The Descent

By now Yvette had recovered her strength. They left the café and spent an hour walking together in the sunlit streets. As they reached the Seine and turned onto the Quai de la Tournelle Yvette took Lena by the arm and went on with her story .

She had made no real attempt to hide the evidence of her time with D. They were undressing for bed some days after her visit to the Hotel Nancy when her fiancé saw a red weal at her stocking top. Drawing her closer to the light he stared in disbelief at the marks on her skin. At his insistence Yvette gave a brief account of what had happened.

His mind could not take in what she was saying. For some moments he persisted in the idea that she had been the victim of a random attack. If she hadn't prevented him he would have called the police. When he finally understood that she had gone willingly to a hotel with a stranger knowing all the time he intended to beat her his world began to crumble.

Once she had embarked on her narrative, Yvette held nothing back. He stared hollow eyed as she recounted the events at the party in the Avenue de Roule. The man who had politely asked her to accompany him, the wait in the hall, the walk to the room at the back of the house, her powerlessness when he'd taken her -- all this while her fiancé waited meekly downstairs. As the story unfolded she watched his youthly arrogance fade. He looked like a whipped dog and for the first time in her life she felt sorry for him.

She was not sure what she expected. She thought he might simply get to his feet and walk out of the room and out of her life. It was no more than she deserved. But for a while he sat on the edge of the bed his back turned saying nothing, a hurt, brooding presence, struggling to embrace his allotted portion of pain. His silence was impossible to read. When he finally spoke, his voice was empty of feeling.

"Were you wet?"

His question was so unexpected for a moment she was unsure how to respond.

"In the room at the party, when he took you upstairs, were you wet?"

There seemed no point in lying.

"Yes," she said.

And then she understood.

On the nightstand beside the bed lay an open zinc tube of lubricant. In the last weeks they had increasingly had to resort to its contents during their lovemaking when her own juices had refused to flow. She had dismissed these minor problems as no more than a hormonal perturbance in her monthly cycle and he had accepted her word. Now her explanation rang hollow. The little tube of cream seemed like more evidence of his failure, one more humiliation before the woman he was hoping would share the rest of his life.

"Was he big? Bigger than me?"

"Please", she said " don't --"

"Was he bigger than me?"

"No. A little perhaps. I don't know --"

He spoke quietly, all the time staring at the floor. He would not be deflected. He went on dragging the details of his humiliation out of her and fixing them in the picture that would torment him for the rest of his life.

"Were you on a bed?"

"No -- a table. A desk I think. Please don't do this."

"Tell me how he did it. Tell me exactly."

She tried to explain the details weren't important. They needed to get beyond these and talk about what to do next. But he wasn't ready. He wanted more. Yvette had no choice but to continue.

"He lifted me onto the desk. He was very strong. He'd already taken my dress off. Before he lifted me."

"And you let him do this?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

"Then he -- I'm not sure -- he lifted me onto him."

"How? How did he do that? Tell me."

"He put his -- the head -- he put it -"

"His cock. The word is cock."

"Yes. All right. He put his cock, the tip, just on my lips and then picked me up and pulled me on to him. I didn't do anything. I couldn't. "

"So he raped you?"

"No. He didn't rape me."

He'd turned to face her now. He was looking straight into her eyes. Yvette stared back defiantly. For a long moment they held each other's gaze. She could hear his breathing grow heavier. He was dragging air through his nose as if he'd run a marathon. Now, she thought. Now the blow has landed. Before he spoke she already knew what his next question would be. She was not mistaken.

"And did you come?"

She hesitated. But there was no way to avoid it.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I came."

She did not see his hand move. The slap knocked her sideways onto the bed.

"Bitch!"

Suddenly he was standing over her.

"You dirty fucking bitch!"

She tried to roll away but he scrambled after her, straddling her on the bed punctuating every word with first the flat of his hand and then when that failed to satisfy him, his fist.

"You -- dirty -- fucking -- bitch -- of -- a -- fucking - whore!"

Yvette covered her head. She had expected him to be angry but the strength of his assault surprised and frightened her.

"Don't! Please! Don't touch me --"

He went on flailing at her with his hands. And then through the fog of his anger a new idea reached him.

"Touch you? You think I'd want to touch you now?"

"No. No, I don't --"

"I wouldn't touch a dirty cunt like yours for a thousand francs."

Newly energized by the thought, he jumped down from the bed and wrenched at her skirt, dragging at the zip and pulling the cloth down over her legs. She tried to turn away but he grabbed her stockinged leg and pulled her back towards him. He ripped the suspender free and in another moment had hauled the panties from her so that she was naked under him. He forced her legs wide.

"Look at it."

He seized her by the hair and forced her head down between her legs until she thought her neck would break. "Look -- Look at this dirty cunt. Can you see it?". Yvette was struggling to breathe. "Can you see it? You think I'd want to touch this dirty cunt again? Do you?"

"No. Please -- don't --"

He slapped her hard between the legs. The shock of this fresh assault made her cry out. In all the time she had known her fiancé he had never once struck her. Their relationship had always been easy and familiar dating as it did back to their days at the same local school. She allowed him to believe he was in charge. It flattered his self-esteem. But at the same time she knew how to stand up to him if she needed to. But all that was gone. The admission of her involvement with D had brought something out of him darker and more unpredictable than anything he had revealed before.

Yvette was breathing hard. The strength of his grip on her seemed to drain her of energy. The repeated stinging slaps at her exposed lips made her skin smart. She winced at the pain but even as she did so she realised with horror other sensations were stirring within her. Something that answered the strength and violence of his anger. Something was loosening in her, opening to meet him, readying herself for what must inevitably follow.

By now he was in danger of losing all control. The words that came out of him meant nothing. He continued to slap at her, all the while insisting absurdly he would never touch her again. He unleashed a diatribe against her, against all women and their treacherous cunts, and yet even as he did so he was freeing himself from his clothes. His cock was driving him now. Urged on by a primitive mix of lust, anger and damaged pride he forced himself between her legs. Yvette was powerless to stop him and with a dizzying sense of vertigo she realised that stopping him was the last thing she wanted. When his cock reached the place it sought she was wet and open. A groan of dismay escaped him.

"You bitch!" he cried, slapping her again. "You filthy bitch!"

Yvette was sobbing openly. He fucked her as if it was just a continuation of his assault, holding her down, beating her with his groin, trying to bury his pain deep inside her, and all the time the tears rolled down his cheeks. When he came it was with a cry of utter despair. And in one last bitter twist of the knife he heard Yvette answer beneath him.

They clutched each other through their tears, holding on as if their lives depended on it, until exhausted by their anger and passion they at last they fell asleep.

In the morning he was gone.

Yvette fell silent. It was a moment before Lena dared to speak.

"And did he come back? Did he call?"

"No," said Yvette. "He didn't call." She stopped and turned to face Lena. "I'm glad. It would be impossible the way things are now."

They walked for a few moments in silence. Lena's thoughts were in a whirl.

"This is very strange for me. Your life is so different from mine. There are so many questions I want to ask you --"

Now it was Lena's turn to stop.

"I've never seen a man. Like that. Naked. His --" she hesitated. "His thing. I've never seen it."

"But you have a husband." Yvette was staring at her in disbelief. "You're married."

And so Yvette explained about her sexual education at the hands of her husband. The darkened rooms, his thick nightshirt, the fumbling among heavy bedclothes.

"Would you like to? Would you like to see what a man looks like?"

Lena stared at her friend with shining eyes.

A laugh escaped Yvette's lips. "I knew it."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to. I can see it in your face. Besides, every woman should see what a man looks like. A cock is very beautiful. Why should we deny ourselves that pleasure?"

"I believe I would like to see it."

"Then you shall," said Yvette, delighted. "Tomorrow. I promise."