This is, for the most part, based on my life; I've fudged the little details a bit for obvious reasons, but I thought I'd finally put to paper one of my oldest and fondest fantasies. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
*****
Tuesdays were always really rough for me. I had class from noon to 9pm, and it had rained today so I couldn't skate to and from campus. So, 9:30 found me trudging pissily through the night.
At the very least
, I told myself as part of my recent campaign to be less of a fucking pessimist,
I'm almost back at my apartment
. My sweet, sweet apartment, whose fridge contained the last amount of soup I'd made on Sunday and which I was absolutely going to scarf down before falling into bed.
"I'm such a goddamn slut for soup," I muttered to myself, mostly for the simple amusement of hearing those words out loud. It's a bad habit, but I'm full of those.
On this particular night, it distracted me from noticing the complete momentary absence of other people or cars on the street, or from feeling remotely unsettled that this particular stretch of the sidewalk had no lights, for whatever reason.
Huh. It's really dark right here.
Thus it came to pass that I was, with little fanfare, hauled from the sidewalk and pressed face-first into the gritty, wet side of a building.
"Oh my god," I said. My backpack was tossed somewhere to my left.
"
Shut the fuck up
," growled a voice from behind my left ear. It seemed reasonable to assume it belonged to the same body currently grinding on my ass.
"I can't believe this is actually happening in real life. I mean, I've fantasized about this at least eight times, but I never thought it'd actually happen to me," I rambled to nobody. I half-heartedly wiggled about in some semblance of an effort to escape. Figured I should at least pretend to put up some resistance. The principle of the thing, and all that.
My head was slammed into the . . . concrete?
What exactly is this building made of?
I wondered to myself, as stars floated in my eyes and I suddenly—deliriously—felt like I was made of steam.
It's not bricks. When did that fall out of fashion? What's the history of architecture in Santa Cruz regarding construction materials?
"I told you to shut up," the voice snarled, its accompanying hand shoving my shirt and bra up over my tits and groping them aggressively. I arched into the touch.
"Sorry my chest is so small," I told him, since I've always had issues with shutting up when told to do so. No punishment followed; this was likely because I began to push my butt into his hips, appreciating the feeling of his growing erection against my sensitive cheeks. I've always been ridiculously easily stimulated on my ass, hips, and back.
"Fucking whore," said my rapist approvingly, tearing my jeans down and jiggling my ass harshly. I refrained from blurting out, "Oh, gosh, am I going to be paid? Golly, that's sure generous of you, Mister," because he'd smashed two of his thick fingers into my hot little pussy and I thought he'd probably stop if I gave him lip service.
