Search for a Good Man

This is a preamble to the main Lindsay story (still being proofread for the fifth time), Lindsay Part 2: Predator Jones. I hope you like it. I wish to thank my editor, blackrandl1958, for her gracious and excellent services.

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I probably should have called the police as soon as he left, but like most things in life, nothing was really clear. I did, of course, agree to go out with him, even though my best friend Linda had warned me off. 'I can handle him,' I confidently told myself. Besides, he's rich, handsome, and charming. What's not to like?

It all began nicely, too. Don picked me up on time. I'm always on time (it's one of my many faults), so I was ready to go. I pretended not to be, and I invited him in while I finished getting ready. I offered him a drink. He took a glass of bourbon on the rocks. Usually I like men who drink bourbon. I took it as a good sign.

I went to the bathroom and pretended to do what we women do in there, moving some make-up around. To make it real, I changed the color of my lipstick from pink to a deep red. It's a shade of red that makes a man want to kiss me, or at least that's what I think. Who really knows, anyway?

I emerged, and off we went. Don took me to a nice restaurant. He tried to get me drunk. He was subtle, but I could tell he was trying. He did not succeed, but he was a good conversationalist and he learned more about me than I had planned on telling him (or any man) on a first date. After dinner, he took me to a club and we went dancing. Don got closer, perhaps much closer, to his goal of getting me drunk. I had a good time, shall we say.

Towards the end of the evening, he was feeling me up rather extensively while we danced to slow music. I was too drunk and too into him to complain, and he took full advantage of my passive acceptance of his groping. I admit it; it turned me on to be felt up so extensively and so blatantly in public. I felt like a tramp. I know I'm not a tramp, but from time to time I find it arousing to be treated as if I were one. I know, I know, it's disrespectful and I should have stopped it, but it's my body and I can use it (or let it be used) as I like!

At one point, Don even raised my skirt so that he could fondle my ass through my 'barely there' panties. This exposed my ass to the club. I did nothing. In retrospect, to show a modicum of self-respect, I should have slapped his hand away. Perhaps I should have stormed off and ended the date.

Isn't retrospect grand? The truth of the matter is, I did nothing. Seeing my reaction, or lack of one, Don kept going. He pushed my panties down, right there in the dancing area, and I had to do something. I could have bent over, pulled them up and left, taking a taxi or a car service home. A girl has limits, after all, but I was so drunk. I began to get very dizzy as I began to bend down and I decided not to do it.

That left little to no choice, since my panties were at my ankles. What did I do? I simply stepped out of them, I figured it was the only option I had left at that point. If I had not, I would have tripped. I definitely should have said something at that point, or simply left. I did neither. The point is, I gave no sign of a negative reaction

Don raised my skirt again, and this time he exposed my bare ass to anyone who was looking. This was outrageous, and strangely, it turned me on immensely, to have a man expose me like that. I was wet down there. I was worried about dripping, and I had no panties to soak it up.

Now that I was without panties, Don's area of interest changed from my ass to the region at the top of my thighs, between my legs. At one point, he removed his fingers from my snatch, flamboyantly smelled them, and presented them to my mouth. "Clean them, babe," he said.

I so liked being called babe just then, I guess I must like being debased. Well, each day I learn something new, or so it seems. I obeyed. I noisily licked his fingers clean of my juices. At this point, I was so wet it was not funny. I whispered in Don's ear that he should take me home. We left shortly after that dance. My panties stayed on the floor of the club.

He took me home around 2AM, and I explained that I did not invite men inside on the first date. (I'm 28, and in the New York dating scene, inviting a man in at the end of the date means sex. That's just the way it is.) I wasn't ready for sex with Don, despite my outrageous passive behavior during his public molestation of me.

You might think he had every reason to think that I was ready for sex, given my behavior once he got me drunk, but I was not. It's my body, and that makes it my decision, after all.

Even if I could envision that sex was a definite possibility, even a likely one in the future, I was not ready for it just then. I wanted to get to know him better first. There was something about him I did not trust. His behavior at the club with my public humiliation, even if I enjoyed it was, nevertheless, not a good sign. Even I, in my drunken state, could figure that out!

I could not identify exactly what it was that made me nervous about him, but it was certainly there. Getting to know him better would resolve this doubt, one way or the other.

Don asked to use my toilet, and how could I say no to that? I let him in, showed him to the toilet, and he used it. When he came out of the toilet he took me in his arms and he kissed me. It was a great kiss. Turned on just by the kiss, plus all of the previous public groping, and despite having become drunk, I nevertheless summoned the needed will and managed to push him away. I told him it was time for him to go.

We had negotiations, and he agreed to leave after one more drink if I would join him. He turned on the charm, and it worked. I agreed. After the drink and some more kissing and groping, he left, but I felt a little woozy. I undressed and fell into bed naked, not even bothering with a nightgown. I took an Ambien, because if I get drunk I fall asleep easily, but then I wake up a few hours later. Ambien fixes that. I fell asleep in minutes.

Don had been clever and evil. He taped the lock on the door, so when the door closed, it did not lock. He returned a couple of hours later, I guess around 4AM. He quietly let himself in, went to my bedroom and he saw me sleeping, naked. I was in a deep sleep.

I had kicked off the covers in my sleep. He took some pictures of my naked body sprawled out in front of him. He undressed, joined me in my bed, and then he took his sweet time. He began his goal of a thorough ravishing of my body.

When I came out of my drunken Ambien enhanced stupor, I was foggy headed, but could not help but notice Don was lying on top of me, his cock was inside me and we were having a grand old time fucking.

I realized this gradually. I tried to remember. I had invited him in, I remembered. Somehow it must have progressed to sex, as it had so often done with other men before Don, but I seemed to remember sending him away. Yes, things clarified; he had definitely left! I saw the door close behind him. What was going on? Why were we fucking?

Did Don return? Did I let him in, and did he seduce me? Some people sleep walk with Ambien. That had never happened to me before, but could it have happened this time? Why else would we be fucking? That must be it, I thought. Then why did I have no memory of that?

My thoughts progressed. I remembered I did not want to fuck him! I was suspicious. I had said no, not tonight. I remembered that clearly, now. As my head cleared and I woke up (fucking will do that to a girl!), I was sure I had sent him away, and then I had gone to bed very much alone. I doubted seriously that I had sleep walked, let him in, and then let him climb into my bed!

Why was he there? Why were we fucking? We were not making love. This was not a tender natural outgrowth of affection. The man was fucking me as a form of conquest, as a manifestation of male domination over a strong woman. Had he not already established that by turning me into a tramp and displaying my bare ass, and even fingering me in public at the club? Did he really need this need this nonconsensual fuck, too?

All of a sudden, to my shock, I realized I was enjoying this fuck. I heard moaning, and only gradually did I realize the moans were coming from me. I was into it! I began to realize that I already had his cum on my face and boobs, and he was in the process of fucking my pussy, so somehow, he had taken the time to recover from his first ejaculation. Somehow, the whole idea of being cruelly and inhumanely used like that turned me on. How fucked up is that?

His cock felt so good inside me. I had come to like him, and when he had left earlier, I had actually felt like having sex with him. I had just thought it was too soon, perhaps much too soon. I had been suspicious. Well, these events had shown I was right to be suspicious!

I had felt that I just did not know him well enough to share the intimacy, but the point is, I actually welcomed the idea of us fucking. Talk about ambivalence! I was too groggy to realize just then exactly why we were fucking, only that we were, and goddamn it, I was enjoying it!

No, I knew why we were fucking. He had somehow gained entry to my apartment. He had seen me sleeping in all of my naked glory and he had done what men do: A naked sexpot in a bed? You spread her legs, test the water and then plunge right in. I was probably wet; I remembered having erotic dreams.

No matter how you slice it, this was a nonconsensual fuck. Hell, this was rape. It did not matter that I was enjoying it. It did not matter that halfway through it I found myself welcoming it. The point was, I had sent him away. I was in a deep sleep when he entered me. He never had my consent. In fact, he had my express opinion on the subject of sexual relations: No.

All these thoughts passed through my brain in seconds. The brain can think thoughts so fast it's amazing. My brain certainly does. It was now decision time: How was I to handle this rape?

I would take the shame to my grave. What I did, and it pains me to say it, is this: I began to fuck him back. The fucking felt so good! Don really knew how to fuck a girl. We had a glorious fuck, and then he rolled me over. When he had recovered, getting yet another impressive erection, he tenderly fucked me in the ass.

Probably to Don's surprise, I loved the fuck in my ass even more. First of all, I was now wide awake and in a perfect position to give him permission, or to scream to the high heavens, get out of bed, and to begin throwing things at him, and chasing him away. I did none of that.

I have unusual sexual tastes, and I just love being fucked in the ass. I'm not alone: A lot of my gay male friends love it, too. It's not that unreasonable to like an occasional good ass fucking. Don had already fucked me silly in my pussy, the traditional spot. The damage was done. Why not let me enjoy things, too? I found it thrilling to be ass raped by a man like Don. He was, after all, a rapist par excellence.

I'm sure he thought he was further humiliating me by ass fucking me. He was showing his complete male dominance over me. Perhaps he was; I don't know, but I do so like a good ass fucking.

I mean if a man is going to rape you, wouldn't you, like me, prefer the man to be clean, healthy, rich, handsome and charming? Wouldn't you prefer him to be a man who earlier in the evening you felt like fucking? Sure, you would.

This is not to say it's okay. It's not. Rape is violence, and nothing justifies it. It was a violation of my person and my integrity. I am in charge of my body, and I fuck with a man only if I want to do so!

Don, the Bastard, took away from me the ability to choose to fuck or not, but right then, the idea of being raped, often a ridiculous fantasy of mine, was coming true and it was by a handsome man I had thought I had liked, and actually had wanted, at least on some level, to have sex with.

He began when I was in a deep sleep, and I had every expectation of privacy in my own apartment. I was, therefore, not capable of really resisting at the beginning. I was not capable of even thinking clearly. To be honest, once I became aware of what was happening, I liked it, I even had a climax at one point, and I moaned as it built and I screamed when it overcame me. Don would have to have been an idiot not to know I was into it.

Don left after shooting another copious load in my ass. I lay there, thinking as I got under the covers, and automatically curled up into a fetal position. I had conversations with my sister, and all of my friends. They were not actual conversations; I simply simply imagined all of them in my head. Every single one of my friends (in these imagined conversations) told me to call the police. Linda led the charge.

Only my sister saw the down side of calling the police: The idea that I myself would be put on trial, with my ambivalence about the rape, my past promiscuous behavior in the New York dating scene, my outrageous exhibitionism earlier that same evening at the nightclub, all working against me. She said (in my imagined conversation) that it would be a hard case to make, and did I really need all the tsuris? (We live in New York, so even though we're Catholic girls of Italian descent, we can use Yiddish as well as the next girl. Tsuris is the word my sister would have used.)

I told my sister (again, in our imagined conversation) that it was my civic duty to report the rape. Otherwise, Don might continue to do it with other women. They might be (much) more vulnerable than I felt that I was.

Don't kid yourself, I imagined my sister saying. This rape is as bad for you as it is for anyone else. It just has not yet hit you. She understood the civic duty, but she also felt the whole process with the police would destroy me.

My friends disagreed. They wanted revenge on my behalf. Lock the bastard up, they would scream in my imagined conversations with them.

My sister's imagined conversation won the day, and nobody ever learned of the rape, although later I did tell Linda obliquely that I wished I had listened to her. The look on her face when I said that told me that she, too, had also had nonconsensual sex with Don. I don't know her scenario. Maybe it had been similar to mine. Probably. I guess she could not bring herself to more seriously warn me, or even now to tell me about it. Too bad.

The worst part is, that after the rape, or whatever it was, I wanted to see Don again. He was so good in bed I wanted another romp. What was wrong with me? Another imagined conversation with my sister convinced me to see a shrink.

My sister was so wise; I actually do not have to speak with her. I know her so well; I can imagine both sides of the conversation. I have institutionalized her wisdom. Even imagined, she is amazingly helpful to me. I chose to see a woman shrink, and my sessions with her were helping a lot. I have to thank my sister the next time I see her. Her imagined advice was priceless.

You may ask: Why didn't I just call my sister and ask her directly? Because I quite simply could not bear to tell anyone what happened, how badly I behaved and all of what I had done. Not even my sister. It's true I told my shrink, but somehow that's different. Please don't ask me to explain why it's different. I don't know why; but it is.

According to my shrink, I am very lucky that Don never even called me up after that amazing night. I would have said yes if he had asked me out, and then I would have suffered real and lasting damage to my psyche. Don certainly never asked me out again. I never even saw him again.

That Don never asked me out again got me annoyed. We had sex, both in my pussy and my ass, and he could not even bother to call to see how I was? How about an old-fashioned greeting card, sent through the mail? A Facebook post? A hand delivered note? A bouquet of flowers with a note attached?

The fact that I was annoyed got me even more annoyed. I was feeling meta annoyance: I was annoyed at myself for being annoyed at Don for raping me and then not caring about me, let alone not wanting more. Put that way, it's pretty obvious how fucked up that is, and also how fucked up I am.

My shrink would not approve, but now when I date, I invite the men in and let them fuck me every which way to their heart's content. This, of course, makes date rape completely unnecessary, and so(?) it does not happen. It also means I am never horny. It also means I am much more selective with the men I agree to date. I am now lonely, yes, but I am never horny.

My last date must have felt that he got super lucky. After a nice date, I invited him in. The man, whose name was Stan, was shy. He did not know how to put the moves on me. After all, I am pretty and sexy. Indeed, I am a real sexpot, and he was the type of man who probably thought he was dating above his stature. As men like to say, he was not in my league.

I did not care, I just did not want to be raped and my solution was to be proactive and drain the man dry. I told him my clothes were bothering me, and would he be shocked if I put on something more comfortable? It was a Jean Harlow line from an old movie, I think. Stan did not know that, of course.

I came back in a short and transparent negligee with nothing on beneath it. So as not to shock, I wore a thin house robe over it. I sat down next to him, draped my bare leg over one of his, held his head in my hands and kissed him tenderly. I ran my hands through his hair and his male hormones went into overdrive.

He pulled me to a standing position, opened my robe, took a good look at the feast for his eyes in front of him, courtesy of my transparent negligee, and as he said, "Lindsay, Lindsay..." I bent down, unbuckled his pants and unzipped them. I got on my knees, took out his erect cock, and enveloped it in my mouth.

Luckily, his cock was on the short side, so no deep throating was necessary, the whole thing fit nicely in my mouth, and I sucked and licked as my nose nuzzled his pubic hair, tickling me. I slowly withdrew until his now wet and slippery cock dropped from my mouth, and then I pumped it with my right hand.

I alternated the pumping with the sucking. When my hand was pumping away, I said, "I love your cock, Stan."

Stan groaned back at me. He said, "I love you, Lindsay," but I know that was his cock speaking, not his brain and certainly not his heart.

At one point, Stan said, "I need to fuck you, Lindsay. May I fuck you?"

"No," I said. "Instead, why don't we make love, Stan? Fucking is for animals."

Stan understood, and he wisely shut up. He took my hand, led to me my bedroom, gently placed me on the bed, spread my legs and climbed aboard. He surprised me by suddenly slamming his cock into me with all the power he possessed.

He was a muscular, strong guy. The unexpected sudden power of his fuck, the rapid piston action, the unleashed fury of his cock inside me, took me by complete surprise. It was, all things considered, a nice surprise. You know, in truth, it was very nice, indeed.

I came within seconds, screaming out my orgasm. I think the surprise of it all explains part of the sudden and extreme arousal, plus, I like rough sex. As Lady Gaga once sang, "If it's not rough, it isn't fun." Stan ignored my screams of delusional pleasure, and he kept right on going.

We ended up fucking three times, and Stan spent the night. He took me again in the morning, and he left happy. I think he was surprised when I never agreed to go out with him again. I set him up with Linda, though, and they seem happy together.

What I really need is a good man, one I like enough to stay with and to allow me to leave the dating scene. I need more than a man who is good in bed, like Stan. I need a good man. That will come.