“I know girls like you,” he said nastily, pinning me down, “I know just what you want and I’m going to give it to you.”
“Oh, I’m shitting myself.” Sarcasm may not be the best response to a rape threat, but I’m not the sort of girl to back down.
He wasn’t the sort of rapist to let sarcasm stop him. Dragging one of my wrists to the other, leaning his weight on them both with one hand, he reached down below me and stroked the curve of my bottom beneath my panties. Sure enough, I wasn’t filling them, but his rough treatment had made them wet, and it wasn’t urine.
“See, that might have stopped me. But since all you’ve done is lubricated ready, I guess you really do want it.”
Maybe my body did, but my brain entirely disagreed. I couldn’t stop him but I could at least let him know my real views on the matter. Bringing my knee up from between his changed the look on his face, the leer vanishing in a noisy explosion of air. As his eyes closed tightly around the tears already starting to form I gave him a verbal response too. “I really would rather shit myself than have sex with you.”
His eyes opening again, he stopped wincing, leaned away from me and as I saw that spare hand of his starting a long looping swing towards my head heard, “Well, in that case.”
Which may be why I woke up like this, padded mittens fastened at the wrist and tied to wooden bars either side of me, where I lay, knees held firmly apart by something between my thighs, and a bloated internal pain demanding relief. I looked down, saw the plastic coated bulge, realised the only way I’d get relief. Too late to offer sex now, and in a few seconds nobody would want it with me anyway.
I moaned through the gag between my teeth that I couldn’t spit out, tensed the right muscles, granted my body the relief it was demanding. As the rank smell reached me I looked to the side, spotted him sat there, gently nodding at me.
“It’s all right baby,” he said, “I told you I’d give you what you wanted.”