Late Night Incident
The attack never would have happened, if I hadn't gotten preoccupied in
trying on the sweaters in the department store, until closing time.
So it was late at night by the time I was walking to my car, out in the
mall parking lot. I had just put the key in my door lock, when someone grabbed
me behind the neck. I felt something hard poking me in the back.
"This is a gun, bitch. Do what I tell you, and you won't get hurt. Get
in the car. Climb over into the passenger seat."
I was terrified. I did what he ordered. He took the key and started
the car. He drove us out of the parking lot. I was so petrified by fear that I
paid no attention to where we were driving.
"How much money you got in that purse?"
I looked at him. He was a young African-American, probably in his early
twenties.
"If that's what you want, take me to an ATM. I can get a couple of
hundred dollars for you."
"That's sure not all that I want, not after seeing what a pretty little
white girl I've got sitting next to me. How much cash you got in there? Don't
make me ask again."
I counted out thirty three dollars.
He looked disgusted.
"Well, I guess you'll have to make it up to me some other way, won't
you? What's your name?"
"Kathy." My voice trembled.
He laughed.
"Don't you be afraid, Kathy. At least, not too much. You just do what
you're told, and we'll have us a good old time."
"Please, don't hurt me. Please."
He laughed again.
"I love the sound of a honky begging me. Go ahead. Ask me again."
I looked at him once more. He seemed serious.
"Please don't hurt me." I paused. "I won't resist."
He smiled broadly.
"Yeah, Kathy, I think we're going to have a really great time, you and
me."
After a couple of minutes, he looked over at me.
"Take your shoes and socks off."
I removed my tennis shoes and socks.
"Throw 'em in the back seat."
I did.
"OK. Now take your jeans off."
I hesitated.
"Kathy..."
I tugged my jeans slowly down past my hips. I pulled my legs free.
Without being asked, I threw them in the back seat.
He looked at me again.
"Spread your legs open, Kathy."
I had been terrified that he was going to ask me to take my panties off.
But this request was just as bad.
"Please," I started to say.
He took his right hand off the steering wheel, and slapped the side of
my head. My ears were ringing. I started to cry. Then I spread my legs open.
He put his right hand between my thighs, without looking at me. He
started to rub me. I knew he could feel my pubic hair and the shape of my vulva
through the thin material of my underwear. He concentrated especially on the
area of the hood covering my clitoris. He was determinedly probing me there
with his index finger.
My mind was a chaos of thoughts and emotions. This was all unreal. You
read about this kind of thing in the newspapers, but it didn't really happen to
you. I was completely at the mercy of a total stranger, a man who was using
force to require me to do whatever he wanted. This man was unknown to me, this
man who had his hand so casually and freely touching and exploring my genitals.
He seemed content to limit himself to that. Then I thought, there wasn't much
more he could be doing, not while he was driving. But I was wrong.
"Open up my pants. Undo the buckle and pull the zipper down. Then pull
out my dick."
I fumbled with his buckle. My fingers seemed lifeless, completely
clumsy and ineffective. I managed to get it opened. Then I pulled his zipper
down.
I hesitated again.
"Do it, god damn it."
I still couldn't believe this was really happening. I was about to
touch the penis of a complete stranger. It didn't seem possible or real. I was
both frightened and numb at the same time.
I reached my hands inside his jockey shorts.
He was already hard, his erection straining the fabric of his jockey
shorts. I pulled the front elastic down, to below his testicles. After the
briefest of hesitations, I put my left hand on his penis.
I almost giggled hysterically. A moment ago I was telling myself that
this was all unreal. But the stiffened black penis in my hand was undeniably
real.
It was both hard and long. It quivered, throbbing in my hand, as I held
it.
"Start stroking that black motherfucker, Kathy."
I began rubbing my left hand up and down the length of the long and dark
shaft. I moved it down to the base, and then back up again, over the swollen
head.
He groaned out loud.
"God damn, that feels good. You sure know your way around a dick, babe.
You ever touch a nigger dick before?"
"No."
"You know what they say, Kathy, once you try the dark, you'll never want
to go back to plain vanilla." He voice had a mocking tone.
I continued to masturbate him, and even began to pick up the pace. The
thought occurred to me that if I could make him come with my hand, he might
leave my own body alone. I didn't think it likely, but it was worth trying. It
was like he could read my mind, though.
"Not so fast. Slow and easy. We've got to spend some time together.
He continued to stroke me between my legs.
The drive continued in silence, a quiet punctuated only by his
rhythmical grunts in response to the movement of my hand over his penis.
I found myself having difficulty breathing normally.
He had slipped his fingers inside my panties. His hand was manipulating
the folds of my vulva. He had also found what he was searching for earlier, and
he began to rub the tip of my clitoris. He then moved his hand down to my
vagina. Each time he returned to my vaginal opening, he gently pushed his
finger further in.
To my shame, I was beginning to get wet.
I still hoped to give him some kind of sexual release without having to
permit him to penetrate my body. I curled the fingers of my left hand, and
began repeatedly dragging my fingertips up his shaft. I moved my fingers with
particular deliberation as I dragged them over the ridge surrounding the head of
his penis. His grunts became slightly more pronounced, but he showed no signs
of nearing orgasm.
I was becoming disoriented, both physically and emotionally. My
physical turmoil was caused by his incessant, slow and deliberate teasing of my
genitals. He showed no impatience. There was no attempt to speed things up.
He continued to demonstrate an almost cruel gentleness. I don't believe it was
my imagination, that as my breathing obviously became more labored, the
manipulations of his fingers became even slower and more precise.
And this is what caused my emotional confusion. I was being kidnapped
and raped. Even before reaching wherever our destination was, he was sexually
abusing me, doing so through physical force and threat of harm to me. But
everything I had ever heard about the act of rape and the motivations of rapists
had led me to understand that rape was an act of physical violence and
degradation. It was not supposed to be sexual in nature. But my rapist was
teasing the sex between my legs with more patience than any lover had ever
demonstrated. His fingers were now producing undeniable responses from me. He
had caused my vulva to begin lubricating, and now I was as moist between my legs
as I had ever been for any lover. My breathing had gone from labored, to rapid
panting, as he continued with his maddening, relentless teasing. And that's
really what it was. He was toying with me, playing with me to get exactly the
responses I was now providing.
Most maddening of all: I was attempting to increase his arousal to the
point that he would ejaculate before ever entering my body, but he was being far
more successful in manipulating me ever closer to an unwilling peak of sexual
intensity.
The drive seemed to take forever, but eventually we stopped, and parked.
We were in the large park, near the zoo, on the outskirts of town. He
had chosen the location well. There were many different small roads, going off
in various directions within the huge older park. We were on a deserted road.
The nearest street light was probably a mile away.
He turned off the ignition. Then he turned and looked at me.
"We're going to fuck, Kathy. I'm going to do everything I feel like
doing to you, and you're going to do everything I feel like having you do to me.
We clear on that?"
"Yes."
"OK. Let's get more comfortable."
He pulled up the armrest between our seats, converting the two separate
seats into a bench seat. He gestured with his right hand for me to move over to
him. I did.
He ran his fingers through my short hair. He seemed fascinated by it,
whether because it was cropped so close to my head, or because of the blonde
color, I couldn't tell. He rubbed his fingers through it, over and over. It
was disconcertingly soothing. I felt myself relaxing, increasing the
disorientation and unreality of this entire night.
He finally stopped rubbing his fingers over my head.
"Let's get this sweater off, Kathy." He began lifting it up from my
waist. I pulled it all the way off.
I now had on only my bra and panties.
He stared at me, with a strange combination of admiration, lust and
gloating.
He reached out both hands, and began gently feeling my breasts through
the bra.
I couldn't understand his continued slow and gentle approach. My fear
and dread of what was going to be happening was becoming almost unbearable. If
he was going to rape me, why didn't he do it? The tension he was creating and
maintaining was the most agonizing emotion I had ever experienced. I came
within a fraction of screaming to him that if he was going to fuck me, to just
go ahead and do it! But he was in complete control over my life. He could do
whatever he wanted with me. He could casually snuff out my existence. I didn't
say anything. But I couldn't stand it any longer, either.
I reached behind me and unclasped my bra. Then, with the most peculiar
sense of - what, mischief or seduction? - I leaned forward slightly, letting my
breasts swing down in front of my attacker, as I took off my bra.
He looked at me with now unmistakable gloating. He reached out and
stroked my breasts from where they emerged from my chest, slowly down to their
nippled tips. I gasped involuntarily, and my nipples hardened and jutted out.
"You really want this nigger to fuck you, don't you Kathy?" he asked
softly.
Now I did say it.
"If you're going to fuck me, just do it, and get it over with."
He looked at me in surprise. Then he smiled.
"Not till you ask me nicely, like you really mean it."
He leaned forward, and began sucking on a nipple, slowly squeezing and
kneading my breast. He rolled the other nipple between two fingers, and pulled
it out gently as far as it would go.
My nipples had never ever felt as sensitive. My vulva was still
lubricating itself, so that I felt sopping wet. My body, with all feelings and
sensations coming from between my legs and from my nipples, seemed to be
functioning independently of my mind. I started moaning. That sound was also
coming from my body, independent of my wishes. I hated him for the liberties he
was taking so lewdly and freely. I hated him for making my body betray me. And
I hated him because I couldn't prevent him from seeing and feeling and hearing
my body's capricious betrayal. I felt like a slut, unable to control my own
body. I started to cry. But I continued to pant, and to moan and to wet
myself, as the tears rolled down my cheeks.
I couldn't help myself. I put my hand back on his penis.
As my fingers encircled the head, I felt its' slick wetness. I was
strangely comforted that despite the complete control over himself which he had
been demonstrating, his body had also betrayed his own lust and desires.
Suddenly I understood what was happening. It was nothing complicated,
after all. My rapist was more concerned with making me respond, than he was in
taking his pleasure of my defenseless body. No, that was the nature of his
pleasure with me. He was proving to me that he had far more than simple coerced
control over my body. He was showing me that he even had control over how my
body responded to his control. And this demonstration of his power over me was
far deeper and far more degrading , than if he had simply taken what he wanted
by force.
In understanding this, the full extent of his complete depth of control
over me, I also understood the inevitable consequence of my surrender. I wanted
him. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted his penis inside me, deeply inside me,
thrusting in and out, while it simultaneously rubbed against my clitoris. I
also wanted his penis in my mouth.
Now that I understood my internal resistance was useless, I wanted to
demonstrate to him my complete surrender. I wanted to suck his penis, to do so
loudly enough so that he would understand the total nature of the victory he had
obtained over me. I wanted to beg him for the favor of penetrating my body.
Understanding the reality of my capitulation, I wanted to abase myself
completely in the face of his power. My emotional floodgate had now been
breached, violated along with the violation of my body's private places.
In one sense, this was no longer rape. I wouldn't have stopped him now
if I could have. But in another sense, that made it far more of a rape than the
usual brutal taking of a woman's body. He was raping my soul. He was making me
an accomplice to my own humbling and degradation.
I started to bend forward, towards his penis. He grabbed my shoulders
before I could reach his organ.
"Kathy, what are you doing?"
I looked into his eyes.
"I want to suck your cock."
Having said it, having made the irrevocable commitment to my surrender,
I took a shuddering deep breath.
"It doesn't sound to me like you really want it all that much," he said
teasingly.
"I want your nigger cock in my mouth. I want to lick it and suck it. I
want to taste you. I want to lick your hairy black balls." I paused.
"Please," I said softly.
He put his hand on the back of my neck, and guided my head down to his
penis.
I don't think he had bathed in a couple of days. His penis smelled of
urine and stale cum.
I didn't mind, as my mouth signaled my surrender...
