After watching my medical school professor, Dr. Engelhart, rape my girlfriend and future wife while she was passed out I'd like to say that I acted like a concerned lover, that I defended her honor, that I brought justice by punishing the attacker, that I told my girlfriend Denise about the attack I witnessed and consoled her through her recovery. I didn't do any of those things.
In fact the whole rape had been my fault. I had not intended for Dr. Engelhart to be the one to rape her when she was passed out. My plan had been for a fellow classmate Randall to be the one, but the situation did not go as planned. Still it ended up being as arousing and exciting as I had hoped for, probably more since it had gone a direction I had not anticipated.
Denise explains the complexities of the human mind to me regularly when we can break from our respective studies to converse privately, usually about our studies; I am in medical school and Denise is finishing up her last year of college with a major in psychology. She thinks she understands so much about the human mind, though would freely admit she doesn't know a fraction of what there is to know, and yet seems to know nothing about my obsession, the one thing that engulfs my thoughts and dreams, seeing her taken unaware by my best friend a year ago and then recently by my professor, and how to make it happen again.
She's right that the mind is complex. My own mind for example seems to work against itself. While my obsession to see Denise taken and used by other men without her knowing has become an addiction that brings more pleasure, excitement, and satisfaction than any thing I've ever experienced, my mind is constantly reminding me how wrong it is, how I'm betraying Denise, that I'm allowing myself to succumb to immoral acts to satisfy my own perversions, transgressing on the love and trust that she has been placed in me. While half of my mind berates and condemns me for my past and future actions, the other half pays no mind, doesn't even try to defend itself, I know there is no defending such actions, and reflects fondly on the past two experiences, memories I've masturbated to more times than I can count, and hatching new plans, coming up with new scenarios, ways to make the same thing happen again.
My thoughts returned to my previous plan and the object of that plan: Randall. I was sure that Randall would have performed as I expected if my plan had proceeded as I had wanted. The end result had still been very pleasant, but had shown how my plans, no matter how simple I tried to keep them could easily put Denise in danger. While my obsession was allowing me to place her in that danger I still maintain that I was controlling it and as the master of the situation could help her or end it as I needed to, ensuring that she was never hurt, never even knowledgeable of the violations performed upon her. Possibly having so much control over people who did not know it was part of the turn-on, but finding reasons for the satisfaction I feel from doing this doesn't matter, they are only reasons, the result is the same and all that matters.
So, though that plan had not succeeded, the end result was still very satisfying, and I could have ended it if I had wanted, walked in on Dr. Engelhart, removed him from the situation, even blackmailed him for it, if I had wanted, but I allowed it to proceed, aroused by the rape and in complete control of it. But still my next plan had to be even simpler than the last one and I still wanted to involve Randall in this one.
My one and only mistake that last time had been to give Denise too much Valium, not accounting for her athletically high metabolism from her extensive training on the tennis team where she is the top player on her team and one of the top in the state. Her body metabolized the mixture of alcohol and Valium quicker than I expected and she succumbed to it, became ill, and passed out even before I had been able to get her home to proceed with the plan. Until that point Randall had acted as I had suspected, he had been very attracted to her, barely able to stop himself from allowing his eyes to travel along her body the entire night, which I completely understood. Denise is an incredible beauty. She is of course trim and fit from her tennis training, but still has the gorgeous curves that all men lust for on a woman. She's slightly taller than average with long firm legs, not overly muscular like many professional female tennis athletes. She's the perfect mix of athleticism and femininity. She has the poise of a woman who while she is beautiful is not consciously aware of it, confident not just because of her beauty and the attentions of males, but because of the strength of her mind and character. Of course, these many traits that combine to make her a sexually arousing target for just about any straight male were not noticed by Randall. These things would go mostly unnoticed by a male of his type, he's a beast wearing the guise of a human, and beasts only sense and respond, and in Denise he just saw a woman that he wanted to fuck, to penetrate, to use. He wanted her that night and if Denise had not become ill I'm sure that I could have lured him to my home and eventually he'd have taken the bait.
I knew that I just needed to revise the plan, make it more simple. I need to do more research on drugs and methods for putting Denise to a sleep she wouldn't wake from while Randall fucked her, leaving her unaware of the violation and the harm it would cause if she knew about it, so that I wouldn't make the same blunder again. This turned out to be the easiest part.
I had found already that Denise is a heavy sleeper. Like many people who perform at a high athletic level, her body performed most normal tasks efficiently which included sleep, her body shut down when required and she slept deeply, allowing her body and mind to mend themselves.
I began to experiment with just how deeply she slept under normal circumstances without introducing alcohol or any other drugs. She was a very deep sleeper. When she was in REM sleep I could say her name loudly directly into her ear and she wouldn't flinch. I could say her name a dozen times quickly loudly into her hear and she would just groan and re-enter REM sleep within a minute. I could slap her and she would return to REM sleep just as quickly. I could move her into different positions. I could rub her pussy and her clitoris. I could penetrate her with my fingers. I could fuck her with my fingers hard for several minutes. I could stroke her G-spot with my index finger, rub her clit, and slap her face all at the same time and she wouldn't wake. At most she would sigh or groan, move an arm or hand or leg, her eyes would stop fluttering, but she would never waken.
These findings pleased me. She was a very heavy sleeper. The heavy sleep allowed her to get the rest, true restoration, to rebuild and refine her body and mind for another day of intense studying and exercise. Her body was not only sexy and beautiful but operating and repairing itself at a level we should all wish our bodies would also operate.
Still I would never try to have her raped while only under the power of her own sleep. If she were to wake it would hurt her and ruin my own arousal, and probably end up stopping me from ever trying it again, if not end our relationship entirely. I knew I would have to find the perfect drug or mix of drugs to make it happen as I needed.
My new choice was a specific sleeping pill. Unfortunately it could not be bought over the counter like some medications, but had a short half-life, was very active during that span, and had few side effects along with a relatively low chance of dependence or problems with tolerance.
Getting a prescription was easy. Dr. Engelhart had tagged me as his pet student after raping Denise that night and he wrote me a prescription without asking me why I needed it, which was another reason I had chosen it, as a relatively benign sleeping aid it wouldn't seem odd if I begged a prescription off of him or failing that off of my own medical doctor.
During one of Denise's visits I spiked her glass of flavored water with 10mg. That night I was able to fuck her with two fingers, banging my hand against her hard and slap her face and yell into her ear. She groaned some, seemed to be trying to bring herself awake but was unable. The next morning she complained of a rough night of sleep but showed no signs of having to shake sleepiness from the pill.
A month later I tried 20 mg. I repeated the same experiment and she barely twitched or moved. The next morning she did not complain of a rough night of sleep and again had no sleepy after effect. I had found my new drug.
The next part of the plan was to find a way to get Randall near Denise while she was passed out and give him the chance and feeling of safety to rape her without being caught. I knew his conscience would allow him to do it. I also knew he was a risk-taker, a good mixture of lack of knowledge of repercussions, as many from his social status are, and arrogance to take the opportunity if presented with it. The problem was how to get them together. Denise had met Randall before and not surprisingly despised him.
I considered just telling Randall what I was doing. That would make it much easier. Tell him Denise would be drugged and he could fuck her and use her and she wouldn't know and I wouldn't accuse him. But I couldn't do this. It would give Randall leverage on me that he could use against me, which he probably would. He could easily turn it to his advantage and I would no longer be the master of the situation. Plus, I didn't want anyone to know about this, didn't want any other person to know what was in my mind. This was my obsession, my lust, my desire, and nobody else should know about it. Not to mention it would be more of a turn-on if he didn't know, took the situation as presented to him, not knowing exactly how under she was, increasing the tension, making it more exciting for him and me as well. So, I could not make him a party to it.
Randall and I had become friends of a sort. We were in the same dissection group in Gross Anatomy. I was the only one who did not seem to be disgusted by his obscene and inappropriate comments and stories provoked by whatever part of the body we would be studying that day. At first I think this annoyed him that I would neither be disgusted by him or laugh with him. But after the party at Dr. Engelhart's house where he met Denise for the first time and we talked some he seemed to have acknowledged me as tolerable and worth joking with if not a friend.
The result was that I didn't even have to make a plan to achieve my goal. This is something I should have learned with my previous attempt and would learn better in the future. I can't really make hard and fast plans for something like this. I can and should make all necessary precautions, be careful, control the situation. But at the same time I just have to take an opportunity when it presents itself. Like life it's a mix of planning and spontaneity, taking what's given. I may not be able to completely control people, but I can control the situation, be the master, and make my own outcome.
Denise came to visit me on a week night, a rarity for us, both being busy, but she was feeling especially needy. She had no morning classes the next day so could leave in the morning and get back in time for her first class. We'd had a light dinner, a chicken pesto I made when she said she was coming. While it was baking I finished my studies for the night and was ready to receive her when she got there.
It was a nice night. We talked little about our studies and school, both of us wanting to forget those things. We mostly just cuddled on the couch watching some movie she liked about some man and woman that keep messing things up until they finally get together at the end. I don't like movie so always just watch what she wants. As we watched I slipped my hand under her shirt and stroked her flat stomach. She sighed and leaned into me. One thing we both understood was the need for contact, physical touch, not necessarily sexual, perhaps with a tinge of sexuality to it, but more so just a need to touch and be touched.
The phone rang and we both groaned. The phone seems to be a device created specifically to ruin calm moments.
I glanced at the Caller ID display on the phone and recognized Randall's cell phone number immediately. Since I had become Randall's friend of sorts, he had been using me to get notes from classes he missed, to borrow books he couldn't find, or borrow keys to the buildings he needed to get into to finish research or dissections. Surprisingly he was responsible enough to return things he borrowed, though probably more so because he didn't want to alienate the one person willing to help him, and I was willing to help him, waiting for the chance to use him as I wanted.
"Don't answer it," Denise mumbled. She had probably started nodding off already.
"I should answer it," I said. "It's Randall. He probably needs to borrow the notes from a lecture we had today that he missed."
She groaned and sat up so I could answer the phone.
"Sorry, hon," I said and kissed her lightly.
I picked up the phone. "Hello, Randall. How are you?"
"Hey, buddy!" he yelled into the phone. I pulled the phone away from my ear and grimaced. I hate cell phones. Talking to somebody using one they always sound too loud or too soft and I tend to hear all of the noise around them. At that time I could hear some sporting event playing loudly on a television and people yelling and clapping. I knew he was at some bar, probably one of the places most people from Randall's station wouldn't go to, but he would just because of that.
