Follow the Rules Ch. 05

"Suck his dick." With his hand in my hair, Carlos shoved my face down towards Zachary's cock. I turned my face away, even pulling my own hair in the process. I hated that Carlos was making me do this. I hadn't even minded him raping my mouth as much as this. I'd sucked Zachary's cock before, but it had been an act of shared pleasure, maybe even something as sappy as love, but not this. Not pain, not rape.

Carlos shoved my face down farther, so that Zachary's hard dick tapped my face aimlessly -- my cheek, my nose. Although, as Carlos had said, Zachary was hard. I didn't like to think that Zachary had gotten off on watching my torture, my rape, at the hands of his uncle. But then again, maybe it was a purely physical reaction. And maybe if Zachary wanted this, then I could do it.

I glanced up at him. Zachary's mouth was split open with a bandana. His nostrils flared, his eyes wide. "Rachel," I thought he said, muffled beyond comprehension through his gag. He shook his head wildly, though, making his answer clear.

He didn't want this.

I couldn't do it then.

I knew the pain of rape. Not the physical pain, which could be bad enough, but the kind that broke a person into so many pieces they knew they'd never be able to put themselves back together again. That was me. Damaged beyond repair. But I wouldn't do that to anyone else, and especially not to Zachary.

Carlos punched me in the side of my head, knocking me over onto Zachary's legs. Then he yanked me back up by my hair. "I said, suck it."

I wouldn't. Tears smarted from the pain of his blow, but I'd take a hundred more and not give in. Never would I make Zachary feel violated as I had been. I'd rather die.

I thought I might die, actually, as he hit me again, and again. I hoped I would. Distantly, I heard the muffled grunts as Zachary failed to talk.

Then, abruptly, the blows stopped.

I opened my eyes, but I still couldn't see. Like a movie scene, Zachary came into focus as Juan ripped the bandana off of his mouth.

"Stop," he said hoarsely. "Please. Rachel, I... please."

I stared blankly at him, unable to move due to the pounding in my head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Please do it. Please...suck me. It will be okay."

He wanted me to suck him? I couldn't process the ramifications. Did he just want to get off? This turned him on? Or was it something else? My brain was sluggish from the beating.

But this was Zachary. I loved Zachary. Even my broken-stupid brain knew that.

So I would do what he asked.

Slowly, so slowly that it seemed to take an eternity, I crawled up to his legs and took his cock in my mouth.

His breath caught. "That's right. Shhh."

And only when he said that did I realize I was making a low moan, a sickly sound, like an animal in pain. Which I was.

His cock tasted strongly of sweat and musk, and a little bitter -- like piss. Had he peed himself during his own beating? Maybe a little.

But I lapped it all up, accepting it as all I was good for. I hadn't wanted to believe what Carlos had told me, but that didn't make it any less true. All men wanted me for was to fuck. And they didn't even bother with dates and flowers like other women got. I just got this. Rape. Pain. And when I think it's over -- more of the same. I was a whore, and a bad one, too.

Except Zachary seemed to be enjoying my blowjob at least. His breathing had grown heavy and erratic. His hips had begun to shake, as if maybe he wanted to thrust, but couldn't. This was good. I wanted to please Zachary.

But just when I started to think it was okay, a sharp crack came from behind. I heard it in the air before I felt the sting of the leather on my bare ass.

I must have bit down on him, because Zachary jerked.

"Suck it better, bitch," I heard Carlos say.

I sucked harder and deeper, but again the belt came down on my bruised ass. Tears of pain and frustration fell down my cheeks and onto Zachary, but I didn't stop.

"It's okay," Zachary whispered between deep breaths. "It will be okay."

A harder hit of the belt elicited a low groan, with Zachary's cock deep in my throat. The vibrations caused Zachary's cock to pulse.

"Don't speak to the whores, Zachary," Carlos said. "I raised you better than this."

"Fuck you," Zachary spat.

An even harder swing of the belt was Carlos' response. I yelped around the cock.

I felt Zachary suck in a breath. I knew he wanted to say something to me. A reassurance, a response, but he couldn't. If he spoke against Carlos, Carlos would take it out on me, that was the message Carlos had sent. I wanted to show him I understood, so I went at his cock with abandon, sucking it in deep. The pain of the belt on my ravaged ass was so huge that the twinge of discomfort from taking his cock deep into my sore throat was nothing at all.

I heard a soft clink as the belt fell beside my face, coiling like a snake ready to strike. Then I felt Carlos' hand in my hair again, pushing me down onto Zachary's cock, just as he had rape me on his own cock a few minutes earlier.

When he spoke again, his voice was close. "Whores live for having a cock in their mouth, don't you?"

I didn't know if he expected a response, so I just whimpered.

"But what about dying for them? How many whores do you think have died around a cock?"

This time I didn't bother to respond as he inexorably pushed my mouth down, all the way down Zachary's cock. His cock swelled and twitched. He was coming soon.

Carlos' voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I think a whore would love to die around a cock. But let's put it to the test, shall we?"

Zachary groaned a protest, but Carlos jammed me down hard. My face hit Zachary's crotch, my nose pressed into the coarse hair. I couldn't help but gag, and in another second, the struggle to come up for breath, but that hand held me down. My throat convulsed, wringing another groan from Zachary. Hot cum poured down my throat, but still I couldn't come up. I started to slacken, hearing Zachary gasp out in his orgasm, "No. Let her go. Jesus. Rachel. Stay with me. Please."

And I wanted to listen to him, I wanted to please him, but as the darkness took me, I knew I had failed again.

* * *

The first thing I noticed was the cock inside me. I knew this feeling. An old boyfriend used to love waking me up like this, with his dick inside me and his hands around my throat. It was just sex.

But it wasn't moving. Or at least, it hadn't moved in the last few minutes since I'd woken up.

I tried to open my eyes, and they creaked open slowly like a rusted shut door. And pain, pain shot through me at just that small movement of my eyelids. I sucked in a breath.

Zachary.

He stood in front of me, naked, his head hanging down. His cock was inside me, and my legs were circled around his hips. In a sick sort of way, this reminded me of the first time we'd had sex, back in that warehouse. This was the same position. I was raised on some sort of hard surface, a table maybe. And he was standing upright, even though his head hung down.

"Zachary?" I croaked.

He shook his head slightly, enough to let me know he'd heard me, enough to let me know he didn't want to look at me.

Was he truly inside me? I tightened my muscles there, to check, and he gasped. Yes, he was there, big and hard.

"Don't," he bit out. "Please, don't."

"What's...what's going on?"

He didn't answer, but I noticed something else. My legs were wrapped around his waist, but I sure as hell wasn't holding them there. Hell, I'd be unconscious just a few seconds ago. And his arms were pulled back, as if they were still tied together as they'd been earlier. So how were my legs staying like that, suspended in air?

I wiggled them experimentally and discovered the answer. They were tied together at the ankles. Very, very tightly. In fact, just thinking about moving my toes shot hot darts of pain into them where they'd lost blood flow.

My arms were raised above my head, almost reaching the back of this table I was on. They were also tied there, probably using the legs of the table. And again, the stinging of hands that had long ago fallen asleep.

I guessed I had been moving too much, because Zachary's cock twitched.

"Stay still," he ground out.

"I don't understand," I said.

"There's nothing to understand. He's a sick fuck."

"Is he here? Is he coming back?"

"No," Zachary said grimly. "The bomb's going to go off any minute now."

"So... what? We just wait here to die?"

"I can't..." Zachary shook his head. "I can't move." He glanced down at my legs that held his body like a vice. "And also my legs are tied."

I wriggled my toes again, setting off more sparks. "The knots are really tight," I said. "But whatever fabric they use to do this -- it's stretchy. I think I might be able to get out of it."

"Really?" he asked. His shoulders flexed as he tried his own bonds. "Mine are rope." He shook his head again. "No give."

"Okay," I said. "Okay. I'll try."

I pulled my feet apart as far as I could, probably only managing a centimeter or so, but I could feel the slightest stretch in the fabric. I let it spring back together and then pulled again. I did this for a few minutes, already feeling a small amount of progress.

But there was something else, the sawing motion I was making with my feet was pulling Zachary's body closer to mine, which pulled his cock -- his hard, aroused cock -- deeper into me.

I tried to ignore it. If I could just get these off my feet, we could be free. This was important. This was everything -- Zachary's life was at stake. I wasn't about to let him get blown apart because he was caught in the trap of my legs.

The further apart I stretched the fabric between my legs, loosening the knots, the more jerky the movements of Zachary's body against mine became, almost like thrusts. Exactly like thrusts. In fact, I became sure that this was the bastard Carlos had planned for us. A double rape as his final act of depravity and he didn't even have to be present for it.

I couldn't help the small gasps of pain that came out as blood flowed into my feet again. Between the thrusting motion and those sounds, I knew this was becoming a problem for Zachary. Even if I couldn't have read it on the tension of his face, I could feel his cock thickening inside me.

"Wait, stop," he choked.

"No, I almost have it." I started yanking on the bonds almost frantically, desperate to end this macabre dance.

But the stuttered breaths of Zachary told me I was too late. He squeezed his eyes shut as he came, pouring into my dirty, ravaged cunt.

And the very worst of it: a solitary tear dropped from his eye and rolled down his cheek.

What had I done? Me and my dirty whore of a cunt had effectively raped this man.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No," I said. "Let's not talk about it."

Maybe it was selfish of me but I couldn't bear to hear him talk about it. I wasn't even sure what he'd say. Would he condemn me for my whoreishness? Would he try to excuse my grossness with empty platitudes? Would his disgust of me be plain, or hidden behind pity? I didn't want to know the answer to any of these questions.

With a savage pull, I yanked one of my feet free of the binds. Something cracked in my ankle, and the pain of it made me cry out.

But Zachary was free of me. He fell back, his feet tied to the table legs and his hands behind his back. But it was progress. I pulled at my hands, but though there was more leeway, they were tighter around my actual wrists. Getting them off seemed impossible.

I had a ridiculous idea. If I rolled backwards off of the table, and then landed on the floor, I could just slip my ropes down the table legs, and eventually, off. It was just stupid enough to work. The hard wood of the table cut into my spin as bent backwards, curling my legs up. And then the actual moment where I was upside down. The crouched landing I was hoping for turned into more of an unruly sprawl, like a lamb who tries to stand for the first time. But it had worked. My hands were tied with rope to the tops of these two table legs, and I wriggled them all down to the bottom of the legs. Once they were at the bottom, Zachary pressed his weight down on the other side of the table, pulling my side up off the ground a bit. I slipped my ropes out, and I was free.

From there I used my fingers to undo the knots around Zachary's legs and hands.

It didn't escape my notice that Zachary refuse to meet my eyes. I didn't blame him, but it still hurt.

I dressed quickly, in the tatters that were left of my clothes, while Zachary rummaged through the drawers and cabinets. He somehow found a pocket knife -- surely those weren't allowed at school -- and used it to cut the remaining ropes off of my hands.

Then we both entered the hallway cautiously, but urgently, with Zachary still holding the knife out and ready. We made it out to a back parking lot, which seemed deserted but for a few stray cars.

"I don't care what you say," I whispered behind him. "I'm not driving off and leaving you here this time."

He turned back and gave me a small, sad smile. "No, not this time."

"Wait here," he said. "I'm going to try and wire one of those cars. Don't move. I'll come back for you."

And then he was gone.

I watched him walk to one of the old cars and fiddle with the lock using his knife, but I felt more conspicuous standing there in the wide open windows of the school. I stumbled back a bit to the wall, leaning against metal lockers.

I started to fade out of consciousness. Oddly, I was aware of this, in a way you usually aren't when you're going to sleep. But I knew this wasn't sleep, but something darker. I'd been beaten, and hadn't had anything to drink in awhile. This was death. Or a coma, at least. I slid deeper into the lethargy, into the melancholy, unable to do anything to stop it.

And then, as if in a dream -- a nightmare -- I was smashed up against metal lockers.

A familiar voice growled in my ear. "I wasn't about to let you die without tasting you, chica."

It wasn't Carlos. No, it was Juan.

His hands easily pushed aside my torn clothing, and then his cock was invading me. It was a small comfort, I thought idly, that Zachary had come in me earlier. At least I wasn't dry.

I made a small protest, perhaps, pushing at him with my arms and legs, but it was as a feeble as a baby bird. I was nothing. I had no strength left at all.

And when I thought about screaming, if I could even do it, I couldn't risk it. Who would hear me? Zachary. Zachary who should be out there trying to get a car to work so he could get away. That was the important thing. I just needed to stop here, be quiet, and let Zachary escape. He'd be safe. I repeated it to myself like a mantra, a prayer -- Zachary will be safe.

I opened my eyes to see a spray of red across the lockers. Was it my blood? That would be a relief. A heavy weight from behind pushed into me and then was gone. Someone was yelling my name, and all I could think was that death was very loud.

* * *

It was a different hospital, but everything was the same. The too-bright lights, the smell of sickness and rubbing alcohol, the doctors and nurses with their probing questions and probing fingers. It was a different kind of torture than the one I'd had at Carlos' hand, but it was a torture all the same.

Zachary was fine, they said.

But that was all they said.

And then the police came. My heart skipped a beat at seeing the same policeman as before. I didn't care about him, but he'd known Zachary. He could probably tell me Zachary really was.

But when he looked at me, it wasn't with the hardness, with the almost-annoyance or impatience as last time, but with pity. And I hated him. I wanted to punch him, as soon as I could lift my hand. It almost wasn't worth hearing how Zachary was to have to deal with this guy and his pity. Almost.

"How is he?" I said, hating myself for my desperation.

He knew who I meant. "He's...okay."

I stared at him. Really, I'd gotten better information from the nurse.

He sighed. "Physically, he'll recover fine. The rest ..." He let it trail off and so did I. Physically was good. The rest would follow. Zachary was strong. Stronger than me. He'd be okay.

I relaxed back into the pillow and let his questions wash over me.

I answered a few, when the answer came to me, but ignored most of them. Even the information he offered did nothing for me. Juan had been killed by a knife injury to the jugular, administered by Zachary. The bomb had gone off, but no one had been inside. Carlos had gotten away.

I had nothing to say.

It wasn't that I was refusing to talk about it.

It wasn't that I didn't remember what had happened.

It wasn't even that it hurt too much to think about.

It was that I just did not give a fuck.

* * *

I studiously avoided looking at the tree off to the side of the bench. I bit into my sandwich, trying to ignore my shadow. But after four months of this, it was getting damn hard.

I'd see him in a car down the street, leaning against a building near my apartment, and once even in the back of my Political Science class. Most of the time I couldn't see him, but I still knew he was there. I felt him.

I should get his ass arrested for stalking. But I wouldn't. And he probably knew it, the fucker.

For so many reasons, really, I could never get him in trouble. I knew I owed him my life several times over. Plus whatever sick sort of relationship we'd indulged in those months ago. But it was the last reason that was the most compelling.

I liked it. I liked his attention -- his stalking.

I just didn't know what the heck it meant.

I knew it wasn't anything malicious. I just felt that it wasn't -- and really, who better to recognize malicious intent than me. Besides, he'd had plenty of opportunity to do something bad if that had been his intent.

But did it mean he cared? If so, he certainly didn't care enough to come up to me, did he?

It made hope and long and wish, and that made me angry. Goddamn furious.

How dare he give me hope when I shouldn't care at all.

Or better yet, I should hate him.

But no, I shook my head at my turkey sandwich. This wasn't hate. Love, denial, anger, but not hate.

Anger, though. That was a good one.

I made a decision and stood up from the bench, and turned directly toward the tree. Immediately, the figure melted back onto the trail, toward the copse of trees on campus.

I followed determinedly. "Stop!" I called.

The figure increased his pace.

"Dammit, stop!" I ran, because I wasn't the one who had to hide my actions here, was I? And then when I was close enough, I threw my sandwich at him. And missed.

Well, it was stupid, for sure. But I was mad.

And it worked actually. He stopped and looked at the remains of my sandwich on the grass. Then he turned back to me, an incredulous expression on his face. Good. It was high time I surprise the man.

"You heard me," I shouted even though we were close enough to speak in regular tones. "I said stop. What are you doing here anyways, hmm? Always with the hiding and the skulking. I'm tired of it."

"I'm sorry," Zachary said helplessly.

And that just made me more angry. I was so fucking tired of sorry. He was sorry. I was sorry. It pissed me off.

I hit him. There really was no good excuse. There's never a good excuse for hitting someone, save maybe self defense, but this wasn't that. Not even close. This was just pure rage. At him, certainly. At me, at Carlos and Juan and even his dumbass cop friend with eyes full of pity.

I slapped him and punched his arm and literally rammed my shoulder into his stomach. This was hurting me, actually, a lot but it was okay so long as it was hurting him too.