White Phantom Chapter Three, Rape (2)
“And how are you going to do that, my dear?” he was still smiling, his hands still moving, his eyes still cruel. “I’ll scream.” “Feel free. Nobody will hear you.” She felt tears well up in her eyes. She willed herself not to cry. “Why are you doing this to me? I just want to go home.” The word ‘home’ was broken by a sob and she was annoyed with herself. She wheeled around, turning back to face the door, searching for a mechanism to unlock it and let herself out. It was self locking with a Yale type catch, and yet there was no release chamber on the inside of the door. She could feel hysteria rising inside her and hammered on the door with both fists. She was screaming and the tears fell openly now as she yelled again and again to be let out. Marc didn’t move. He had stopped stroking himself, his audience was inattentive for the moment so there was no point. He merely stood and watched the woman beating on the heavy door until her fists were red and swollen and her voice was strained. “I want to go home,” she finished quietly, when the last of her energy was spent. “There are three ways to open the door,” he said, conversationally, “You can open this, like this, and press this button,” he had opened the panel in the wall at the other side of the fireplace where the column of controls was inlaid into the trunking, “Or, you can use this, like this.” He had picked up a black remote control and held it out towards her. He was showing off again, enjoying her terror and confusion. She wasn’t thinking now. Her mind was blank, all her efforts focused on the remote control. She ran towards him ready to snatch it from his hands. He was offering it, holding it out to her, smiling. She reached for it, still moving forwards. Her fingertips were closing around the plastic as he flung his hand high into the air, taking the control out of her reach, tossing it backwards into the room. It landed on the floor with a thud, over ended once, and then lay still. “Or, Bethany,” he continued, “the best way to get out of here is to just be nice to me. I want you to be nice to me Bethany, you want that too, don’t you? We can be so good together.” He grabbed her. His arms encircled her body, chest to chest, breath to breath, grunting into her face as his hard chest pressed against the softness of her body. “Can you do that, Bethany? Can you do that for me? Can you be nice to me, eh?” She was struggling, fighting against the closure around her, trying to loosen the grip of his arms that was as tight as the steel band around a barrel. She tried to get her arm up to gouge his eyes but he had her pinned. Her hands fluttered birdlike and useless against her chest. She lifted a leg to kick him but he anticipated the movement. As soon as her leg moved from the floor he wrapped his calf around her weight baring leg and pulled it from under her. They fell to the floor with a thud. With nothing to break her fall she fell flat onto her back. Contact with the floor drove the breath from her diaphragm and she was badly winded. Her head hit the floor and bounced off again, catching the side of his cheek with her chin as he came down on top of her. She felt sick. Her eyes stung. The void in her chest, left by the breath’s wake burned. It swelled inside her and as she tried to inhale, it caught under her ribcage and held. She couldn’t exhale and fringes of blackness were billowing at her peripheral vision. Her mouth was opening and closing but no air passed in either direction. He was on top of her now. The fall had distracted her from what he was doing. All of her concentration was focussed on drawing breath and she didn’t struggle at all as he took first one arm and then the other and fastened them under his knees. After thirty seconds her eyes were bulging and her lips tinged with blue as she dragged that first jagged breath down her throat. It brought her no relief. It had a serrated edge and caught all the way down to her lungs. Once deep inside her the air rolled with the burning heat and expanded. She tried to get rid of it, tried to push it back out, but it stuck, big and heavy inside her. He was talking but she couldn’t understand the words, all she was aware of was being badly winded and the incredible weight inside her body and her inability to breathe. Her muscles had contracted, trapping the air inside her. In panic she tensed, further cramping the taught muscles. Her eyes were still bulging, bloodshot now with bursting blood vessels. Her focus was hazing. The world was swimming around her, constantly moving and she felt herself surrendering to unconsciousness. She slumped, involuntarily, relaxing all of the tension and the stale air left her body in a rush as the muscles released their cargo. The next inhalation was easier but still raw and dragged, the one after that was smooth. The fire waned and the darkness lifted, deserting her just when she needed it most. Her eyes refocused. He was on top of her, sitting easily across her chest. The dressing gown had gone. As she brought order to her mind she could feel a cool softness against her lower right calf. He must have thrown it behind him. She could feel his buttocks on her abdomen and his balls on her chest. She felt them there, measured their weight, supported them with her body and cushioned the definition of them. She could smell the earthy scent of his sex underneath the citric spicy aroma of his body care products. His penis was touching her. She could see it, feel it and smell it. His foreskin was stretched back as the head pushed forwards into her chest. He leaked pre-cum onto her blouse. The glands smooth and shining with his moisture, purple in colour as the blood was forced to the head of his dick. She felt so sick. As the panic of not being able to breathe and the intense burning pain left her body, she became aware for the first time of the pain in her head. She had banged it hard in the fall. His weight on top of her had exasperated the momentum and the fall had been heavy. As he panted above her she took a second to wonder if her back might be broken. She wriggled her toes, expecting the complex system of receptors to her nervous system to ignore her order and was surprised to feel movement. Her body shifted, the slight wave of motion causing him to resettle his buttocks, she felt the bones of his backside digging into her sternum. She could feel her raging heartbeat in the rush of blood to her ears. The pain in her head knocked against the back of her eyes. She felt sleepy. At this moment, when she was in fear for her life, all she wanted to do was to go to sleep. She shook her head causing a wave of nausea to surge through her body, banishing the sleepy feeling and bringing her back to the hard floor beneath her and the monster on top of her. He had been sitting quietly, waiting patiently for her to gather her wits. He wanted a lively participant. It would be tiresome for him if he had to screw her while she was unconscious. That wasn’t his thing at all. But she was coming to now. He saw fear in her eyes and felt her heartbeat through the flesh of his thighs. His dick throbbed and regained the slight loss of erection that his waiting had cost him. He wanted her, but only when she was ready to fight him. He bent his head and covered her lips with his own. He took her mouth savagely grinding his teeth into the soft flesh of her lower lip drawing blood and tasting her saliva as it filled her mouth. She thrashed her head from side to side. He stayed with her, his mouth on hers, riding her desperate attempts to get him off. Her legs kicked and her hips bucked. She almost threw him once and he had to rebalance. He was grunting into her mouth, tasting her breath. This was more like it, he liked them lively. He forced his tongue into her mouth bringing his hands up to the side of her face, holding her jaws with his palms stopping her from biting down on his tongue. A dribble of saliva thinned blood trickled onto her chin. She whimpered, the small bleat of desperation resonating inside his mouth, sending a shudder of pure lust into his loins. Reluctantly he tore his mouth away from the brutal kiss. He wanted to see her tits when he exposed them. He wanted to watch the humiliation track across her face. He sat up straight and ran his hands over the front of her blouse. He felt her shoulders push into the floor and her spine twist in an attempt to get his hands off her. She only had small breasts. He did so appreciate a full breasted woman. “Tsk, Tsk,” he admonished, “Bethany baby tits. I shall have to spank you later for brining these scant offerings to my table.” With a single motion he brought his hands up in front of her and ripped her blouse open. A button flew off to the left. Beth wanted to follow it with her eyes. She wanted to see where it went, where it stopped. It might be useful as evidence, later. If there was a later. She wanted to watch the button, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from that of her tormentor. He looked at her for a second. The Wonderbra, giving her false cleavage, annoyed him. He didn’t like deceit. He grabbed at the lacy black cups with both hands and wrenched them down her body. His fingernail caught on her upper chest and gouged an inch long trench in her flesh. For a second the exposed capillaries blinked at the world, pink and empty but with the next heartbeat they filled with blood. It oozed down her chest and pooled around his penis. It was only a small cut but like many small skin breaks it bled greater than it’s worth. Her breasts were exposed now but he couldn’t look at her because she was encumbered by the bra, which about her breasts had looked feminine and elegant but left to flap below her ribs showed itself in its deception. Forced down in this way the straps tore into her arms, just above the elbow. He was annoyed that she hadn’t thought to wear a front fastening bra. She knew she was coming out to meet a man. He felt that she had been purposefully provocative in her choice of underwear. He pulled at the straps in temper, stretching them and causing her to cry out in pain as they dug painfully into her flesh. He couldn’t risk letting her arm go, she was stronger now. She had regained some strength as the instinct of survival had kicked in. He didn’t know if he’d be able to secure her so easily a second time if he let his guard down. The stitching gave way on one strap and he was able to get the clothing far enough down to push under his thighs and out of sight. She was naked to the waist now, displayed before him. Her face was red with humiliation and her eyes burned with hatred and terror. Her breasts were small but undeniably beautiful. His hands shook slightly as he reached out to stroke them. She had small breasts but big responsive nipples. They hardened instantly as he ran his fingers over them. She hated her body for this small betrayal. “See, under the prissy attitude, you are a little slut, aren’t you?” he said, kneading her flesh with brutal fingers and hurting her. He left red finger marks in her breast. They would bruise later, but already the skin was flushed and angry. He saw the marks and they only served to heighten his excitement. He began to pummel her upper body with his hands, grunting and thrusting his hips forward so that the head of his penis was just pushing through the valley of her cleavage. The friction caused him to leak more semen and he gathered the meat of her breasts together as he thrust harder and faster into the slippery crevice. She was weeping, tears rolling down either side of her face and dropping onto her shoulders. Each time she begged him to stop he thrust harder. For twenty seconds he rode the cleft between her beasts as she bucked and fought to try and dislodge him. He groaned and shuddered. His torso stiffened and he stopped moving, forcing his penis through the resistance of her breasts and his hands. The end of his dick pushed right through and the first jet of his ejaculation hit her in the face. “Oh, yes,” he moaned, “Oh God, I’m coming.” He finished with three more, weaker expulsions of his seed. They spilled over her chest in more of a seepage than a spurt. She felt his buttock tense and shudder under her and the damp stickiness of his balls felt slick as they lifted and then dropped again on to her body. She hadn’t stopped fighting him, still her legs thrashed and her body swivelled, but he was over six foot tall, his body was firm and dense, he weighed in excess of two hundred pounds to her one fifteen. She couldn’t budge him. He sat up, his eyes closed and he licked his lips. His brow was shining with perspiration and his breath was still rasping after his orgasm. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked at her. If she had dared hope that the ordeal was over now, and that he would let her go, then his eyes instantly told her that he was far from finished with her. His face settled into a new expression, one of black, furious anger. “I didn’t want to do that. Why did you make me do that? You little whore. I wanted our first time to be so…,” he stopped and rolled his eyes to the ceiling as though searching or the correct word, “… intense. I wanted it to be intense and memorable. And what do you give to me? Your pathetic Baby tits, that’s what. Flaunting them at me, like a brazen bitch in heat, begging me with your soulful eyes to touch them, to ride them. Thrusting them out at me, and all the time playing your little ‘oh, please don’t touch’ game. I didn’t want to come like that. I didn’t want to make a mess of you. It was supposed to be special. You ruined it, you spoiled our first time.” He was ranting at her, forcing his knees into her shoulders, shifting his weight to release the tension in his muscles where cramp threatened. She was telling him ‘no’ asking him to let her up. “Please let me go home. I Promise I won’t tell anyone. I won’t go to the police. Please just let me go now.” “And have you telling that low-grade wench Margaret that I’m an unsatisfactory lover? That I come too quickly? Have you mocking me to her? Would you be that disloyal to me, Bethany? Have I judged you wrong?” His shoulders slumped and for the first time she sensed a change in his demeanour. His rapid ejaculation had taken from him some of his power and arrogance. She shook her head vehemently. “No, no, I won’t tell anyone, I promise. It’ll be our secret.” She was scrambling around in her vocabulary. This might be her one chance of escape. She had to find the right words to pacify the lunatic. “Don’t worry about it. Next time will be better, you’ll see.” His head had dropped to his chest in a posture of abject self pity. Now it shot up, fire blazing in his eyes once more. “You mock me already. Not only do you strip me of my title of being a man but you take me for a fool. Next time? Next time? My dear Bethany, only I will decide if there is to be a next time. What pull do you think you have lying there broken and used with filthy stuff dripping from your ugly body?” He pulled her up by the shoulders until her face was in line with his. She thought he was going to kiss her. With lightening speed he dropped his forehead, she instinctively moved her face a fraction of an inch to avoid his mouth, saving herself from the worst as he head butted her in the face. Her movement saved her nose and deflected the worst of the impact. But her already bruised bottom lip split like an orange segment ripe with juice. “Next time, restrain yourself woman until I tell you I’m ready. If I can ever stand to look at you again, next time we will take our orgasm together. We will forget about this initial unpleasantness. We will go back to our cat and mouse game and it will be our first time, just as I had it planned. It will be so good Bethany... so intense.” At that moment he seemed more compliant. Not thinking about how she would get out of the room, and, after that, the house, she saw only her chance for her first move towards freedom. She wanted to gently explore her ruined face. Probe with her fingertip to find out how badly hurt she was. But instead, when she felt him shift his weight off her shoulders, she gave an almighty heave of chest and hip. He toppled, struck out a hand, too late to balance himself he fell to the right. Beth was out from underneath him. She was scrambling across the floor towards the remote control that would activate the door, whimpering like a beaten dog but resolute in her need to escape. Her knees grazed on the hard floor. She reached out and almost toppled over. She had the remoter in her hand, pulling it into her body, balancing on both legs and one arm. But he was on her, rugby tackling her from behind, bringing her down. His arms were tight around her waist she kicked out, wasting energy, pummelling her leg muscles into free air. His legs were pulled in close to his waist, giving him purchase and power to attack her again. Shifting his position he grabbed her hair with one hand while the other strengthened its grip around her waist. He pulled her head back by the hair until her back arched painfully and continued to yank on her hair until her body contorted into the shape of an archer's bow. Both legs were still straight out behind her, kicking furiously. Her right foot made contact with the base of the life sized bronze sculpture. She brought her other foot to meet it. Now she had something to provide purchase. Bracing both feet against the statue she put every calorie of energy into twisting her body. He still had her by the hair. The sudden movement wrenched at her scalp. Her force, not his, rived follicles from their bedding, tearing the hair from her head. The agony added impetus to her action. She bunched her fist for added force and drove her elbow backwards into the tender flesh of his groin. She missed her target on the first attempt but heard a satisfying whoosh of breath as she connected instead with his belly. She got him in the balls second time out. He curled, cradling the hurt with forearms crossed around his middle. She was up, facing him, on her knees, on her feet, swinging her foot behind her, grateful for her choice of knee length boots over open toed sandals. He was occupied with the fire in his belly, didn’t see the kick coming, didn’t move to deflect the blow as she had done earlier. She planted her foot full in the bastard’s face. She visualised kicking him far back to the wall behind him. She hopped on her anchoring foot as the velocity of the kick carried her forwards. The crunch of bone had been satisfying. He didn’t bleed as much as she might have expected. It didn’t spurt as her lip had done. It was more of a gushing down his chest. Deep red, capillary bleeding released in a flood from the burst vessels in his nose. She turned towards the door but before she could point the remote control he was on his feet. Black fire burned in his eyes. His face, cruel before, now bore a look that any fool could read as murderous. He was going to kill her. She knew it. He knew it. Bethany Armstrong was going to die, this night, in this house, and nobody would know where the hell she was. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t playing now. The game was over. He’d spat the dummy, and like all babies who don’t get their own way he didn’t want to play any more. The silence broken only by their combined rasping breath was ominous. He moved towards her. She turned, one step at a time. Circling, keeping space between them, ancient wrestlers of the Acropolis, swathed in blood, fighting to the death. She had turned a full ninety degrees and was facing the statue when he ran her. She was still holding the remote, pointing it towards him, ready to fire. It was the only weapon she had. Gone was her one moment of surprise, where his lapse in concentration had counterbalanced the ratio of their strength and gave her a split second advantage. Now they was, two hundred versus one fifteen wet through. No ifs no buts, she was going to die. Her mind was clear when his body connected with hers. She stepped back on her left foot for balance and went with the momentum of his body in a graceful dance like movement, rather than stiffening and trying to absorb the shock of his bulk. She remained on her feet. He shook his head to clear his fuzzed vision and speckles of bone and blood and snot splattered her face. He was pushing her, using his weight to cannon her backwards. He tripped as his foot tangled with the still extended CD rack. He didn’t fall but tottered slightly, grabbing onto her now for balance rather than wheeling her backwards like a supermarket trolley. She grabbed at this second chance turning the tables on him. Taking his own tactic and switching it against him. She was slight and lithe, nothing much to work with bulk wise, but she found strength in desperation. Beth had never fought in her life but now she was fighting for her life and a primal instinct drove her. Moving solely on instinct, she took a deep breath into her diaphragm. At that moment, when she had to take her advantage and make it work for her against the odds, she felt an energy that she didn’t know she possessed, and used it. She pushed him backwards, just as he had done to her. His upper body was rigid but his legs pummelled across the floor, trying to get purchase, finding none, three steps, four steps, five, building speed cannoning backwards. It wasn’t planned. She didn’t mean to do it. She didn’t even see what was going to happen. She was literally fighting to stay alive, living one second to the next, not looking to the next minute, not expecting to ever see further than that room, looking only to keep his feet moving backwards from this second to the next and forever so that he couldn't lay his filthy hands on her again.. She was smiling. The bronze lady was smiling right at her, willing her to beat him, willing her to live. Beth pushed with all of her might, moving him, moving him, moving him, until, suddenly, he stopped. His eyes opened wide. His mouth gaped, he screamed, but Beth didn’t stop, she was still pushing him backwards fighting against the barrier that was holding him still. It wouldn’t give. But he did. She heard the slender pointed foot of the ballerina pierce his back. His feet were paddling in the font at the base of the fountain. Fresh blood bubbled from his mouth, different from last time, brighter, freshly oxygenated, venous. He blew red airy bubbles at her, wheezing a reedy cry like that of a pond bird. Burst lung. He looked like an extension of the sculpture. He was impaled on her extended leg. The workmanship fine, elegant, slim tapered and as thin as a stiletto knife adorned with a ballerina’s slipper. The point of the delicate shoe was visible from the front of his chest. Poking through, part of the art, like a living mess, created by the crazy German doctor who made art from the bodys of the once alive. She watched him die, exultant, victorious, horrified. She actually witnessed the split second that his soul left the wreckage of his body. He was stuck to the front of the sculpture, dancing with the ballerina, one leg lifted, brow furrowed, eyes wide in agony and with the horror of realisation. His body danced with the lady but his eyes belonged only to Bethany. He pleaded with her silently to help him… and then he was gone. She didn’t suspect that he was dead, she didn’t have an inkling that he was dead. She simply knew that Marc, with a C, no longer inhabited the bloodied body. The font filled up quickly with the dying man’s blood and by the time his heart stopped pumping, the water in the trough was cloudy and red. The bulbs, at the base pointed artistically upwards, changing colour every five seconds. The blood became purple, then orange, then blue. Beth had her forever back. Her future was destined to last longer than the next few seconds, yet she could have spent forever watching water play in rainbows over a dead man’s body. She heard a noise. It sounded like a child. Somewhere a child was laughing. It couldn’t be. Her mind was playing with her creating illusions like that of the purple blood splashing in front of her eyes. She turned towards the source of the imagined noise and the previously locked door hung open. She ran, ran from the room, ran from the house, ran from the nightmare. She ran until vomit rose in her throat and until her feet buckled and almost caused her to fall. She ran all the way home and then stopped only because there was nowhere else to run.
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