Rape Fantasies

Standard Disclaimer

: All characters involved in naughtiness are over 18. The writing is dubious because I am lazy and editing this is weird at Mom's house at Christmas

.

It wasn't my fault, I say to myself crawling into bed beside Joel who is pretending to already be asleep.

I admit I may have taken things a bit too far but I wasn't the one who insisted on bringing up the outrage du jour and ruined his annual pre-Christmas dinner party. If it had been anyone but a bunch of academics, the whole thing would have been laughed off but that's not how things work around here, apparently.

It started over cocktails as these things often do. Carl, a brilliant but socially inept professor of physics, accepted his second Manhattan with a cheeky 'say, what's in this drink?' after someone mentioned that the local radio station had gone back to playing 'Baby, It's Cold Outside' (in spite of lingering indignation from the fashionably offended).

"I'm glad you can make so light of the very real fear a women face every day just by setting foot outside her front door" said Brianna, the iron haired head of Gender Studies. "I wonder why your department has the least number of women of any on campus." She fixed him with a stern eye doing a spot on impression of a maiden aunt who's 'mind is vicious'

At first Carl thought she was joking but his tentative smile quickly faded. "I'm sorry. I guess I was a bit out of line." He looked so sad and uncomfortable I wanted to go over and give him a hug. Like most science nerds, he was shy and awkward, probably at the tail end of one of those spectrums. A childhood's worth of bullying had made groveling in these situations his default state.

Too little too late. Brianna refused to be mollified. Not when an opportunity to lecture presented itself. She went off on a tirade about consent, rape culture and even that tired cliché, The Patriarchy, that not even a glass of wine quickly proffered by Joel could extinguish.

"How do you expect boys to act like gentleman when girls refuse to act like ladies?" Lilian, interjected with a condescending smile when the monologue had swung around to drunken frat parties and rape accusations. "Women have always been the gatekeepers of sex, this is why we need to make sure we don't lose control of our feminine power. The sexual revolution has not been our friend." Lilian was known for the four inch stilettos she taught in and her controversial research into evolutionary biology. Her smug nostalgia for what amounted to, under the gloss of scholarship, 1950s gender roles irritated me almost as much as Brianna's grim sexlessness.

"Blaming the victim as always, I see," Brianna countered bitterly. And the debate went on.

For the next hour, we listened to Brianna and Lilian each try to outdo the other at marching us all back to the Victorian era. I silently dug into Joel's excellent boeuf en daube, annoyed it wasn't getting the attention it deserved. All the men around the table were looking down at their plates in shame not daring to do more than pick at their food. All except Lilian's husband Sergei, but then he's Russian.

"What do you think?" Brianna turned to me. I guess since I owned a successful business and out-earned Joel by a health margin I was expected to side with her.

I looked over at Carl who was doing his best to become part of the furniture.

"Did you know rape baiting is a thing?" I just wanted her to shut up so we could all go back to slagging Donald Trump and maybe enjoy some tiramisu and brandy. "Look it up. Just the other day some girl on the Internet was talking about going to a bar, pretending to be drunk and teasing some guy into losing control."

Everyone looked up in stunned silence as if I had just confessed to murder.

"Really?" Lilian leaned in a little, ostensibly shocked but obviously salivating. She probably had a stack of cheesy bodice rippers hiding in her underwear drawer in spite of her intellectual pretensions.

"We all know that rape is an extremely popular fantasy for women. I believe over fifty percent admit to having them which makes me suspect the actual number is much higher. Maybe it's some women's version of climbing mountains or jumping out of planes"

"That's absurd," Brianna huffed. "Are you trying to tell me women are asking for it?"

"I don't think it's that easy to rape someone who's determined not to be raped." I shrugged. Of course I knew this wasn't entirely true. Not by a long shot. But I wasn't thinking of some poor girl in a third world village somewhere or a knife wielding psycho's victim. We were talking drunken college boys barely able to find their half finished beers let alone their zippers, hardly life threatening situations. Even the 'rough' online porn I've hunted down on occasion was usually pretty tame. In almost all the cases the girl had to help her assailant along by 'accidentally' moving aside her panties or maneuvering herself into that choke hold. Most men, from what I've seen, are reluctant and inept rapists.

"First of all," I explained, not really knowing where I was going with this but forced to continue by the shocked silence of our guests, "you have to hold the rapee down while getting her pants off. Then you have to get your pants off. All the while forcing her legs apart and making sure she doesn't wiggle out of your grasp. It seems like a lot of work for something so freely offered in these permissive times. That's all I'm saying."

"That's utter bullshit," Brianna puffed out her dumpling of a chest in outrage. She was bound and determined to prove women were weak and stupid.

If someone had said something, if Joel had told me to shut up and go get dessert or had laughed it off as 'that's my crazy wife', I would have stopped right there. But everyone was staring at me, mouths more or less hanging open. There was nothing to do but plunge down the rabbit hole.

"Ok, how about I prove it." Angry now, I downed the last of my wine and stood up. "I'll bet the bottle of Lagavulin 1996 Distillers Edition sitting in our liquor cabinet that not one man at this table can get access to my...ahem...lady parts...without my consent."

Now I'd done it. Joel glared at me like an angry cat and all the other men looked helplessly at their wives for instructions on how to act. The evening was about as uncomfortable as a social event was ever going to get.

"Come on. Who's up for it?" I challenged because it was too late to back down and the not very nice, spiteful me did not want to.

"What an very interesting idea," Lilian graced me with a condescending smile. "I think you'll have to pick someone to start though." For obvious reasons none of the men were eager to volunteer.

"How about Sergei" I gave her husband a flirty grin. "If your don't mind that is, Lilian. I think he's the strongest so we'll only have to do this once." Sergei was the only one there who wasn't doughy or Ichabod Crane thin. He obviously hit the gym on a regular basis. His waist to shoulder ratio and the way he squared his back when he stood betrayed a solid athleticism. Like me he was out of place. I wondered what he did for a living. Maybe construction or Russian mafia.

"You are welcome to him," Lilian offered magnanimously.

Sergei was not so sure. He got out of his chair after some prodding and stood beside me, big calloused hands hanging down by solid thighs in that classic gorilla stance.

"Alright," I said. "Try to get me on the ground with my pants off. Bonus points if you can also get yours off at the same time. Can't have a rape if the man can't get his cock out to do the job." I smirked at Brianna. "Let's go."

Sergei looked at Irina for permission to start, or maybe permission to stop, then half heartedly grabbed my arm to force me to down. I planted my feet and resisted. "You're not very good at this," I mocked him. "Good thing we're living the twenty-first century or your DNA would not get very far."

He laughed nervously and tried a little harder. Now I could feel a bit of strength in the tension of his arms. He actually managed to force me to the floor. With a hard twist of my hips and a shove I almost got away before he threw his weight on top of me. I bucked, kicked at his shins, tried to bite his hand but he had me pinned down good. He used both hands to lever my arms above my head then locked his left forearm across my wrists using right hand to fumbling my zipper. He wrangled it down eventually and tugged my jeans half way over the hump of my ass cheeks.

He wrenched the fabric down a few inches while I clenched my legs and squirmed under him making him work at keeping me under control. He was breathing hard his face turning a little red with the effort. I almost told him it might be easier if he flipped me over but that would be against the rules. "Fuck!" He was really struggling now, not laughing at all. I wondered what Lilian was thinking. Maybe that sex tonight was out of the question. Or maybe that it would be a little hotter than usual.

We grappled for a good five minutes, him holding me down while trying to get at the prize between my legs, me doing my utmost to make him lose his grip. Finally, he got my jeans down to just above mid thigh. Bracing himself, he took a stab at wedging his knee between my legs but they were still bound together by denim, my pussy all but inaccessible. As he tried to figure out what to do his left arm slackened. I jerked my arms free, reared up and rolled out from under him. Quickly I jumped back and pulled up my pants undoing all his work.

"Forget it," he said getting to his feet in wry defeat. "That's a lot of trouble to go to for a fuck. Or even a pricey bottle of whiskey." He sat back down beside Irina who gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

After this, the party wound down quickly. All of a sudden everyone was tired and had an early class to teach. Overly polite goodnight good nights were said and I was left alone with Joel and the leftover tiramisu that no one had wanted a second helping of.

"Why do you always do that," he whined turning off the lights in the kitchen. In spite of everything he had not neglected to stack every dish in the dishwasher which was humming quietly. "You do know that in this climate it could very well mean the end of my career."

"Oh come on." I poured myself one last drink from the almost empty wine bottle. "Besides, I make enough for the both of us. Don't worry. I'll take care of you." I meant it to be funny but suddenly it sounded a little cruel.

Without a word, Joel spun around and went upstairs. When I came to bed a little later, the room was already dark.

When I came up after a last drink he was already in bed.

Well, that's just fine. I roll over turning my back on him too and pull my half of the covers around me like a cocoon. I close my eyes and slide a hand between my legs. I'm too wound up to sleep so I do what I always do on nights like this.

1

Joel and I are walking home after dreary dinner with some colleagues of his at a fancy place downtown. Normally we would take a cab but its spring and home is only a few blocks away.

We come to an overpass spanning some railroad tracks that divide downtown from the up and coming neighborhood where we live. We pause at the top as we always do and look out at the bay. There is no traffic and the only lights come from the docks below. Joel moves to hold my hand but I start down the other side moving just quickly enough to avoid him. I'm thinking I need a drink at that small craft distillery that opened up just a few blocks away from us. They have a tasting room where they make cocktails with things like elderflower syrup and juniper.

We are almost on the other side when I see them. There are three of them. They are loud with wide shoulders and a drunken swagger. As we pass them one of them bumps into Joel.

"Hey! Watch it," one of them says.

Joel grumbles and the man stops, circles back. He is about to say something. Then he sees me and smiles. He looks down at my breasts leering. "You know your girlfriend has great tits."

"She's my wife and her breasts are none of your business."

"Is that so?" The man's friends join him. They surround us. I notice how big their arms are, and their hands. One of them is only wearing a t-shirt. Both his forearms are covered in tattoos.

I should say something. Make a joke. De-escalate. But Joel has that 'I got this' look on his face. He puffs himself up as if he had a y chromosome to stand on. He says something witty that causes the men to scowl. It has not gone over their heads like he hoped. They are big but not stupid.

"Please excuse us." He takes my hand and tries to lead me past them but one of the men just steps into his path solid as a wall. He reaches out and cups my breast experimentally brushing a calloused thumb over the nipple. Something deep inside me tightens. "Nice," he grins.

Joel hauls his arm back and swings at him. He misses and then he's on the ground a knee planted in his chest.

One man pins his arms behind his back. The other two drag me off the street and under the overpass. They throw me down onto a greasy pile of cardboard. Zippers snarl and belt buckles jingle. They pry my legs apart and reach down my top to scoop my breasts out of my bra. They pinch and grope finding all the tender spots to bruise. Finally one kneels between my legs while another one straddles my face. The third holds Joel so he can see.

A slap pops my mouth open. "Remember, no teeth." A hand around my neck serves as a warning.

The man who is holding Joel gets tired of being left out. He punches him in the stomach and laughs as my husband doubles over in pain. "Don't move," the man tells him. "Unless you want your wife to have a couple of new holes for us fuck."

They take turns using the holes I already have for what seems like an eternity. They empty their balls in my pussy, ass and mouth, and also on my tits and face. Each has about three loads in him. By the time they zip up and leave I'm a sticky aching mess.

Joel is still on the ground. He is crying. I help him up and lead him home.

2

Another night. Joel is struggling with his dissertation and I am feeling too young to be cooped up in our fourth floor apartment with its tiny balcony and dusty windows. I stub out what I promise yet again will be my last cigarette and breath in the June air. It holds a delicate promise of something I can't quite find a name for. Without a word I slip out leaving Joel to his dreary intellectual pursuits.

I head out into the streets walking one way then another randomly. I find myself down by the docks. There is a bar that is in transition from legitimate dive to faux dive hipster joint.

I go in, sit at the bar and order a drink thinking how great it is that I live in a time when I am free to do this.

Someone sits next to me. I glance over and meet a pair of green eyes in a good natured face. The guy is in his late twenties with dirty scarred hands and a little stubble. I look him over slowly from his mud covered workman's boots to his wide shoulders and short cropped hair. He smiles and nods hello.

I let him buy me a drink and then accept when he offers me another even though he is now having to hunt for change in his pockets. I thought Joel and I were poor but this guys is real people poor. I let him lean into me as I sip the vodka tonic he managed to procure wondering if he just spent tomorrow's lunch money. He tells me he lives a few blocks over. The rent is still cheap, for now.

We talk. He tells me a out his job on some road crew. I tell him I manage a Yoga studio which prompts a question about my theoretical flexibility. Furtively, my gaze sweeps across his broad shoulders and down to his flat stomach as he sips his beer.

Now we are outside for some reason. He is holding my hand and leading me down a side street to a basement apartment in one of the doomed houses that droop behind rotting fences. There is a bench and dumbbells in the corner, and a sink full of dishes that look like they haven't been done in a while. The couch is sagging and grubby but I sit on it anyway.

He grabs a couple of beers out of the fridge and plops down beside me. It's a matter of mere seconds before his arm snakes around my back pulling me into his sweaty chest.

We make out for a while. He pushes his tongue into my mouth with little finesse and gropes my breasts a little too hard in his eagerness. He looms over me and starts pushing me back, putting his a hands under my skirt, tugging at my tights.

I clamp my thighs together and push his hand away like every good girl I know has been taught to do.

He strokes my hair, kisses my neck, slowly returns his hand to where it was. I let him for a while, then shake my head and push him off me. I do this a few times each time letting him go a little further. I can feel his cock against my leg, solid as a bar of iron, the tension in his thighs like piano wire, like a high note sustained over an impossibly long period of time. How many women have done this dance hoping it would go further than they were allowed to admit wanting.

I sigh and wriggle out from underneath him reaching for my shoes. Before I can put them on a hand locks around my wrist. I am pulled back, flung down on faded cushions, pinned and helpless, free to struggle against the mass of muscle and bone that is twice my size and maybe three times my strength. He manages to get my panties off with one twist and stuffs them in my mouth as I open it to scream. It only takes one hand to hold me steady while the other undoes his zipper and forces his cock between my legs.

My face is smothered in his chest. I smell sweat and concrete and beer. Something about the way he fumbles me like a hormone addled eighteen year old makes my cunt throb with need. I look up into his eyes as he thrusts into me, daring him to do his worst. I am floating in a pool of gin and tonic absorbing his violence and hatred and lust.

It's embarrassing how wet I am, how his brutality ignites some matching call in me. I bite his arm earning myself a slap across the face and then another. I've crossed a line and unleashed something that can no longer be contained. I struggle and kick until he slams forearm across my neck and puts his full weight on me. Now all I can do is fight for breath while he takes what he wants.

He lasts a lot longer than I think he's going to, bruising me inside and out, humbling me, showing me how weak and stupid I am, how easily conquered. He pounds me into the dusty sofa, bites my nipples until they are raw and bleeding, flips me over and shoves himself in from behind, spanks me hard, drags my arms back and grips my elbows to pull me onto his cock.

He is a wild animal, unstoppable in his lust and rage. A crescendo, a long pause held, a pulse of cum in my pussy and he false back stunned. He sits up, dropping his head into his shaking hands.

I put on my shoes and pick up my purse. He won't look me in the eye. "Don't worry." I give him a chaste kiss before I leave. "I wanted it."

3

I am waiting at a deserted bus stop. Its almost 1 am and I'm exhausted. Eight hours on my feet serving coffee and then cleaning. And I have an early class tomorrow. All I want to do is be horizontal for a little while.

Like an idiot I have refused a ride home from the manager only to discover my usual bus stops running at eleven. There is a later one that I sometimes take but the stop is a thirty minute walk away and then another forty-five minute wait. Its late October and I'm nearly frozen by the time the last bus finally pulls up.

I get on and sling my backpack down on the first seat hunting in the side pocket for my wallet. My heart starts pounding. It isn't there. Maybe I left it at work. Maybe I dropped it on the way here. Either way I'm fucked. I smile at the bus driver hoping he's in a good mood.