This contains physical, emotional, verbal, and sexual abuse and a pretty brutal rape. She likes it! Kind of, eventually. If you're looking for something where the woman finally gives in and begs to be railed despite her pride or better judgement, move along. This girl says no until the very end.
She emerged from the bathroom, hairbrush in hand, and headed toward the dresser. She glanced over at Alex, still on the couch, and stopped in her tracks.
"That's...that's my computer," she said, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of her.
Alex got to his feet and they locked eyes. He looked furious. Without another word she dropped her hairbrush and spun around, scrambling back toward the bathroom. She got inside and tried to close the door but he pushed it open with ease.
Alex grabbed her by the hair, yanked her back out of the bathroom, and threw her to the floor.
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back up, then pushed her backwards onto the bed and pinned her arms above her head. Mind reeling, he slapped her twice across the face.
"Am I a joke to you?" He demanded.
She couldn't speak. Eyes squeezed shut she lay her face against the bed.
"Look at me!" He grabbed her chin, his thumb and forefinger digging into her soft flesh. "Fucking look at me!"
She did. "You're not a joke," she hiccuped.
He slapped her again. Once, twice, then with the back of his hand.
"Please!" She tried to pull her arms free. "Please, Alex, you're hurting me!"
"I'm hurting-- I'm hurting you? I'm hurting you?" He backhanded her again, then pulled her to her feet by the hair.
"Get dressed," he snapped, still furious and nowhere near finished with her. "We have to leave in five minutes."
Sam cowered, hands up at her face, against her cheeks, protecting them.
"Get dressed!" Alex shouted, landing a hard blow to her ass with his hand.
Sniffling, Sam did as she was told. She got a glimpse of herself in the mirror -- both cheeks were bright red, and it looked like a bruise was forming on the right side of her face.
"Let me just -- hic -- fix my makeup," she said tearily.
"There's no time. Do it in the car."
"Alex," she whimpered. "My face."
"You'll do it in the fucking car. Let's go."
They met up with the rest of the band in the lobby and went out front to get a cab. The other guys definitely noticed Sam's face but made no mention of it -- they didn't even look surprised. In a way, Sam was relieved, but it sent chills through her body. She'd only known Alex for a year but Jason and Robert had known him much longer. Why weren't they surprised? Was this a common occurrence?
During sound check and before the show, Sam watched in horror as Alex downed drink after drink. A girl from the opener helped Sam with her makeup, smiling kindly and telling Sam she looked beautiful, and don't let him see you cry. How do you know this? Sam thought. The girl said you can't hurt him with your hands so hurt him with your mind. Sam nodded and the girl then shushed her and Sam was surprised to discover her mascara was running.
On stage Sam just prayed nobody could tell. It was warm but not warm enough to sweat, and Alex was so drunk, so incredibly drunk, and he heckled the audience and his own band between songs. People weren't paying attention to her anyway. They couldn't.
Muscle memory was what got Sam through this show -- and all their shows -- and her escape this time was thinking about the emails Alex had no doubt read. She'd been lying to him for a long time but he wasn't her boyfriend -- she told him over and over and over, it's not going to happen, I'm not going to sleep with you, I don't want to be with anyone right now, I like being alone. He understood, but he was older by ten years and she was so perfect for him, they were incredible together and made great friends and great bandmates and it was so easy and fun and free. He knew she didn't want him but it felt more like a "right now" than an "ever" and she was a girl worth waiting for. So he did. He had no idea she was in love with someone else.
Someone he hated. Someone married with two children. Someone so awful to her, so verbally and emotionally abusive, that her roommate once held a knife to his throat and forced him to leave. Ben wouldn't have really cut him, but the guy had to go: Sam was a mess.
And still, she loved him, Greg Finch. Alex cringed, imagining them together. A little over a year ago they were at a music festival -- Greg was working for Rolling Stone at the time and Sam went along as his "intern." No, the scare quotes weren't fair. She was interested in music journalism, she had a knack for it, and he understood why Greg would want to groom her to be his protege. But is that where the affair started? Was it already underway? He felt sick to his stomach thinking about it, remembering the way she looked standing in line for beer, and when Alex went over to introduce himself his stomach flip-flopped. He hadn't felt that way in years. She seemed perfect -- friendly and witty and confident -- and when Greg came up and ripped her a new asshole for disappearing she ripped him a new one in response. That didn't happen. No, Greg Finch was the biggest prick in music journalism and nobody fucked with him, nobody argued, and nobody talked back. Except Sam. And Alex's hate for the guy was not unrequited -- this was public knowledge. That day, as Alex stood, sweating, in the Austin sun, Greg Finch said "stay the fuck away from her," and that was that. Alex didn't see her again for a month.
At that point she and Greg were through -- professionally and, apparently, romantically. She told Alex that Greg had wanted her to be just like him, cruel, vitriolic. When she refused that was that they had a nasty blowout --this was when Ben threatened him with a knife, and that was that. They hadn't spoken since. And Alex had no reason not to believe her.
But Sam and Greg had been in touch several times since then. It was all nasty, hurtful, mostly on Greg's part but Sam had a sharp tongue too. That they were in touch wasn't what did it though. It was the things about him. Early on, Greg accused Sam of using Alex to make him jealous.
"You know I hate him," he wrote, "and I know you're doing this to make me jealous."
Sam never denied it, just told Greg to fuck off and not contact her again. But he did.
Two months later: "You are pathetic." A month after that, "you're a whore with daddy issues." Alex put the pattern together quickly: anytime they -- Alex, Sam, and Alex's band that she was now playing with -- released a song Greg sent her another email. A reminder that he was watching. A foreshadow of their next album release. No doubt he would review it, and no doubt it would be scathing.
The seventh email Greg sent is what pushed Alex over the edge. But he was furious already: she'd lied to him about everything and stupidly he waited for her, thinking she just needed some time, not realizing there was someone else. They confided in each other, or so he thought. On stage, Alex bared his teeth as this entered his mind.
"I see it now. Your fucking game. You string him along, enough to make me jealous, but you know if you sleep with him I'm done. You know then it's over. You're transparent, you're pathetic, and your last song was shit."
Alex shook as he read this, and the one from her that followed two weeks later when they were playing in Greg's city: "If by any chance you want to see the show you're on the list."
That was it. Alex then spent the next ten minutes staring blankly ahead, unable to speak or move, in complete shock. And that's when Sam emerged from the bathroom. That's when she saw him and knew.
After the show, Sam stayed close to the girl from opener that helped with her makeup. But it wasn't long after the encore that Alex found her, and he said "Hey," and pointed, alcohol on his breath, "we're leaving."
"All of us?" She asked hopefully, not that her bandmates could help her once they were in their hotel rooms.
"No," he said.
They were quiet in the cab. Sam tried to speak a couple times. "If you'll just let me explain..." and "please just listen" were both met with a stern "shut the fuck up."
Back in the hotel room Sam sat on the bed, stomach in knots, as Alex paced. Finally, he stopped. "Go to bed," he told her, and went into the bathroom to take a shower.
When Sam heard the water turn on she covered her face with her hands and cried. Everything was a mess. She dragged herself to her feet and removed her jewelry, taking care to place her earrings and her necklace back in their little boxes. She brushed her hair and removed her makeup at the sink by the bar. Her eyes were swollen but no longer red, and she dabbed some chapstick on her lips before undressing.
She was pulling on her pajama top when he came out of the bathroom, hair still wet from the shower. Horrified, she quickly covered herself, but there was no point -- he'd seen her and was about to see her again. Without a word he walked up to her and pulled her top open, ripping the only button she'd managed to do.
"Get on the bed," he said.
She was too scared to disobey.
Alex removed her pajama shorts and was pleased to find she wore no underwear. He grasped her breasts, unsure if he wanted to hurt her or turn her on, and he decided, apparently, that he wanted a little bit of both. He twisted her nipple, gripped her breast firmly and squeezed until she almost screamed, and then he bent down to suck on it, flicking his tongue over it while she lay motionless beneath him. She had nearly, at this point, convinced herself she deserved this, and anyway she didn't want to make him angrier. She was going to do whatever he wanted. And looking at her he knew this.
"Whore," he said softly, and inwardly she was horrified at the way his face contorted -- she'd never seen him like this before, he looked like a different person. They had fights, sure, and he'd been angry, but not like this.
She whimpered as he bit on her collarbone, her breasts, her nipples, her stomach. She'd heard things about him. When people go on tour together plenty of things can happen. And then they talk. She heard he was rough, which she could see. He had that kind of personality. She heard he knew his way around a woman's body. She wasn't sure, at this moment, how she felt about that. She heard he was big. Some said uncomfortably so, but most seemed pleased. Sam swallowed, remembering the last time she'd had sex -- nearly a year ago, when Greg came down to have it out with her one last time and they screamed at each other until finally he grabbed her by the hair and threw her down and fucked her. Closing her eyes she tried to picture it -- maybe if she was wet this wouldn't hurt so much. But a second later the back of his hand hit her cheek so hard she saw stars.
"Are you picturing him?" Alex growled.
He held her neck and squeezed, cutting off airflow for a second. Then he loosened his grip but didn't let go. He squeezed again, for longer this time, and then loosened. He looked wild, his blond hair still wet, going every which way, eyes glassy from alcohol. She noticed his look of contentment every time he tightened the grip on her neck.
The next time he loosened she said, calmly, as if she were asking the time, "are you gonna kill me, Alex?"
He pressed his knee between her legs, against her pussy. "Thinking about it," he breathed, but he was all talk. They both knew it and they both knew the other knew it. He reached down to his briefs and pulled them down while Sam continued to stay perfectly still beneath him. She could not make him angrier. That would not be wise.
She did glance down, of course, to see how big was "big" among gossipers. Her lower lip trembled. Bigger than Greg. Bigger than anyone else she'd been with. Not too big to handle, no, not if this was any other guy in any other situation -- but there was no way he was going to give her time to adjust, there was no way he would going to be gentle. Resigned, she opened her legs a bit when he positioned himself at her pussy.
His eyes were on her and she knew she couldn't show pain or fear or anything, so she took a deep breath and prepared herself for the inevitable. He slammed into her and she cried out, a little scream through gritted teeth, and she squeezed her eyes shut for just a second as he laughed at her pain. He grabbed her wrists and held them above her head, tearing her insides. Refusing to let him win she relaxed the muscles in her face and stared off to the side.
She had fantasized about this. Admittedly the circumstances were different and he started out a little gentler and worked her body a little more, but she had been developing feelings for him for a while and in the hotel showers as they traveled together she fucked herself with her fingers and imagined it was him. He wasn't handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but he dressed well and played guitar and he could sing and he had plenty of women to choose from. He wanted her. He'd been waiting for her. And she was waiting for their tour to end to tell him she wanted him too.
"The first time Greg fucked you," Alex growled, "when you begged him to stop, did he cover your mouth to shut you up?"
Tears pricked the corners of Sam's eyes. "I didn't beg him to stop," she said, a little cockily.
Alex stopped fucking her and Sam realized then that she'd been thrusting her hips up to meet his.
"You're lying," he said. She was. "You wouldn't fuck a married man just like that."
"I'd known him years--"
Alex slapped her across the face. "Don't lie to me."
She was quiet, resisting the urge to bring her hand to her cheek stinging cheek.
"Did he cover your mouth?" He demanded.
She shook her head no, not meeting his eyes.
"So he liked to hear you."
"I don't think he heard me," she admitted. "He turned the music up."
"Because he knew you'd put up a fight." Alex smiled. "And you're so obedient for me."
"Please." Her voice was shaking now. "I wasn't--"
"I wasn't using you to make him jealous!"
"I said stop." Alex's expression had changed. He looked tired now; sad. "On your stomach."
She rolled over. Before she could even get comfortable he brought his hand down on her ass and she screamed in pain.
She tried to protect herself with her hands but he gripped them so tight it hurt. Over and over he brought his hand down to her behind, relishing each CRACK! and each sob but wishing it could somehow make the situation better. It couldn't.
She was crying now, into the pillow. He mounted her from behind and thrust in roughly and he heard her muffled wail. He fucked her like this for a long time, hard, rough, and without feeling -- it was a punishment for her more than it was a reward for him. But eventually he did want to come and so he sped up, gripping her hips tightly, taking some pleasure in looking down at her -- she was resting her head on the pillow now, totally quiet, blinking sleepily, the occasional tear trickling over her nose and onto the bed. He didn't know that she was in a good place and he wouldn't have cared -- not now that he was so close. She sighed, now wet and open enough to accommodate him, enjoying the rhythm. As he came he gripped her ass cheeks and buried himself as deep in her cunt as he could.
Short on breath he climbed off her and stood by the side of the bed. He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her toward him, guiding her to her knees on the floor. "Clean me," he panted, and without argument she sucked the come and sweat off his dick.
That night, while they were both asleep, her head found its way to his chest and they stayed like that until morning.