Rape

by Marcus Van Heller

  The sun was showing deep, short shadows as I watched from my pavement seat on the narrow street, Olsa's car glide into the curb. The rays gleamed and quivered in a sheen on the bonnet and with a cognac or two coursing through my veins, I was reminded of a similar day, similar feelings in a golden Sussex field not long before.

  The spin of desire, coiled and whirled in my loins as Olsa's long, slim legs swung out of the car, mockingly revealing the cool white of thigh above the cobwebby stocking-top and the gloom of concealment higher up under her skirt.

  We shook hands and I held her long cool fingers for a moment.

  "I'm pleased to have an aim return to my life," I said.

  She smiled and replied bluntly: "Still trying to seduce me?"

  We had another cognac and then she drove me off towards Neuilly to meet "the man who might have work for you."

  Now that my obvious desire for her had become an open joke between us, I had no compunction in making advances to Olsa and it occurred to me suddenly that I could gain some pleasure from her lovely form at the very moment without her being able to do much about it. I slipped an arm around her slim shoulders as she drove.

  "Better be careful," she warned. "Paris traffic is far from safe."

  In answer, I impudently insinuated my hand between the folds of her open jacket and began to stroke her thrusting, sweater-clad breasts.

  "How can you be such a fool-we'll crash," she cried.

  "Not if you attend to your driving," I laughed.

  Gently I rubbed and fondled the tight bursting melons of flesh and the large-pointed nipples which I could feel voluptuously hard through the tightly stretched wool of the jumper.

  "You're really quite ridiculous," Olsa snapped, not knowing whether to be angry or amused.

  "You can't blame me for seizing an opportunity when your hands are full of something other than an automatic," I retorted.

  She laughed and relaxed at that, presumably deciding that she could permit such a minor liberty, had, in fact, little choice. I continued my fondling of the glorious mounds until near the end of the journey.

  It seemed to me that Olsa was melting towards me, but for the moment I contented myself with the upper part of her body. I don't trust women drivers at the best of times and was inclined to think-like most short-sighted men-that I valued my life more than sexual pleasure.

  We eventually drew up, with Olsa's beautiful face looking a little flushed, in a smart side street in Neuilly and at the touch of a button were let into a first floor apartment as luxuriously decorated as any I had ever seen.

  Light peach colour was the motif with carpets and rugs of flame and red. The furniture was of an extremely simple and effective contemporary design and every modern comfort and convenience seemed to have been installed. I thought it an excellent and comfortable place in which to enjoy the having of Olsa. But not for the moment.

  For as we passed from one tasteful room to another, a slim, dark-suited man with the lightly darkened face of a high caste Indian, rose lithely to his feet and came towards me smiling.

  "Mr. Crawford-I'm very pleased to meet you," he said in beautiful, brittle English. "My name is Douglas Jaswant."

  We shook hands and I bowed slightly while Olsa watched us with an inscrutable face. It occurred to me suddenly that this was the man she professed herself in love with and I looked at her sharply. As if she guessed my thought, her eyes seemed to twinkle and I half expected her to protrude a neat little tongue at me from her lovely lips.

  "I'm afraid on my instruction that Olsa was not very explicit," Jaswant went on. "If you'd care to sit down and have a drink, I'd like to tell you a little more about our proposition.

  Settled with our drinks we looked at each other attentively.

  "Since Olsa mentioned you a few days ago," Jaswant began, "I have taken the trouble of looking into your work. May I first of all express my admiration ... "

  About an hour later after the Indian had sounded my views on morals, ethics, the making of easy money, the willingness to take risks, I began to get an inkling of what the game was. Deciding at last that I was "safe," he came right out with it.

  "Mr. Crawford, we have a business, a very lucrative business. We sell modern masterpieces to rich clients, whose artistic judgment is not all that it might be, but, who, I might add, trust ours implicitly. Needless to say these masterpieces are masterpieces only of imitation."

  I pursed my lips and he went on.

  "Painters willing to perform the delicate and, to a minor extent, risky operation of out-Picassoing Picasso are, of course, not easy to find. Our last operator died a month ago of tuberculosis and our business has been declining ... "

  "What are you offering?" I cut in-and he smiled.

  "A man of quick decision is what we want, Mr. Crawford. Olga was right about you."

  An hour later I had instructions to the last detail, a number of Picasso originals and a generous advance.

  For the next few days I worked in leisurely but steady fashion, telling Monique that a friend wanted the copies as presents for his relatives. After initial difficulties I managed to produce more or less exact copies and Jaswant, whom I would contact at another apartment off the Boulevard Malesherbes, expressed himself well pleased.

  I found a certain satisfaction in the work, did not neglect my own entirely, and completely forgot the reason for my hurried flight to the continent.

  I needed no self-deception to realize that Monique adored me. It was there in her brown eyes, in her words, in her desperate, all-giving lovemaking. But I never had any difficulty in carrying on with my new work or visiting Jaswant as she was intelligent enough and trusting enough not to ask too many questions about my frequent outings.

  When I had been in Paris about a month, Jaswant announced his intention of flying to America. He had been negotiating, he said, and had certain sales for many thousands of dollars. I was not surprised to hear this, being well aware that he liked to sell as far from his environment as possible and picked his clients very carefully.

  I had seen Olsa, of course, on a number of innocuous occasions, mainly with Jaswant. It was obvious she was in love with him and probable that he was, reluctantly, with her, although he treated her like a classy whore-doubtless part of his fascination for her. They did not, it appeared, live together and I fancied that Jaswant preferred to be able to withdraw to his apartment near Malesherbes from time to time.

  My desire for Olsa continued to grow and I think she derived some satisfaction from this. It helped to compensate in a small way, for the indifference of the Indian.

  Jaswant left by plane from Orly Airport late one night and from then on Olsa and I had frequent coffees and lunches together although she continued to evade my more serious advances.

  When, a week or so later, we had news of Jaswant's impending return, I began to get desperate. I could no longer look at Olsa, her aloof, taut-skinned beauty without feeling my loins in a whirl, my penis stirring in a warmth of longing. I just had to have her to avoid a feeling of failure, that something wonderful that I desired was lost to me forever.

  The night before Jaswant was due back, I made some excuses to Monique and met Olsa for dinner. Under her cool surface, I sensed a nervous excitement at the thought of her lover's return and I took advantage of this careless flush to ply her with wine and later brandy. We both drank quite a lot, Olsa more than I, and I had, myself, to take the wheel as we drove back to her apartment. Olsa was so flushed and high-spirited that she did not question my coming in with her and, as I switched on a table lamp, the warm peach of the walls and the flame of the rugs reflected in the half-light on her radiant features, her warm, laughing eyes.

  "I feel wonderfully whoozy," she laughed, kicking off her shoes and flinging off her coat before skinking unsteadily into a deep armchair.

  "Let's have a final for a good night's sleep," I suggested, pouring out two tumblers half full of whisky.

 
"Oh, that would be too much," she laughed, a tipsy break in her voice. "I shouldn't be able to stand."

  "Nonsense!" I put down the glass in front of her and swigged mine.

  "All right," she said, with a grin. She picked up the glass and drained it, seeming unaware of the considerable contents. "One more can't hurt."

  One more probably made all the difference.

  Olsa rose unsteadily to her feet.

  "I'd better make some coffee." she said indistinctly.

  I looked at her in the warm peach glow, her long black silk dress hugging her body. The skin tight material out-lined her breasts as they seemed to try to break through to the air. It fitted under them, stretched tautly over her ribs, nipped into her waist and then swept out again tightly around her long, slender hips. As she moved her long svelte body away from me towards the kitchen, her dress wrinkled around her bottom, tightly fondling it, seeming to offer a buttock with each step she took forward. My face felt feverish. Tonight I must have her.

  "Mind you don't mess up that beautiful dress," I said.

  "Oh, yes." She tried to gather her thought for a moment. "Better take it off" she said. "Better change it."

  She bumped into a table and I rose and stepped quickly across the room to her

  "Steady," I warned, catching her, with my arm around her waist.

  "I'm all right," she murmured, looking at me with a faraway smile in her eyes.

  "You're not. You're going to fall over at any moment," I said, briskly. "I'll help you."

  We moved towards the bedroom door, feet muffled in the thick carpet, and my hand slid down onto her smooth, firm hip and rested lightly against her rump.

  Olsa didn't seem to notice, and I kept my hand there as she walked, feeling her flesh move under the silk, feeling the separateness of her buttocks, as first one and then the other slid and pushed against my hand as she stepped slowly and carefully forward. My penis was just a painful sensation pushing against my trousers and as we reached the door of the bedroom, I reached around Olsa to open the door. For a moment she sagged back against me and the mound at my loins was crushed against the crease of her buttocks. I held her waist with one hand and pushed gently against her as I opened the door. She didn't seem to notice and we passed into the bedroom.

  I was hot all over and, once in the room, I began to unzip her dress down the side.

  "It's all right, I can manage," she said.

  "I can manage," she repeated as I ignored her, but then she stood, helplessly, eyes closed, while I pulled the dress over her head.

  "Get my slacks," she said. "Slacks ... there in the ... in the wardrobe."

  I maintained a firm, busy, matter-of-fact voice as I said: "Well you can't put it on over your slip. Have to take that off."

  I lifted up the slip and Olsa seemed hardly aware of what I was doing. "Christ, you're drunk," I thought. "How bloody lucky."

  When I pulled off the slip my head all but swam with the unbearable sight of her beautiful breasts tightly enclosed in a brief, black brassiere and her hips, buttocks half revealed, swathed in thin black briefs below which her stockings showed off a pair of strong, graceful legs which would have shone in any chorus.

  "Better sit down a moment," I suggested. "Yes. All right," she breathed through half open lips. "In the wardrobe...." She lay back on the bed, eyes closed, superbly ready for the taking, for quenching of my loins. I was afraid for a moment that she might pass out and, as I prefer a little animation, for or against, I slipped quickly out of my clothes. My penis shot stiffly through the aperture in my pants and Olsa's eyes opened vaguely.

  "In the wardrobe...." she said. And stared at me. She half rose and her legs spread, slightly, revealing flesh and a wisp of hair under the thin strip of silk hiding her vital citadel which I was all set to take by storm. Her eyes fastened on my rugged erection.

  "No, no!" she cried. "How dare you think you can...." Her voice faded into a cough ... "Oh my head. Leave me alone."

  I whipped off my pants and the remainder of my clothes and stretched nakedly on the bed beside her, my penis throbbing erectly across her round thighs.

  When I kissed her, she tried weakly to push me away, but I caught hold of her blonde, sleek hair and crushed my mouth on her soft, well-defined lips, smelling the fresh smell of her tight smooth skin mingling with the pervading aroma of the whisky. My hand ranked over the tightly-drawn skin of her ribs and rose abruptly over her flimsily-covered breasts, fondling, fondling the soaring mounds hardly hidden from me at all.

  "Oh, no, no, no. Let me go. Please let me go." Olsa murmured, trying vainly to push my hands away.

  Her thigh stirred against the tautness of my painful desire and I pulled off the little, black brassiere exposing her beautiful, firm ovals of flesh crowned poutingly by her large redly-waiting nipples. I kissed her neck, running my lips down over her smooth, warm, white shoulders, swept to her breasts, pressing my mouth against the vast firm whiteness, their sensitive summits. Olsa, aroused in spite of herself, from the wine, the caresses, now clasped my head, now tried to push it away.

  I felt more emotionally moved than I could remember before. This superb woman with whom I felt so in tune lying half-helplessly, all but nude before me, fighting herself, fighting me for some unnatural reason which only she herself knew. I wanted for the first time in my life, to feel completely at one with a woman.

  Gently I drew down her briefs, so gently she hardly realized what was happening. Tightly sucked from her hips, slipping more easily over her long thighs falling away to her feet and to the floor.

  She lay panting slightly but cool-looking, contained within herself something from all the beautiful women who had ever been painted and something unique.

  "Olsa, Olsa. You wonderful creature. My God." I moved my lips down her body, smoothing them over her hips, her flat little tummy, her thighs. Her legs fell apart and I buried my face at their curving junction. This, the secret part of her. The part that would appear mountainously inaccessible to most men seeing her clothed, superbly beautiful and poised, climbing down from a plane, getting into a car, walking down the Champs Elysees. My tongue flicked out to bury itself in the soft, moist recess. She groaned and drew abruptly away, wriggling her long warm hips up and out of reach.

  "No, no, no, no." She opened her eyes and they implored, but I could allow no sentimentality to frustrate such a wonderful experience. My hand brushed up her calf, stroking the slenderly-muscled firmness of them, on over the slim inside smoothness of her knees, up the thigh and suddenly off the texture of her stocking to the buttery flesh of her bare thigh. I drew my fingertips over it, reveling in its yielding texture while my lips sank into the haughtily tilted breasts.

  My penis throbbed and, unable to stop myself, I pulled Olsa's long, cool fingers down to enclose its heat. At the touch of her hand entwining and gently squeezing it, it seemed to breathe life of its own, jerking at the touch, raging like an electric drill. I moved my chest over onto her breasts, feeling the velvety roundnesses imprinting a soft pattern on my flesh, stroking her unhollowed shoulders.

  "We must stop," Olsa whispered suddenly, but as if she were now an accomplice. She made a brave effort to pull herself together.

  "You darling," I murmured. "It's too late now." I swung over onto her and she closed her legs quickly, trying, still, to push me away. My rigid organ penetrated between her tightly pressed thighs, squeezing between the milky, firm flesh which was forced to yield sufficiently to receive me. Overcome at the pressure, I raised myself gently and then sank hard between her thighs, feeling my skin pulled painfully but wonderfully back at every downthrust.

  "Open your legs, darling," I ordered, more gently than the fierce relentlessness of my passion warranted. In answer Olsa tried weakly to slide from under me. She succeeded only in making her defenses more precarious and I insinuated my hips forcefully between her thighs splayed on either side of me. I kissed her again, a-tingle from my knees to my belly,
my body pressed hard onto hers while I rubbed my hips against hers, savouring the delicious agony before I would sink my rod into the sweet hole which wriggled in an attempt at evasion. The hole, if I may use the vulgar expression, which men have desired from time's beginnings, which is in fact, woman's only consistent source of power. And here was this beautiful woman, shorn of pretences and social trappings, back to a primitive equality, about to be dominated savagely, crushed with me in a close intimacy, made to receive my stiff flesh into her most intimate being.

  "Don't, don't. I feel ill." Olsa made a last appeal which choked in her throat as I stabbed the thick tip and a couple of massive inches of penis moistly into her.