A Threesome in a Covid 19 World Ch. 09

This story, narrated by Amy, has a very different mood to most of mine, and I know possibly belongs in a different category. But the longer story has lived in this category and it seems inappropriate to change that.

And I felt it was a story, given Amy's past, that had to be told.

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In a way I knew it had to happen eventually.

After I'd settled in Australia, I did some research into the personality traits that drive someone like my previous abusive partner in the UK, Frank.

While my amateur research was not able to give a binding diagnosis, it was pretty clear to me he had a severe narcissistic personality disorder with psychopathic tendencies and a little bit of obsessive compulsive disorder too.

The self-entitlement, lack of empathy, need for self-aggrandisement and his inability to show any real intimacy were, to an extent, only the superficial elements of his NPD. The real depth of it was shown in his false reality. It was absolutely pointless contesting his version of events or circumstances, however ridiculous his version was or how much they looked like outright lies. To do so would only enrage him because, inevitably the ones I'm talking about went to his self-esteem; whether the events showed him in a positive or negative light.

And the only version of any event his mind could comprehend was the version that showed him in a positive light. What was spewing from his mouth weren't so much outright lies as delusional false realities.

When that is combined with his repetitive and persistent pattern of heartless and conscienceless theft, lies and willingness to inflict physical violence that seemed to know no limits, I was right to fear for my life when I fled.

But, more importantly to my future, it also told me Frank was very unlikely to ever let my escape go. He would see it as a slight on him and his entitlement that would need to be rectified, either by my punishment or by my return; with the latter requiring some punishment anyway.

If I was lucky and he found someone else to obsess about and control, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be bothered with me. But of course then they would be at risk.

Absent that, I would be a lifetime itch he'd have to scratch at.

As for his OCD, that was in a slightly different category. While I was with him, it was of course the trigger for many acts of violence he committed on me; something I just didn't do well enough or get right enough according to his particular standards.

But in some areas I also recognised it as a weakness. It was something that could be employed as a distraction, especially in his sexual fetishes.

Ned has always admired my strength and fitness. That is partly because I enjoy exercise, enjoy exercising with Ned even more, and like my body better in that state.

But it has always been with an eye on an uncertainty that lay in my future. The possibility I'd have an encounter with Frank one day. The bag at the local gym took a terrible beating as I practiced punching and kicking it.

In a way, I had always been on my guard from the time I'd settled in Australia. Not in a way I was willing to let spoil my life as some sort of constant obsessive worry; just a sort of back of my mind alertness.

It didn't stop me making and posting videos about Ned, me and the rest of the Screw Girls and our adventures which I knew would eventually be found by Frank and pull at his tail. But it was why I stripped geo-location from everything and did a 180 degree horizontal rotation on any sailing footage that showed the coastline, to confuse which direction we were heading in and so make it harder for him to track me down.

But you can't just disappear. Even as my professional life progressed and it became necessary to be on Linked In and give speeches, it became impossible to stay undercover.

I'd thought about what any ambush by Frank would look like. Guns are not easily available in Australia -- even less so by a foreign tourist. So it was obvious his weapons would be his male strength, fists and knives. Which meant he'd have to find me alone. Which meant he'd need to conduct surveillance first.

The male strength and fists I could at least partly overcome with my own training. Knives were harder because there was a fair chance he'd catch me when I least expected it. But I also knew Frank had one enormously big weakness; letting his brain be dominated by his penis. It always occurred to me that my tendency to dress in sexually attractive clothing may well be a good defence from being surprised and stabbed from behind before I had any chance to defend myself. It was difficult to believe he wouldn't want one last access to my living body.

Frank had captured me -- because that's the most appropriate description of what it was like -- when I was a young, innocent and naive eighteen year old.

If I was as cute and beautiful as Ned says I am, I certainly hadn't grown aware of it. I was shy and insecure around men and poorly educated as to their sexual ways.

Frank had found it easy to charm the immature me with his manner and attract me with his idealised male physique. He was tall and well-built with a sculptured face. Just the sort of male that a young girl with a Jane Austin view of gender relations might fall for. And I did.

I went through the whole process that a girl who falls for a man like Frank goes through.

By imperceptible steps you get isolated from your friends and family and your life starts to get controlled by him. In small ways at first, and then eventually in every detail.

Frank's control of me had quickly become comprehensive.

But a lot was focused on three particular things.

I was only allowed to go out without him to go to work. And I was expected to come directly home the moment work finished. No socialising with work colleges.

I wasn't allowed any free access to money, even though I was the senior breadwinner for the family. My pay went into an account that Frank tightly controlled.

The final one was how I presented myself and dressed.

Although he didn't put it like that and I didn't really realise what he was doing, he quickly trained me to only go out dressed in frumpy, figure hiding clothes with my long hair in an unattractive bun.

But the minute I got home, I was required to change out of my 'good' work clothes (the 'good' part being his justification for me taking them off to keep them looked after) and free my hair from the bun to 'let it breathe'.

In summer months, when it was warm (by English standards anyway), I'd be encouraged to just strip down to my underwear. Underwear carefully, almost obsessively, chosen by him. In cooler weather, it would be a pair of spray on tight leggings in a silvery or golden sheen colour with a sort of g string pantie underneath and a very tight fitting long sleeved top.

A necessary part of this process is that your abusive partner gaslights you. Everything he's encouraging you to do has a seemingly good reason unrelated to his real purpose. You don't really recognise he's deliberately dressing you unattractively when you're out, in any case he's constantly telling you how ugly you are, and nor do you recognise he's objectified you for his visual pleasure the minute you've walked in the door.

The bottom line is, if you are cut off from other sources of social engagement and constantly bombarded with the same message, whether that's how ugly you are or how things are being done for your benefit, you end up being convinced of the truth of it.

As a young girl, I wasn't really clued on what attracted men. I had a loose idea they liked breasts and, before Frank gaslighted me, thought mine pretty good, but beyond that I was ripe for brainwashing.

As crazy as it seems in retrospect, it was only with Ned and my better understanding of men's desires I could look back and understand Frank's.

The thing was, Frank was not as much of a breast man as most men are. Yes, he liked cleavage displays. But unlike Ned, who loves to play with them and suck my nipples, Frank showed scant regard for tactile interaction with them. He was more a butt and legs man. Well, and a crotch man too. Very much a crotch man.

I just had no idea of how sexually attractive a nicely proportioned but very prominent mons bulge could be to men until Ned alerted me to it. Indeed, I hadn't even noticed how different mine was from what I might call an average mons. But Frank was clearly as obsessed with mine as Ned is.

Looking back, in my initial meetings with Frank, I was either wearing tight jeans or leggings; both of which adequately displayed what lay beneath, at least enough to attract his interest over and above whatever other attractive features I had.

The panties and bra-lets he made me wear in the warmer months were tiny, tightly fitted and of a stretch silky texture, all of which I can see now pandered to his both visual and tactile desires. And the leggings were the same.

I can look back and see how he loved to touch me on them -- patting my butt or cupping my mons. Not, mind you, with a hum of flattering pleasure or delight. Or even an intimate playfulness. Rather it would be excused as a touch of encouragement; to do better at something, even just cleaning the house. Or not excused at all and just imposed as an act of control.

But in a way, here's where Frank's OCD cuts in. Why not make me strip naked? After all, having a woman running around the house doing housework naked would be most men's dream. And the answer, I perceived even before I left him, was that nakedness offended his sense of perfection. For him, an anus and a vulva were both imperfections in what he otherwise viewed as the perfect female form. Tightly fitted panties or leggings let him fully appreciate and arouse himself with the form without the imperfections.

And this OCD impacted everything down to the way he imposed sex on me. And the words 'imposed sex on me' were carefully chosen.

His favourite was to simply push me down and have me give him head. It was never reciprocated in any way. It was one way sex.

But he also had more tactile needs he had to satisfy. Sex for Frank consisted of having me naked except for my panties and lying on top of me as he pawed at me, jerking his erection against the gusset of the panties. His pawing concentrated a lot on my bum cheeks, the top of my thighs and my mons. And he really seemed to get off stroking the silky texture of the panties. Only for the finale would he strip me out of my panties, penetrate me and have proper sex. But he wouldn't last long; showing the endurance of an isolated snowflake on a hot tin roof in the middle of summer, I like to joke. He would have already worked himself up into a sexual frenzy before taking them off.

It was mid-way through my time with him that the rapes started.

Frank's violence against me started relatively early in our relationship. Like a lot of abusive men, he knew how to inflict physical pain and injury just short of what required a trip to hospital or would be too obvious when you went to work the next day. I was rarely without a cracked rib during that time.

And like most victims of domestic violence who have been effectively socially isolated and gaslighted by their partners, you're easily persuaded it's all your fault and for your own good. That if you were just a better girlfriend it wouldn't be necessary for it to happen.

But these things accumulate over time and I started to develop panic attacks when I knew I was about to be violently attacked. I'd shake uncontrollably and curl into a whimpering ball.

On this particular day, a delayed bus had caused me to arrive home late to an enraged Frank. As I hurried up to our room to change out of my work clothes, Frank followed me. I'd only kicked my shoes off when he stormed into the room.

Instinctively, I climbed onto the bed to get as far away from him as possible and had curled myself up into a shaking, whimpering defensive ball. I don't know what triggered Frank on that day. Maybe the view he had up my skirt of my panties as I curled up, but suddenly he blurted out...

"I can't be bothered punishing you like normally. I'm going to rape you instead."

Now why he actually wanted to call it rape, I can only guess. And my guess is he wanted to emphasise it was an alternative and worse form of punishment.

And in that moment, that was my reaction too. That to be raped -- even by your partner -- was the worst thing that could happen to you as a woman. I squealed in fear and begged him not to as I tried to curl myself into an even tighter ball.

That just seemed to encourage him to prolong my torment.

Instead of throwing himself on me immediately, he did a slow, threatening striptease, starting with his pants to reveal a towering erection ready to deliver on his promise.

Once naked, he knelt on the bed and edged his way menacingly towards me, finding pleasure in my increasingly pathetic and panicky pleas for him to stop.

As soon as he was within reach, he started pulling at my clothes, starting with my skirt. I resisted with all my might as I screamed in fear, holding them up against his pull and contorting my body to frustrate the path of their removal. But all I did was get more and more hurt by the tug of war as the clothing was ripped violently from my body. And the more I'd angled the body to resist him, the deeper the bruising.

At his own leisure, he'd had me stripped to my panties. As I'd grabbed those by the waist elastic, he ignored my action and instead grabbed my feet and pulled my body out straight, quickly sitting on my thighs before I could curl myself up again.

There was an evil look in his eyes as he stared first at my face. But then his gaze drifted down to the bulge of my mons. He roughly cupped it and rubbed the palm of his hand up and down it.

As I felt the first act of actual sexual assault I screamed all the louder and writhed as powerfully as I could under his full body weight. All that seemed to do was excite him more. Pre-cum was almost flooding from the tip of his shaft, oozing over the bell and dripping into my crotch.

He was obviously enjoying this torture of me; not in any hurry to end it and move to the next step. But eventually he laid down on top of me, pawing at me in exactly the same way as he did when we're having sex, except his movements were more forceful, not least that of his jerking his erection into the gusset of my panties.

Still I screamed, writhed and squirmed, fighting this more intimate assault with my hands and body, but not being strong enough to make the slightest difference to him. Indeed, the more I fought, the more he seemed to enjoy it.

The timing of the next step was probably determined more by his own brewing balls than any plan of torture. He squatted over me again as he pulled down my panties, reaching behind his back to pull them off my feet while holding me down enough to keep me under control.

As soon as they were off, he threw himself down on me again, forcefully penetrating me as a prelude to a series of violent thrusts. He didn't last long. Three of them and he ejaculated and then just lay with his full weight on me as he finished emptying his balls.

Too exhausted to fight further and it being too late to change anything, I surrendered to a passive limp state under him until he decided to get off.

In his mind he thought he'd scored a massive victory reinforced by his final words...

"Sorry I had to do that, but you need to learn you have to be home on time."

It was pointless arguing about a late bus. This was an issue of control, not of reality.

But as I took stock, I realised that I was way less hurt than I would have been had he beaten me. And much of that hurt was caused by the violence of my own resistance. Humiliated, yes. But constant humiliation was a feature of my life and I found myself able to rationalise that easier than dealing with another cracked rib.

Impregnated with his cum, even if the pill stopped me getting pregnant? Yes that too, but I would have been no less so had he demanded sex that night.

Far from a victory for him, it became the first step in his defeat with my eventual escape. I'd learnt how to manipulate him and increasingly came to recognise he was controlled by and controllable through, his cock.

I leant that if I could deflect a beating with a rape, I was much better off.

The panic attacks when he threatened violence continued to be real, but I found I could think rationally enough to magnify my display of fear, while presenting to him whatever views of me might turn his attack to a rape. Practice soon made perfect. Upskirt or cleavage views if I was still in my outdoor clothes, spread apart legs as I curled myself up, if I was in the indoor ones.

I'd read, long before my first rape, that you can help with a panic attack by focusing on a single object. The difficulty is that when someone's hitting you with their fist, it is difficult to concentrate on anything other than the oncoming fist; and that's not very reassuring.

But, internally, Frank's erection, in a strange way, became my soothing object of calm. It told me I wasn't going to be beaten, 'only' raped.

I knew I had to satisfy Franks desire to punish me by putting up every appearance of finding the rapes the worst possible fate and resist them accordingly. But I soon worked out at what point physical resistance led to me being hurt and walked the fine line of taking it to the edge of that but not further. And my ability to put on a show of vocal resistance and expressions of pain and suffering and magnified displays of shaking and physical displays of fear and hurt constantly improved. I even managed to let my body absorb some of the violence of his thrusts by rag dolling under him to the extent his weight on me would permit; that very act, accompanied by an appropriate squeal, convincing him of the effectiveness of punishment.

Unaware of its sexual power, I continued to wonder at the length of time Frank took pawing at my mons as he knelt over me before stripping my panties. I also noted the way he knelt over me, engrossed in enjoying whatever sexual fetish he was indulging himself in, exposed him to a lifted knee to the groin. It was a carefully taken decision to not exploit that. If I did, I knew I would bring a world of pain and suffering on myself that would far outweigh the pleasure of hurting Frank. Lying there in a show of frozen, shaking fear was a much better act of self-preservation.

Anyhow, while his stroking of my mons wasn't hitting any buttons for me, it did at least alert my body of the need to prepare for penetration, considerably reducing, or even eliminating, the hurt of that when it came.

And if I played my cards right, I wouldn't even end up being penetrated. Just occasionally, he'd get too excited and ejaculate into the gusset of my panties as he jerked against it -- sometimes assisted by my placing a thigh where it rubbed against his erection as he jerked at me -- or even just boil over while pawing at my pantie covered mons.

That sense of regaining some control inspired me to plan an escape. Because I knew I'd end up dead if Frank caught me at escaping, it took a lot of time and effort and no small amount of help from my boss at work to make it happen.

Most of my often very substantial pay rises were diverted into a different bank account Frank didn't know about and my boss willingly became the forwarding address for my bank statement, passport and eventually travel documents.

And cruising the Pacific on private yachts not only fulfilled a dream I'd had, but put me where Frank just couldn't track me down for several years.