Rape Me Between Eleven and Midnight
The door will be unlocked
Between Eleven and Midnight.
That was the window I gave him.
The front door will be unlocked.
I could be asleep.
I could be awake.
In the kitchen. In the living room. Or, in my bedroom. I could have been masturbating for hours or not since last week.
I may have come while at work.
Or while waiting.
I may be thirsty for a stranger’s come.
Or I could have lied to you about everything: about the way I looked, what I liked, or that I came ever at all.
But there are a couple things we’ll be clear about:
I’m consenting to being raped by you.
And:
I do not want to tell you how to do this.
I need you to figure out how to do this.
I want you to orchestrate this symphony and teach me about overtures.
We planned it like a wedding.
A wedding between strangers.
It was sweet talk, mostly.
Regular flirting.
Regular fantasy play.
I fucked myself. He fucked himself.
We courted each other. We courted the plan.
Like a wedding.
Or a rape.
Between good strangers.
If you want to devour me in a certain way, tell me.
He said: I want your bottom in the air.
If you fall asleep, your meat will be the first thing I will touch, he said.
I am coming for you, he said.
I’m going to fuck your meat.
I told him: turn off your lights on the approach. Shut your door, silently.
You said you could do this well.
Prove it.
Surprise me with all you learned stalking your dreams.
The city will be silent at that time, between eleven and midnight.
The city will be humming. Breathing. You be nothing more, too.
I don’t want any indications that you’re coming until you’re already over me. In me. On me.
Do not be sloppy.
There’s a click and a pop when I normally turn the handle on the front door. I’m sure: I’ll hear dumbass. I know I will. I’ve perfected every sound in this house.
There’s no way he can navigate my labyrinth like a ghost. No way.
But, I implore him still: surprise me.
Don’t be a basic bitch.
Bitch.
Part of the odd thrill of all this was two-fold:
I’d always wanted to do this but never found the perfect accomplice.
Yes, I want to be raped. It’s not uncommon. Women want to give away power and this is the ultimate expression of doing so.
And:
I would give him my address, therefore access to all my personal information. But I didn’t want to know anything about him.
At all.
At all.
So as the night came, you bet your bottom dollar, so did I.
A couple times.
In anticipation.
Then, after 10:30, I made final preparations.
I turned off all the lights in the house so he wouldn’t know where I was.
A bit obviously, I went into my bedroom.
I wanted my planned rape to be comfortable, I thought.
What, was I going to sit on the kitchen counter or on the toilet? Naturally, the bed.
Face down. Bottom up. I pet my freshly-shaven pussy again in anticipation.
I looked at the clock. It was quickly 11:11 p.m.
The hunt had already begun.
My heart beat faster.
The house was not humming. It was breathing like it was asleep.
The house was dark.
The steps upstairs, dark.
I closed my eyes and made it all even darker.
Wait. What was that sound?
Something wooden. I heard it.
Something I wasn’t sure of.
Is that him?
Then, nothing.
Silence.
Fuck.
More waiting.
My bottom was comfortably in the air. Only a little ambient light came in through my drapes, from the city.
Everything was quiet. I closed my eyes to heighten my sense of sound.
The house was silent. Breathing. Like it’s asleep.
My lips were puffy. My tongue, fat.
My bedroom door was open.
I didn’t look at the clock because I didn’t want to know how long, but it’s long. The wait was long. The stress, extended. The anticipation: fucking delicious.
I could barely take it anymore.
So I peeked. It was 11:43 p.m.
He’s not coming. I knew it.
I wriggled, sliding my hand up and over my mons pubis. I stroked my labia. I pulled open my lips.
I envisioned the rapist as adept as my favorite boogeyman, the East Area Rapist: tapping on my door hinges to wake me up, letting me know he’s there.
I tried to conceptualize how much fear I possessed inside me, in total.
I’d never seen his face or felt his breath, my rape-friend. He was what he was supposed to be, after all, a complete stranger.
I had no idea what he looked like. If he was hot or hung, fat or forever flaccid.
I said to myself: If his presence is weak, I will murder him.
If he’s not strong enough, I’ll take him for a chase into the woods and circle back under the waning moon and crush his skull against a cottonwood.
Then, suddenly: I’m warm. Wet. Sopping.
Between my fingers: Electricity.
My vision suddenly leapt back.
Bright colors.
Shock.
Absolute. Fucking. Shock.
It was a fucking tongue.
On my meat.
I exhaled from my core. Deep and yogic and breathy.
I couldn’t speak if I had to.
I was trembling…
My whole body knew I was about to come in the very near future: fucking hard.
I buried my head into my pillows. My whole body relaxed.
His hands gripped my hips from under, holding me up.
I collapsed into the release of all the weeks of anticipation.
He shoved his face into my whole crease. I could feel his stubbly face on my soft places.
And I fucking loved it.
Good rapist. Good rapey beard.
The shock that the dance had begun was enough to paralyze me.
I seized.
I sunk into the full enjoyment that my little rapey-raper had held his word.
My fleshy scoops of meat bucked back into him like an earthquake.
I shuddered.
He pulled away. His scratchy fingers ran up my spine. The other hand complimented my hip, then stomach, then my buttery lobes. My tits are like pendants vibrating. Humming. Like both of our heads. Dangling.
He cupped his hand as though he’s offering me a drink. He slides it down my backside again, ladling my taut bottom, the ridges of his fingers rubbed along my puckered hole.
His free hand crept up like a ghost, up and under my jaw. Pressure points on my jugulars, each side.
Oh yeah, we’re here for a raping.
Do it.
Fucking do it.
He began to squeeze harder on the sides of my neck and my vision began to blur, before it…disappeared.
I went Helen Keller and Beethoven and then: dead.
Slowly, the eddy of the world came back into focus.
The sounds.
My body. Limp like the beginning of death.
My hearing returned to the discover more than the feeling of him parting my labia. He was beginning to excavate my meat like a grubby gold miner.
Search and slide. Search and slide. Slowly, my slack sex easily parted for him.
Insert one. Then two. Then three strong man fingers. He spread me open to the speculum hilt.
I felt boringly violated.
And a little: pissed.
Like an excavator’s motor starting, he began to throttle upward. Then down.
Jackhammering me.
He bore down on me.
Then he began pounding me.
Punching me in the pussy with his fist.
All the pressure pushed my senses to intermittently dissipate, then return.
I completely returned once his fat, dumb tongue started lapping at my meat as he drilled me more pleasantly now.
Pumping in and out of me like an oil derrick.
I can hear him gasp and suck everything before he dug in with his entire unshaven face. Into my cunt. Into my asshole.
He buried himself into my coffin of sin.
But, wait.
It’s…loving.
No.
I squirm away.
No, mother fucker.
This isn’t a date.
Don’t you dare make love to my pussy.
Rape me, I scream inside.
Fuck my cunt.
I buck.
I kick.
I squeal.
I howl.
Then, finally, his dumb monkey brain remembers.
He resituates.
The bed is lumpy and heaving.
Then:
Finally, I feel his weight.
Finally, I feel his manliness.
His strength.
His big, rough hands pound down on my shoulders. Full weight on top of me. Into me. Through me. I can’t move. My face is buried in the sheets and pillows, then in the bed.
Wait:
I can’t fucking breathe, idiot.
I struggle, gasping, to turn my head to the sky.
My holes are soaked with spit.
I am gulping for breath.
Writhing.
Suddenly, I’m fucking pinned.
He let up for a second.
That was my chance.
I was primal and pissed and punching with whatever I had.
So:
Like a horse, I bucked back into his chin, slamming my perineum into his mouth like a hoof, like a bony fist.
I squirmed, trying to escape his grip.
He let go of me with one hand. Still, I couldn’t completely slip away.
I slid up towards the headboard so I could spin around and kick him in the face.
I wanted to kick him as hard as I could in his blackened, invisible face.
With the hard heel of my foot.
I’ve never wanted to smell blood so bad before.
In one heave, I leapt up and half-twisted as my evolutionary fight to escape surged like juiced, voltaic life to my pre-frontal lobe.
I had never been so excited to inflict pain before.
Every molecule of life I fought for.
Because fucking now:
He had me pinned to the headboard like a prick pin.
Like a rag doll.
Fuck.
He’s way stronger than me.
And I love it.
Then:
Somehow I’m on my back. My legs are in the air, but my torso is twisted around and my forehead is suddenly wedged between the mattress and the headboard. I’m falling down to the floor, in-between the two.
He’s tearing my bed apart with me as the wedge.
My hands and arms are pinned under my body.
I’m contorted.
Pretzeled.
Because of this, he had both of my ankles in just one hand. And now: I AM PISSED.
But I had little time to think.
Everything is happening so quickly.
His cock was out.
I could feel him trying to orient it.
He’s trying to fuck me.
Fucking rape me, already.
Wrong hole.
Wrong hole.
Wrong! Hole!
But I couldn’t speak because he had his hand over my mouth.
I try biting him.
I want blood.
I want fucking blood.
My pussy is no longer wet.
And my asshole isn’t either.
Enter: violent baseball lougee-spitting on my asshole.
No.
My pussy.
Fuck my cunt.
Not my ass.
I was very fucking clear about one fucking thing:
Not my ass.
My head had punctured through to nearly the bed frame below.
I was dangling.
My mattress was falling off the frame.
My neck was gnarled into a spiney contortion so that my ass was braided around, up and sideways.
And my fucking rapist was punching his cock into my asshole.
All of his man weight bore down on me each time he laid into my hole.
He wasn’t fucking me.
He was stabbing me.
He was punching me.
With his cock.
With his body.
I could smell something. Oddly, each time when he pulled out to pump back in.
Blood.
And at least some of it was coming from my bludgeoned asshole, I was sure.
I couldn’t see with my head pinched like it was.
My skull was pounding the headboard.
My shoulder hurt like hell.
Then everything began to go quiet.
And limp.
And, I blacked out.
When I came to, my universal head felt engorged.
Like the Big Bang.
Like it was going to absolutely explode.
I felt no weight on my body though. No pounding.
No pressure.
I heard no sounds.
I was still trapped in-between my headboard and my mattress.
My eyes felt like they were going to be forced out of my head.
Because of the supernova pressure inside my throbbing skull.
I had been upside down for who knows how fucking long.
I couldn’t uncork my body.
I couldn’t get up.
My arms were pinned under me.
Pillows over all that body mess.
Finally, I surfaced.
I felt nauseous. That kind of deep nausea that said I needed to expel something from deep inside, and if I didn’t, my body would do it for me.
I heaved.
Nothing came out.
I smelled something.
Blood.
I reached for my face.
My nose was dripping. I touched it then focused my blurry eyes on my wet fingers.
It was blood.
It was all over my face. It had actually pooled in my eye sockets.
It was in my hair.
Again: the nausea surged.
This time, it came all the way up from my bellows and I vomited all over my naked bed.
In the bathroom, I turned on the light.
My asshole felt broken. Cut.
I reached down.
I was bleeding.
When I pulled my hand back out I noticed that my wrist was wet too. But not with blood.
My pussy was soaking wet.
There was man cum all over my thighs and pussy.
I heard my phone buzz.
It was a text message buzz.
So I stumbled, still drunk from the rape, into the bedroom.
Turned on the lights.
Scanned for my phone.
All of my bodily fluids, all of them, were on the fitted sheet. On the pillows. The duvet was like wild sand below me on the floor. I was tripping over it. Tripping over other shit that has been strewn about.
Alarm clock. Water glass. Clothes.
What did I even wear today?
My room looked like a crime scene.
My phone buzzed again. I couldn’t find it.
The lights were too bright.
I was hungover.
It was a rapeover.
I knelt down and reached under the bed.
When I pulled it out and was able to focus my eyes I could see the stranger’s name, which wasn’t his name because I told him I didn’t want to know his name and he even said it wasn’t his real phone number, but a Google number instead.
I opened the message.
It was a picture of his ugly, open mouth. His fucking teeth. And:
It was all bloody.
I shuddered. Quivered.
Chills.
I nearly came from the image.
I knew it.
I fucking knew it.
Below the pic was the text:
You punched me with your cunt, bitch.
I almost came from my face I was so intoxicated by my delight.
Still rape-drunk, I stumbled into the wall, turned off the lights, and laid on the bed.
The picture of fuckface’s bloody grill on my phone, I reached down to my soaking wet cunt and made myself come twice.
I fell asleep, post-come, curled around my pillows, fluids still all over my bed.
When I woke in the morning, still sore all over, my forehead basically bruised, I made myself come again.
My morning room: like the crime scene I’d always envisioned.
I showered, dressed, and made myself come in the car that morning.
And, like a good rapist, I never heard from him again.
