Author's note: Once again, given the peculiar nature of the subject matter, this story warrants a special disclaimer. This is a fantasy, not a manifesto. As famous erotica author All These Roadworks usually puts it, "my kinks are not my politics". Do not use this story to promote a political worldview.
In real life, rape and sexual assault are incredibly serious subject matters. Counterphobic sexual fantasies can be therapeutic, but fantasies are not reality. Practice your relational life consensually, or not at all.
As always, all characters are over the age of 18.
Enjoy the read!
AT BREAK OF DAWN
To win a fight, you have to know your opponent.
Situational awareness is the best weapon in the tool of any fighter -- doubly so, if you're a woman. So, what do I know? What do I see?
The world is still and grey as Martin and I circle one another in this remote area of the park. The grass is bright with morning dew, soft under my sneakers.
It gives it all a surreal atmosphere, like we're in some feverish liminal place -- even though the adrenaline pumping through my veins tells me that all of this is acutely, dangerously real.
In and of itself, this situation isn't really new. I'm a woman who likes to run in the grey gloom that precedes the sunrise. I'm a female athlete who likes to spar with men, and beat them. Sexual harassment, threats, outright sexual assault -- of course it's something I've experienced before.
A non-trivial percentage of the men who attend my classes are just looking for any excuse to get physical contact with a woman... and a fraction of them has more elaborate, predatory designs on his mind when he joins. This is also not new.
But the attack itself?
There tends to be a pattern in the way men do these things. A man looking for a target to rape will try to vanquish me quickly, even if he knows I'm a martial artist. No, especially if he knows that. He will not want it said that I gave him a run for his money, that he had to work hard to put me on my back.
At the same time, there will be a lurking fear in his eyes -- fear that maybe this girl is more than he can chew. That he's going to fail. All the more reason to make it quick, and banish the fear, protect his masculinity.
So, he'll usually charge at me, lumbering and overconfident and stupid, over-reliant on the element of surprise... once gone, he has nothing else going for him.
Putting such men in their places, breaking their noses, sitting them back on their ass, keeping them in an arm-lock as I wait for the cops to show up, is an incredibly affirming thrill.
But you must never grow complacent. When the pattern is broken, you have to notice -- and Martin breaks that pattern.
He knows me, he's seen what I can do, he's attended some of my classes. And yet, he hasn't looked for the element of surprise at all.
He just showed up along my usual running path, crossed his arms, and plainly told me, "Hello, Dawn. I'm going to rape you now."
He always meant to try and do that eventually, I know. He signed up, looked like a clumsy doofus for a few classes, and then flunked out. But the moment the word rape left his mouth, I knew that it had all been a ruse to study me up close... and perhaps, to make me underestimate him.
I don't fear men.
One of the major benefits of knowing self-defence is that I'm no longer a woman who lives in fear of the dark, of going out on my own even when the streets are deserted. But the unsettling calm in his voice as he said that... it did give me pause.
But only for a moment.
Now, I'm on familiar territory, circling him slowly, taking in as many details as I can. He's not charging me, I notice. He's not rushing in, making it easy for me to leverage his own momentum and mass against him.
So, what's his game? And how do I foil it?
I briefly consider if running is an option. I may be prideful, but I'm not stupid -- you fight when no other contingency is available, regardless of how good you feel your odds are. But could I outrun him?
He's in shape, probably no more or less than I am... but he's also taller, long-legged, and while I'm still catching my breath from the run, he looks fresh and well-rested. No running, at least not yet.
That just leaves one course of action.
My kick flashes fast and sudden. I'd been hovering just out of range for that, which usually lulls my opponents into a false sense of security. But I can step forward and kick before they have time to react.
Men typically have more reach than women -- another advantage I can nullify using my legs first. And my kicks hit hard.
Instead of his temple, however, my foot meets only air. Martin ducks out of the way, smooth and elegant, seemingly without breaking a sweat. For such a big guy, he flows with surprising agility.
No, not the meat-headed idiot he pretended to be as a novice at all. This man is dangerous. This man is a methodical fucking creep.
A predator.
"Come on, Dawn," he says, dancing away from me. "You really gonna try the basics on me? I find that offensive, I'll have you know."
"Here's how this works," I say, my eyes never leaving his as I wait for his own move. "The moment you threaten to rape someone, you lose the right to be offended by anything they say."
"I suppose that's fair. Although..." he says, nonchalantly. "I wasn't threatening."
Then, the lockstep dance of the fight takes over my world.
I get in the zone, and so does he. We punch and kick and cut and duck, parring each other's blows, looking for leverage on one another, and denying it to each other. It's not just the flurry of movement that engulfs my self-perception, fast and dizzying as it is.
It's the calculus of the fight. Sub-conscious processes like reading each other's body language, anticipating moves and countering them, or countering the counters, a level of analytical and instinctual thinking that comes only with a combination of talent and experience...
And, like me, Martin has both in spades. That much is undeniable now. He adapts to everything I do, countering every strike, every kick, with chilling precision. He can't get past my guard -- but I can't get past his, either.
I've got a real fight on my hands, this time.
"Getting tired?" he asks, smirking as he sidesteps my latest lunge.
I take a moment to file away the information -- he has enough spare capacity to talk while fighting, though as far as attempted mind games go, this one is pretty clumsy. I would have been in trouble long ago, if destabilising me was that easy.
I don't respond, though, save for a grunt as I parry his punch and try to grab his forearm. He weasels out of the way. Let him read into my silence whatever he wishes. If he thinks it's because I'm flustered or overloaded, so much the better -- he might underestimate me.
"That's fine, you don't need to talk," he says. "I know folk wisdom says women are good at multitasking, but in my experience, it's the opposite. Your little brains get overtaxed very easily."
Now, that flusters me. Maybe a mistake, but maybe not, because I'm so pissed off that I feel even more energy answering my musters, powering my dodges and my kicks.
"You can't fight nature," he continues. "You're just a woman after all."
The roaring of my own blood fills my ears. I grit my teeth, like some feral animal. Misogynist. Rapist fuck. I will end you.
"I've put down every man who's ever told me that," I snarl. "Down on his ass."
"This man's right here," he says. "Come and get me."
I launch myself at him.
Even as I do, I wonder what the hell I'm doing. It's as if I'm not fully in control of my own actions. Is this what it feels like, to lose your cool? I'm never like this. I'm always in control.
But not now. My own charge plays out in slow motion before my eyes. I take it all in, the fluidity of my own movements, the toned strength in my muscles, the glistening of my sweat in the slowly rising light.
And Martin's eyes, cool and calm and dead, watching me.
Even a rash charge like this would not be necessarily be a bad thing, in most circumstances. Men who assault women do not expect aggression in return. Even one moment of hesitation can be all I need to make my move.
But Martin does not hesitate. He's been studying my guard all this time, trying to break past it, to force an opening. And now, he's got his chance.
It's all so slow and so fast at once. He steps forward to meet my own thrust, and his left arm begins to wrap around my head, one swift uninterrupted motion like flowing water. His right arm reaches for my left, grabbing it, and before I know it, my footing is gone, and the ground seems to shift under my feet.
I'm falling.
He falls too, on his back, the soft grass wet with morning dew softening his landing, and I'm pulled right along. My right arm hooked under his left, but my head suddenly free -- his right arm shooting to block my left before I can gain leverage.
