The Female Response

How did it come to this? Emily was lying naked on the bed wiping ejaculate from her face with a cotton sheet, which she resented as she had only just put fresh bedding on that day, but she wanted the stuff off her. Her date for the evening was already getting dressed, indifferent to her and anxious to leave. Emily felt nauseous and disorientated. Watching him button up his shirt as he hummed to himself, she wasn't really sure what to do first.

Emily felt she needed to challenge him, ask him how they got to this. The last thing she remembered was sipping a vodka and tonic in a pretentious and déclassé restaurant that he had vouched for. So why were they here, right here, right now? How did he know where she lived? Emily had to inwardly admit he was handsome and impressively dressed and groomed.

She may have slept with him willingly after a few more drinks had made his banal and grandiose conversation tolerable. After all, she was in her late twenties and didn't want to be in radio forever. No, she would not have performed fellatio on him, but she would have in all likelihood let him fuck her in the missionary position if he'd consented to licking her pussy.

He was ready to leave now and still he didn't look at her. Emily sat up and covered her tits with the quilt. It had been like a jump cut in an art house film. They had been drinking in the bar and there was a shock edit, suddenly she was being fucked hard with her legs over his shoulders and he was clutching her breasts hard. She had been in something of a daze so the best she had been able to offer was a weak smile. He had dripped sweat on her and told she was a dirty cunt. She was too shocked to offer any response so she just lay there while he joylessly ground his cock into her.

You're getting pumped good and hard bitch he had told her. This wasn't meant to pan out this way, she thought. She was a smart professional young woman, confident and assertive, with a decent job as a news reader and occasional reporter for a provincial radio station of modest standing.

He worked as a media rep for a big football club and she had met him at a PR event linked to its sponsors. If she was honest she found him physically attractive but boorish yet she recognised his potential usefulness to her career so she allowed herself to be flattered and agreed to a 'date'. And now here they were. He had his coat on now and was barking into his iPhone. The taxi would be ten minutes he was assured. Earlier, he had grown weary of fucking her as, despite his cajoling, she vacantly stared past his leer and pretended she was dead.

Indulging her long suppressed gothic streak, she imagined herself being ravished at the inception of algor mortis, a starlet in a crime scene photograph. He was annoyed by this studied unresponsiveness so he fucked her harder and pulled at her nipples. In her state of disassociation Emily thought of the pair of shoes she wanted to buy over the weekend.

She got paid today. Next he was waving his cock in her face, commanding her to suck it. Emily closed her eyes tight and clamped her lips shut. He held her roughly by the hair while he finished himself off on her face. Burying her head into the bed sheet to remove the semen from her countenance, Emily heard him release a strangulated fart and stifle a giggle. He was now ready to leave. A text message told him his taxi was now outside.

He bid her a two word farewell. For the first time since the restaurant they stared at each other directly. He initially looked awkward but then dissolved into laughter. Emily just looked at him in a lifeless manner. He took a picture of her on his smart phone, and checked the quality of the image, which she presumed was a useful record of her bathetic appearance as this action precipitated another mirthful flourish.

As she heard the front door slam shut she made her way to the bathroom and headed straight for the mirror. Emily's face was coated by a melange of smudged make up and drying semen. It was now evident to Emily that her attempt to clean her face earlier had not been successful. Her eyebrows and forehead were still laced with his gelatinous issue. The reflection caused Emily to gag and she rushed to the toilet to vomit. She wanted to cry and scream but whatever took her from the restaurant to her bedroom stopped her.

Emily drank a bottle of mineral water then climbed into the shower. On the floor of the cubicle she assumed the foetal position and let the cold water hit her tiny frame hard. She was like that for a long time. Then Emily put the shower on its hottest setting and let her face go scarlet under the shower head. After that she made her cheeks and forehead bleed with the vigorous application of an exfoliation brush. Finally, Emily settled down on the sofa, not being able to return to the bed.

Emily was overcome by a nightmarish feeling of estrangement from her sense of self, what she was just a few hours ago. She spent the hours of darkness fitfully, anguished by her inability to assimilate the reality of what had happened yet intermittently slipping into a chemical torpor. Emily in her more lucid moments that night gazed deeply at her reflection in a hand mirror but she couldn't do it for long as her eyes, eluding her rule, travelled away from the representation.

In the morning Emily awoke with the last words he spoke to her quickly resurfacing in her consciousness.

"Spunk chops."

Emily still could not surrender to her primal instinct to scream and weep. She put this down to whatever predator shit he had doped her with at the restaurant. Emily assumed it was Rohypnol and she still felt its influence, feeling divorced from physical reality to the point of abstraction. It granted her a certain degree of objectivity which she guessed was some sort of blessing, however disquieting.

Surely, Emily thought, I should be catatonic with eyes raw from weeping or consumed with rage and vowing revenge. Yet no, she felt sedated, a little queasy still, and with a somewhat tender vagina. Her anus communicated no pain to her so she took it that he had not tried to sodomise her while she was unconscious. Another bleak consolation was that it was Saturday so she was spared the horror of contacting work to inform them of her absence.

She had no plans so she had till noon to begin to try and function, when her mother and friends would expect texts and calls, Facebook updates and tweets. Emily had managed to put fresh underwear on and a baggy sweatshirt she mooched around her flat in but she soon needed the sanctuary of the sofa again as she felt woozy and her motor skills were impeded.

She wanted to go to the kitchen and get some water to satisfy her desperate thirst but the prospect of her staggering helplessly with no co-ordination and the attendant dizziness kept her pinned to the sofa. Christ, she thought, how long was this going to last? And then a feeling of terror washed through her as she considered her return to experience not filtered through a pharmaceutical fugue, when the ire and desolation would strip her bones clean. Emily stared at the ceiling.

The drugs no longer held sway and a sense of revulsion was growing within her and hatred. Emily considered his sheer temerity. Maybe he pulled this shit all the time on pretty and desperate careerists. She might still get a job offer out of it, who knows, keep her saccharine sweet. He'd not marked her physically or climaxed in her, he'd not made it necessary for the police to be involved, in that she hadn't been in need of medical treatment or engaged the interest of outside parties.

It was flattery in a way, thought Emily. You are strong enough not to go to the police if I drug you and rape you, you do not want to be tagged a victim, you do not want the trauma of a court case with a first class legal team subtly dismantling you in front of the jury.

Or it could have been he had wagered everything on the drugs keeping her comatose till he'd finished with her and gone or relied on the amnesiac properties attributed to date rape shit to fuck her mind like he had her body. She'd heard that date rape drugs sometimes evaded detection in blood tests. And there was the picture, which she wasn't sure whether he took for a souvenir or as insurance she would keep silent.

Emily remembered confronting her reflection in the wake of the sex and feeling her soul being sucked out of her, yet knowing if the picture was distributed some people would find it comical. He did. Was that why he took the picture just before he left, was it just too good to ignore, even if it potentially incriminated him?

The kind of JPEG you got on shock sites under the tagline 'Jizz bib' or something. Imagine. The image that greeted her, which held such power it cut through the narcotic haze fogging her brain and made her puke, going global, available to all. And imagine. Her face spattered with cum out there with a possible audience of millions, which wasn't a fanciful assumption due to the size of the sports franchise he worked for and him being a minor celebrity due to a flair for self publicity and a carefully developed media profile as a dependably useful idiot.

No, thought Emily, unless he had some kind of fatalistic impulse he would not distribute the image or share it. Who could you trust to keep quiet about that? He could have took a whole gallery of pictures while she was out stone cold, he could have filmed himself pistol whipping her face with his prick or stuck things up her pussy. Just for jolly. He fumbled for his phone from his coat pocket after he had come and it didn't fit that he'd take multiple pictures and put it back before fucking her it would mess with his sex jag.

It was opportunistic; she was sure, an added bonus, a picture of her as used goods. He owned her body and mind. Not only had he violated her physically he had destroyed her assiduously cultivated self image as well, of being the smart and professional woman, maybe a little aloof, but flirtatious when there was a chance of career advancement.

Now she was spunk chops. The guys she worked with loved shit like that, sniggering as they shared pictures of what they deemed gross, bizarre or funny pornography, old men fucking young girls, morbidly obese women screwing skinny young men, scatological high jinks and 'funny' porn out takes in amongst the usual suspects and lolcat inanity. She remembered one the producer of her show forced her to watch and how he scrutinized her reaction. A girl, who looked in her late teens, skinny with bad skin and peroxide hair, was rimming a fat hairy guy and he breaks wind point blank in her face. She calls him an asshole and chases him around the room.

The clip was tagged 'fart face'. This way back when she was at university being interviewed for a work placement at the station and it stuck in her head how he regarded her, almost pleading with his eyes for her to laugh. So she did a guttural emission that placated him and she got the gig. Emily was in and would soon be doing the traffic and weather updates when the woman who normally did it got ovarian cancer.

Emily painted her bare toenails bright red and took a picture of them. She had a friend who worked in a high school teaching English. The friend had told how easy access to porn infected children. You had twelve year old boys talking about bukkake and anal fisting and asking their female classmates how they gave blowjobs while they dry humped their chairs.

It was a hardcore world now, infantile and misogynistic. She thought of him fucking her last night and almost felt a twinge of compassion for him, there was something truly abject about the way he fucked. The dirty talk, the porn aesthetic he imposed on proceedings, the exaggerated, rabid growling noises he made when masturbating on her face. Like he didn't know what to do so he was copying how porn studs fuck.

And what am I, she thought, now? Just another desiccated cunt who has took a pounding. She started to shake uncontrollably and it frightened her how she had relinquished control of her body. Was this what an epileptic fit was like? Then it comes, at last. She weeps and she bites a cushion so her shrieks don't echo around the flat. Emily gazed at her bright red toenails. How do I get beyond this? thought Emily. I can't do it. Then she thinks of spunk chops and hardens. I will get beyond this. I am no one's death dolly.