Only thirteen weeks along and my pregnancy was already starting to screw with my internal body clock. I awoke at five in the morning and simply wasn't tired enough to fall back to sleep, so I got up and started the day with a shower before making myself a hearty pre-dawn breakfast. My rapist had been gone for nearly two months, and I had never felt so much emotional turmoil in my life.
The awe of his presence near me, and especially inside me, had now faded far enough into the past that I could look back on our time together with real objectivity. Underneath the genuinely emotional connection I had started to develop towards him, along with the raw physical and sexual attraction that had made me such a cooperative rape victim, there had been something else there; a faint, sickly after-taste beneath the whirlwind of other, sweeter feelings I had felt towards him: it had been fear.
Its presence was so obvious in retrospect, and yet it hadn't really occurred to me that it was even there. I had been afraid of my rapist all the time that I had been his prisoner, of course I had been. That was why I hadn't dared to try and kill him in his sleep or run screaming out of the apartment, there was always the underlying fear that he would exact some terrible reprisal against me and my unborn child. Thinking about how much of my acquiescence was fear and how much of it was genuine attraction or even lust was making my head hurt; or maybe it was just dehydration. I poured myself a glass of water and downed it like a shot of whisky.
I would probably be hungry again in a few hours, but in the meantime I returned to my bedroom and switched on the TV. There was the usual assortment of pre-dawn Adult channels with naked tarts wiggling their junk on screen, but eventually I found the news.
"...Another bizarre twist in the case of the alleged serial rape of an 18 year old girl in Beverley Hills, California. The alleged victim's mother, identified only as KZ, who told investigators that her daughter was sexually assaulted over the course of a month by the man she had hired for domestic chores, is now being questioned by police with the possible charge of soliciting prostitution looming over her head after she admitted to being in a consensual relationship with the alleged rapist and after the alleged rapist's cell phone number, provided by KZ to investigators, turned out to be the main contact number for a male escort agency called California Cupids.
The Chief Executive of California Cupids, Marina Horowitz, has denied that KZ was ever a client of her firm, and has strenuously denied that California Cupids is a prostitution ring, even though one of the company's employees, a man identified as 23 year old David Gilmore, has been named by BHPD as the prime suspect in the alleged rape of KZ's daughter, who cannot be identified for legal reasons..."
I switched off the TV again, not in the mood to be reminded too much of rape. That being said, the photograph of David Gilmore did bear a superficial resemblance to my rapist. He wasn't nearly as handsome and he lacked the entrancing emerald eyes of the man who deflowered me, but there were enough similarities that I couldn't shake it from my head. Did my rapist have something to do with that case? Was David Gilmore one of his aliases?
I thought of him taking those women in the dead of night, selfishly filling them with his seed before disappearing into the darkness, never intending to be a part of the new lives he had brought into being. I imagined he would have executed some ingenious escape plan before anyone could catch him, using David Gilmore as a decoy, or perhaps as a fall guy. I imagined him secretly returning to this city, to my apartment, to me. I imagined him sliding onto the bed, sliding on top of me, sliding into me when I was at my most vulnerable...
I shook my head clear of such fantasies. I had no guarantee that he was ever coming back, in spite of the promise he had made to be back in time for the birth. Besides, the man was a rapist; the fact that a part of me actually missed my rapist was rather perverse. I looked at the time; it was still only 6am. What the hell. This was my apartment, I could fantasise about whatever I wanted. I slowly reclined onto the bed and spread my thighs a little, reaching down into my bathrobe to touch the tender folds of my sex.
I closed my eyes and rolled my head back, picturing my rapist in all his naked glory towering over my vulnerable frame; his beautiful green eyes set into a chiselled masculine face, his exquisitely muscular torso, and his beast-like manhood, standing tall and proud, ready to make a woman out of me again and again. A tender finger rub couldn't possibly match the feel of his horse-like cock inside me; but I would just have to make do until he came back, if he ever came back.
My feminine fluids began to leak from me down onto the sheets as I circled my clit with my fingers, and the fuzzy warmth of sexual pleasure began to pool in my groin. I had seldom, if ever, pleasured myself before he had come to me, but ever since he'd left I couldn't get enough of this activity. I wanted him back; I wanted him back on top of me; I wanted him back inside of me. Carrying a part of him inside my belly simply wasn't enough.
I stuck two fingers into my pregnant pussy, imagining as best I could his thrusting manhood inside me, aggressively probing my feminine depths, threatening to fill me with his virile seed as he had done so many times before, and to so many other women before. A digitally induced orgasm began to build and build inside my groin, making me frig myself until I arched my back in an orgasmic state and moaned out load as the pleasure swept through me.
I lay on my back for the next hour as my orgasmic afterglow slowly receded; as it faded, so too did the rather fantastical image of my rapist that had clouded my mind. I was fully entitled to some self-pleasure once in a while, but fantasising about the man who raped me smacked of Stockholm syndrome. As my alarm clock beeped, I disabled it and got ready for the day...again.
***
Once I'd eaten my second breakfast and was dressed and ready for work, I set the alarm and locked the door. In addition to a clothes shopping spree, I had also spent a chunk of the mysterious $500,000 deposit in my account on boosted security. The windows were now double glazed, making them intruder proof, and supplemented by an air-conditioning system that was actually quiet as well as effective. My home alarm was state-of-the-art and the front door was reinforced with multiple bolts and a single extra-strong lock. As mixed as my feelings about my rapist were, there was nothing ambiguous about my need for security.
I locked the front door and headed towards the elevator. David was already there and he greeted me with a smile. I smiled back and greeted him with a big two armed hug.
"Morning beautiful," he beamed at me, "how are you today?"
"Tired," I admitted with a slight yawn, "I woke up at five in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep."
"The hormones are taking effect already, I see." He noted sympathetically.
"Yeah, it's probably a girl." I told him.
"How do you know?"
"I'm starting to get really bad mood swings."
"Isn't that a stereotype that women are more emotional?" he asked me attempting to affect a disapproving look.
"Absolutely not," I replied adamantly, "at for me it runs in the family. My mom told me that once, when she was pregnant with me, she burst into tears because the milk in her cereal wasn't cold enough."
"Ok, now you're just yanking my chain." David answered laughing.
"No, I'm deadly serious," I said, joining with his laughter.
