Raped By Invitation

Cold white wine, depression, loneliness, the internet, and the evil little spark inside myself that, after a storm of those three things sweeps over me, seeks reckless, heedless self-destruction.

So I invited a stranger to rape me. And he did.

Took the day off from work today. Probably inevitable when you watch the dawn leak up through your bedroom curtains with your wrists tied behind you, a cold, sopping gag in your mouth, some stranger's come clammy and thick on your tits. Oh, and hungover, rope-burned, eyes red-rimmed and aching. Desperately needing to piss. Struggling to your feet, tottering to the toilet. Sitting awkward and painfully peeing with arms tied behind, urine dribbling down your thigh when you stand because you can't wipe it away.

Walking to the knife where you'd told him to leave it online before he came to your house at 2 a.m. and gracelessly chopping yourself free, scraping your abused wrists as you do, drawing a little blood.

Yeah, probably a personal day.

....................

I had fewer takers than I thought I would to a drunken, seemingly sincere calling all cars for freelance rapists on the "adult" site that's my escape valve most nights. There always are—which isn't a bad thing, in the long run. I try not to take it personally, anyway. I figure if there's a rape enthusiast online at 1 a.m., he's not going to be picky about belly rolls and wrinkles. Or so I tell myself. I weed out the newbies with hardly any information, and the illiterate—not looking to be murdered, or bored with some unimaginative sexual assault roleplaying. Nothing duller than a boring rape, am I right, ladies?

Also weed out the overly solicitous, and the concerned. And one judgmental bitch now on the blocked list—go join Christian Mingle, tight cunt. Why are you even here? I'm not looking to be analyzed—I have people for that, and pills. I know what I want.

In the end, he was not the result of some long vetting process though, but a war of booze and attrition. Nights, early mornings are a dangerous time for me these days. I've deliberately, or again heedlessly, thrown myself into some fucked up shit in the wine-soaked wee hours. And that's what this was—I've teased up to the edge of this before, but there were some serious differences this time. For one thing, I actually did it. I—after we had a series of weirdly businesslike exchanges about my limits, backed with promises of copied emails and bullshit assurances that there was someone who knew what I was up to. (There wasn't—I'm still pretty new to this city, and I have no one I could call at 2 and tell, "Hey, I'm leaving my door unlocked so some strange man can walk in and rape me.")

My limits are mine—obviously, no murder. I told him anal was out (it's pretty rare I feel confident enough to allow that.) And that he couldn't film me, or bring along friends. You know, and no robbery, no cuts, no murder (always good to stress that.) I got him to send me a series of pictures, which I saved on my computer‚and printed out and saved and hid. I supposed he could force me to tell him where they were with torture, etc. But, in my whirling, drunken state of who gives a shit, I felt I'd gone far enough.

I almost backed out a hundred times—it'd be easy. Shut the computer, double lock the door. He'd be left alone and frustrated and furious and I could fall into bed and masturbate myself sore and be at work the next day.

Instead, almost as an afterthought, I sent him my address, and instructions to get in. I bought a condo last year, but I chocked open the door to the shared entryway after I hit send and finished, ridiculously, tidying up my bedroom. I caught myself in my dresser mirror, an armful of tossed clothes and underwear, and let out a laugh. I didn't recognize it and dropped the dirty clothes in a heap.

How does this work? Why? What am I doing? I poured more wine and slugged it. I peed twice in rapid succession, and thought about showering—he'd told me he was at least 20 minutes away. But what if he's lying? What if he going to surprise me and I'm in the shower? Jesus—more wine—I felt myself hyperventilating and forced myself to breathe. A half hour. A hundred times moving to lock the door. I drank, I held onto the door frame and watched my fingers turn white and start to shake. My body was shaking. I felt a screaming anxious moving knot in my stomach, in my womb. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. And then the sound at the door. Then the inner door opened. I closed my eyes and stood in the doorway, as if in terror. Which it was.

He grabbed me without a word and his hand was over my mouth before he stuffed the clean pair of black panties I'd left as a signal—as starting flag—over the front doorknob, into my mouth. He'd told me he'd bring what else he needed, but I was still shocked when the rasping of duct tape roared in my ears and he stuffed my mouth and wrapped it. I kept my eyes closed as I told him I would—if I were going to play this out, I would go all the way. You don't let the rapist know you've seen his face. You see his face and he will have no choice but to kill you after. After he rapes you. This is what I've invited into my home, my little safe home. A rapist. A stranger. I think all this as I'm thrown onto my stomach onto my rumpled bed and I stop racing my mind only when I cry out when he—all according to my sloppily scribbled script—feel him wrench my arms behind me. He has rope—thick rope, it feels. He pins me and I struggle, because I want to feel that I fight, I'm a fighter. I don't want this, I don't want thi—

When he springs off me, he binds my eyes with a blue bandana. I can see the blue. I kick out, partly so he'll tie my legs, partly because I want to kill him. It's easy for him to do this then—I've lost, but, trussed hand and foot and mouth and eyes, I kick and scream and wriggle and shriek. I probably came, if I could separate the pain and fear and pleasure I was feeling in the brutal frenzy of it all.

He was nothing special to look at online. Big, a belly. A beard and glasses. In the flesh, he smelled like sweat lathered with a quick shower and cheap soap. His breath, when he leaned in to brutally kiss my taped mouth, tinged with toothpaste, and some sort of beer. I felt a rush of panic again—is he drunk? Oh God, what if he's out of control? What if this is how I die, I thought, and felt cold sweat simply drench my armpits, my back under the plain old t-shirt I'd worn. My cunt felt icy, the wetness that had risen freezing suddenly in my oldest pair of panties. I needed him to cut them off me, of course. I'd even laid out a knife, a steak knife, wondering as I laid it on my night table, if this is what would be used to kill me. I just drank down my wine and put it aside anyway.

Now I was trussed up, gagged, blind. Helpless. I told him to do it. He did it. He cut off my clothes like a wild thing, leaving them tattered on me still in places, one half of my panties I felt looped around my thigh, the ragged ends tickling my crotch. He stood and was gone. I breathed and heard him undress.

Then he raped me. Hand in my cunt first and making me scream. A hand—strong, but soft—in my hair while he digitally raped me. Then his hands hauling my ass in the air and suddenly he was in me in one thrust and I screamed and screamed. Neighbors I know can't hear much—and if they can, they're used to me getting fucked (by someone else or myself). It hurts and I scream and he jams his hand over my gagged mouth and rides my ass, his other hand keeping me pressed back against him. He comes in a short time—I'd felt the condom I'd demanded—and I sunk the the bed when he let me go.

It was a little disappointing then. Lying in my ropes and ripped clothes, a pair of panties in my mouth, I felt... embarrassed? Frustrated? I breathed and wondered what now. Fear started to climb again. What comes now. I try not to betray my disappointment, thinking I'd make this stranger angry. Thinking about the knife, wondering where he put it. I breathed. I'd got what I wanted.

He hadn't said a word. He still didn't. He just hurled me on my back with effort—I'm a big girl. And thrust his fingers inside me again. I heard him breathe heavy, wheezing. I felt the rush of violation anew. He finger-raped me, made me come that way. Then he cut my ankle ropes, pried apart my kicking legs, went down on me while hurting my thighs with his hands. Slurping at me, groaning in something like rage as he did. I came for real then, letting my imagination make me scream in gagged humiliation Coming while being raped. Shame shame shame. Shame.

He raped me with me on my back, my bound hands hurting and numb under me. He lifted my thick thighs over his shoulders and it hurt and I felt my belly jammed up in triples and I cried then. When he was done again, he threw my legs down hard. It felt like disgust. I felt tears on my face.

He manhandled my cunt again for a long time. I had no idea, but I felt like he wanted to fuck me again, but couldn't. So he went down on me again, brutally. Licking and sucking my clit while he thrust all his fingers into me, and twisted 'til I was grunting just trying to block out the pain and humiliation when I came again.

He spanked my ass. Again, maybe trying to get hard again—he was a little older than me. Maybe he couldn't Longer pauses. Heavier breathing. He finally traced the knife over my breasts and tummy, then at my throat. I'd told him that was how this ended, but found myself terrified anyway. I heard him breathe harder, and worried further when I realized he was jacking himself off with the knife to my neck. His hot come finally spattered my chest.

But then he dressed, kissed my taped mouth again, very very hard. Then he was gone.

Now I am here. The night after the morning of. My doors locked. Double locked. There's pain, and I find myself crying a few times. I checked—he wrote to make sure I had gotten free. I told him yes, but cut off when he seemed about to talk further. Not now Maybe not ever.

Now there's wine. And I stray my hand to my cunt here in my bed. It hurts. I stroke myself anyway.