You might think that a thirty-five-year-old woman living in the Nineties would have gotten over the emotional baggage she'd carried since her teenage years. But not even years of therapy have been able to dispel what happened to me then. It wasn't for lack of trying. I'd spent a fortune for the dubious pleasure of lying on a couch telling a stranger my life's history. And still could not resolve the issue that continuously burned in my head. I was almost raped when I was 15.
Almost. Attacked, yes. Entered---not quite. It happened in a run-down part of the city where I shouldn't have been to begin with. Fortunately the would-be rapist was interrupted by a passing policeman. He made a run for it, and got away as the cop tended to me. Eventually, the officer calmed my hysteria--- but I never was able to erase the image from my mind.
Even today, replaying the scene over and over, I can feel the bastard touching me, smell his after-shave, taste the mintyness of the toothpaste on his breath. And any little thing can trigger a re play: a news story, a man wearing the same aftershave, anything.
But it's not the replay that I have struggled with the last 20 years. It's not the reason I've spent thousands on therapy. The real problem is that I hate myself for what I feel every time the image is triggered. Because I want him.
Oh, true, a part of me wants to rid my mind forever of the memory. But another part of me burns to have it happen. To feel him pushing in me. Feel his hard cock filling me. Hear his grunts, his moans. Feel him moving, pumping, plunging--- and then jerking, squirting, spurting up inside me!
Why? God! I only wish I knew. Try as I might to erase the loathsome image, a part of me responds with highs of such erotic intensity that I can almost come just from the image of him fucking me.
I've struggled for so many years to come to terms with these feelings. Like most women coming to adult hood in this day and age, I'd had my share of lovers. But, until Marc, I never felt I loved. Always, the spectre of that almost-rape loomed up between me and genuine intimacy with a man. I wonder now--- had I not met Marc, would I ever have been truly happy?
Marc was different. I met him 5 years ago, and from the start, it was as if I had found a long lost friend. We were harmony. We hit the right notes together. From the start, we could talk for hours and never sound off key.
The sex between us was music sent from heaven, and remains so to this day. It was a relationship that seemed too good to be true. And as it moved on, the memory of the rape was pushed farther back in the distant corridors of my mind.
It wasn't gone. I still recalled the scene and felt the guilt---and the excitement. No matter how close we became, or how much I came to trust Marc, I always kept from him that one vile secret of my past. I think he sensed there was something between us. He'd hinted around the edges, but had never confronted me, had never even pushed. He was so kind, so caring, so willing to let me keep my unopened, secret door inside me.
And, in the end, that's why I told him. It just sort of spilled out of my mouth one night And once started, it was like a raging torrent. I couldn't stop. The hurt, the anger, burst from me like poison from a boil lanced. I purged my mind and body of my memory.
He held me close. We talked for hours and then made love. I told him how the thought of it still excited me. He understood! He actually understood! I had shared the most intimate secret that I had with the man I loved. And more than merely accepting it, he'd understood.
We made love--- truly, love--- all over again. It's now a subject that we can openly discuss. We sometimes even fantasize about it. I almost think it turns on Marc as much as it does me. By accepting the emotions that it conjures in my mind, trying not to analyse and fight them, I've begun the long journey up the path to feeling whole again--- to becoming again the composed and rational woman that I pride myself on being, without the alter-ego of a woman with a dark and guilty secret. The journey wasn't over. But it had surely begun.
And then, one night, it happened. After a long and stressful day, I fell into bed exhausted. Marc followed. I cuddled close to him, and drifted into a deep contented sleep. What happened then was such a shock to my senses that I remember it now as if it's happening again.
Suddenly, without warning, I'm awake and Marc is leaving my side. Through the haze of sleep, I sense that something is wrong--- terrifyingly wrong! But what?
All too soon, I know. There's an alien presence in the room. Marc is struggling, fighting, cursing. A bedside lamp crashes to the floor. The wall-switch light snaps on, blinding my night-filled eyes. Then, as my vision returns, I see a man standing at the foot of the bed, holding his hard, erect cock in his hand. Two other men are tying Marc to the rocker with clotheline, and gagging him with duct tape.
My pounding heart bolts to my throat. I start to scream but a hand clamps over my mouth. I try to bite it but I can barely breathe, and in my ear, a guttural, menacing whisper breathes, "Shut up, bitch!"
Terrified, I do. I see them clearly now--- three men in ski masks, radiating a beastial lust so menacing I fear my heart will stop. Moving swiftly, they take my arms and bind my wrists. The one with his hand on my mouth says, "I'm going to let you go. Don't make a sound ,or you'll regret it to your dying day."
"Which may come sooner than you think," snarls a second man.
