by Karen Bell
Abruptly, he sat up, raised the crop and brought it whistling down between her thighs where moments before his mouth had been. The searing heat of the cut, sang and radiated to every extremity, to her forehead, her toes and back again. The pain was excruciating and yet Mila found her body riding a wave of reaction that couldn’t be stopped. She cried out as her back arched and her muscles clenched and released in a rolling thunder previously unknown.
For those seconds, Mila felt completely crazed. She wanted to swear at the man kneeling over her, to spit at him, and bite him hard for making her feel such simultaneous pain and pleasure but she writhed against the tethers and found no give. He laughed loudly before clapping his hand over her mouth forcing every emotion to reverberate within her small frame.
He waited for the movement to stop beneath him and eventually her breathing slowed and she was still. Eyes closed, Mila was light headed and faint.
‘So we have a lively one,’ he taunted. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many frigid bitches there are out there.’ Mila instinctively recoiled from the implication behind the statement.
‘But I didn’t give you permission to come so soon and I’m not even close to finishing yet. So now I’m going to have to teach you another lesson.’ Robert’s eyes flashed steel and Mila’s blood froze in her veins. She didn’t dare to utter a syllable.
He scanned around the stall as if searching for inspiration and his gaze settled on a half empty hessian chaff bag. ‘Perfect,’ he spat and he stood up to retrieve it from the opposite corner. As he stood, Mila saw that he was still very much aroused. He tipped out the contents of the bag and walked back, looking briefly at his watch as if he may have another engagement to attend. ‘Still early.’ he commented, ‘Pony rides will be continuing for some hours yet.’
He dropped the bag and began to undo his belt buckle before purposefully lowering his jeans and boxer shorts. Mila had never seen a man’s penis before but she knew that this one was looking for action. It was like a snake levitating over its prey. Mila was both enthralled and disgusted at the sight of it and quickly looked away.
‘I don’t believe you’ve ever seen a cock before,’ he commented, ‘and I don’t suppose you’ve ever felt one either so there’ll be a few firsts for you to experience today.’ Mila didn’t have time to wonder what he intended with the chaff bag because in that moment he picked up her head and pulled the sack down over her face. She immediately began to cough and choke as the chaff dust flew into her throat and nostrils.
‘Please… please no…’ she spluttered, a cold fear lurching through her. In an instant all desire was gone, replaced by sheer terror. She was a prisoner, naked and bound with a bag over her head, in a locked van, in a remote part of a very big park, several hours from any kind of rescue. She began to hyperventilate, which only made it worse.
‘You’ve had your fun and now it’s my turn,’ he hissed. ‘Stop whining and you won’t suck in so much dust. If I hear a word more from you I’ll make it worse.’
Mila became immediately mute. She closed her eyes and tried to go to another place in her mind. She expected him to rape her and gritted her teeth in resolve, but nothing prepared her for the searing pain of the hard handle of the crop forcing its way into a different unexpected place. She bit her cheek hard, as he pushed the crop deeper before lying over her and forcing himself inside. Hot tears rolled from her tightly closed eyes. She felt herself drawn and quartered, as the thrusting went on and on, her mind separating from her body as if she were an onlooker to, and not the full recipient of this pain.
From within the bag, Mila felt his face close to her ear, every stab punctuated with a grunt of exertion, and a litany of filth; names she’d never even read before. She felt darkness envelop her as the torture dragged on, and just as she thought she might lose consciousness, he pulled out of her abruptly. She heard him grunt and shudder and felt a hot wetness spread over her belly. It ran down between her legs and burned the torn skin.
She remained silent.
When it was done, she heard him getting dressed. He was lecturing her, from a place that seemed far away and Mila forced herself to focus on the words lest they be important for her survival. He was reminding her that she had asked for it, and that it would be their secret. He told her that although he’d enjoyed himself, she wasn’t his type. He made it clear that if she told anyone what had happened, he would deny it and that they would believe him, because he was the son of a minister. He untied just one hand, instructing her not to remove the bag over her head until he was gone. He didn’t want to see her face again.
Mila heard his steps across the hollow floor. She heard the door creak open and slam shut. Still she didn’t dare move. After a few minutes of total quiet, save the birds chirping outside in the trees, she was finally convinced he was gone. Only then did she free her numb arm and rip the bag off her head, sucking for air before coughing up the chaff still in her throat. Her whole body ached and she willed herself not to vomit. She allowed the tears to flow and between her sobs, she worked the buckles and leathers from her ankles and pulled herself up gingerly to retrieve her clothes. She had to take off her ripped bra and she used it to clean herself, wincing with pain as she dabbed at the torn and bloodied skin. She held the railing as she pulled on the remainder of her clothes, each movement a supreme effort. She stuffed the torn bra into the pocket of her shorts and once dressed, roughly smoothed her hair and put on her hat, hoping to shield her red and swollen eyes. She robotically returned all the bridles and tethers to their racks on shaking legs, and finally went back to that corner to collect the saddle.
She opened the door to blinding late afternoon sunshine and staggered down the steps. It seemed an endless journey back to the pony ring and she stopped several times as her emotions overcame her. At some point she buried her bra in the sandy soil.
Mila knew the definition of rape, the one that invariably involved strangers and moonless nights, back alleys or hitchhikers but those situations were clear-cut, not like this. Had she, in some way asked for it? She had flirted with him – at times shamelessly – but never, in her wildest fantasies had she imagined that her advances could lead to this. It’s too late to go asking these questions now Mila. What’s done is done. Get up and get over it, besides, who would you go crying to now?
CHAPTER FIVE
The send off for Robert Taylor was held at the home of his parents. They had hosted several wakes for congregants in the past, but of course Mila understood it felt entirely different for them this time.
‘Four years old or forty, you never stop thinking of them as your child.’ Mary’s voice sounded small as a child’s herself, and Mila’s heart went out to her mother-in-law despite knowing an altogether different truth about the man she was mourning.
Mila had busied herself in the two days since his passing, cooking up a storm of Russian pastries and cakes, just as her mother would have done. Keeping busy, had helped keep Mila’s mind off all the greater tasks at hand.
When Robert had been taken ill so suddenly, Mila had become, more than ever, the dutiful wife. He had collapsed one morning after breakfast, leaving Mila wondering how long he would otherwise have kept the diagnosis to himself. It was stage-four pancreatic cancer; the prognosis was grim.
She and Robert’s parents had kept vigil at the hospital bedside, day and night. Holly had her university finals in Melbourne, so Mila had an excuse not to tell her for two weeks. To Mila’s way of thinking, the less suffering Holly witnessed, the better.
At first, Robert had spoken of nothing important and it seemed too soon for Mila to broach end-of-life subjects. Then, as he quickly deteriorated, talking had become impossible. Anger gave way to agitation but never made it to the point of acceptance, let alone remorse as far as Mila could tell.
He was in continuous and tremendous pain, and despite all he’d put her through, his blood curdling screams left her feeling wrung out at the end of each watch. Eventually, the palliative specialist had
sufficiently upped the cocktail of pain medication to take the edge off it, but Robert remained in a semi-conscious state of purgatory that was dreadful for his parents and Holly to watch. On the brief occasions when he’d come out of it, he hadn’t been able to communicate with Mila at all, his words and thoughts slurred by morphine.
In the end, it had been necessary to come to terms with his imminent death in a very brief space of time. There had been no talk of finances, funeral wishes, regrets or unfinished business, and when he was finally released, everyone, was relieved to see him pass.
Mila was going to have to find his post box and tackle the bills that had likely been accumulating for some six weeks. It was a task she dreaded since Robert had never allowed her to handle any of their business affairs. He had justified keeping her in the dark by reminding her that there was no point in teaching her how to do something that he could do with far greater competence and efficiency. He had used his profession as an excuse, but the underlying implication was that Mila was not responsible enough to handle anything other than the most menial domestic duties, or money greater than her pitiful allowance. Finances did not fall into the category of ‘women’s work’ according to his interpretation of the Bible.
Then of course there was the sorting of his clothes and possessions, which thankfully Holly had volunteered to do. It would be heartbreaking for her daughter, and Mila would not let her tackle it alone. She had been surprisingly attached to her father, given how little quality time he’d spent with her.
There was one task Mila was dreading that would be far more disturbing than opening a pile of innocuous business mail. Each time she had passed the padlocked door to the basement, she had felt the hairs stand up on her neck and arms. She had yet to search through Robert’s personal possessions for the key. She knew she wouldn’t be able to put the job off forever but for now, Mila simply could not face the sinister contents it held.
When Mila was very small, she had thought the world and everyone in it had been created as a backdrop to her happy existence. Even coming to Australia, and initially being ostracized for her difference, she had retained her innate optimism. So sure was she that good things happen to good people, that even on the day of her marriage, aware of what she’d known about the groom, she still believed that her love, her devotion could turn him around. It had taken a full three years to convince her otherwise.
Mila’s life perspective had shifted gradually like giant tectonic plates. The negativity, the cynicism, the undermining of her belief system had crept up on her and become a pattern in all her internal dialogue. Now Mila was unsure of who she was or what defined her.
Catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, that day before leaving for the funeral, she had squinted slightly, trying to see herself as others might. She was still slim and her skin smooth, though she thought her expression looked overly weary for a person not yet in her mid thirties.
The wake was exhausting for Mila who was more used to shrinking into the furniture rather than being the centre of attention. She tried to retreat to the kitchen but the ladies auxiliary kept shooing her back to the living room. One after the other, she was approached by acquaintances and virtual strangers, who looked at her with great pity and whispered hushed words of condolence. She felt like a fraud and counted the minutes until she could excuse herself. Marvelling at Holly’s natural grace and courage under fire, Mila was grateful that her daughter had inherited only the best traits of both her parents.
Life can change on a dime, Mila thought to herself. It had done then, and perhaps it could do so again. How clearly she recalled the day she’d learned she was pregnant and even more vividly the moment that Holly came into the world.
CHAPTER SIX
It seemed crazy in hindsight that she hadn’t put two and two together, but her period had been irregular at best before that day and she had spent the seven months since, throwing herself into her schoolwork and her gymnastics with such focus that she was unaware of her own presence. Even when her coach had noticed that Mila had ‘filled out in the bust’ more than was desirable for a gymnast, she hadn’t twigged, but she was annoyed that despite practically starving herself and training for four hours each day, and six on weekends, she still couldn’t see any definition in the muscles of her stomach.
It was her mother who’d first shown concern when she’d noticed how pale Mila was looking and how prominent the bones of her jaw-line and wrists appeared.
‘I think you train too hard Milushka,’ her mother said one night over dinner. ‘You look not vell. Is everything okay?’
‘Of course. Everything’s fine.’ She’d replied with some irritation ‘but you know the nationals are only another three weeks away and I still have to stick my dismount on the unevens since we’ve added the extra twist to the back salto. Also, I’m stressing over my mid year exams because I haven’t had as much time to study as usual with all the training.’
‘Maybe you vant more lessons from Robert? Ve could manage this.’
‘No!’ Mila had spat, a little too quickly. ‘I mean I don’t have enough hours as it is.’
It was week later, when Mila had fainted during a training session that her mother had insisted on a visit to the doctor. Mila had tried to blame the heat and stuffiness of the gym but given that it was July, and the middle of a Sydney Winter, her mother was hearing none of it. The result of the blood test had come as a shock to them all.
‘But she cannot be pregnant. She is still virgin.’ Her mother had stopped short even as the words left her lips and she’d turned to her daughter in disbelief. Mila was speechless but the look on her face was enough.
‘Where? When?’ Her mother had switched to Russian; a sure sign that she was distressed.
Mila answered quietly. ‘Robert Taylor.’
‘The minister’s boy?’ her mother had gasped. She nodded. ‘Your father will kill him. Did you want to…be with him?’ she’d asked euphemistically.
‘No. Yes. I mean I don’t know,’ Mila had cried genuinely. ‘Does this mean I won’t be able to compete in the nationals next month?’
The doctor had raised an eyebrow, ‘Well I should think not. The tests show you to be about seven months along. You’re going to have a baby in eight to ten weeks.
Mila had been sent for an ultrasound to confirm the health of the baby, then she and her parents had spent the next two days absorbing the shock before calling the minister and asking to see him. Without giving explanation, Mila had begged her parents not to bring his family into it, but they would hear none of it.
There had been a lot of tears and plenty of soul searching for Mila. She’d had so much to consider and so little time to do it. Her parents had briefly suggested sending her to a place for unwed mothers so she could have the baby, give it up for adoption and pretend the whole thing never happened. But they soon realized that she was determined to keep it, and after much discussion they’d relented. They themselves had struggled to conceive and had almost missed their chance at parenthood. They couldn’t deny Mila this baby. Regardless of its inauspicious conception, they would have to make the best of things and as far as they were concerned, that meant Robert Taylor should step up to his part in all this and make an honest woman of their daughter.
The meeting at the minister’s house did not go well. Mila, on pins and needles in anticipation of Robert’s arrival could barely sit still but had no choice, flanked by her parents on one sofa with the Taylor’s sitting opposite. She kept her eyes downcast while her father delivered the news. The gasps from across the coffee table said it all and needed no further witness.
‘At risk of sounding… disrespectful, are you certain the baby is Robert’s?’ asked Mary Taylor.
‘Yes.’ Mila had replied in the smallest whisper.
Just then, the front door opened and Robert waltzed in before taking in the scene and stopping short. Mila had not seen him in all that time and she wished desperately to disappear into the furniture.
‘Well Hello Mr and Mrs Korovin, Mila. How delightful to see you all.’
‘You’d better sit down Robert since this concerns you,’ his father said. ‘There’s no way of sugar coating this. Mila is expecting a baby and we are told that you are the father.’
‘What?’ he spluttered, ‘It’s a lie! I mean she’s obviously lying I haven’t even seen her since last year. It’s not mine. It can’t be.’
‘Did you or did you not sleep with this young lady? And son I’d ask you to think carefully about your response.’
Mila stole a glance in time to see Robert looking his father square in the eye. ‘I did not.’
She gasped.
‘Would you like to say something Mila?’ the minister asked gently.
‘I… I’m not a liar… I can prove it,’ she answered almost inaudibly.
‘Prove it?’ he repeated.
Mila leaned over to her mother and whispered something in Russian. Her mother blushed deeply before collecting herself.
‘Your son he has a …’ she searched for the word, ‘how you say… a birth mark, that Mila could otherwise not have seen.., if you understand me.’
The minister appeared to understand alright, as did his wife.
Robert leapt up, outraged. ‘You little tramp. That still doesn’t make the baby mine. Who knows how many others you’ve slept with.’
‘That’s enough Robert. Go to your room. I’ll talk with you later.’
‘What am I? A five year old?’ he screamed. ‘She won’t trap me. It’s the ‘90s God-damn-it.’
‘No. You’re a twenty-six year old who is about to learn the meaning of responsibility,’ came his father’s reply. ‘And you’d best stop talking before you dig this hole any deeper.’
Robert stormed out of the room leaving a very tense silence.