Damsel in Distress

She walked back from the house to the office after the tour, lifting her skirts off the muddy grass on the path. It was a school group, and they always dressed up for the kids. She wore a red calico dress with white lace and a white waistband with a big bow at the back. Instead of a hoop she wore a simple rope skirt to add fullness to the dress. Her hair, being short, was down—she told the children she'd been sick and the doctor had cut off her hair in hopes it would help her get well more quickly.

The manager of the historical plantation had just finished up his own part of the tour as well. He gave the children a tutorial on a soldier's life—a Confederate soldier, as that was the reenactment gear he had on hand—and they ate it up. He even fired his reproduction musket rifle for them. He came strolling back to the office close behind her, all in uniform and carrying his infield rifle and canteen.

They walked into the office together, and he held the door for her. It was just the two of them on staff today—they usually only paid for as many people at a time—and it was quiet on the property after the children had gone. She moved instinctively to the fireplace to warm up, even though there was no fire in it yet, and he looked at her pensively from where he stood by the door.

"You know, you look lovely in that dress."

"Why thank you! You look handsome in your uniform." She smiled. He was a kind sort of man, and she took his compliment gracefully.

He stepped toward her. "Really—you look so beautiful. Have I ever told you how beautiful you are before?"

She looked at him out the side of her eyes. "I—I don't know what to say." This was so out of character for him. What was happening?

He stepped closer yet again, and this time he slipped his arms around her waist. "I've always thought so," he whispered.

She put her palms gently against his chest. "Look—I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But think of your wife. And your children. You don't want to do this." She cared about him. She couldn't let him do or say something he'd regret.

"My wife? Are you serious? She doesn't care about me any more. I'm done with her. I'm going to get a divorce, you'll see. But for now I can't wait any longer to have you. I've been waiting so long already." He leaned in to kiss her, and she turned her head away. She put her hands on his chest again, but this time she pressed more firmly.

"No, I won't do this. You've got to stop. I'm sorry about your troubles with your wife but this won't do." She kept pushing against him, but was only met with a tighter grip.

"I have to have you. I have to. You can't deny me this." She was struggling in earnest now, and he was growing rougher as he became more frustrated. What was going on? He had always seemed like such a gentle man. But then he could be rugged and rough sometimes, like when he was reenacting as a soldier. Like he was right now...

"Please, please stop! You don't understand, you must stop!" She was growing frightened, and tried to kick him, but her skirts were too heavy and cumbersome. The attempt seemed to anger him, and he gripped her upper arm to a bruising level and shoved her to the floor. She tried to scramble away but all the layers of clothing and all the skirts got in her way, and she was helpless; a ready victim and a damsel in distress, right down to the costume.

The next thing she knew he was on top of her, and he was grabbing at her in a fury now. He squeezed her breasts till she cried out, ran his hands down her curves, gripped her small waist in both hands as she wriggled and fought to no avail. She tried screaming, but on such a large property no one would be able to hear her. He began removing her bodice, but he seemed in no hurry. He was absorbing every bit of her, alternating between roughly and gently touching every inch he could.

Her body was turned on despite her heart and her head being so adamantly opposed. He was strong and attractive and his hands felt so good on her, even when they hurt. She didn't understand what was wrong with her.

He finally seemed to grow sick of her hands fluttering at him, still giving every attempt to fight back even though it was useless, and he pulled off his belt and used it to bind her wrists. She was out of breath, exhausted from trying to fight him and, against her will, turned on. Her face was flush and she could tell that her body was well-primed of its own accord.

Finally he drew up her skirt and was getting ready to invade her when the office door opened of a sudden. He turned quickly, leaping off her in a panic. It was the groundskeeper, looking shocked and horrified. He stood stunned, looking back and forth between the two of them, and finally she cried, "Please, help me!" He snapped to attention and knelt to unbind her as the perpetrator slipped past him and ran out the front door. She somehow knew she'd never see him again.