleshy, sensitive and living. She had never seen a cock so close up before: the pulsing vein, the tight black hair, the long amber shaft and bronze helmet… She realized she was staring involuntarily and pulled her eyes away.
He tugged her hair sharply. “Look at it… Take a good look.” She had no choice – but she did want to look. He flexed his groin mussel and made his cock jump up and down liked a trained animal. She gasped with surprise and he laughed. He took the cock in his other hand and rubbed it lightly over her lips, against her cheeks, down her smooth throat to her soft breasts and against her hard nipples. She felt the warm, firm cock against her breasts and, to her shock and embarrassment, her nipples swelled with even more blood. Again he brought the cock in front of her face.
“Tell him how much you love him... Tell him you want him to be your boyfriend… Say it…”
“I… I love you, cock… I want you… to be my boyfriend… I…”
“No! Not like that! That’s not good enough!” He tugged at her hair sharply and made her cry out in pain. “Say it like you mean it! Say what you said in your notebook… You know what I’m talking about…”
She started to cry. He had read her notebook. Why had she written all that and then brought it with her to a party… unless she really hoped someone would read it. (Or at least she could have the fun of thinking to herself “you think I’m a shy young girl… if only you could read the sluttly things I’ve written in my notebook…”) Now someone had read her own words. She had to confess.
End of part 1.