I assembled, packed, unassembled, re-packed, paced the house, showered, unpacked, checked my phone a dozen times to ensure he hadn’t cancelled, re-packed and pounced on the tick of the clock that I was allowing myself to leave the house.
The timing was good: I tried a new route in daylight that got me there a longer but quicker way and I arrived in the comfort of darkness. I stopped in the town centre to change shoes and breathe a few moments.
I parked and knocked on his door. Hair straightened and tied back, fresh make-up with darker eyes and glossier lips than usual, pressed white shirt, charcoal pencil skirt, black heels and leather compendium. No earrings — lose them too easily. Friendly-but-tired-after-a-long-work-day smile. We didn’t shake hands but he welcomed me in. I left my handbag in the entrance hall.
I flipped out brochures and property prices I’d ripped from the web and prattled inanities about the market as he walked me around the loungeroom. He started friendly enquiries veering towards where I live, who I am, who I’m with. I brushed him off with a fabricated life as a divorced career changer with little interest in men and no interest in clients. He maintained generous personal space between us in the open plan kitchen and dining room; a third of the house inspected and I hadn’t noticed any clues of when or where he would transfigure.
Home office, main bedroom, second bedroom, I talked about walk-in robes and en suites and he asked more insistently if I would consider dating a client. Preparing to strike. He had left until last the narrow and dark hallway and compact bathroom, toilet and laundry. Which one? I didn’t have a plan to instigate action if he let me inspect the house without interruption — suddenly I was more nervous about something not happening.
He closed the personal space in the bathroom but moved to allow my exit. I checked the toilet perfunctorily and stepped out towards the laundry. He blocked my path silently. In heels I was taller but he dominated the space with presence alone. Too early to resort to panic although my heartbeat was hurting my eardrums. I stood my ground and told him to let me through.
He asked for a date, a kiss, just one, he knows I want to, he’s lonely, the town lacks single women, just one kiss. I said no, no, no, no, let me finish my job and I’ll leave without reporting you. Let. Me. Go.
There’s a gap here. The next thing burned in my memory is being pressed against the wall of the hallway with both of my hands locked in one of his and my compendium wedged against my throat. He licked my face. I spat at his. He slapped mine and I spat again, giving tacit permission for more. I remembered later that he alternated sides — a considerate attacker.
Another gap. I remember seeing my fishnetted legs strobing under the entrance hall lights as he dragged me by my feet towards the loungeroom. My skirt must have gathered somewhere around my backside. When was the transition from vertical to horizontal? I twisted and launched for my bag and car keys. He slapped my thighs so sharply that my eyes shed tears of surprise and the keys slipped from my fingers.
We wrestled on the carpet. I don’t know where the buttons of my shirt ended up landing. He stuffed the rags of my underwear in my mouth. I spat them out and bit his arm. He wrenched my inner thighs between his thumb and fingers and sent flames through my nervous system. Easy way to stop me biting.
We surged with the same adrenal gland chemicals and fought with the same intensity but he was stronger. I squirmed and pushed and shoved and we shed the same amounts of sweat and exhaled loudly in unison. I sent strings of verbal obscenities as surprises but words were useless against the decades he’s spent strengthening his body.
I scanned my surroundings and was surprised to see I had dragged myself with him atop me in a full circle towards the front door. With the realisation of my effort came the loss of my energy. Nothing. I slumped and moved to bargaining with my captor and wished to myself the gift of a second wind. He said I could leave when I had done what he planned. I nodded and looked away. He cajoled and offered me water, fresh clothes, safety if I obeyed.
My prediction about duct tape and hessian rope was wrong: a box on the bookshelf contained lengths of chain, thick powerlifters’ nylon and velcro straps with large D-rings and rock climbing caribiners. I didn’t protest my wrists being shackled. He left my legs unfettered and guided me to the dining room, his spare hand carrying jangling metal for the next phase.
He attached my ankles with chain around the legs of a dining chair. My hands connected to my feet with more chain draped through the chair’s support beams. As he was arranging other chairs in a formation, I scratched away at the velcro around my wrists and freed my left hand, then my right. As he bent to remove his pants I dropped the wrist restraints and fled with the chair still attached to my feet — he had wound the chain around and not through the wood and the furniture had to come with me.
Funny moment one: I dipped my head to avoid being seen smiling when the futility and stupidity of this tactic hit.
I ended up lying on the floor while still attached to the chair, as if I were eating a meal and everything had been tipped backwards at 90 degrees. The tiles were cold and he collected a cushion from the loungeroom for my head. I rejected the gesture but quietly wanted to hug him for being a sweet bastard. He punished me with nipple twists and slaps that elicited unguarded shrieks of pain. I had revealed my tender spots and he pinched me there again when I refused his cock in my mouth.
He turned his body around and my world became black when his testicles spread over my face. I felt digits on my breast and started licking to avoid another wrenching. He edged lower and I knew what was coming.
Funny moment two: When he insisted I use my tongue on his arse, I called him perverted and disgusting and filthy and I couldn’t do that because I didn’t know what to do. My script writer needs a kick in the pants. He was spotlessly clean and hairless and I was in reality wanting very much to pleasure him with my tongue.
My hands were turning red and purple from restricted circulation and the bend of the chair prevented his next act of fucking me. I was the quietened victim with my eyes shut and head turned. Yes, I will do as you bid and promise to behave if you loosen the bindings. I ended up facing the chair, bent with my head resting on the seat in an upsidedown J with hands fastened in front. With time and space now to watch and absorb, I was aroused and tried to conceal my readiness for his cock by clenching my thighs. He slapped them open.
He fingered me and I came with my eyes open in a naive attempt to bely my body’s ripples. He wasn’t done and I abstractly watched a rain shower spray from my cunt. He was pleased and I still disbelieved that my body holds these fluids for his taking.
He entered my messed-up hole and I bit my lip to contain my noises. I was unsure whether to continue feigning horror or head towards redemption and give myself to him. Don’t fantasy rapists want to ‘convert’ their victims? I must have started rocking back into his cock — a finger invading my anus let me know we were still in role. My final pleas were for mercy when his cock moved towards the space broken by his finger. Another gap — sensation overload? I remember him taking me anally for what seemed a long time but can’t remember how much I enjoyed.
He withdrew and stood by my side as I lifted my head for the next act. There weren’t any words and I don’t recall any cues but at the same moment we broke into warm smiles and he hugged me and we laughed and kissed like reuniting lovers. He freed my wrists and we tongue kissed and found new reserves of a different kind of energy. I was more talkative than he about the previous 90 (that was all!) minutes — he said something about needing to stage a roleplay if we do another one and I wasn’t sure of his meaning. I was already dragged in too many mental directions to ask. I’m curious now but it’s probably not important as once is more than likely enough now I’ve come down. With the return of commonsense I thanked him effusively for *not* letting me escape when I was mostly naked and attached to the chair.
He led me to the sanctuary of his bedroom with murmurs of affection and how early the night still was. I stopped by the bathroom to tame the mass of fairy floss that was my hair and to tidy the rings of eyeliner that smudged more than I could have planned — I looked completely fucked.