AUTHORS NOTE: This is a little one-off story. It came to me almost fully realized in my head and yet for such a simple story it took me a month to write. Still not sure why. This story is about rape and may not be to everyone's taste. I also wrote it in the woman's voice in the first person, so that's a little different for me as well. As with many of my stories I did leave it open for a possible sequel, though none is planned at this time-but if you like it enough, let me hear from you. I'd love to hear your comments and feedback and I hope you all enjoy!
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The thing I often hear whenever my attack is discussed is, "It looks like you were asking for it," which, if you ask me, is a pretty ignorant comment. No! I did not want to get raped. I was not looking for some sicko and his friend to drag me off into an alley and fuck my brains out for over three hours. But that is exactly what happened and though I wasn't looking for that, if I'm being honest, there is a part of me that reacted in a way I would never have imagined I could. Let me start at the beginning.
My name Angie Maron. I'm a 33 year old single woman living in the San Francisco area. I work at a rather upscale retailer and I'm often asked to act as a model for art classes and friends of mine due to my figure. I'm 5' 61/2" tall, about 133 lbs. My measurements are 36-24-35. I have what has been referred to as a perfect hourglass figure. The truth is I work hard to keep my figure and I like to show it off. Being noticed, especially by men, gives me a good feeling and most of the time, the men paying attention to me are polite or at least circumspect.
Of course there are those who whistle at me or make a crude comment or just get caught staring at my tits or ass, but I just take that as par for the course, so to speak and I comfort myself with the fact that they will never be able to have, (gesturing at her own figure), all of this. When it comes to showing my looks off, I'll admit that means I am often found wearing provocative clothing, showing an ample amount of cleavage, or wearing a very short skirt or tight pants. And I really hate having my bra straps show, so if the top I have chosen doesn't cover them, I often don't wear one.
The story of my attack starts about a month ago. I have a friend down in the art district who needed a model at the last minute so he gave me a call. It wasn't a nude modeling session but it was risquΓ©: Lingerie, shadowed silhouettes, open shirts, that sort of thing. I have worked for him several times before and I like his work so I agreed. Since it was so last minute, I just threw on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and headed over to his place. He works out of a large warehouse. The top floor is where he keeps all of his works in progress and the ground floor has been broken up into a few different studio areas. He uses a few and rents out space to other starving artists.
I arrived at about 11 AM and spent the next 3-4 hours posing and modeling various outfits and pieces of very sexy lingerie. Some of them were really lacy, elegant, and beautiful. I love to dress up and look sexy, it makes me feel good and by the time we were finished I was not looking forward to just putting my old shorts and t-shirt back on. I asked him if I might 'borrow' a few of the pieces I modeled, just for a day or two. We are good friends, and he was very agreeable. So, I chose a half-cup pale pink lace bra and a very minimal matching thong. I accented those with a pair of sheer nylon stockings with a contrasting back seam and lace top. I covered these with a very short black skirt that covered-barely-my round bubble butt and a charcoal grey mesh see through lace crop top with scalloped trim. I only had the pair of cheap sneakers I had run over there with, but again, my friend came to the rescue with a pair of surprisingly comfortable 4-inch heels that capped off my look perfectly. I was in heaven.
I ran a brush through my long auburn hair, tied it back in a quick, messy ponytail and headed out the door. I was feeling pretty good in my new outfit. Yes, I know it was only mine temporarily, but that made me want to show it off all the more. I decided to walk home, it wasn't that far, about ten blocks or so, and the weather was nice. I took my time and even took a few detours along the way to give me more time to show off my new clothes. That was when I made my fatal error.
I had diverted from the most direct route home and spent half an hour or so walking through a neighborhood park. I was rewarded by several men and a few women staring at me. I loved that feeling. As I set out to return to my more accustomed route I decided to take a short cut and go through an alley that connected the park with the main road. It was about a block long and had several intersecting side streets that crossed it leading between several older buildings. As I was about half way through, a couple of men came out of one of these side streets. They were talking and laughing with one another and though I couldn't be sure, it seems they had been, shall we say, enhancing their mood with chemical stimulants. (Okay, they looked like they had been smoking weed).
As they crossed the alley, they both saw me and I knew immediately they were going to be the crude, whistle-blowing type of men. One of them nudged the other and pointed my way and they both started to laugh. I did my best to ignore them and walk on. Unfortunately, they were not so easily dissuaded.
"Hey! Working girl," one of them called out, "Give us a free sample? We tip good!" He grabbed his crotch to make certain I had understood him.
I glared their way and shook my head but just continued to walk on. Getting into a shouting match with these two seemed like it would be a losing proposition. Unfortunately, they were not so easily dissuaded. They began to walk after me, continuing to call out.