A Tale of Two Rapes

Author's note: The two sections of this story each tell the same tale, the same characters and the events revolving around the same social gathering but with a crucial difference. Either part could stand on its own, but it's best enjoyed reading both in order. How does the change affect the outcome? Read on to find out.

* * *

A hundred years earlier Randolph Kensington, tycoon, industrial magnate and patriarch of the Kensington family, built a lavish, grandiose mansion in the nearby countryside, a refuge from the city's hustle and bustle where he could live in peace and work in tranquil isolation.

The isolation didn't last forever. Over the decades, the community grew, and the city expanded until it encompassed the property. With the city at their doorstep and several affluent suburbs springing up nearby, the mansion was transformed from a remote refuge to a local landmark, still standing as an edifice of wealth and power, its spires piercing the sky like the ambitions of those it housed.

Now embracing inclusion in the community rather than avoiding it, the present-day Kensington family welcomed small tour groups, provided venues for weddings and other ceremonies in the mansion's spacious gardens and hosted formal social events, often with the goal of honoring prominent members of the community.

Each year, the mansion's grand ballroom played host to one such event that was whispered about in the corridors of power and luxury: The Annual Charity Gala, a night where an eclectic gathering of the city's elite--politicians and business magnates, hospital directors and bankers, academia, artists and media moguls, and even the odd celebrated professional athlete--joined in a dazzling display of opulence and philanthropy. It was not just an event; it was

the

event.

* * *

Rob, a man of moderate talent and immoderate ambition, stood at less than average height with a frame that was fit, though not conspicuously athletic. His pleasant features bore an expression of determination. Finding himself on the outside looking in, he was acutely aware of the gap between his current standing and the echelons of power he aspired to join. Despite his natural aptitude for navigating the complex dynamics of social climbing, an invitation to the gala eluded him and the snub burned. Rob, not one to be easily deterred saw this as a challenge, a call to action rather than a defeat. He viewed the gala as a crucial gateway to the influential circles he sought to penetrate, a stage perfectly suited to his charm and strategic acumen, but he needed one of the prized invitations.

His scheming was frustrated at every turn. Few of his contacts were rewarded with invitations and those who did had already chosen their guests. His current employer wasn't in any of the influential circles of power and unable to help. The point of going was to meet the influencers, the movers and shakers, and none of them new him well enough at this point to extend an invitation. There was still plenty of time, but he was running out of ideas.

Then he remembered the Pathway Foundation, a charitable organization whose members were routinely honored at the gala for their selfless contributions to the community. A few years earlier, Rob had been among their ranks, not out of any altruistic impulse but in pursuit of romantic entanglements with the many single women he assumed he'd meet. It hadn't worked out the way he envisioned.

His expectations began to wane when the reality set in, that time spent socializing at events was far exceeded by tedious hours of charity work, performed behind the scenes with little recognition and no fanfare. His hopes and any remaining opportunities were dashed when the organization's demographics shifted away from young singles to middle-aged married couples. One night in a fit of frustration he quit, terminating his relationship with little grace and less tact.

He painfully remembered the phone call to the Foundation's president.

"Joe, this is Rob. I'm quitting my membership in Pathway."

"Rob, are you sure? I though you loved this organization."

"Loved, past tense, is right. I don't love it anymore."

"Tell me what's going on."

"There's not much to tell. My job's running me ragged, I don't have time for my friends, and I'm tired of donating all my spare time and energy to the Foundation with no recognition of my efforts. I've had it."

"Membership in this organization was never supposed to be about personal aggrandizement. It's about what we can do for the community."

"I've given years of my time to Pathway, and it would be nice to have someone recognize my contributions. Or is the silence speaking volumes, telling me what you're afraid to say?"

"Rob, I didn't want to bring this up but, lately, your contributions have been lacking. It's not just me, everyone has noticed it. You even managed to alienate some of our longtime donors. I can see that you're tired. Why don't you just take some time off to recharge?"

"So my efforts aren't good enough and you want me to find a way to work harder for the Foundation and burn myself out completely? Go fuck yourself!"

"Rob--" Joe started but was cut off when Rob abruptly ended the call.

* * *

Had he completely burned his bridges, or could the fires be extinguished, and the structures saved?

Rob knew what he had to do. Swallowing his pride, he approached the Foundation, cap in hand, requesting a face-to-face meeting with Joe and the admissions panel. The organization welcomed all volunteers, but they had strict requirements for bringing new members into higher positions. Rob would again be translating his skills as a salesman to fundraising, and he would have to go through the application review again. They agreed to meet with him, more out of curiosity than acceptance.

Rob started the conversation. "Mr. Sackman, first let--"

"Rob, we've known each other for years. Call me Joe."

"Thank you, Joe. First let me offer my sincerest apology for the way I spoke to you when I resigned my membership. If nothing else comes of this meeting, please accept that I know my behavior was inappropriate and I'm sorry."

"Accepted. I didn't like parting on such a sour note, and I consider it behind us. What can we do for you today?"

"You understated it when you said I was tired. I wasn't tired, I was mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted. I couldn't give my best efforts to the foundation or my employer. I lost friends and acquaintances, and my life started a downward spiral. I finally realized that my job was the main cause of all my problems and left to find other employment," he said, neglecting to mention the separation wasn't his idea. "I now have a less demanding job that's given me time to rekindle old relationships, and I'm here to ask if you would consider allowing me to rejoin the Foundation. Being able to help people is something that's missing from my life, and I'd like the opportunity to work for Pathway again."

He went on, spinning a tale of personal growth and rediscovered selflessness. The board members, ever hopeful and forgiving, chose to believe in the possibility of change and Rob was welcomed back, his past performance forgotten. He threw himself into the work with an eye on the prize, his efforts a mixture of genuine service and calculated maneuvering.

His reformation act paid off. Called to Joe's office, he wondered if he was about to be chastised for some error or neglectful act. Instead, Joe said, "Rob, I once told you that this organization was not about recognition, but I'm making an exception. You have worked wonders in the months since your returned and I want to express our gratitude." He handed Rob an envelope.

Rob carefully opened it. Inside was an invitation to the gala with an unexpected bonus, a coveted overnight stay in one of the mansion's luxurious guest rooms. Rob's heart raced with triumph. The scheming, the reformation act, and all the hard work had all paid off better than he expected. Things were looking up.

* * *

As dusk settled in Rob approached the stately gates of the mansion, left open to welcome guests for the evening's festivities. He couldn't help but feel a rush of anticipation mixed with a dose of nerves. He drove through the gates and embarked down the four hundred foot elegant, paved stone driveway, his car's headlights briefly illuminating the series of ornate pillars and classical statues that lined the path, causing each to cast long, dramatic shadows as he passed.

The driveway, unfolding like a scene from a movie, lead him to the expansive motor court that looped gracefully around an illuminated, bubbling fountain. The sound of water playing against stone provided a tranquil backdrop to the evening's beginning, while the soft lighting lent an ethereal quality to the surroundings.

Ahead, the mansion loomed, its presence magnified by the grandeur of four Corinthian columns that supported a massive portico towering over the entrance. The custom hand carved wooden doors beneath were works of art in themselves, an intricate and imposing barrier when closed, but now left invitingly open.

As Rob pulled up, the purr of his car's engine cut through the serene night, drawing the attention of a valet parking attendant who approached and respectfully took his keys. Rob gave him a nod, all the while thinking,

enjoy your minimum wage evening while I'm drinking and dining with the rich and powerful.

Making his way towards the entrance he was greeted by a receptionist from the event, clipboard in hand. She quickly confirmed his identity, relayed the number of his assigned guest room, and with a courteous smile, took charge of his overnight bag. With formalities smoothly handled, he proceeded to join the gala's festivities, feeling a warming sense of importance.

As Rob stepped into the grand hall, he was immediately enveloped in an atmosphere of unbridled opulence. Flanking the far end of the hall, twin staircases rose in majestic arcs, the white stone steps contrasting beautifully with the wrought iron handrails, leading the eye to the double-height ceiling.

The marble floors were inlaid with intricate patterns that told stories in stone under the watchful glow of a magnificent crystal chandelier. Rich velvet drapes framed the tall windows, tied back at their midpoints to give a glimpse of the expansive grounds beyond the mansion's walls in the fading light.

The walls, decorated with hand-painted silk wallpaper set a soft, elegant backdrop to an impressive art collection. The center of one wall was dominated by a large ornate fireplace, its marble mantel complimenting the designs of the floor while above it, a grand mirror encased in a gilded frame enhanced the sense of space and bathed the room in a wash of reflected light.

Furniture, both antique and custom, dotted the space. Elegant buffet tables crafted from the finest Brazilian hardwoods held warming trays, fine china and crystal decanters, offering food and drink. The string quartet playing in the corner of the room wrapped the magnificent hall in a melody that soothed as much as it invigorated.

Yes

, he thought, a sense of affirmation coursing through him.

This is where I belong. This is my moment. This is what I deserve.

* * *

Rob was a spectacle of charm and affability, weaving through the throngs of the city's most powerful with a practiced ease. He dropped mentions of his charitable work, basked in the reflected glow of the Foundation's esteemed reputation, and made sure to be seen in the right circles.

He executed his networking scheme with the precision of a seasoned strategist. He had envisioned this moment countless times, rehearsing conversations, memorizing names of significant guests, and even studying the philanthropic interests of the city's magnates to seamlessly align himself with their values. His goal was clear: Infiltrate the upper echelons of society, leveraging his renewed association with the Pathway Foundation as the golden key to unlock doors typically closed to outsiders. However, it wouldn't hurt if he could seduce one of the female guests along the way, adding a touch of personal conquest to his calculated maneuvers. The thought of a casual social encounter culminating in a night of passion in one of the elegant guest rooms was intoxicating, adding an extra layer of thrill to the anticipation of his meticulously planned ascent.

With a glass of champagne perpetually in hand, Rob navigated the gala with a predatory grace. Amidst the laughter, the clinking glasses and the air-kissed greetings, Rob initially found himself thriving, initiating conversations with a mix of flattery and feigned humility, while dropping mentions of his work with the Pathway Foundation in a manner that was calculated to impress, yet appear unintentional. He laughed at the right moments, complimented with precision, and always made sure to steer the conversations towards potential business ventures, charitable collaborations, or the possibility of future meetings with these pillars of society. Invitations to join discussions were plentiful and he was included in groups deliberating on matters from philanthropy to the next big business venture.

His act worked for a time, but as the night wore on, the veneer began to crack. The more Rob talked, the more his stories seemed embellished, and the depth of his knowledge on charitable causes grew suspiciously thin. His initial comments, once seen as insightful, now appeared as nothing more than regurgitated sentiments, lacking genuine understanding or experience. The elite, with their finely tuned instincts for authenticity and their disdain for opportunism, started to see through the facade.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Rob began to find himself on the outside of discussions where he'd previously been the center of attention. Invitations to join private conversations dried up, and he noticed more than one dismissive glance, even catching an eyeroll at his approach.

Originally basking in the glow of his cunning, Rob's confidence began to wane. The shift in dynamics, the sudden coolness in the air when he joined a group accentuated the reality of his situation; the very people he sought to impress had pegged him for what he was--a schemer, looking only to climb the social ladder on the backs of those with genuine intentions. The realization that he was no longer a welcome participant but rather a tolerated presence stung.

* * *

As Rob's discontent grew, he found himself withdrawing from the social whirlwind around him, contemplating the allure of drowning his dissatisfaction in the bottom of a glass. It was getting late, and the thought of seeking his solace in alcohol grew more tempting by the minute as his anger and frustration mounted with every snub and slight he perceived.

Yet, just as he was on the brink of succumbing to defeat, a glimmer of opportunity presented itself. Across the room, a cluster of guests engaged in a lively discussion of politics and current events, topics in which Rob fancied himself well-versed. He headed towards them ready to impart his wisdom, his tongue already loosened by the spirits he'd consumed.

Scanning the group, Rob's lingering hopes faded. This might have been his last opportunity to salvage his most base goal for the evening, but the only woman attractive enough to catch his eye was a professional athlete who towered over his five-foot, eight-inch frame. Her physique exuded strength and determination. Her hair, upswept in an elegant yet assertive style, accented her chiseled features and gave her the appearance of even more height. She wore minimal makeup, enhancing her natural allure, but this powerful and intimidating woman stood in stark contrast to the small, demure figures Rob typically sought to ensnare and dominate.

The group, huddled near one of the elegant staircases, shifted its focus from politics to the realm of crime, specifically focusing on a recent newsworthy case that had shocked the local community - a rape on the local college campus. The incident had sparked outrage and fear, leading to calls for increased security measures and support services. The case had become a focal point for discussions on public safety and the responsibilities of educational institutions to protect their students.

With his judgement and self-control impaired by a combination of champagne and frustration, Rob dispelled the need for such measures with a dismissive wave of his hand. With cynicism dripping from every word, he snorted derisively, "Have you seen the way the coeds dress lately? They flaunt their sexuality, daring men to take notice. They're self-absorbed and want constant attention. These so called 'rape victims' parade around, displaying their victimhood like a badge of honor, begging for pity while secretly, they probably enjoyed the experience. It isn't a crime of violence. They want it. You know they want it!"

His callous remarks ignited a firestorm of indignation within the group, prompting fervent protests and heated debates. Some argued vehemently against his victim-blaming mentality, emphasizing the importance of holding perpetrators accountable regardless of circumstances, while a pair of brainless loudmouths offered a weak defense citing lives and reputations ruined by false, she-said accusations.

The athlete, with a physique honed for physical prowess, voiced her displeasure in a short angry burst as she glared with a look that suggested she could do violence herself. "Not a crime of violence? Have you seen the list of injuries that young woman endured? She'll be suffering trauma for years to come. No one wants to be violated and no one gets pleasure from it."

His rebuttal came swiftly. Referencing the name of a study he made up on the spot, he countered, "Have you seen the Johnson, Strauss and Bachman study? They show plenty of evidence that the 'trauma' " he paused briefly to add air quotes, "suffered in alleged sex crimes, ranges from exaggerated to completely fabricated."

A tall, heavy-set man with salt and pepper grey hair on the other side of the group inquired, "Where did you see this study?"

"One of the psychology journals."

"Which one?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal. I'm a clinical psychologist. I specialize in trauma, and I've never heard of any collaboration by those researchers."

"It's out there. Just look harder."

The athlete, refusing to yield to his insensitivity locked eyes with him, her gaze a mixture of anger and determination. "I've known rape victims that suffered--"

"For years. Yeah. They were probably looking for attention."

"Are you delusional or do you just hate women? These are real people's lives we're talking about."

"I refuse to believe their whole 'woe is me' act."

"You disgust me!"

"Like I care."

"Go ahead, wallow in your ignorance," she challenged, her voice sharp with reproach. She continued, her words heavy with a warning that echoed with ominous gravity, "Just pray that someday you aren't the victim of a violent crime yourself, that you don't come face to face with the harsh reality these women suffered through." She turned and walked away, her forceful stride conveying her anger as she distanced herself from the passionate debate.

As the discussion drew to a close and the participants drifted away, Rob felt an overwhelming urge for solitude, away from the succession of events and escalating tensions that dashed his plans and marred the evening's camaraderie. He reflected on the unexpected turn of events, which left him drained and yearning for the comfort of his own company. Ascending the majestic staircase, he sought sanctuary in the guest room generously provided by their host, seeking respite from the unsettling encounter. A few seconds later, the female athlete also retreated to her quarters, her desire to distance herself from the gathering palpable. Catching sight of him she shook her head as a lingering undercurrent of anger welled up, tainting her emotions. She took note of the room he entered before proceeding to her own.