Follow the Rules

"You have -- you have done this before, right?" he asked, pushing two fingers inside me.

"Been raped?" I asked, and his hand paused a beat before thrusting in again.

"Had sex," he said lowly.

"Yes to both."

He shut his eyes and bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

He put his thumb on my clit and circled lightly. I felt a twinge of pleasure shoot through me as my body responded.

"Don't," I said. "Don't make me enjoy this."

He stilled for a moment, looking at my intently. His eyes were dark and unfathomable. What was he thinking? "Okay," he said. "I'm just going to make you ready."

He moved his thumb away from my clit but continued thrusting into me, loosening my body and drawing out the wetness. I knew it would help me, make this hurt less, but I almost wanted the pain. That's what you want when you're being raped.

"Hurry up and fuck her," one of the other men called from across the room. I felt my breath quicken.

"I won't let them hurt you," he told me, quietly so they couldn't hear.

"No?" I didn't believe him. "But you'll do this."

"Yes," he said grimly.

With his other hand he reached down to unzip his jeans and pull out his already half-erect cock. I was surprised about that actually. The other men groping me had noticeable bulges just from slapping me around and tearing my clothes off. But even though he appeared to have a good-sized cock, it wasn't that erect yet. Was he not attracted to me? But then why had he insisted on having me, over the other men's objections?

He grasped it in his fist and stroked up and down in time with his fingers inside me. He looked at my breasts, exposed and pointing upwards from where I lay. His eyes focused on my nipples and his lips parted. Then he looked to the side where the other man had grabbed me and I knew a bruise had already formed. His eyes darkened, and he looked away.

He looked down at me, where his fingers where pressing into my body. I could see his cock lengthening in his hand, preparing to replace his fingers. His breathing was growing labored as his arousal increased.

Finally he removed his fingers and pressed the head of his cock to my folds. He paused there, breathing hard. God, this was really going to happen.

"Christ, I'm sorry," he muttered. Then he pressed inside me slowly.

When he was all the way inside, he held himself deep and let out a low groan. I looked down to see his dark, almost black public hair mingled with my light brown hairs. It didn't hurt, having him inside. 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 - this felt like sex with a lover.

I should fight. No, I'd only get hurt. I was locked in with a bunch of armed, ruthless men; I had no chance of getting away.

This man, they called him Zachary. He was beautiful. My first thought when I saw him there was that he didn't belong there. But he did. He dressed like them in grungy, but expensive jeans and a leather jacket. He looked like them with unkempt hair and a bad boy goatee. He talked like them, gruff and coarse and lewd, except when he spoke to me and no one else could hear.

He loomed over me with his cock inside me. He put most of his weight on his arms that 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, they never felt sorry, and couldn't restrain themselves from violence. This man seemed to not want to hurt me. He said he wouldn't let anyone hurt me. He just 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 - ludicrous considering he was already raping me. His cock was inside my cunt, but he wouldn't touch my breast with his hand. 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, to my face.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he said thickly. How sick is it when a compliment from your rapist brings you pleasure? And that wasn't my only problem. His quickened thrusts had started hitting a spot inside me that felt good. So good, actually. I consciously glued 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 rape, not having to bother with making a woman come. Still, there was no way to get out of this one. Excuse me, sir, but I'm finding this rape inconveniently pleasurable, could we perhaps stop this now?

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. That handsome face was 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, consent or not. Why would a man who could clearly have any woman want to resort to rape? For the power trip? Maybe I wasn't fighting it enough for his tastes. Well, all the better then. No need to make them happy. Except for the fact that they had the guns.

I fought my orgasm. I tried to lay there like some dispassionate observer, physically connected to that cunt that was being raped but not affected by it. But it was so hard. My hips were bucking up now, 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 just 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, not even from consensual lovers. Then guilt and pain but also promise there, too. Of what?

He blinked and his face resumed that stern, slightly angry look that all the other men wore. Did I imagine it? Was it 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," Zachary said. "She's mine."

"Fuck that," the other man said. "I found her, I fuck her."

"That's not what the boss said," Zachary replied evenly.

"He said you could fuck her first. What do you care what happens to her later?"

"You don't just fuck women," Zachary said derisively, "You fuck them up. I still want to use her later, so fuck off." He assumed a stance that reminded me 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 just 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.

"Fine. Go ahead."

When the other man stalked off, Zachary turned back to me. He didn't even look at my body now that his lust was over. At least the "later" when he'd use me again wasn't now. He looked at a point next to my face. "Get your clothes on," he said coldly.

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.

I stood uncertainly, holding the tattered clothing to my body as best I could. The warehouse was large but I remained where I was. For some reason I felt safer with my rapist 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 from his phone. His semen trickled down my leg.

He looked up and seem almost surprised to 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 just 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 care? I told myself it was because then he would be more sympathetic to me.

"Come along," he said, as he led me into an office. The warehouse we were in had once been some sort of factory and the office still had dull brown furniture.

"Listen to me," he said, turning to face me. "Things are going to be happening here, 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 rape 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, suddenly scared. 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. He 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 I felt coldness seep into my skin, like I was slowly being dipped in ice water. 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. My throat felt dry.

I didn't know how much time passed, but my rapist 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."

He pulled me away from the corner and lay me on my back with my knees up. Oh God, this was later. "No, please," I whimpered. "Not again. Not yet." I felt warm 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 just 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.

He pushed the hair away from my voice and was saying something to me 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.

I heard footsteps and the doorknob turning. Thank God he was back. No, the door was locked, he couldn't come in. Rattling. It must not be Zachary because otherwise he'd use his key. I stayed quiet. But 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's 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 it shut, flipping off the light. I froze. Dim light streamed in from the blinds at 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 asks.

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 says, taunting this time. Where was Zachary?

I eyed the door and considered making a run for it, but he would only catch me. I would have to fight this time, though. How many times can you get raped from threat alone before it counts as consent?

I knew it as a certainty: I would run and he would catch me. I bolted up, unsure how my arms and legs even arranged themselves into standing so quickly. I was almost to the door when I was yanked back. Through the blinding pain in my head I registered that I was further away from the door. And then my back slammed into the desk and I realized why -- he was yanking me by my hair. How obliging, I thought, 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 are rules about these things, but I don't know where I ever learned them. Rape is supposed to be dirty and painful. I am supposed to fight it, even though we both know it won't work. These are the rules. I don't know who these rules are made for -- rapists I guess, because they 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 just dangled uselessly off the edge of the desk like a little girl on a too-tall chair.

He pushed inside me. I think I was crying for him to stop. "No, please, God, stop, I'll do anything, just stop, please." How stupid is that?

It didn't feel like sex this time. It felt like burning, like stabbing, not thrusting. It felt like his cock must be enormous and covered in sandpaper or jagged glass instead of average sized and soft skinned like I knew it must be.

Calm down, calm down. You can't stop this, let it happen.

But I couldn't, because I'd already been raped once tonight and I hadn't fought it then. Maybe that's a rule too. One free threat-rape before I have to fight back. I should write a book. 'How to be Raped' - I was an expert.

Oh God, Zachary.

Then, he was there, pulling the other man off of me. Wait, had I thought him up?

I wiped my eyes, struggling to see what was happening. 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, why was everything blurry?

"Shhh," I heard, nearby. I felt a light touch in my hair.

"Everything's okay," a soft murmur.

"Can you hear me?" Yes, don't leave me.

"I'm sorry I let you down," he whispered. I felt his warmth seep into my cold body.

"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? But then Dover would be barking.

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. Oh God. 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, checking me out, too. But he'd left hours before me. He raped 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 rape victim. Or maybe that was just standard operating procedure in our lawsuit happy society.

My list of injuries sounded unimpressive. External bruising and scrapes, internal bruising -- yes, I know, 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 felt sure I couldn't feel worse even if they did, although I'd been wrong about that before, hadn't I?

When the doctor was done explaining my treatments and the plan, to which I hardly listened, he left and more men came in. More goddamn 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.

Policemen, specifically. Fucking fantastic.

First they took my statement. The temptation to lie was strong. To just say: "Nothing happened." And then walk away and pretend that it was true. But no, they already knew. They'd probably spoken to other people that were there already. They'd probably spoken to my doctor already, too. This was just -- what? -- a formality. A paper that had to be filed.

So I told them. Everything. I only got stuck a couple of times, but they just waited and even had the grace not to appear impatient.