Maria Remembers

Maria groaned. She blinked blearily, but each flash of light let in seared the backs of her eyes like needles, and she screwed them shut. Her head throbbed. Her jaw ached fiercely. The skin of her back, thighs, breasts, buttocks, in fact damn near everywhere, was burning up in a heat that was unpleasantly sharp. She tried to move, but her muscles complained with such instant agonised protest that she stopped, sobbing. Tears came from nowhere. She realised she needed the toilet; the pressure in her bladder was severe. She bit her lip and tried moving again.... more agony. She gasped and moaned helplessly into her pillow. What the fuck had happened? She couldn't remember. Her vagina twitched... ouch. It hurt. Her muscles were weak, and she could feel... inside, she was hurt. Raw. Her mind flowed dully as she tried to remember... anything. She couldn't help it when she wet herself 10 seconds after that. Nor later when she defecated. Much later, she remembered.

****

The water felt like heaven on earth. Leaning against the wall of the shower, slowly the filth washed off her legs, as she pushed the shit down the drain with her hands. She probed her anus to clean it too... and groaned in pain as she felt how sore she was there. She started crying. Soon soap came, shampoo. Then, a razor. Legs first. Armpits. Pussy. She looked at herself, bending down. She was torn on both labia, small red cuts that stung with each kiss of milk white soap. Gently she eased a finger into herself. It hurt like hell. She could feel... god she was so raw she was practically blistered. Every inch her finger could reach was the same.... inflamed, painful, no elasticity, no natural moisture. She sobbed again. Why couldn't she remember?

****

She had to get to work. She could barely walk, each step a pathetic shuffle. The bruises looked terrible. She couldn't understand why she had none on her face, although her jaw was practically frozen stiff, the muscles continuously in spasm. She looked at the time. 3pm? Jesus. She was 6 hours late for work already. Day practically over. Disoriented, she collapsed onto her sofa. She put her head in her hands. The rush as she shut her eyes made her jerk, gasping for air. She'd seen..... what? A hand, falling and her right breast flung under the impact so the muscle and skin felt like it was going to tear. She'd heard herself scream. She shook her head to clear it, looking around the room wild eyed. Still her lounge, still her TV, still her sofa. But she knew, *knew* that place. She knew the carpet. She felt cold.

****

She watched a DVD. Anything to take her mind off the pain. Mr and Mrs Smith.. some eye candy to cheer her up, even if the film was shit. She ordered Chinese... when it arrived she fumbled her change and dropped it. Her gown opened as she bent down and a bruised leg slid out - the delivery man jumped a mile, gave her a strange look and left in a hurry. She felt worse than ever. The flashbacks were coming more regularly. That hand, over and over... now she knew why her body was so bruised, all over. She could even identify hand shaped bruises in a few places, on her ass, her left arm. But all she ever saw was the hand, and the carpet. She didn't even know if the hand belonged to a man or not. As she ate, and watched Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt look beautiful, she started to relax. She'd been awake for 4 hours, she thought, she'd taken painkillers, double dose... she was feeling a bit better. Sleepy. So sleepy. Her eyes drifted shut, and suddenly she was there again. The hand thudded into her ass with a slap so loud it cracked around the room. She screamed, twisted... ropes! Her wrists.... she was bound, ankles too. Smack smack smack smack, twice on each cheek. She was lying on something.. a table? Head hanging down off the edge, she was staring at the carpet, red and yellow patterns, faded and musty, as her ass slowly turned red and her mind slowly gave in, anything to stop the pain. Anything. Much later, she remembered everything.

****

She awoke screaming. Screaming until she was hoarse. But no matter how much she screamed, she couldn't erase the wetness in her cunt. She screamed some more, but eventually she gave out, sobbing, and her eyes dragged shut. Back to the memories. Back to the warm security of agony and the carpet. Her cunt moistened once more as she screamed in her head, as her memories tortured her afresh as he, it was a he, violated her pussy.

****

For 6 long hours she slept, dreamed, in his clutches, his toy. She dreamed while his thick short cock tore into her cunt, then her ass. She endured her mouth being fucked so violently she thought her jaw had broken. She screamed, yelled, groaned, then eventually whimpered, sobbed, and went silent, enduring beyond endurance as he used and used her. Her memories recycled back and forth, over and over. She was taken a hundred times in those 6 hours, a hundred times in a hundred ways. And when she awoke, screaming, she was soaking.

****

She ventured out the next day. Her cunt was healing, she felt more comfortable. The occasional bleeds had stopped. Going to the toilet wasn't agony. The bruises were turning an ugly yellow, her jaw was freeing up slowly. So she went out, in a long skirt and long sleeve top. Only to the corner shop, but she went. When she got back, with milk and bread, a builder from across the street was watching her. He had big hands, tattoos on muscular forearms. He was balding. And watching her. She ran to her door. Why was she wet?

****

She never understood why she let the builder have her that afternoon, in the lounge, without a word or a thank you, not until much later, when she remembered. Then she understood.

****

She cried all evening. Eventually, to bury the shame of having the builder's semen inside her, she closed her eyes. Better to have His semen inside her, she knew. This time, in her head, she was released, her ankles untied, and she opened her thighs for him. Gladly opened. She heard herself beg, turned onto her back, and then she saw his face. She started to remember.

****

Now her cunt was always wet. She closed her eyes regularly, seeking him, seeking his face, seeking his violation. She heard herself beg in a hundred ways a hundred times, and each time it was sweeter and more painful than the last. But there was something about a note, a memory. It niggled her, irritated her. She pushed it aside and spent hours on the lounge floor, legs akimbo, fingers stuffed inside herself, trying to recreate his thickness, his violence. Eventually she let the builder in again, but it wasn't the same.

****

She didn't know it, but she got fired two days later. She didn't care. She was drunk on him. She loved him, and he loved her. Didn't she? Didn't he? She loved the man in her head, loved every sweet blow from his hand. She found the note eventually. It was in the pocket of the clothes she woke up in that first night. How stupid of her! She smiled at herself. She'd see what he had to say to her now.

****

Maria was confused. How could she have ended up with a note from the police rape counseling service? She shrugged, tossing it aside, smiled to herself, and closed her eyes.

END