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...
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