A Story Of Jane Ch 03

A Story Of Jane (In The First-Person Singular)

Chapter Three

FRIDAY, the 20th of MARCH

Ever since I had come to work in this town, Fridays had always been my favorite time. It had become more so recently, of course, since the evolution of my little sexual fantasy, but the whole day had become a bit of a ritual. I got up late on Fridays, since I went in late and stayed late to close up the library. That meant starting the day with a leisurely breakfast at home and reading the newspaper over coffee. Today's news wasn't really "news" at all. That was okay by me. A slow news day meant less strife to report in the world. There were stories about preparations for the Pope's Easter mass; the vernal equinox, which would occur at precisely 10:21 a.m. (local time) tomorrow, and during which eggs may or may not stand up on end; and tomorrow's full moon, the "Sugar Moon," or "Sap Moon," according to Native American tribes up here in the northern tier of states, when trees arise from the dead and begin their annual cycle. Nothing about terrorists. Nothing about wars. Slow news is good news.

A late morning workout at the "Y" was a prelude to a quick shower, and off I went to work. All day, I plotted for the evening. By late afternoon, I'd decided on Caesar salad-in-a-bag, a tomato to throw in, a loaf of fresh sourdough (Friday was baking day at the grocery), and a bottle of Chardonnay that I had discovered the previous week. I was arguing with myself whether to get fresh fruit and yogurt for breakfast or bacon, cheese and eggs for weekend omelets. I hadn't had bacon in ... I couldn't even remember the last time. Would it be too much to carry through the alley?

The alley. Thoughts of the alley always brought a quickening of the pulse, a mild shortness of breath, and, if I continued these perverted thoughts too long, sweat. I realized how dangerous this fascination was, how repulsive it was to almost all women, how repulsed I should be by the very topic. Maybe it was the danger that was the real magnet for my thoughts. I'd never really done anything dangerous. Was that the thing that started the adrenaline flowing? I liked to think so; but deep down inside, I knew that the thing I really craved was not danger, but the total loss of control. How intoxicating I found the concept! But walking down that alley went beyond rational feelings. This was insane, and I knew it! Still, I also knew that I'd be doing it again soon (I glanced at the clock – just one more hour!), and I loved the feeling; loved the way my skin tingled and my stomach knotted in uncertainty. Oh God, I was horny!

I tried to rationalize things as I began the long process of closing up the library: putting the various periodical carts away, checking the emergency exits and windows, stacking the last-minute books for sorting by tomorrow's 2-person volunteer staff. The chances of my actually getting raped in that alley (or anywhere else in this town) were exceedingly small. I'd buy my groceries, just like I always did, walk down that stupid alley, just like always, and then ... and then I'd be home and start the long ritualistic process that would eventually culminate in one of those massive Friday-night orgasms. Oh, I needed that. Would seven o'clock never come?

When it finally did, I had to stop myself from sprinting across the street to the market. Control, I thought - I still have it. Slowly, purposefully, I walked across and into the store. I shopped slowly, too, taking my time selecting the salad items, the loaf of bread. I had long since decided on the bacon and eggs, and lingered over the selection of sharp cheese for the omelet. As I walked into the wine section, I noticed a man – a large, scruffy-looking man with wild eyes, staring at me, but I chose to ignore him. We did get a transient or two in town now and then, and I even saw them in the library sometimes, but the local sheriff discouraged outsiders rather aggressively. I ignored the guy's open stare, got the last remaining bottle of the Chardonnay from the shelf, and took everything to the counter to check out. I caught sight of the man again, peeking (leering?) around an aisle at me as I was paying.

He wasn't the stuff fantasies are made of, and as I walked out with the bag of groceries, I hesitated. Don't be stupid, I told myself. Go around the block. Stupid, reckless, insane ... I turned right, and then quickly right again down the alley - too quickly for him to see me. He couldn't know I was there! There hadn't been time for him to see! Oh, this was so crazy! The feelings that coursed through me are practically indescribable. I always felt this way a little bit, I guess: the butterflies, the slight sense of panic, the knowledge that I might be taken – be forced to do things ... things like those in the magazine. But now ... oh, this was terror! I felt ... alive! Not just alive; I felt the deep-rooted need to STAY alive that is inherent in all animals.

And then I heard it ... footsteps! Heavy footsteps behind me. It was like something out of a bad movie, except for one very important difference: I didn't run. I could have; I kept telling myself that I could, that I should; but suddenly my mind began thinking very terrible things. All at once I realized that I deserved this. This was my punishment for thinking all these horrid thoughts, for wanting to feel this way, for wondering about things that no "good" girl should consider. For all my sins, I was about to receive my just deserts. I didn't look around, forced myself to stare straight ahead, forced myself to walk at a normal pace, but behind me the footsteps were definitely getting closer. His (her? No, definitely too heavy to be a woman's) steps were slower, heavier, but absolutely getting closer, so he must have a longer stride. A big man. The scruffy-looking transient.

To my amazement, I was suddenly through the alleyway. I didn't even look left and right, I just continued straight ahead, across the deserted street toward my house. With a lump in my throat the size of my fist, I realized that the footsteps were still there, closer than ever. He was right behind me!

I keep my house key on a little snap inside my purse, and in a second, the key was in my hand. Could I use it as a weapon? I could spin around and stab him with it! But instead, without hesitation, I extended my hand as I got to the door, shoved it into the keyhole, and turned. I deserve this, I told myself. For my sins, I deserve this! As I twisted the knob, he reached me, pressed against me, and pushed me into the foyer.

I dropped the bag and spun to face him. The door slammed. It was him: the big, unshaven man from the grocery. A sound welled up into my throat and froze at the sight of him. He was massive, at least six-two, and maybe 250 pounds, and he looked solid. His eyes were wild, savage things that raked up and down my body, inexplicably stopping most often at my face instead of my chest, where most male eyes tended to settle. He tried to speak, but choked on the first word, tried again, and finally muttered "Bedroom."

I blinked. This wasn't right at all. This wasn't my fantasy man, wasn't anything like I wanted my fantasy to be. "Don't hurt me," I pleaded foolishly.

He took a step toward me, and suddenly all the common sense flooded back into me. I tried to yell, but no sound would come, and I spun around to run – run as fast as I could; but with the quickness of a cat, his arm was around me and he pulled me into his solid body. His arm was just below my chest, and he lifted me off the floor as if I were a rag doll. I struggled for a moment, but quickly saw the utter hopelessness of any resistance at all.

"Bedroom," he croaked. Terrified, I pointed down the hall, and he carried me in that direction.

He flipped on the light, set me down in the middle of the small room and looked around. I looked around, too. I couldn't make it past him to the hall. The window? Not a chance. I might make the bathroom, but could I get the door closed in time? And what then? He would be able to break in easily.

He turned to the bed and peeled back the bedspread and sheet, then faced me and continued assaulting me with those eyes. Again, he seemed more interested in my face than in any of my other features. He seemed to try to speak again, but something seemed wrong. Either he couldn't find the words he wanted, or he lacked the ability of speech. Was he mentally handicapped? An emotional problem or speech impediment? Finally, he seemed to give up the ordeal of communication, and simply said "Strip."

The word knocked the breath out of me. I stood and stared, disbelieving, shaking with rage and fear and indignation and hopelessness and all the other things a woman was suppose to feel during a sexual assault. I began to cry. I shook my head. "Please," I begged weakly. "Please don't do this to me."

But he just stood there. Again, I sensed that he wanted to communicate something to me, but lacked the power. Crying openly, I began unbuttoning my blouse. "Promise me you won't hurt me," I sobbed. "I'll do anything, but don't hurt me, please!" But his only response was to begin taking off his own clothes.

I forced myself to keep going, taking off each piece of clothing and letting it fall at my feet. I made no pause at the bra, simply unsnapped it, dropped it, and bent to remove my shoes and socks. Get it over with, I thought to myself. Just do it and get it over with and hope he doesn't kill you. After the panties were gone, I stood there, eyes downcast, waiting, shaking, crying. But when I realized he had stopped moving as well, I finally raised my eyes and gasped. He was all muscle. A bodybuilder, perhaps? He appeared to be sculpted, something off the cover of a cheap romance novel, every housewife's wet dream. All except the eyes, that is, which were still wild and panicky. He looked like a trapped animal, undecided whether to attack or try to escape. My eyes were naturally drawn to the implement of the assault, but his cock was not erect ... large, but not erect.

At last, he seemed to find his voice. "Get in bed, please," he said, matter-of-factly. This really confused me, and when I didn't respond quickly enough, he took a step forward. I immediately moved to the bed and slid in, kneeling, facing him.

"Lie down, please." His voice was now smooth and polite, and something else. Weary, I suppose. I stretched out, facing him.

"Roll over."

Reluctantly, I rolled onto my right side, facing the wall and the curtained window. My knees were drawn up slightly, and I tucked my right arm under my head. I didn't like not being able to see what was coming. Was he going to hit me? I was still crying, and my body was shivering uncontrollably. The light went off. I was wracked by a sudden sob. This is it! Oh my God, I'm about to be raped, I thought.

The bed moved under his weight, and then I felt the sheet being drawn up over me. At the same time, he began settling his body against mine, pressing his chest against my back, his legs against the back of my thighs, his lap into my back side. The bottoms of my feet were on the tops of his. I could feel his cock, large and warm, pressed into my buttocks. He pushed his massive left arm under mine, reached across my chest, and took my right breast in his left hand, pulling me back against him. We lay like that for many long seconds. My crying seemed to halt of its own accord as I held my breath, waiting ... waiting. And what happened then sent my mind reeling.

"I am not going to insult your intelligence by requesting that you relax," he said in a soft voice next to my ear. "But I am going to ask that you try to remain very still. I won't hurt you. Please, just try to be as still as you can."

And that was all. He just held me like that, snuggling into my back, breathing softly into my hair. I absolutely could not imagine that steady, soft, sophisticated voice coming from the bear of a man that had carried me into the bedroom and then looked at me with those savage eyes. I waited, not moving at all, trying to sense somehow what was going to happen next. With growing dread, I realized that his cock was growing along the crack of my ass, thickening and hardening, but he made no move to use that weapon. His arm was heavy, and from time to time, his fingers tightened slightly around my breast. He held me the way a small child would hold a teddy bear. I tried desperately to puzzle through this. Was he going to rape me or not? If he didn't, would I feel relieved? Violated? Frustrated?

His breathing grew more gentle, more regular, and I was appalled to realize that he was asleep. Carefully, I tried to turn slightly to look at him. His hand instinctively tightened again around the breast, and he pulled me back into him, cuddling against me. He said "Jane" into my ear, then settled again, breathing normally again. Jane? He was still very hard, pressed into my crack, and I didn't want to disturb him ... didn't want him to wake up and rape me. Did I? My head was spinning. I tried to slow my own breathing and think about what was happening, what he really wanted, how I really felt. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to stay calm. This couldn't last forever, could it?

I jerked suddenly. In a swift, guilty moment, I realized I had been asleep myself! How long? We were still lying in the same position, like two spoons stacked in a drawer. His left hand still cradled my breast, but his cock was soft now, though still large and warm. Slowly, carefully, I lifted my head and looked at the alarm clock on the dresser. Eleven-thirty! We'd been like this for more than three hours!

Carefully, I lifted my hand and felt his arm. It was covered in soft hair, and even in sleep, it was taught and muscular. Slowly, I slid my hand up, along his arm, toward his hand. I stroked it softly, hoping he would loosen his grip and allow my escape. What the ...? There it was, on the third finger of his left hand. Why had it never occurred to me that he might be married? In slow, measured degrees, my anger rose. The asshole! He cheats on his wife by raping other women? What kind of slime-bucket would ...? Before I realized what I was doing, I'd grasped the hand and pulled. He jerked awake.

"What?" he said loudly. At first, he pulled me more tightly into his body, but then he sort of jumped back away from me. He let go of my breast at last, and I rolled out of bed and stood facing him. In the darkness, he looked up at me, bewildered. "I ... What ...."

"I need to use the bathroom," I said. For a very long moment, we were still, just looking at each other. Then, without another word, I turned, walked into the bathroom, and shut the door.

I flipped on the light and tried to adjust my eyes to the harsh glare. Almost as an afterthought, I reached out and locked the door. I took a step backwards until my bare butt touched the cold porcelain sink, and I stood gazing, wondering if he would come after me. The door was of light construction, and wouldn't be of much use if he really wanted to get in. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became about the entire situation. If he wanted to rape me, why hadn't he done it? He'd certainly been "up" for it. Did he break into women's houses just to cop a feel? And why was I so incredibly angry? What difference did it make if a violent criminal was married?

After awhile, I became fixated on the thought that I had to go back out there; that if I didn't, he would surely come in and get me. When I came to this realization, I suddenly felt rushed. I really DID have to use the bathroom, and I quickly walked to the toilet and relieved myself. I flushed it more as a sound effect and means to stall for time than for sanitation purposes. I hurried to the medicine cabinet and started looking for a weapon; anything that might inflict pain. I passed up an emery board, toothbrush, roll of dental floss, and mascara applicator in favor of a pair of fingernail scissors. Small and pointed, they might just give me a chance to flee. Then, despite the fact that I'd pressed my naked body against his for hours, I took a large bath towel and wrapped it around me, hiding my body from chest to slightly below my crotch. I opened the door and stepped out, the scissors clutched in a hand behind my back, and I faced my attacker.

In the light from the bathroom, I saw that he was still naked, and was sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, his head buried in his hands. When he heard me come in, he looked up as if surprised to see me.

"You should call the police," he said evenly.

"What?" I had come back into the room in hopes of finding some means to gain the upper hand, and this threw me back into a state of confusion.

"The police," he said. "What I've done to you is ... abhorrent. I could never begin to explain ...." His voice caught, and rather than let me see tears, he lowered his head again. "Go call them. I won't stop you."

I stood, transfixed. "But why?" I insisted. "Why did you ...."

He took a moment to steady himself, then looked back up at me. "I needed to sleep," he said simply, as if that made any sense at all. "I haven't slept in ... months. Not REALLY slept, at least. Sometimes, I ... I think I might have slept a little, but, well, I'm not really sure, you see."

"Needed to sleep?" I asked, my anger rising again. "Have you tried going home to your wife?"

"Wife?" he said, startled. He thought a moment, then looked back at his hands. He began twisting the wedding ring, lost in thought. "Wife ...."

"Your wife, Jane," I said, accusingly.

If I had thought this might have some effect, I grossly underestimated. He sprang to his feet and glared at me with those wild, crazy eyes again. I had frightened him, frightened him badly. He backed up a step and hit the wall, making a picture rock precariously on its hanger. The sudden movement made me bring the scissors in front of me, holding them in what I imagined to be a threatening pose. He glanced at them, and then obviously dismissed them. He wasn't concerned with the stupid scissors. It was ME he was afraid of.

"How? ... How did you ...."

I wanted desperately to defuse this terrible tension. "You said her name in your sleep," I said as softly as I could.

He seemed to think about this for a moment, then accepted it. All the emotion seemed to drain from him in an instant, and he stepped back to the bed and sat down heavily.

"Why don't we forget the police?" I said, trying to placate him. Time enough for the police later. "Why don't you go home to your wife?"

"Home?" he asked. He smiled up at me sadly. "No, I'm afraid she isn't at home."

"She left you?" I asked. That made sense. She left the asshole!

"Left me?" he repeated. He looked as if he might laugh or cry. "Yes ... yes, she left me," he whispered softly. There was infinite sadness in his voice.

And suddenly, I knew the answer to at least part of the riddle of this man. With an immediate and total cessation of all anger, I looked at him in an entirely new way.

"Oh," I said softly. "She's dead."

"You look like her!" he said, looking up, gesturing with his hands. "You ... you look just like her. You could be her twin! I saw you, and I thought to myself: It can't be her! I knew you weren't her! But then I got this incredibly stupid idea. Maybe with you I could sleep a little. We always slept like ... like you and I were there in bed. Together like that! I know it's crazy! It doesn't make any sense at all, but it's been like that for months, you see. Ever since the accident, I haven't been able to sleep, and when I saw you, I thought, 'If I can just make her lie with me like that for a little while, maybe I could sleep, just a little.' But of course, no woman would agree to such a thing! I didn't want to use force or threaten you, but ... but ...."