Note: Fantasy is one thing, reality another. In real life, rape has little to do with sex and more to do with power and anger. It's not sexually gratifying for either party--the terror and pain of rape mean that the victim doesn't enjoy it, and the perpetrator often has a difficult time performing. In no way do I condone forcing someone to have sex, no matter what the circumstances. That said, what would be awful in reality can be titillating in the safety of our fantasy lives. This is meant as an exploration of my own rape fantasies, nothing more. I hope you enjoy it.
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I had taken self-defense courses. No, not the type where you punch and kick at a pretend attacker, shouting "NO! NO! NO!" but the kind where you're taught to be smart, not take stupid risks, be aware, and trust your instincts.
My instincts kicked in just a little too late to save me from my own foolishness, my stupid risk, my unawareness.
There were two of them, one that I noticed right before my heart started hammering, and one that was lurking, almost invisible, in the shadows near the van. The van was one of those utility types, with no windows and presumably no seats in the back. It was dirty and a little beat-up, and it was parked right next to my car. Stupid mistake one, I hadn't parked near a light or a well-populated exit of the mall. Stupid mistake two, I had waited until well after the other customers had left the mall before I'd finally wandered out. To compound these mistakes, I hadn't even bothered getting out my car keys or my pepper spray. And by the time I thought about it--when lurking guy number two made himself appear--there wasn't the time.
I still turned to run, especially when both of them moved toward me. But how fast can a girl in a short, tight skirt and high heels run? Not fast enough.
Guy number one, the taller of the two, grabbed me by the waist. His hands were rough, callused, and he was wearing a plaid shirt with jeans and a white tee underneath. There was stubble on his cheeks, and he wore a goatee the same light brown color as his shaggy hair. His partner, shorter but barrel-chested and more dangerous looking, had a darker complexion, curly hair, and was clean-shaven. He wore a dark green sweater and dark jeans. The look in his eyes frightened me, especially when he clamped a smelly rag across my mouth and nose. Then everything went black.
My head hurt when I woke up. I was lying on a bed in a room I'd never seen before. The ceiling showed rings of water damage. I slowly sat up and looked around. Dingy linoleum covered the floor. I found my shoes and slipped them on, the natural movement of my body and the chill in the air telling me that, while my skirt and blouse were still intact, my bra and panties were gone. There were two doors--one, ajar, led to a dank-looking bathroom, which I quickly made use of. The other door was locked. I returned to the bed, the only furniture in the room. My mind returned to my missing undergarments. How long had I been unconscious? What had happened?
As if in answer, an envelope was pushed under the door. I opened it up and found half a dozen Polaroids. The pictures were of me, unconscious on the bed in this room, at first fully dressed and then without clothes. I shuddered when I saw the last two--one, a close-up of my breasts, being fondled by the callused hands I remembered from the parking lot, and two, a close-up of my pussy, three unfamiliar fingers (belonging to the second guy?) prodding into my vagina.
Still shocked, I hardly reacted when the door swung open. "I see you're awake now," the dark, curly haired guy said with a sinister smile. "And you're getting an idea of what you're here for, Fucktoy."
Curly led me out of the room by my upper arm, squeezing it really hard. I tried to keep alert, knowing I might be offered a chance to escape at some point and that I had to be ready for it, but I was still fuzzy-headed from whatever had been on that cloth. Guy Number One, the taller one with a lanky build, was waiting in what I took to be the main room of the building we were in. The room was brightly lit, and, to my horror, completely encircled in cameras and camera equipment.
Curly shoved me into the center of the room. Apparently triggered by motion, the cameras began recording me.
"Take off your clothes, Fucktoy, and do it slowly," he ordered.
I shook my head no. "Please, please don't do this!" I begged.
Lanky decided to reason with me. "We're miles from nowhere. Nobody will here you if you yell or cry or scream. If you don't do what we want, we'll punish you. You'll only be here a few days at the most, and then we'll be done. So make it easy on yourself, Fucktoy. Take off your goddamn clothes."
Scared at the thought of being at their mercy for days, I began unbuttoning my blouse. My hands were shaking, I was so frightened. I slid the shirt off of my shoulders, down my smooth back. My large breasts hung firm and round from my frame, jiggling a little as a trembled. My nipples began getting erect in the cold air, plumping and becoming a darker pink than before. I unzipped my skimpy black skirt, pushing it down my shapley hips and long, slender legs, revealing the closely shaved blond bush between my thighs. I tossed my long, blond hair and glared at Curly, trying to look fierce even though I was terrified.
"Nice tits, Fucktoy," Curly sneered. "They look real, so either your mama was a hottie, too, or you found yourself a rich daddy who paid some big bucks to give his whore some quality big ones."
