by Mike Rhynard
Emily lay still, sobbed, trembled with dreadful anticipation; she felt her heartbeat and breath racing, the wet warmth inside her, the hardness of her breasts and nipples. How can I feel so? I’m sinning, giving myself to a man I hate, ruining my life. Forever a whore. Hell awaits me . . . body, mind drunk with uninvited pleasure, must resist, hate him, love Isna . . . Mother . . . dear Lord . . . please help me.
His hand again lifted her skirt and smock, this time to above her waist. He caressed her inner thighs, found the lips, the small, firm organ, fondled it sparingly, tenderly, then continuously, spread the rising dampness inside her entrance.
Emily panted, sensed her hips moving with his touch, the wetness inside her, the lips swelling tight around his fingers as they probed within her, her heart’s runaway pounding, tension gripping her entire body; she reviled the moment but couldn’t exorcise the insatiable, burning desire that flooded her mind, heightened her senses beyond pleasure. She craved something but knew not what. Losing my mind, something must yield inside me lest I die. My God, make it stop. Forgive my indulgence. My senses, no control, can’t stop the feeling, wild ecstasy, something must happen. Oh, God, don’t let me enjoy this so. Make me hate it. I’m a whore.
Tayler suddenly removed his hand from between her legs, hastily unbuttoned the small flap at the front of his pants that covered his throbbing cock. As it burst free of its enclosure, he rolled over her onto his forearms, gently nudged her legs further apart with his knees, moved forward until he touched the wet lips of her entrance, moved the tip of his prick in a slow, small, circular motion, then pressed it gently forward until it entered her.
Emily felt him inside, felt herself moving with his motion, wondered why it didn’t hurt. Hate myself. God, stop him. She felt him increase the pressure as he penetrated deeper, met a barrier, felt him push harder but enter no further, then withdraw slightly. Perhaps God stopped him; perhaps he cannot enter me; perhaps—a sudden, hard thrust pressed into her maidenhead, jarred her senses with a stab of pain; she groaned loudly as the barrier tore, allowed him to surge deep within her to his groin; their bodies pressed firmly together as one. ’Tis done, a virgin no more, a slut. God save me. She moaned again, felt him pull back, nearly withdraw, then thrust forward again as far as he could go, then again, and again, and again, quicker, ever quicker. She felt their panting, their hearts pounding together, her insides tightening about him, her hips rising to meet each thrust, heighten the pleasure. She gasped for breath, unthinkingly squeezed his back, clawed him with her fingernails, wrapped her legs around his. Sweat drenched her body, rolled off her forehead and cheeks; she sensed a strange, acrid odor, heard herself moan loudly, felt her mind and senses suddenly falling through the air. She arched her back, pulled him close with all her might, felt his warm, surging seed shoot deep within her. A euphoric sense of well-being immersed her body and mind like a gentle flood of warm water; her tension yielded to limp exhaustion.
Tayler emitted a long sigh, delivered four more slow, weak strokes, lay silent for a moment, then rolled to her side.
A moment later, wispy inklings of anxiety drifted into Emily’s mind like the opening scenes of a bad dream; tears again filled her closed eyes, trickled down her cheeks; she whimpered softly as she pushed the front of her skirt down to her knees. Betrayed you, Mother . . . Isna . . . Father. Betrayed myself. Should have fought, died. A filthy whore without worth. Never face you again. Life . . . future . . . gone forever. Must die . . . shall die.
Chapter 18
Allie screamed, sat up, popped three electrodes off her head. Her hair was wet and matted, clothes soaked with sweat. She hung her feet over the side of the bed. “That dirty bastard! He raped her . . . just pinned her to the ground and raped her.” She sighed. “God, I’m whooped.” She started to stand. “Whoa . . . dizzy.”
Ginger said, “Hang on, Allie. Don’t do that. You’ll trash yourself and the equipment. Stay put.”
“That rotten sonofabitch! Damn him to hell!” She sat on the bedside. “Get me out of here! I can’t handle this anymore!” She flailed her arms, yanked at electrodes.
“Allie, stop. I’ll get them. Come on! Settle down!” Ginger started removing electrodes. “Guess we’re done for tonight, huh?”
“Damn it!” she screamed. “Get this stuff off me!” She popped off two more electrodes, groped for others. “Need some air!”
Dressler walked into the room with a pill and a cup of water, approached Allie as she tried to push Ginger away. “Allie, stop! Settle down. Here. Take this. It’s a sedative. It’ll relax you, help you get through this. You’re really upset.”
Allie stopped flailing, looked into his eyes; she abruptly burst into tears, blubbered, “He raped her, Steve, just out of the blue. He raped her, said he’d kill Virginia if she didn’t let him do it.” She swallowed the sedative. “My God!” She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close, laid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed.
Dressler softly patted her back. “Hang on, Allie, you’ll be okay. We’ll get you through this. Now take it easy, try to relax.” When her sobs tapered to random whimpers, he eased her back onto the bed, caressed her cheek as if she were a child who’d had a nightmare. “Let yourself unwind, go to sleep; hopefully, you’ll wake up before the first REM, shouldn’t dream anymore.”
Allie looked up at him with sad, basset-hound eyes, let them slowly close as her breathing relaxed to normal. A moment later she slept.
Dressler looked at Ginger. “Watch her closely, Gin. Buzz me immediately if anything happens.”
“I will, Doc. Wow, that was wild.”
“What happened?”
“She was really into it, moving her body all over the place, like . . . like . . .”
“Like what?”
“Like she was having an orgasm. Never seen that in the lab before, but . . .”
“Such things do happen in dreams . . . further evidence of her extraordinary tie to Emily. So while she’s out, how about checking the data against classic orgasm readings to validate it?”
“Sure, Doc . . . poor kid. Really hit her hard.”
Emily wore a clean smock, sat by the fire in her otherwise dark cottage, glanced at her sleeping father. Breathing fast, she thought. Strange gurgling, rattling sound . . . like he can’t breathe. She looked back into the fire. He must never know what’s happened to me. She still felt dirty, emotionally spent, morally barren, permanently fouled, damned to hell without hope because of the pleasure she’d felt. For the twentieth time in the two days since the rape, she mentally replayed its final moments: her dramatic release, Tayler on top of her, then rolling to her side.
He’d lain quietly beside her while she cried softly and both caught their breath. Finally, he’d turned toward her, reached over, caressed her cheek. “Emily . . . my Emily, I . . . I love you, and I’m deeply sorry this happened the way it did. I didn’t want it to be like that. I truly love you and need you . . . but at least you seemed to pleasure in it . . .”
Her eyes had flipped open; she’d looked toward him, spit at him.
He’d recoiled, stared at her in surprise.
She’d rolled away, again closed her eyes, whispered, “Leave me, Hugh Tayler. Never touch me again. I hate you, and I shall kill you.”
He’d hesitated, finally stood, buttoned his codpiece. “ ’Tis nearly dark. I should escort you back to the village.”
“Leave me. I shall find my own way.”
He’d stared at her for a long moment, finally turned away, then looked back at her. “Emily, you must tell no one what’s happened here. It cannot be disclosed, and I shall do what I promised if anything is said to anyone. I know you understand. Again, I’m very sorry about the manner of this.” He had turned, walked away toward the village.
After he’d left, Emily had climbed to her feet, tied her smock, buttoned her shirt; flipped the dried leaves and grass from her hair, smoothed it; for the first time, sensed pain between her legs. She’d fluffed her dress, star
ted slowly toward the village, staggering the first several steps; cried, moaned, nearly fainted; then vomited when she thought of what had happened to her. Cringing with shame when she thought of her unwanted pleasure, Emily had shivered with guilt, despair, decided to kill herself. She’d tremored inside and out, decided to do it then. Yes, I can hang myself from a tree branch with my shirt. She had looked for a tree with a high, sturdy branch and low branches she could climb on, found one, removed her shirt, walked toward the tree, stopped, and looked up at the branch. No. ’Twould be a greater sin and the way of a coward. I am not a coward. I shall face my sin, suffer, do penance for the rest of my life, perchance save myself from hell . . . but how can I do penance if I’m a whore?
Before entering the cottage, she had again tidied herself, noticed Tayler’s dried blood on her shirt, decided to tell her father she’d cut herself and used the shirt to stop the bleeding. Taking a deep, quivering breath, she had opened the door, sighed her relief when she saw her father sleeping. She’d immediately stepped to the water bucket, quietly removed her clothes, washed her entire body, praying that the feeling of filth that racked her like a fever would rinse away. But it had not, so she’d washed herself again, then two more times before she’d donned a clean smock, walked to the fire, thrown her clothes upon it, sat beside it, then stared numbly into its soul as the clothes flamed then quickly collapsed into ashes. Like my life, she thought.
What will become of me? What will I say to Ellie, to Isna . . . Father? My guilt, my unworthiness will show. My dear Virginia. What if someone discovers what he’s done, and he does what he said? What if he comes and takes me again . . . and yet again? Oh, Mother, what am I to do? She sobbed quietly, trembled, searched the flames for answers until almost imperceptibly, a new, diminutive seed of anxiety rooted in her mind like a sudden apparition; it quickly bloomed, chilled her as if she were standing naked in frigid night air. I could become pregnant, have his child. Oh, Lord, please forbid it. What would I do? Would have no choice but to be with him, be his wife . . . his whore. Dear God, save me. Please don’t let it be. She rose, walked to her bed, reached beneath it, and pulled out a small, thin stick with notches on it. She picked up her knife, cut two notches. That’s for the last two days. She then tallied a total of fourteen notches on the stick, stared at the wall with a dazed look. Heaven help me! If I’m early like I usually am, I should start in seven days. Please, Lord, let me bleed. Please. She replaced the stick, walked to her duffle bag, opened it to view her supply of neatly folded rags. Must keep these close and ready. Lord, I beseech you, please let me bleed.
Allie opened her eyes, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then looked at Ginger with a weak smile. “Wow. Feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder . . . really whooped.” A guilty look supplanted her smile. “I was bad, wasn’t I? Like maybe a little wild and out of control?”
“You were upset . . . really upset. How do you feel now?”
“Better . . . calmer . . . still pissed . . . depressed. He raped her, Ginger, and it felt like I was being raped, too.” She looked back at the ceiling, focused on a small speck, wondered if it was a fly or a spider. “Things were way different in those days: no help, no support groups . . . just shunning and a bad future for the girl who got it. Really sucks for Emily!” She looked back at Ginger. “I feel dirty. Can I go take my shower?”
“Absolutely. The doc will be in shortly, and we’ll get ready to debrief . . . if you’re up to it. If not, we can—”
“I can do it.”
“Okay. Today’s menu is coffee, juice, and Danish. Want anything?
“Sure. I’ll take some good, strong black coffee and a Danish. Thanks.” She smiled. “Ginger, you’re a very special, patient person, and I appreciate it.” Her look saddened. “This is getting really hard for me, and . . . and I don’t know where it’s going or how I’m going to react. So thanks for being the way you are . . . and I apologize in advance for any other crazy things I do.” She stood, walked toward the changing room.
“It’s easy, Allie. I like you a lot and want to help you in any way I can.”
Allie smiled again. “Thanks, Ginger.” She walked into the changing room, flicked on the light. Funny, but I feel dirty all over like Emily . . . felt everything she felt. This is so fricking weird. She leaned her forearm on the wall, laid her head against it, felt her eyes fill with tears. Where’s it gonna end? My poor, dear, sweet Emily. Feels so guilty, worthless . . . because she’s not a virgin any more . . . and had an orgasm while being raped . . . thinks she enjoyed it . . . and sinned. God, I feel for her. She rubbed her butterfly birthmark.
Forty-five minutes later, Allie emerged from the changing room looking fresher but still a bit haggard. She walked to the data table where Dressler and Ginger sat reviewing data, sat down, hoisted her coffee cup. “Cheers.”
Dressler smiled. “Cheers. How do you feel? We can do this later if you’re not up to it right now.”
“I’m okay. Let’s get it done.”
“Alright. So . . .” His cheeks flushed pink as he nodded at Ginger.
Ginger, also blushing, said, “Well, Allie, before we get going, it looks like you had . . . had an orgasm . . . at the same time Emily apparently did.” She pointed at the data traces then at another sheet of paper. “See, here. These are classic orgasm readings. And my real-time observations corroborate it, as well. Did . . . did you . . .”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I felt every bit of what Emily felt: her terror, her arousal, her guilt, her pain, her pleasure . . . her orgasm. All of it, as if it were happening to me.” She glanced sheepishly at Dressler then Ginger. “But we shouldn’t be surprised by that, should we?”
Dressler said, “No, not at all, but . . . but we were. Nevertheless, it conclusively validates the extraordinary tie you have with Emily—precisely what we’re out to prove in this phase. And while the event itself was awful and terrifying, it gave us demonstrable, unequivocal proof that you feel, see, and experience things in your dreams far beyond the norm. But having said that, I think we should continue doing what we’re doing for at least another five days to further build our case with additional valid data sets: dream events matched to substantiating data traces. Then we can move on to other types of tests that monitor the specific brain functions and inputs we think enable your dreams. We’ll also monitor additional heart functions and analyze your genetic composition, which we haven’t really talked about yet. So the bottom line, Allie, is that while last night was very painful for you, it was a huge, verifiable step in our process, and I’m very happy about it from that perspective.” He transitioned to a frown. “But I’m also quite concerned about it from another perspective.”
A faint alarm bell tingled in the back of Allie’s mind. “I know what you’re thinking, Doc. ‘Can she handle the emotional aspects of this?’ The answer is, who knows . . . but I can’t just turn off the dreams. They’re going to happen regardless of what I want or do, and I’m going to dream bad stuff whether I’m wired up or not. So we might as well keep going and try to understand what’s happening. I mean, just knowing we’re trying to figure it out gives me hope . . . something to hold on to in the bad times.”
He nodded, retained his frown and silence for a moment. “You’re a gritty gal, Allie O’Shay . . . but you also make a good point.”
She nodded. “Good. So let’s fire up the recorder and get going . . . before I cry about Emily again.”
Over the next two hours, Allie relayed the details of Taverner’s flogging, the waning discipline of the soldiers, Henry Harvie’s death, Emily and Elyoner’s grief, Lassie’s disappearance, Thomas Colman’s failing health, Isna and his conversations with Emily, her ever-deepening respect for his Lakota values, Isna’s confrontation with the Panther and the Powhatans, his vision quest, her dream, its meaning, their kicking-ball game, their love, their uncertainty of the future, Emily’s commitment to chastity, the doeskin dress, the harvest dance, Tayler’s shocking disclosures . . . the rape.
She cried as she described Emily’s thoughts and feelings, her guilt, her desolation, her fear of Tayler and becoming pregnant with his child, her utter despair over her future.
When she finished, she rubbed her eyes, stared at Dressler in silence while Ginger shut off the recorder.
Finally, Dressler shook his head. “Amazing . . . beyond amazing . . . so much feeling, so much detail . . . and you remember everything.”
Ginger shook her head. “Wow. Just wow. What a story. You couldn’t do a book or a movie this good—so gut-wrenching, so much first-hand feeling.”
“Well, it may be amazing, but I’m sad as hell right now, and all I want to do is go home and cry.”
Dressler studied the tabletop with ominously tight lips, complicated eyes.
Allie read the look, sensed another twinge of alarm. What’s he thinking?
After a protracted silence, he looked up at her. “Allie, this session has made me question the wisdom of conducting experimentation at your apartment.”
Allie’s jaw dropped; disappointment dulled her eyes. “But—”
“It’s not your ability to conduct good experimentation that I’m worried about. It’s your potentially serious, perhaps even dangerous, reactions to additional tragic events. Think about it. What if Ginger and I hadn’t been here this morning? You could have injured yourself and possibly damaged the equipment—due to no fault of your own. But it would have been a serious setback for the program.”
Allie shook her head. “Steve, I . . .”
“All I’m saying is there’s a risk, and we need to understand it and mitigate it. Like maybe we should continue here in the lab . . . or maybe Ginger or I— probably Ginger, for propriety’s sake—should be at your apartment to monitor things when you’re asleep . . . help you, if necessary. What do you think?”
Allie saw her opportunity fading away like an old echo; she suppressed an overpowering urge to cry. “Doc, I understand your concern . . . it’s valid. But first of all, I promised I’d follow your rules, and I will.” A flicker of guilt wisped through her mind. “Second, last night was a bad time, and as you acknowledged, totally unanticipated by all of us. Now that I know what can happen and how it can affect me, I won’t let it happen. I just won’t. And third, since it’s specifically the presence of other people when I’m trying to sleep that makes me self-conscious, both continuing here and having someone in my apartment are total nonstarters. I don’t want to eat sleeping pills for dinner every night; and unfortunately, that’s what it would take . . . just like now.” Another lie, Allie. You’re something else!