When I finally ripped the last bit of tape from the faucet spout, freeing myself, I collapsed to the floor in utter exhaustion. But I forced myself to move again right away; I dared not linger for even a second. I peeled the tape from my eyes, taking both eyebrows with it, and squealed behind the gag that was still covering my mouth. After being blindfolded for more than twelve hours, my eyes were hypersensitive to light. The bastard had left every light in the bathroom shining. Squinting against the pain, I pulled the last bit of tape from my mouth and took the first really deep breath that I had been permitted all night.
My mouth was dry and scummy with stale spunk but that was the least of my worries. As soon as I could see basic shapes, I looked around to see if the man was still in the bathroom, enjoying watching me struggle to free myself, knowing that he could restrain me again when he wished. But he was not there. I was alone in the little room.
I crawled over to the bathroom door and locked it. I was under no illusion that the door would hold against a serious battering, but that would make a lot of noise and noise in a place with walls as thin as this motel room would be my salvation.
Until now, my attacker had been as silent as a ghost. He had spoken once from outside, claiming to be the manager. Since then, he had not said another word; not a single word during an entire night of abusing me physically, sexually, and psychologically. And he had kept me equally silent during all that time with the gag. He was a monster, but a canny, careful monster, not a raging out-of-control monster.
When I could see properly, I looked around the bathroom again. It was littered with piles of duct tape. Great clumps of my lovely red hair were stuck to it. I expected to see bloody hunks of skin as well, but saw nothing like that.
Peering fearfully into the mirror, I saw my face looking back. It was covered with livid red splotches but no actual blood. My eyebrows were mostly gone, but I seemed to still have a full head of wildly-tangled red hair. I touched my cheeks. They felt sticky; the tape had left half of its adhesive stuck to my skin.
I tried to wash the adhesive off, but it was impervious to water. I shouldn't have been surprised. The tape had been designed to repair ducts. To clean my face, I would have to scrape it off. I would worry about that later.
I rinsed the scum out of my mouth and drank copious handfuls of water but it didn't help much. My mouth still felt foul. I wouldn't feel right until I could brush my teeth. Fuck. Who was I kidding? There was no way that a tooth brushing or a douching or anything else was going to make me feel right; not now and maybe not ever. Not only had a stranger deposited his cum in my mouth and cunt, he had put the memory of his filthy cock in my mind. However much I washed my body, there was no way to wash my mind. I would never again be clean of him again.
I began to cry. This time, with my mouth clear, I could let myself cry for as long as I wanted.
How stupid had I been to get myself into this position?
And I wasn't in the clear yet. I was still trapped in the bathroom. Was the rapist waiting in the motel room, ready to beat me into submission as soon as I came out, to slap his handcuffs back on me and spend another night raping me with casual abandon? Did I dare open the door and find out if he was there? Did I dare not open the door?
I grabbed the doorknob, turned off the lights, and crouched low on exhausted legs before opening the door a crack. My logic was that, if he tried to stab me in the dark, he would do it at chest level and the knife would pass over my head; and if he tried to rush the door, I could tackle his knees and trip him. It was a slim chance, but it was my only chance and I had to take it, come hell or high water.
My logic was good, but unnecessary. There was no man waiting outside; or anywhere else that I could see. The room looked empty.
I crept out and checked the closet, looked under the bed, and peered around the furniture. I found no trace of the man anywhere. The only evidence that anything untoward had happened here was the piles of duct tape in the bathroom and the tee-shirt, bra, and panties piled next to my jeans, all sliced up.
I checked my purse. My wallet was still there with my money and credit cards inside. My rapist was not a thief. As well, my car keys, house keys, and the motel room key were in the purse, too. I checked the motel room door. It was locked from the inside.
I looked at the phone. A woman who had been raped – really raped like I had – was supposed to call the police and report it. They would interview me; collect evidence – fingerprints, fibers, semen samples, photograph bruised and torn intimate parts – and then interview witnesses, including the manager of the motel, the other guests, and people in the buildings across the street.
What would happen when they completed their investigation? My marriage would be over. I didn't think that Rick was the man who had raped me last night, but if he was, then he would be arrested. I would swear that I had consented, that we were just playing a game, and Rick would be tried and convicted anyway. The evidence would show that I had been damaged by real violence, not playacting. The evidence would contradict my testimony that we had engaged in consensual sex and juries loved hard evidence. Even if I could convince the police not to arrest Rick, he would never trust me again. How could he trust a woman who had asked him to do something and then reported him to the police for doing exactly what she had asked?
On the other hand, if a stranger had raped me – the more likely scenario – then Rick would leave me. We both knew that he was supposed to be the one who raped me. Yet I had gone out of my way to ensure that I would be available to some stranger instead. I had run from our home, picked a random hotel, and opened my door to a strange man in order to get myself raped.
A simple sexual affair would be enough to end most marriages. But this? This was far worse than having a simple affair. How could he ever believe that I had asked him to rape me and then deliberately avoided him and 'accidentally' made myself vulnerable to someone else? As soon as he heard the facts, he would have to conclude that I didn't think that he was man enough to do the job on me and had solicited another man to replace him. How could he live with me after I kicked him in the balls like that?
If I called the police, I was completely and utterly screwed by every possible outcome. My only choice was to get the hell out of here now and never, ever tell anyone what had happened to me in this room.
Instead of calling the police, I collected the evidence myself. That was the ultimate degradation: picking up every scrap of duct tape and every bit of ruined clothing and stuffing them into the plastic dry-cleaning bag that I retrieved from the closet. Of all the things that I had done – sending the email asking to be raped, acquiescing to every demand of my rapist, giving him every bit of pleasure that I could – cleaning up the motel room after him was the act that finally made me the accomplice in my own rape.
The clock beside the bed said that it was nine-thirty. The sun peeking around the curtains confirmed that it was midmorning. I still had to endure two and a half hours until noon when my request to be raped would expire. If Rick could find me, he could still rape me half to death.
I had no luggage to pack. My last task was to get dressed, get into my car and drive home. I slipped my jeans, socks and shoes on and then sat on the edge of the bed and wondered how I was going to make it all the way around the motel to get to my car and then drive all the way across town when I was naked from the waist up. I would be reported by the first person with a cell phone who saw me. I would be arrested by the first cop who arrived to investigate.
There was only one thing to do. I retrieved my tee-shirt from my bag of evidence, slipped it on backwards and tucked it into my jeans to hold it in place. My back was completely exposed but my tits were covered. Covered tits was the only thing that counts in this fucked-up civilization. Everybody would freak if a woman showed her tits in public, but, as long as they were covered by a layer of stretchy fabric, they could bounce around like two basketballs in a gym bag with every step she took and there would be no problem. Men would n
otice, that was for sure, but the law didn't care.
I checked that the coast was clear – no sign of my rapist or any other voyeurs on this side of the building – and then casually sauntered around to my car carrying the plastic bag of evidence with me. Thankfully, the other side of the building was equally deserted and I made it to the car without attracting any attention.
When I got home, I entered as quietly as possible and looked around carefully, fearful that Rick would be waiting to finish the task that I had assigned to him. Thankfully, the house was empty. I cleaned myself up as best as I could, taking a long shower and brushing my teeth twice. Then I spent the afternoon sitting on the couch in shock, staring at the television set but seeing and hearing nothing. I kept going over and over in my mind the events of the past twenty-four hours.
I knew that I had put myself into a bad position, but the more I thought about the ramifications of what had happened, the more I realized how bad it really was.
I had probably been raped by a stranger. If that were true, then he would have gone through my purse before he left. He would know my name and address. Worse, he would know that I had not called the police because there would be no report in the newspaper or on television. He would not hear of any manhunt. If he drove by the motel he would see that the room was not sealed; that there was no crime scene tape or police investigators collecting evidence. He may have even parked somewhere up the street and waited all day to see if the police ever came.
He was certain that I had not called the police , he would know that he was free to rape me again at will. He could come to my house as often as he liked and rape me any way he wanted, confident that I would never report him.
I had made myself a perfect sex toy for a sociopath.
How could I ever stay in this house alone again?
Yet I couldn't tell Rick that we had to move away. I couldn't change my name or phone number without giving him a damn good reason. The truth would destroy my husband, yet any believable lie that I could invent would lead directly to a police investigation.
Rick, himself, would trigger that. As a citizen with a spotless record, he believed that the police were on his side. He would seek police assistance with any kind of crime or threat no matter how hard I tried to convince him otherwise.
My only choice was get on with my life but keep looking over my shoulder and, if my sociopath showed up, give him whatever he wanted, any way he wanted it, and hope that he would let me live for another day.
And afterward, I would have to begin waiting again for my next raping.
On the other hand, against all evidence to the contrary, maybe Rick had been my rapist. I desperately hoped that was true but I would never be able to confirm it by asking him directly. If he had not been my rapist, then the question alone would tell him that I had been raped by someone else and our lives would come crashing down.
That evening, Rick arrived home from work at the usual time, greeted me pleasantly, and asked about my day. I hung on every word, examined every facial expression, hunting for the truth. But I could not tell one way or the other. On the one hand, he gave no hint that he had spent the previous night raping and torturing me. On the other hand, he gave no hint that he had come home last night and found me missing. Either was possible. I had been missing for twenty-four hours. Surely if he had not been my rapist, he would ask where I had gone. Unless he guessed the truth, that I had fled to avoid being raped by him. Either he had raped me or he had accepted that I had escaped being raped. Either one would suit me.
For days, I waited for him to mention our game – to make some comment, however indirect, that would indicate whether he had been the one who had done me or not – but he never said a single thing that was out of place, never gave me the least hint one way or the other. I had to accept that because it was implied by my rules. I had been crystal clear that the INR condition only lasted until noon the following day and then our marriage would resume as though nothing had happened. Rick was frustratingly good at pretending that nothing had happened.
I managed to keep Rick from seeing my bruises for the next couple of weeks. I wore full makeup on my face every day and made love to him in the dark every night. It wasn't all that hard to keep him from seeing my body in the light when I was making sure that he got enough loving in the dark to keep him from asking too many questions. I kept my first and third unholy vows religiously. Until I was fully healed, I suffered less when I gave him blowjobs than when I let him push into my crotch. And, I was happy to let him play with my tits to his hearts content; they had not been bruised or injured during my night of horror. He does love to play with my tits. A couple of weeks later, when my skin cleared, I turned on the lights and kept my second vow as well. I can't believe how long he likes to sit and stare at me naked.
Never before has Rick seemed as happily in our marriage as during these last couple of months.
Every day I pray that it was Rick who raped me that night, but, as hard as I try, I can't make myself believe it. How could he have found me so quickly after I checked into the motel? And the man who spent the night with me had been so strong, so cunning, so light on his feet. How could he have been my gentle, impractical, lumbering, naive husband.
Now I'm plenty familiar with the feeling of Rick's cock in my mouth. It seems similar to the sociopath's, but I can't tell for sure. I do know from experience that a cock feels a lot different when I'm gently sucking and teasing it with my tongue and lips than when it's being rammed against the back of my throat with unrestrained violence. Rick's spunk seems to taste the same, but don't all men's spunk taste about the same?
The only thing that I know for certain is that I'm going to have to ask Rick to rape me again soon. I've got no choice but to send him an INR message sometime within the next couple of months. You see, if I never invite him to rape me again, then he'll wonder if he did something wrong the last time. I can't tell him that he raped me so well that I don't need it any more because it probably wasn't him that committed the rape. On the other hand, I can't let him think that my need to be raped was satisfied by avoiding him. He'd have to wonder how that happened. The only way that he won't get suspicious is if I ask him to do me again. This time when I send him an INR message, I'll have to arrange for him to rape me outside the home so that he thinks that it's normal for me to leave the house after I declare open season on myself. And I'll have to give him some clue, either in the message or at home so that he'll know where to go to catch me. That way, when he remembers the time that he couldn't find me, he'll simply conclude that he failed to understand whatever clues I must have left for him.
Of course, my next rape may not be done by Rick. If the sociopath is watching me, he will come for me one day while Rick is at work. If that happens, then I’ll know that the sociopath exists. If not, then I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering.
No matter who rapes me next, it's going to be horrible because it's not a game any more. If it's the sociopath, he's going to be brutal because it's in his nature. If it's Rick, he's going to think that I need something extra bad to make up for missing my last rape. I recall suggesting a beer bottle up the ass. Rick's going to act on that suggestion sooner or later. My sphincter twitches in anticipation of the pain every time I see a beer bottle in Rick's hand. They're damn big. I don't think I could take one up my ass without getting torn open no matter how much lube he uses. I think I'll spend a couple of weeks stretching myself before I send the message. That's another painful humiliation to look forward to.
There's one silver lining in this whole mess, though. I haven't thought fondly about Lester since I sent Rick my last INR message. I have other things to think about now. I wanted to be relieved of the burden of my ongoing mental infidelity. Now dark terrors occupy my thoughts and dreams, day and night.
I got what I wished for.
Pity me.
Portrait of a Wife as a Middle-Aged Woman
I don’t understand my husband. Not at all. I’m no
t a pretty woman, not a young woman, not a sexy woman but I try to be a good wife. I cook a nice dinner every night. I keep the house clean. I have a job; actually, a career as a marketing manager for a chain of furniture stores. Keeping the house clean and raising our two children on top of that took a lot of my energy, but even so, I have never refused sex when Bert asked for it.
I try to be a good wife. I thought that our marriage was a good one. Good enough for me and good enough for him.
But it seems not. Now that our youngest child’s gone to university, he says that he wants something more from me. He wants to do something kinky. I don’t know exactly what that might be – he hasn’t given me any details – but I can guess. He said that he’d like to try something new. He didn’t use the word kinky – he used the words experiment and different and out of the ordinary – but I know what he means. He means kinky.
I know what kind of kinky stuff he likes. I caught him once, two or three years ago, looking at some porn on the Internet. When I came into the basement, he couldn’t get the screen turned off fast enough and I caught a glimpse of a woman tied up with rope and leather straps. That might be the kind of thing that he wants but I know that it’s not what I want. Simple, ordinary sex is good enough for me. Get in, get out, and get to sleep. That’s what gave us two fine children and a good home to raise them in. We don’t need a lot of foolishness to be happy. Doesn’t he see how good we have it? If he tries to make me into some kind of exotic sex toy, he’s going to ruin it all.
He looks at me when I get undressed for bed. I hate it when he looks at my sagging breasts and my fat, puckered butt. He says that he thinks I’m beautiful, but I know that he’s lying through his teeth. If he thinks that I’m going to believe that story, then he must think I’m stupid. I can look in a mirror. I know that that there’s no Playboy centerfold staring back from the glass. My body’s not the stuff of sex fantasies. I’m thirty pounds overweight and twenty years too old to be a sex kitten. He must find me disappointing to look at. He keeps staring at me all the time that I’m naked so I get my clothes off and my red flannel pajamas on, quick as I can. It’s embarrassing. I wish that he’d just roll over and go to sleep before I come to bed.
A Bestiary of Unnatural Women Page 23