Rape Fantasies

He isn't. When I explain the situation the bus he gives me a look that says 'I've had a long day. Don't fuck with me'. You and me both, buddy. I look for a hint of compassion, some working class sympathy. I get none.

Ok, its so late and I'm not exactly dressed my best. I smell like coffee and there are stains on my shirt. I'm not a scammer I want to say. I start to get scared. I promise to pay next time, offer to leave my address and phone number. The driver just sits there sneering.

Now what? Walk? It will take me hours to get home and part of the way leads through a deserted business park then down a scary stretch of highway. I can already see myself in someone's basement freezer. "Please. I'll do anything." I clutch my hoodie tightly around me. The bus is warm but I can't help shivering.

"Really? Anything?" The driver looks me up and down. Now I feel dirty. "Would you give me a blow job?" He sounds like he's kidding. Well, maybe half kidding and half testing the waters.

"I..."

Before I can marshal my outrage, the driver puts the break on and stands. "According to the schedule I have to wait here for seven minutes. If you can make me cum in seven minutes I'll give you a ride." He motions for me to follow him to the back of the bus. And I do.

He makes himself comfortable in the middle of the very back seat and throws a used newspaper down on the floor. I kneel down on it.

"Well? What are you waiting for? You now have six and a half minutes to drain my balls so you better get to it."

He's a young guy so his penis is already erect when I pull it out of his regulation bus company shorts. It's pretty big but at least it's nice and straight, no weird curves or anything.

The driver wraps one of his hands around it and gives it a couple of pumps. With the other he pushes my head down. I open my mouth and take a deep breath. A tattoo decorates one muscular forearm: 'Earned not given". I get to work.

Soon I'm pushing him into my throat as far as I can stand while he grunts and moans. I can feel the minutes ticking down.

"Take off your top," the driver says. "Your tits might help me cum faster. If they're decent."

I do what he says hoping what I've got is adequate. They aren't the biggest but they're perky with a nice shape.

The driver seems to approve. He reaches over and fondles one as I resume sucking him. "You can have an extra twenty seconds," he tells me. "To make up for the time it took you to get those out." He twists a nipple. "I'm not a total asshole."

I bob my head up and down faster to show my appreciation. Its almost a matter of pride not to fail. I've forgotten that there is a ride home at stake. Faster and faster, I use my hands and a lot of saliva. How much time do I have left?

At last I feel the telltale clenching of his thighs on each side of my head. He grunts, shoves in deep and then stills, only his cock pulsing, shooting slimy cum down my throat.

"Good job." He pats my head and zips up.

"Have a seat," he gestures to the old people bench at the front as he gets behind the wheel. "Where do you live? I'll drive you home."

I shouldn't give him my address but I do anyway.

4

It's my eighteenth birthday. I am alone because all my friends have gone to see 'Not a Love Story' with someone's mother. No one thought to invite me. Being someone's barely tolerated plain and shy friend from the second grade, I am, apparently, in no danger of being seduced into the world of porn. No one thinks I need this cautionary tale of poor life choice and perpetual female victim hood.

It's Friday night. No one is home. My mother and my older sister are both out on dates. I help myself to some Campari from the sparse liquor cabinet. It's my birthday and I'll drink if I want to.

ZZTop's 'Legs' video comes on the TV (it's the 80s). I turn it up, pour myself another Campari and wander into my sister's room. I go through her closet rifling through her short skirts and tiny tops. I try them on with her high heeled shoes and then add a little make up. One more Campari and the mirror is telling me I look kind of good

From there it's just a small step out into the night.

Five blocks from my house is a ravine with a small creek at the bottom. Kids from my school go down their to drink beer and smoke pot. I pick my way down in my sister's precarious shoes, edge my way into the ring of headlights and cigarette smoke. There's a good crowd here. No one notices me, or if they do, they don't care. I lean back against the hood of a car as if I belong here.

"You want some?" A boy is holding a half drunk beer. I nod and take a sip deliberately not wiping the mouth of the bottle. He joins me in leaning against the car. We take turns drinking from the bottle until it is empty.

"Come on." He puts his arm around my shoulders. I think maybe we are going to get another beer but instead herds me away from the crowd and into the trees. I stumble in my terrible shoes.

He stops and props me up against a tree. He leans in, puts his hands on me and -- Oh God -- he kisses me. My first real kiss. His tongue is slick and too big for my mouth. It tastes of smoke and beer. It's strange and something of an acquired taste, I notice, like eating sushi for the first time. I don't care. I am high on the urgency of his hands on my body as they crawl up under my shirt.

Before I can decide whether I should stop this, his hands are between my legs. Somehow I am down on the ground. I feel denim and the metal of his zipper against the soft skin on the inside of my thighs. Then something else, hard and smooth, poking and probing, a blind animal trying to find it's den.

"Shh..." he slurs, clumsily stroking my hair. "Shh..."

He's inside, thrusting in short spurts, moaning, face pressed into my neck. I meant to say no but I forget and now its too late. How's that for bad decisions.

He's cumming inside me. He's not wearing a condom. Fuck. He slides his arms under me, hooks his hands around my shoulders making sure I don't get away. Thrust, thrust, thrust and he's done, rolling off me, stumbling away. I lie there for a while listening to the music leaking from someone's second rate car stereo. Then I go home and touch myself to the memory in a warm bath.

5

Hey, street boy, want some style?

Your dead end dreams don't make you smile.

I'll give you something to live for.

Have you and grab you until you're sore.

My local cafe is playing the The Runaways at top volume because its forty-five minutes to closing and the place is empty except for me and the two college kids behind the counter. One is a gumdrop shaped girl with blue hair holding a conversation no one is interested in. The other is a guy with full sleeve tattoos, a beard and broad shoulders, a boy who has just recently become a man.

Hello, daddy. Hello, mom.

I'm your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!

I watch them go about their pre-close chores. The girl is doing her best to snag the attention of the boy. She leans over the counter showing off her meaty tits and big round ass. She lets a few borderline inappropriate jokes fly and laughs at them loudly when they get no reaction.

At one point, the door opens and a slim girl in a short skirt and ballet flats flits in. She orders a small iced latte and chats up the boy as he makes it for her. She knows him. They are in some of the same classes together. As she exits, hips swaying, he gazes after her with an instinctual longing.

"Humph," the blue haired troll snorts. She adjusts her bra and rolls her eyes. "You want to go get a drink after close?"

"I'll take the garbage out." The boy grabs a bag in each fist and strides towards the back.

I close my laptop. "Can you watch my stuff for a minute?" The girl shrugs and glares but I leave it there anyway.

The bathrooms are at the back of the store down a narrow hallway that also leads to the dumpster. I have a pee and splash water on my tired eyes. The face that looks back at me is still ok but definitely shows the sag of age. I want to be nineteen again. I want to be that carefree girl in the short skirt swishing my way into some college boy's sweaty dreams not someone who's one tedious presentation away from a promotion she doesn't really want.

When I come back out I can smell that green smell of summer wafting in through the open back door on a wave of sour milk and coffee grounds. I wander over and peer out into the night, inhale deeply thinking how quickly the good things in life are over.

He is there leaning against the chain link fence, not having a cigarette or anything, just staring up at the sky, probably trying to kill some time and avoid his shift mate. I watch him silently for a moment, let my eyes trace the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck lingering on the elegant swoop of scapula under his t-shirt. Why don't more women talk about the beauty of the male body?

Lost in thought he doesn't acknowledge me as I slide up behind him. Maybe he knows I'm there, maybe not. I reach around and gently cup cup him. Now he knows I'm here. He jerks his head back, sees me, doesn't pull away though. Maybe he's relieved I'm not blue haired girl.

I kneel and pull down the zipper of his jeans. He fully erect. An involuntary twitch and a catch in his breath tells me not to stop. I put my mouth on him as braces himself against the fence. Very slowly I take him all the way down my throat, hold him there for a moment then retreat and go again. I like the way he pulses against my esophagus, like a heart beating.

The third time I finally feel his hands in my hair. His breathing quickens as he grips me, forces a faster, deeper rhythm. I wonder if he is thinking about the cute girl in the short skirt. A muffled groan and a tightening in his balls. He unloads into my mouth and I swallow it down because it's the polite thing to do.

Before he can zip up I am back on my feet and heading inside. I grab my laptop and take my paper cup up to the counter. "Thanks," I say and drop a twenty into the tip jar.

6

I'm traveling around Europe my myself. It's the early 80s and Germany is infested with foreign workers, all men, who seem to think any woman wandering around alone is next door to a prostitute and thus fair game. You can't walk five feet without one of them sidling up to you and trying to herd you to a quiet place for a grope or a quick tongue-y kiss.

I'm at the train station. It's 5 am and the guard is making the rounds, kicking the homeless out of the warm waiting room before the morning passengers start to trickle in. I leave with them and go sit outside on the steps. I am waiting for the hotel kiosk to open so I can find a cheap place to sleep tonight. The train overcrowded ride from Frankfurt to Salzburg has left me feeling sticky and tired.

"Hello." A man sits beside me. He is not touching me but definitely in my personal space. I smile politely. Maybe he is just making conversation. I don't want to be rude. "You are alone." It's a statement, not a question. He hesitates, finding the next words to say. "You will come for a walk?" His German is halting, the ungainly words stumbling out of his mouth. He moves in closer and I edge away scared and appalled thinking how it's been two days since I showered.

Still, somehow I find myself following him down the train station steps heading in some random direction through empty morning streets. He walks close to me, his hand brushing my thigh every once in a while. I am not sure if this is a seduction or if he is just lonely. He starts talking about his wife back in Ankara and his two sons. He says he hasn't been back in more than a year. He is, I realize, not that bad looking. He has dark liquid eyes and elegant bones. Its not him but the situation that puts me off, this unearned intimacy that he is, seemingly, unaware of.

We come to a small park and he leads me to a bench. It's still cold and I shiver a little. He puts his arm around me, then draws me close. His lips are on my cheek, a chaste kiss except for the tip of his tongue which cannot seem to resist a little taste.

Now I should scream but instead I put my hand on his crotch where his lonely and wifeless cock is already stiffening up. I look into his surprised eyes as I unzip his pants just enough to get my hand in. I wrap my fingers around him and begin stroking. He tries to pull away then his entire body goes rigid and he leans back into the bench a sigh of unbearable longing escaping his lips. I stroke him gently until he releases into my hand. I wipe my fingers on the dew soaked grass before I walk away.

7

Ugh. Now I'm kind of sad. Lets try something more basic.

I see him outside my apartment every night, just the outline of a tall man in shorts and a long sleeved jersey. He is slightly familiar. I wonder if I know him from work or if he is a neighbor I nod to causally in the hall. In the dark I can't quite see his face.

Every day I run past him at twilight when I go out for my evening 5K. Fall is coming and it's getting darker earlier. A couple of nights there was a hint of chill in the air an a little fog clinging to the outskirts of park two blocks from my apartment.

He thinks I don't know what he's doing. He thinks it's an accident that I run through the empty park tonight instead of around it.

Leaves crunch under my feet. A wisp of fog curls around my ankles. My heart beats in time to the aggressive foot strikes that are gaining on me. A solid mass of muscle collides with me and sends me flying into a tangle of dead branches. Tonight is the night at last.

"Ouch," I managed to grunt before a hand closes over my mouth. I try to wriggle away but already I am being violated, fingers groping under my shorts, strong thighs pushing my weaker ones apart. His teeth are sinking into my neck as if to hold me steady. I wonder why he needs to do this. He is not bad looking from what I've seen, fit and strong.

But then, I have a husband who loves me and yet here I am, face down, eyes streaked with tears, caring only for the sweet rush of fear coursing through my veins. I stop struggling for a moment and laugh.

He stops. His grip loosens. He is confused.

"Coward," I growl. "Finish it."

Then it's his turn to laugh, a low, guttural sound, only marginally human. He holds me down and takes me from behind, making sure it hurts.

A sob escapes my dry throat. "That's right, cunt," he spits into my ear. "Cry and beg. Your suffering only makes me harder." Some men know just the right thing to say...

9

I'm at the office gym late at night . Cardio and then some weights because I'm not getting any younger and bone density is important

"How many you have left?" A guy in his thirties nods at the bench. I've seen him here before, usually early in the morning. Unlike the twenty minutes on the elliptical crowd he is serious about his workout. His muscles are dense under a thin layer of winter fat, built with patience and focus.

"Actually, I'm done," I tell him wiping everything down. It's almost midnight and there's just the two of us there but he wants this particular bench. Maybe it's his favorite. "Leave them," he says as I move to take the plates off the bar.

He settles positions himself under the bar and easily presses the weight up ten times, then he throws another forty-five on each end and does ten more. He seems angry, like the weights are his ex-wife who got everything in the divorce. The involuntary shiver of something like fear passing through my body is not entirely unpleasant.

I walk over to the dumbbells do some light curls and tricep extensions then a few yoga stretches. I can't stop my eyes from wandering to the man who is now onto some heavy squats. Out of the corner of my eye I follow his ass in the mirror as it descends and then shoots up in a powerful thrust.

After I'm done I walk back to the change rooms. Time to go home and microwave some leftovers. Maybe watch some reality TV.

Something big and solid slams me against the wall.

I feel his breath against my neck. "I know you've been watching me," he whispers. He seems angry. "I bet you'd cry harassment if I did the same to you. Do you think I like feeling like a piece of meat?"

I am already wet feeling the strength of those arms banded around me. I could fight him but what would be the point? The way he holds me prisoner so easily leaves no doubt to how thoroughly I have been overpowered. He could kill me with his bare hands, snap my neck, choke me, crush my face with one punch.

He doesn't kill me. He just pins me against the wall and pulls my tights down. He spears my pussy with his fingers so that I'm lifted up on his hand. "You're dripping," he growls contemptuously. "Somehow I knew you would be." He works his cock into me from behind as I whimper.

10

I'm running through the forest. Branches whip me and thorns tear me bloody. Behind me the sound of hooves and the shouts of men are getting closer. I grow increasingly desperate, almost maddened as I seek a path through brambles and thickets.

A sharp pain in my shoulder and I stumble. Panting I lie awaiting my fate as hooves surround me. Somewhere above the snort of horses mingles with the men's voices.

"Perfect shot, Your Grace," someone says. "Undamaged as always but for your mark. I thought for a moment she was getting away."

Male laughter rises and falls.

"They never get away. Where would she go?"

A murmur of agreement.

"At any rate, she is mine."

A strong hand lifts me and pulls out the arrow before slinging me across the back of a horse.

11

Then there's just me in an anonymous stairwell face down on a concrete floor. He lies on top of me, pants down, shoving, shoving, shoving. Which hole is he in? Who knows. Who cares. Maybe I'll be killed at the end. Maybe I'll only wish I was dead.

He grunts something dirty against the back of my neck. I can't understand but it doesn't matter. I get it. I'm just something to use.

12

A man's pelvis hammers away between my legs as I scream. A plumed helmet shows only his eyes which reflect a city in flames.

13

It's 2:00 am. I can't sleep. The memory of Sergei's heavy body is making me restless.

I get up and make my way downstairs to my secret stash of cigarettes. The back porch is cold making my nipples ache. I should have put on my robe and some slippers. No matter. A few calming puffs and I can go back to bed.

A hand locks around my neck.

"Teasing slut," Sergei whispers in my ear. "You don't think I can get in those tight pants, and into that tight pussy, of yours?"

I struggle against him, kick and try to bite. The hand around my neck tightens. He is using his full strength now I see.

What is he doing back here. He should be in his own house fucking his own wife but instead he is here rubbing his big hard dick in the satin covered valley between my ass cheeks

"Of course, now you're not wearing any pants," he taunts me. His free hand yanks up my nightie and gropes between my legs. "I knew you'd be wet. I could smell it on you earlier. You weren't pretending. You like this shit." He thrusts a finger, then two, inside me. "Keep fighting. It makes my cock nice and hard."

"What about Lilian?" I gasp as he fingers me hard and fast.

"In bed with a book of poetry and an Ambien. What's it to you?"

Nothing. Nothing at all. Not when he is bending me over the porch railing and working his dick into the crevice between my thighs. I try to hold my legs together but a slap on the ass makes me lose my balance and then he is in, banging away. He slams my hips into the weathered wood until I feel bruises blossoming and a splinter piercing my skin.

"That's it, you filthy cunt. Take it. Fucking bitch. I should've done this in front of your husband, show him what you really are." He grunts with each bone shattering thrust.