I could hardly believe after the difficulty I'd had with her, her distance, that this, at last, was it. She was mine. My mind was numbed in a dazzlement of passion. Kissing her fiercely all over her finely-chiselled, sensitive face now-creased in the sweet pain of passion, I sank into her again and again. Her firm jaw thrust out in strain as my penis gouged her passage in quick, fierce, brutal thrusts. With every tight in-stab, her passage contracted around me, making me gasp with an almost unendurable sensation.
Olsa, too, was gasping and made no further effort to dislodge me. It was as if I had mastered a fine mare in the rodeo-and a fine performance she now gave. She slid her hands down to my waist and drew my hips at her with every thrust I made as if she wanted to swallow between her legs the whole of my burning, pistoning loins.
Her buttocks were in strained and hard when my palms moved under them, straining them up against me. Her thighs drew outward allowing even deeper penetration and her fine mouth opened, trembling lightly as if she were trying to pronounce words which were lost in her abandonment.
Deep, deep, deep, my loins sucked in a passionate quicksand. I felt her stockinged thighs clasp my hips, the rough texture of her stockinged calves glided over my back, ankles, locking together, her whole body straining up to me, through me, to her very toes.
Feeling the old, familiar tightness in my penis, a growing density, lost within her, I slowed to grinding pushes. I watched her face, nostrils flared slightly, mouth open in a gentle panting and I was aware that this act more than any other I had experienced was, for me, a union. Immensely greater than with so many women whose bodies I had used for masturbation.
"Olsa, Olsa ... Olsa," I repeated and her head swayed slightly, eyes half opening in a sweet longing. Words seemed to fail her as her arms clasped me pulling me into her, herself up and around me.
My hands gripped and stroked her as I rose and fell on her cushioning body. Her skin seemed to clothe her like a light silk glove, tight over the bones and the various firm mounds of flesh which covered them. I leaned the top half of my body up from her, wriggling my hips into her, feeling there was yet more of her to own if I could only force myself in to the limit.
Olsa began to groan, squirming caught hold of my buttocks, forcing me at her pelvis between thighs which were now spread-eagled at right angles to her hips. She clasped her legs around my waist again, a continuous low moaning coming from her panting mouth. She reached down, fondling my testicles, reaching right under me, exploring the rim of my anus as it swung towards her and receded.
Sweeping into her I felt my penis alive, hotter, more sweetly painful, its animal power making me grind and swivel my hips, wanting to make her feel to an extent she would never forget.
Drawing to the hot, liquid, rushing climax, I breathed:
"Now, now?" wanting her to share in this final, convulsive belonging.
"Yes, yes, now!" she breathed, fiercely, desperately, in response, animal noises choking in her throat.
In, in and with another stroke it would be ... Aaaaaaaaah ... Long drawn moans were sucked from our throats as we met in the sexual explosion, my living matter received with each of my convulsive thrusts into her soft, straining, yearning, wriggling, now subsiding belly.
I lay on her panting, dazed and breathless, kissing her firm, velvety neck while she lay, mouth open, eyes closed, face flushed, the deed, which for so long she had avoided, done. After a while we were quiet and still. We had both sobered up as an aftermath of the extreme sensation. When I kissed her breasts in a mute gratitude, she opened her eyes and looked at me with an unexpectedly cold expression.
"I suppose you're pleased with yourself," she said. She spoke quietly and her eyes were very cold. "You got me drunk. You got me drunk so that you could take advantage of me."
I got up and walked to the bathroom. I couldn't take this quite seriously.
"Don't spoil it," I said, over my shoulder. "You know you wanted it as much as I did."
Her cold eyes followed me. "I didn't want it." Her voice was chill and menacing as a snake. "I don't make love in sheer animal passion."
"Huh. You're telling me." I grinned. The self-deception of the woman. I felt suddenly satisfied, smug, unguarded and I stretched languidly in the warm shower letting the water soothe my cooling, satisfied pores.
After the warm, then cold, and then a brisk rub down which brought a reddish glow to my brown skin.
I strolled back into the bedroom, clothed in a fresh towel and Olsa, fully clothed, was sitting quietly on the bed, the same automatic in her hand, pointing as before, at my navel.
"What's this," I grinned. "Think you're in a film?"
"Better take it seriously." The hatred in her tone was unmistakable. I stopped, looking at her, the grin still on my face concealing my astonishment. Could this be the same woman, who, a matter of minutes ago had been filled by me, gasping ... Yes, now now-the same woman who had twined her long thighs tightly around me as I took her.
"Oh for Christ's sake," I said in a friendly brusqueness, moving towards her.
Her hand clenched whitely around the small gun.
"Come any nearer and there won't be anything of you left to do that to another woman," she snapped.
"But Olsa-this is a very unreasonable way of . receiving your enjoyment." I adopted a conciliatory tone.
"Yes," she said bitterly. "Enjoyment in a drunken stupor. I hardly knew what was happening and now you're going to pay for what you've done."
"Come off it. We were both in the same state and we both thoroughly enjoyed a delightful experience." I was beginning to feel annoyed at her ridiculous attitude.
In answer she backed towards a chest of drawers, eyes fixed, slightly bloodshot, on mine. With one hand behind her she scraped open the drawer and reached inside. When she withdrew her long, slim hand, it clasped the cruel-looking leather of a riding crop.
"Turn around and put your hands over your head," she ordered, coming slowly and cautiously towards me.
"Look here. Don't be so bloody melodramatic," I said.
"Christ, what the hell have you lost?"
"My self-respect," she snapped back. "I make love only when I want to, not like a hog. Now put your hands above your head unless you want me to take a few snicks out of your body."
She was controlled and somehow inexorable. I realized the madness of taking risks with her in this mood. She was just as likely to shoot me and think later. I raised my hands, turning so that I only half faced her.
"What's the idea?" I demanded.
"You'll see," she snapped and a second later the crop lashed across my back in a stinging weal.
The suddenness of her movement was her undoing. I reacted without thinking, a purely automatic reflex at the unexpectedness of the blow. Although she was holding the automatic firmly, Olsa was ever so slightly off balance from the blow she had made and undoubtedly was not expecting me to be so rash as to retaliate. But I hurled myself backwards in a furious movement which carried a sudden hatred from the blow with it. I caught her wrist with one hand, pushed at her face with the other. She was swung around with the push, jerked off her balance towards me by the pull on her wrist. As she fell to he floor I went down with her, twisting the gun from her grasp, lashing at her face with the flat of my hand. She struggled for a moment, tearing her finger down my side so that the flesh curled off and the blood spurted in sudden red spots. Furious at the pain and her stupidity, T. forced her over onto her stomach, seizing the riding crop which had fallen beside us in the struggle. She screamed as I twisted her arm between her shoulder blades, but the breath was knocked out of her as my knee sank into the small of her back.
"Right, my haughty beauty, we'll see who's stronger." I gritted.
I brought the crop down across her buttocks as they squirmed visibly beneath the tight dress and she cried out, trying furiously and vainly to jerk away.
"Your own medicine," I said, between clenched teeth and ri
pping her dress up, I laid the crop across her bare buttocks, so that bright, thin welts broke their slim round smoothness.
When I got up she lay where I'd left her, broken and sobbing. I pocketed the automatic, dressed calmly and left.
Walking back towards St. Germain-des-Pres I reflected that this might be the end of my work for Jaswant-if Olsa told him anything of what had happened. She seemed so full of rage that I thought it likely she'd tell him I'd tried to assault her or some such story. It seemed un-likely she would want me to escape scot-free from the beating I had given her beautiful buttocks, or for that matter, the use I had made of her sex.
I was astonished at the turn of events. I would hardly have believed such hypocrisy, hatred and ferocity could be contained in such a poised and noble-looking soul. What an astonishing change from abandon to puritanism! Olsa was a woman I found very difficult to understand, but, I noticed, my desire for her had evaporated considerably from my conquest. Or rather from the combined effects of conquest and stupid aftermath. Her behavior had lowered her in my estimation.
Jaswant, I imagined, would not remain indifferent if she told him I had beaten her up after having advances repelled, or some similar story. I felt he could be a very jealous man and a powerful enemy. It would almost certainly mean the end of my vicarious masterpieces.
I glanced across the flood of traffic around the Arc de Triomphe, to the blue, wind-swept flames of the Unknown Warrior's grave. I had, I thought in passing, no desire to join him. Jaswant didn't know where to get in touch with me, although he knew some of my usual haunts. The best thing, I decided, would be for me to telephone him in a few days.
by the time I'd emerged from the shadowed sobriety of the respectable end of Boulevard St. Germain into the warm splash of noise and colour of the St. Germain-des-Pres restaurants, I was going over in my mind the joys of Olsa's body. Any consequence would be worth the exquisite pleasure of being inside her, watching at the same time the contortions of her fine face. I was well-pleased with another body rifled. I popped into a cafe for a couple of cognacs to prepare myself for fresh pleasures with Monique.
The next day I stayed in recuperating while Monique, charming and attentive, made little sorties to buy food. We passed a quiet and pleasant day, which I decided, would be the order of things until I knew whether I could expect more work and money from Jaswant. In the meantime I had quite a large portion of my advance remaining to see me through some months if I didn't give way to extravagance.
Only in fleeting moments did I remember my reason for being in Paris. I had accustomed myself to looking forward to a long stay with plenty of money and pleasant company.
The following day Monique and I took a stroll in the evening warmth. We wandered hand in hand for a while studying the lighted shop windows-evening is late in Paris-and then made what, looking back, I can see was an unfortunate mistake. We went to one of the big St. Germain-des-Pres cafes, a regular haunt of mine and landmark into the bargain.
After an hour or so reading newspapers and sipping coffee we decided to take a walk along the Seine. We wandered down one of those narrow, little streets where the high buildings are like tired, old men, swaying crookedly in all directions and emerged on the sudden, sleepy splendour of the river. There on the cobbled quayside which, with the river itself, makes a deep rift in the city, quiet and calm, while the traffic bustles above, we sat and gazed in contentment at the reflected pools of streetlamps in the dark water.
But our contentment was short-lived. From the shadowy figures which strolled by, silent or murmuring, from time to time, three shapes detached themselves and came towards us. I watched them approaching, while Monique continued to gaze at the river, and thought they would pass. But behind us, where we sat on the narrow stone parapet which drops down to the water, they stopped and one said: "Get up Mr. Crawford, and the little girl friend with you."
In the darkness, I saw the ominous bulges in their thrusting overcoat pockets.
"Don't be ridiculous," I snapped, recovering from my astonishment. "Who the hell are you anyway?"
"We're friends of a former friend of yours and if we have any trouble you'll see the river from a little closer."
My mind was racing. "All right," I said. "But you don't want the girl if you're from Jaswant."
"We can make good use of the girl," one of them leered. "Get up!"
We stood up and walked with them up the slope to the street where we were bundled quickly into a large car. It must all have appeared as casual as a film.
The car shot forward and, from my front seat, I turned to see that I was closely covered by one of the men, while the other two had Monique, sitting quietly terrified, across their knees.
The man behind me, who appeared to be older than the others, could easily have passed in other society as a ruggedly good-looking self-made man with a heart of gold. I was soon to learn different.
The driver, a nondescript little man, who paid attention to nothing but the road, might have been any taxi-driver. But the other two, the two whose eyes were roaming feverishly over Monique, were youngish, tough-looking fellows, who probably went wild after fine records in the Resistance from the sheer lack of excitement in civilian, peacetime jobs and were now capable of any unsqueamish villainy. It was to the eldest, behind me, that I spoke.
"What's the idea?" I asked. "You're going to get into serious trouble for this."
"No, Mr. Crawford. You're the one who's in trouble," he answered quietly.
"Just what are you trying to do, anyway," I demanded, "and why?"
"Never mind why," he snapped back. "We're acting on orders and we don't ask why but you'll soon see what's going to happen."
"Very considerate of you to bring such a nice little girl along for us," sneered one of the younger men and I heard Monique squeal.
I twisted around and saw that Monique had been pulled down between the two men, both of whom were mauling their hands over her.
"Leave her alone...." I was cut short as I started to reach towards them by the muzzle of an automatic, flourished momentarily in my face.
"Better let the boys have their fun," said the older man.
I sank back into my seat while Monique, too frightened to make a further sound, was kissed savagely by one of the toughs.
"Let's have a little more response," he leered.
"What a nice pair of bumpers she has," gloated the other. "Let's have a look at them raw."
"Sure. Get your clothes off kid," snarled the first.
Monique shrank into the deep upholstery of the car looking at the men in horror.
"She's shy," drawled one of them. "Here, let me give you a hand, baby."
Genuinely fond of Monique, I stared in helpless fury as the two toughs manhandled her clothes from her body. Monique, terrified, made little attempt to resist, but began to cry quietly.
The toughs treated her clothes with scant respect. After her jumper and jeans had been pulled from her, her brassiere was ripped from her tender breasts which shot into view like young fruit suddenly uncovered in a basket.
"Not bad-not bad," one of the men said, his mouth drawn up at a corner in a cynical grin. "I'm going to enjoy getting astride you, baby."
Monique, her eyes closed as if to shut out the nightmare, continued to cry as rough hands mauled her tender bosom. Their appetites whetted, the toughs began to get excited, like hounds fighting over the fox. Monique's briefs were ripped away and lost in the sprawling feet on the car floor.
"Stand up. baby," the first tough murmured. "Let's have a look at you."
The voice of the leader behind me cut in.
"Better pack it in for the moment boys, we don't want anyone to get curious."
"Come off it Pierre. You getting too old...."
"I said pack it in!"
The words were a fierce snap. A command from a man who was used to being obeyed without question. The two toughs subsided and contented themselves with tre
ating Monique's supple, uncovered body to lustful glances as she sat quietly and miserably between them, tears wet on her cheeks.
My stomach bunched in a knot of furious nerve ends. I looked away out of the window and it seemed we were racing away from Paris along one of the broad roads which leads to the south. Nobody spoke, the driver a radiator of unnoticing indifference. We passed rapidly through the darkening suburbs, dwindling from tall, old apartment houses and the old twinkle of a late cafe to gathering gloom of wasteland and stretches of farming country.
A few kilometres further and we turned off the main road along a narrow lane bordered on one side by a high hedge fringing acres of black fields, cut off from the road by a few strands of wire. We turned off again, racing quite alone in the shadow of woods on either side, chopped off abruptly at the roadside by barbed wire and grass verges.
"Here it is," ordered the leader after some minutes, and the car slowed in the darkness and pulled up onto the verge.
Rape Page 6