Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
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All of my writing is fiction, and the stories and characters are all products of my imagination. They were created for my fun and, hopefully, your enjoyment. Some of the events in the stories are not particularly condoned nor encouraged by the author but are there to create and enhance the story of the imaginary characters and their lives. Comments are always encouraged and carefully reviewed. All characters within the story that need to be are 18 years of age or older. I hope you enjoy it! And take a second to vote and comment.
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I had no idea why Brock Benedict asked me for a date.
I'm Springer Mitchell, and no Brock Benedicts, Sam Smiths, or whoever asked me for dates. My best friend, Nicole, kept telling me I had to get used to the way I looked now, so different from high school, and guys would be hitting on me. Hitting on me? It was a concept, like Einstein's theory, that I couldn't fully grasp. I suppose she's right, but I'm not used to it yet, even with Brock asking me out.
My parents were rock-solid midwesterners, so conservative they could have posed for that picture of the man with the pitchfork standing with his wife. That had caused a few problems in my young life. In high school, all the girls had long hair and ponytails. My hair was short and curly because it looked "nice." My mid-calf length skirts contrasted with the skirts other girls wore, none below their knees. Again, because I looked "nice," not "slutty" like those other girls. Consequently, I wasn't the most popular girl in high school.
I had graduated from both high school and college on schedule and, at age twenty-five, was happily ensconced as a design engineer at a local manufacturing company. I had my own apartment, much to my mother's horror as she was dreading to hear that I had been raped and left for dead. I bought my own clothes, looking like a "tramp" in Mother's opinion, but at least I matched my contemporaries.
All of the history gathered in my mind caused me to wonder why Brock, who could have been a cover-boy on any surfing magazine, had asked me for the date. But he had, and I had accepted, questioning myself about the decision ... but we were headed to dinner.
I had worked hard to make myself "Brockishly acceptable," short skirt, snug blouse, heels to tone my legs a bit. I hadn't had time to lose the five pounds, maybe eight, that would have made me more appealing. For once, the mirror and I hadn't argued — I was satisfied with how I looked.
Dinner was fine, and afterward, I found what Brock had planned for the rest of the evening. He drove to a very deserted spot on a small road that was so out-of-the-way and secluded he had to have been there before. You'd never find it by accident. He tried to kiss me, and I resisted as best I could, not quite ready for kissing after two hours of dating. I'm not very big, and he was. Never-the-less, I was able to fend him off.
"Come on, Springer. Why the hell are you fighting me? We might as well have a little fun," Brock said, still struggling to get hold of my lips.
Even though I wanted to, I wasn't going to ask him what "fun" was to him. Probably very different from what I was thinking.; Then, he got right to the point.
"Don't play hard to get, Springer. You know you want to fuck me, like all the other girls at work."
Before I even thought about it, I slapped him across the face as hard as I could. His expression told me he wasn't used to that — neither was I. Then his eyes narrowed, and I began to tremble. I needed to strike somehow before he did.
"You touch me one more time, and I'm going straight to HR, Brock."
"This is outside the company, Springer, in case you haven't noticed." His look was smug and confident.
I curled my upper lip defiantly. "Might be, but you asked me for the date on company time. Plus, when I tell the WHOLE story, you get that, the WHOLE story, I think they'll listen carefully."
His expression was changing.
"You wouldn't fucking lie, would you?"
"You wouldn't fucking ask me for a date just so you could have sex with me, would you?"
He didn't verbalize that was why, but his face was saying it very clearly.
"Why don't you just take me home before you get in more trouble?" To show him I was serious, I climbed out the front door and into the back seat, seriously happy that he didn't 't drive away when I was out of the car.
He started the car and pulled away. I could see him checking on me in the rearview mirror.
"So, you're not going to say anything to HR then? I don't need any hassle."
"I'm not home yet."
"You're a bitch, Springer."
That's exactly what I was hoping I was at that moment. I grabbed the phone out of my purse and took a quick snapshot of where he had taken me.
"Evidence," I said with a giggle. "So, you don't think I should report this?"
"Listen, I apologize. I guess I just misread you."
I wasn't sure he sounded very sincere, but he was working hard to save his butt. Misread me, the poor, lonely, virgin female engineer. If he'd known that, I wonder what he'd have done?
"Well, lucky me. I got a free dinner." And, nothing about my body or my chastity had been disturbed.
No more conversation until he dropped me off at my place, not offering to walk me to the door. Just as he didn't need the hassle of being reported, neither did I, so he was safe for now.
* * * * *
.
Three weeks had passed since my debacle with Brock. Other than a couple of awkward meetings in the break room, I managed to avoid him, although, on one of those chance encounters, I had to watch him hit on a fresh face from the accounting department. She was all smiles. It was difficult to refrain from having a little chat with her - for her own good.
Of course, I had shared my Brock-woes with Nicole, who told me not to worry; she had a plan. We'd been friends since junior high school, but sometimes she worried me, acting like she was my surrogate mother, her good-hearted efforts not always turning out well. She had revealed her plan. My brain was urging me to tell her to ditch it, but something made me relent and go along, at least as a trial.
I had stopped by my old homestead for a quick visit that would include a grilling by Mom about my life without her supervision.
"Honey, how's the job going?" Mom was organized in her probing, moving from phase to phase of my life.
"Great, Mom. And the people I work with are super helpful." Phase one.
"Everything good at the apartment? I can't imagine you living alone." Interpret that as "I can't believe you're not dead yet."
"I'm loving it. I can do what I want and not have to worry." That was a little poke at her and Dad, who had pretty well controlled everything I did and every move I made when I lived with them, and I think she missed it. Anyway, phase two.
"Are you making enough money to get by okay? I worry about that." Dad had worked for a hardware store all his life, and Mom had stayed at home. His pride would never have let her work, which was fine with her as all she ever wanted was to raise me and take care of the house and him. Consequently, there was never an overabundance of money at our house, and Mother was careful about how she spent it.
"Yeah, I get along fine — no money problems at all." I didn't mention that the frugality that had been drummed into me all my life was still in effect and I had a good chunk of money stashed away in a savings account that earned pitifully little interest. Phase three.
Phase four was looming ahead.
"So, do you have a boyfriend yet? You are twenty-five, and your father and I want to be grandparents someday."
Not subtle at all, it was the standard question I'd heard many times, the only variation being the age she inserted. But did I want to tell her what was going to happen today? Nicole's plan. If I didn't, I'd hear about it later as she inevitably discovered every personal detail of my life.
"No boyfriend yet, but ... Nicole has arranged a ..." I paused and took a deep breath. "... blind date for me tonight."
"Oh, Springer, honey. You're not going to do it, are you?" she asked, an astonished look on her face.
"Why not, Mom?"
"Who knows what, whoever the boy is, might be like? He could be dangerous or, or something even worse." The look on her face was a combination of disbelief and fear. And she didn't even know about Brock.
