I knew he was going to rape me. I just didn’t know what to do about it. I stared at him, determined not to cry, refusing to scream or panic. He ignored the hatred in my eyes, just sat there, actually started cleaning his nails with the large knife he held.
The command was firm. He didn’t shout, the knife blade flashing in the light of the bedside lamp gave his deep gravelly voice the extra weight it needed. I resisted, just stood there, wishing I’d walked away when I had the chance.
He was attractive enough, short dark hair not quite matching his stubbly beard, the edges straight, suggesting he’d intended that look rather than being too lazy to shave. Maybe both. It was a cool day but he’d been wearing only a thin knitted jumper, its deep green V neck revealing hair on his chest, narrow arms showing muscle definition you don’t get in an office job. Of course I’d reacted warmly to his approach, who wouldn’t.
Someone sensible is who. Someone that wouldn’t get grabbed by the shoulders, wouldn’t be thrown into a van, would’ve avoided the metal cuffs on the wrists, let alone the ankles. They’d pinched, I was still sore, but at least they were off now.
Nothing held me now. Just the room, its locked door, a window I couldn’t see how to open and him, sat there, his knife stopping its motion as he frowned.
This time the command was a little louder, enough to be more forceful, but still very controlled. He didn’t feel the need to shout, seemed to know he didn’t have to bully me, still didn’t make an explicit threat with the knife. I was scared of it anyway, wanted to keep him sat there, wished desperately to survive this.
I started to take off my sweater. Chunky cable-knit, it hid the shape of my body, only hinted at the curves beneath. I wanted to keep them hidden but there were few options, if I was going to undress. I didn’t bother to plead, beg for my freedom, make demands; I’d tried that in the van and he’d ignored me, a small shake of his head showing that he was listening but that it wasn’t going to work. No point humiliating myself further now. Not like that anyway. It was humiliating enough lifting the hem of the sweater, revealing how high the waist was on my skirt, the neat buttoned blouse tucked into it. By then the sweater was above my shoulders, blocking my view, letting me hide my face.
I paused, fought back the tears. Some victories are tiny, invisible, but still important.
Lifting the sweater fully over my head I lowered my arms, pulled it down them, folded it neatly and put it on the table by the bed. He seemed amused that I’d stopped to fold it, or maybe at something else. I hadn’t even thought about it until his cruel smile, not wanting to throw it on the floor, not wanting to touch the bed, refusing to go near the chair he was sat in to put it on that.
He said nothing, just watched, the knife back at his nails. I hoped he’d get distracted by me, drop it, hurt himself before he could hurt me.
Squatting down I pulled the hem of my skirts aside, unzipped one of my boots, the other. Standing I lifted a leg behind me, steadied myself against the table, used the other hand to pull the boot off. I thought about throwing it at him, realised he was thinking the same thing, saw the almost imperceptible shake of his head. I guess he was right, it wouldn’t do any damage, just annoy him. I didn’t want to annoy him.
The other boot came off, both placed neatly below the table, my nylon covered toes sinking into the carpet. It was a nice carpet, better than I had in my own house, suggested he had wealth and taste. I’d picked a good man, except he’d picked me, and my choice had ceased to matter.
Normally I’d undo the button on my skirt, slide that and the petticoats beneath over my hips, let them fall to the floor around me. I’d done that in front of other men, sacrificing the sexiness of a slow undress to give them a laugh at the circle of satin, lace and netting, me stood in the middle giving a quick pirouette. I didn’t want to make this man laugh, wanted to delay my rape, needed to keep my clothes on as long as I could. But the knife kept flashing, its cruel edge turning towards me from time to time, keeping me tense. But I wasn’t going to give him a slow sexy strip, had no music to wriggle and swing my hips to, didn’t want to arouse him.
I looked at his crotch. I didn’t mean to, it just followed naturally from that thought. His slacks were loose, nicely tailored, no belt holding them up. Nothing inside pushing them up either; maybe he had problems. It might be that this was his act of desperation, all I needed to do was keep calm, avoid insulting him, wait for the moment to suggest he just lets me go, that we forget about it. Looking up at his face I realised he’d seen my glance, faint vestiges of a smile showing his amusement, no signs of desperation, instead revealing how relaxed he was. Well, he was the one with the knife.
I surprised him with my next move. I almost surprised myself, the speed with which I made the decision and acted on it. Reaching under my skirt I closed my hands, grabbing the petticoats beneath and tugging firmly. They gathered into a single elasticated waistband that stretched and slid down, my skirt folding flat against my thighs as the netting and lace gathered by my feet. I stepped out of it immediately, picking up the petticoats, folding them as much as you can and putting them on my sweater. He seemed shocked by this, but I couldn’t tell why. Maybe the pace with which I’d acted, the nonchalant way I’d stepped out of them and folded them up, maybe even that I’d even been wearing them. Certainly they weren’t in fashion, hadn’t been since my grandmother was out seducing my grandfather, but for a party they still added a lovely shape to a skirt, gave a man something fun to fight through before claiming his prize.
Tonight the fight was one-sided, the prize wouldn’t be given. It’s cheating to bring a knife to a seduction, takes all the fun away. For me, anyway. Maybe it was the only thing that worked for him. Clean his nails, violate a woman, hopefully end the night cutting his own manhood off. Not much of a man, raping a woman. Too much of a man, right now.
I sighed, reached behind me and unbuttoned my skirt. It wasn’t designed to hang with no petticoats, immediately fell to the floor, a crumpled mess of shocking yellow cotton. Sometimes you want to be bright, stand out, draw attention. I’d drawn attention tonight, found a man, made it home with him. Just not how I’d planned.
Bending at the knees I picked it up, folded it, started a new pile. Glancing back I could see he was looking a little confused. Maybe he hadn’t anticipated the slip underneath, cream satin still hiding my thighs, obscuring the curve of my hips, stopping him from leering at my body where they all met. I’d worn it to keep the netting from scratching my legs, cheap petticoats less comfortable than they look, becoming downright nasty if they get caught between your legs. I wondered how he’d do it, whether he’d want me on my back looking into his face, sweat dripping into my eyes, or on my front, avoiding my gaze, taking his pleasure on an anonymous object, reducing me to a toy for him to break.
I nearly cried then. Instead I closed my eyes, squeezed the tears away, focussed on undoing my blouse. I found my fingers trembling, a physical betrayal of my nerves, the stress I was feeling. If he noticed he said nothing, just holding the knife casually now, watching me, patiently waiting.
It seemed to take hours to undo the buttons. There were only seven and two hadn’t even been fastened. Each button was another step nearer to nakedness, another protective barrier removed, another reminder why I was taking my clothes off. Bad enough to dragged here, horrible watching that knife, terrible not knowing what he intended to do with it but the worse torture was being made to strip myself, preparing a meal he would consume.
That led me to another thought as I folded the blouse, put it on my skirt, started to lift my slip. I’d been assuming he’d rape me, wanted what every man wants. What’d I’d gladly have shared with him, had he flirted, danced with me, whispered the right words late in the evening. Maybe he didn’t want that. Maybe he did want me on my front, and wanted his pleasure elsewhere. Or wanted to kneel on my shoulders, pinning me down, a distasteful act leaving an unpleasant taste. What would I do then? Could I let that happen, avoid the desire to bite down, hard, cause him the pain his knife would surely then give to me?
As my slip lifted over my face I looked at where I was thinking of biting, realised it looked different, that he’d woken up. With a sinking feeling deep inside, I knew that I’d just given him full sight of my nearly naked body, just underwear protecting my modesty but my raised arms stretching me slimmer, breasts rising a little, womanly curves no doubt exactly as he’d fantasised. I wished I’d worn stockings instead of tights, a garter belt and stocking tops might have finished him off, given me a reprieve instead of getting him firmly prepared.
I sighed, put the slip on the table, stood there, covering my face with my hands. No point hiding my body, he’d already seen that, I just didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want him to see my expression, used my elbows to hide my cleavage. I would’ve turned away but didn’t want him behind me, didn’t trust that vicious blade at my back. He waited a few moments, I’m not sure why, then spoke for the third time.
This time I couldn’t help myself. I begged, stamped my foot, picked up my skirt and blouse and threw them at him. As they flared out in the air then fluttered to the floor between us I sank down to my knees, started swearing at him, stared fearfully at the knife as he lifted it.
One track mind this guy, but it’s a track I couldn’t escape. I wanted to attack him, hurt him, force him to end this, but I was too scared. I could still get through this, make it out alive, go through nothing I hadn’t already enjoyed in the past, even if I wasn’t going to enjoy it this time. Steeling myself I stood up, turned side on to him, slid my tights and undies down in one quick motion, kicked them off my feet. Turning back I pulled my bra straps off my shoulders, pulled it down to my waist, rotated it so the back fastening was in front and removed it completely.
I’m not pert and lithe any more but I’m not ashamed of my body. My hips have broadened, giving me the classic hourglass look despite the extra inches on my waist. My breasts have grown a little larger too, enough to offset the small sag, small enough still to be pretty. I knew he’d like what he could see but there was no point hiding it, no need to risk him getting cross at my modesty. So I just stood there, arms by my side, glared at him and waited for him to get his fill.
It was his turn to surprise me. He barely glanced at my body, just lifted his knife, pointed it at me. As I shuddered he flicked the point towards the bed, an obvious unspoken command. I chose to obey; it would happen anyway, this option didn’t require initial pain. I showed my displeasure by lying down with my legs straight, ankles crossed, then crossed my arms and kept glaring at him.
He stood up, stretched awkwardly, his jumper lifting slightly to reveal a firm narrow waist. Definitely a waste of a man, this, and wouldn’t he be a popular little boy in prison. Walking to the foot of the bed he took one of my ankles, the gentle but firm hold of a confident man, and drew it away from the other. I let it happen, he’d win any contest of strength even without the knife, and that was still in his other hand. He put it down now, by my foot, the first time since the cuffs came off that he’d been without it. Not that it made a difference, a second later something cold was around my ankle, a loud click breaking the silence.
While I looked down and mentally processed the leather cuff that held my leg in place, realising it had a rope leading off the back of the bed, my other ankle was gently taken and pulled in the other direction. Another click, another cuff. At least I was on my back, that closed off one bad option. I hadn’t expected to be tied, wasn’t into bondage, didn’t think I liked it. Knew I didn’t want it now, but inside my head a rogue thought suggested that this might make things easier, the chance to resist removed.
While I berated myself for that thought he come up the bed, took a wrist and fastened it above my head. Too late now to resist even if I wanted to, and he ignored my glare as he moved back around the bed and finished fastening me spreadeagle, naked on the bed, vulnerable to his whim. Given the state of his trousers as he leaned over to tie my wrists his whim wasn’t lacking either.
As he stepped away from the bed I closed my eyes. This was going to be nasty, however it went, but at least the waiting was over. Maybe he’d let me go, maybe he wouldn’t. I wanted to know, didn’t dare ask, couldn’t see a good way through that conversation anyway. Not that there’d be a conversation, he’d only said one word the entire time; limited vocabulary this guy. Maybe he put his tongue to other uses? I finally screamed, a curse at myself for that thought, strangely more angry with my reaction than what he was doing.
He turned quickly, reached over, placed a finger against my lips. An admonishment you’d give to a child, strangely empathetic, as though he knew my distress, regretted it. Better I guess than the knife being used, but he’d taken that off the bed, put it on the table, ignored it now I was fastened tight.
Instead he knelt, reached under the bed. I closed my eyes, I didn’t want to see what he was retrieving, it couldn’t be good. He was into restraints, was he also into sadism? Was he getting a whip, a paddle, something to beat me with, or a sex toy, something to insert into me. Maybe it was just lubricant, a desire to make things more comfortable. More comfortable for him anyway, I wasn’t going to be finding this comfortable at all.
It was indeed something to stick inside me. I’m not sure what, because he put his hand over my eyes, pushed my head back, flat on the bed, applied enough pressure to make me know to stay there. I behaved, let him use a finger to open my jaw, felt something being inserted. Well, I’d made a noise, he’d responded with a gag. Something plastic, filling my mouth, narrower as it passed my lips, letting me almost close my mouth. I could have spit it out, but he could have tied it in place; we compromised with me leaving it where he’d put it.
That gave me the other answer. While the gag wasn’t pleasant it didn’t taste bad, which meant I’d escaped the two worse options already. Of course, legs spread asunder was a clue in itself; he could proceed now at his leisure, and he’d certainly be the only one getting any pleasure even there.
Indeed, moments later he climbed onto the bed, kneeled between my thighs. I didn’t want to look, even when I felt the material of his trousers rubbing against my naked legs. Great, I was going to be raped by a man that couldn’t even be bothered to undress first. I turned my head to the side so that I wouldn’t have to look into his face, kept my eyes shut, kept the gag in place. He caressed my face, brushed hair away from my ear, leaned over me and gave me a gentle kiss on my cheek. I trembled and froze in place, probably made him smile, a vibrating statue beneath him.
When he sat back up, reached beneath my bottom and lifted my hips from the bed I tensed up. I couldn’t stop this, but I didn’t want it; I just had no choice. He’d been gentle up to now but I didn’t expect that to continue. How can rape be gentle?
He was gentle, but it wasn’t rape. Instead he lowered my hips again, my body otherwise untouched. I would say my dignity intact but that was shattered by his next action, pulling material up between my legs, then up around my waist. I turned to look and see what was happening, the gag falling from my mouth as I gasped in shock and watched, speechless, as he fastened a cloth diaper onto me.
Looking up he saw me, smiled, and leaned forward again. I watched him reach beside my head, saw him pick up the gag, realised it was an oversized pacifier, ideal for keeping an adult quiet. He put it back in my mouth to keep me quiet, used his thumb to softly squeeze the tip of my nose then leaned back again. Aghast I saw him retrieve a sheet of folded plastic, felt him lift my hips again and slide it beneath, watched as he unfolded it into waterproof panties, poppers securing them around my diaper, around me.
As he switched off the light, unlocked the door and left the room I realised I might not be getting raped after all. I didn’t know what I was getting, but unless he came back soon, the list would include “wet”. Somehow, I think he intended that.
He’d better. It was what I’d paid him for. It was going to be a fun weekend; I relaxed, smiled around my pacifier, sought welcome sleep.