Follow the Rules

I transferred all the grocery bags to my left hand. They were too heavy that way, but my right hand still couldn't handle much weight, even with the wrist brace. I tried to rush up the stairs, hoping to make it at least to my apartment door before all the bags slipped out of my grip.

I reached the top landing and gasped. The bags dropped to the ground, spilling bread and oranges and yogurt containers.

Zachary turned from my apartment door to face me.

He looked like shit. Well, he was still beautiful. He would always be beautiful - but now he was also a wreck.

"Rachel," he said, "I'm sorry."

For startling me or raping me?

It was the first time he'd said my name.

He had a few days' worth of stubble. The stubble was spread evenly across his face, as if he'd shaved his goatee first before letting it grow out again. He was dressed in grungy clothes like before, but now they were rumpled and ... ordinary. Not dirty designer jeans, just dirty torn jeans. And not a leather jacket, just a thin, worn grey t-shirt. His eyes were bloodshot and had thick, dark circles underneath.

When was the last time he slept?

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "Here. Let me help you with that."

He took a step toward me and reached his hand out, and I took a step backwards before realizing what I'd done. He froze. His body remained still but emotions flashed across his face like beacons. I didn't even recognize them all but I knew one for sure -- pain. I'd hurt him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said hoarsely. The words must have brought back the same memories for him, because he grimaced and said, "I'm not going to touch you."

I still hadn't spoken. I wasn't sure I could. But I didn't know what to say, anyways. Thoughts were flitting through my mind. I struggled to grab hold of one.

What are you doing here?

Why didn't you come sooner?

"I -- it's okay. You startled me, that's all. I'll just pick these up." I knelt down and began gathering up the groceries into the bags, carefully keeping my body facing him. In my distraction, I used my right hand to pick up a carton of milk. I gasped and dropped the milk. The carton broken open and white milk spilled onto the dirty concrete floor. Then he was beside me, gently holding my arm in his hands.

He was

touching

me. And I let him.

"Your wrist," he said, "it hasn't healed yet."

"Yeah, well, not all the way."

His face was turned downwards towards my wrist that he still held, so I couldn't see his expression. "Can I bring in the groceries? Please." He looked up at me - his eyes dark, murky.

"Uh, sure. Okay. That would be ... helpful. Thanks." I stood and backed out of the way. He swiftly re-packed the grocery bags and carried them to my door.

I unlocked the door and stood aside to let him in. As he passed me the situation hit me -- I had just tacitly invited my rapist into my apartment. I felt like the stupid girl in a vampire horror movie -- he couldn't have come in on his own but once I invited him...

But this wasn't like that, because he wasn't evil. He was one of the good guys, despite having raped me.

Because

he raped me, rather than leave me to the others, if I wanted to believe. And I did want to believe. It was just not that easy to shift someone in your mind from being bad to good.

Zachary found the kitchen and began putting things away. It was simple enough with such a tiny fridge and pantry, but I was still impressed with his resourcefulness. There weren't too many bags nor too much space in the kitchen, so I leaned against the bar and watched him. I'd thought about him and dreamed about him, but I'd wondered if I'd forgotten what he'd looked like. I'd only seen him for such a short time period, and during that time I'd been traumatized and in shock.

He did look different. Not just the goatee or the stubble or the haunted look in his bloodshot green eyes. He looked gaunter, and stood less tall. Even so, he dominated my tiny apartment. I soaked it in, his face, his body, his presence -- not knowing if I'd ever have the chance again.

He put everything away, and then stood awkwardly in the kitchen. The questions came to my mind, to ask him what he wanted, but that would just put an end to this sooner. It was suddenly imperative that he stayed. I couldn't look too deeply into my feelings about him yet, but I knew this much: whatever he wanted, I would give him. And then he would leave.

He cleared his throat, "You didn't press charges."

My eyebrows raised, "No. I didn't."

"Why?"

"Well, they explained it. Why you ... did what you did. So, it didn't really make sense to press charges."

He looked away, "I think you should. You should press charges."

"Um. I don't understand."

"I don't know what the officer told you. Maybe he wasn't clear on your options or maybe he pressured you or something, but I -- I raped you, and you should press charges."

Okay, I was getting that he wanted me to press charges. But this didn't make sense. "Listen," I shook my head bemusedly, "maybe there has been some mistake. Is your name Zachary Kant?"

"Yes."

"And are you an FBI agent?"

"Yes."

"And you were working undercover in a sting operation with the Locos."

"Yes."

Now the hard part, "And when you -- when you raped me, you were doing so to keep cover. And because you thought it would help me. That if you claimed me, then the others couldn't hurt me."

"So that's it," he said flatly. "You feel gratitude towards me. Well, don't. I didn't

protect

you, I

raped

you and I -- God help me, but I

enjoyed

it. And even if I wanted to claim you, to protect you, it didn't work. You were attacked and raped again while under my protection."

I sighed, "I know what happened. And I think that you did the right thing. You did the best you could."

He gave me a look that let me know what he thought of his "best". "Did you hear what I said?" he demanded. "I enjoyed raping you. I got off on it. And that's not all. I want to do it again. I've wanted to do it again since the moment I came inside you."

My eyes widened and my breath stuttered. He noticed. He narrowed his eyes and stepped towards me in the tiny kitchen. "That's right," he said. "I want to have sex with you. I dream about it. I imagine you under me with your beautiful eyes looking up at me, needy, and those lips and hair spilling everywhere your --" he waved his hand towards my breasts, but his eyes never left mine.

"So don't try to make excuses for what I did," he said. I was breathing harder now, but not out of fear.

Does he really want me? Or is this just a ploy to scare me?

He wouldn't force me. I was almost certain of that.

"What happened before," I said breathlessly, "was it just the ultimate pity fuck? You had to do it or I would get hurt or die."

"What? Jesus, no. I don't know." He looked away, breathing hard. "I saw you before, at the club and I wanted you then. I was working, but I had planned on going back some other night to meet you. Then I saw that they had kidnapped a woman to rape, and that it was you. Sometimes it's part of the job, to stand by while something like that happens, but I couldn't let them touch you. I couldn't let them hurt you. But I hurt you. And then I let them hurt you anyways. I let you down."

He paused.

"This is what I do -- I protect people," his eyes were pleading with me, to understand, to condemn him, "and then when it mattered, when it really mattered to me, I failed you."

The words hung in the air.

"Oh," I said softly. I reached up my hand and rubbed my knuckles against the scratchy stubble on his jaw. "No, Zachary. You saved me."

"No," he protested, but he held his head still. "No."

"Yes, you did," I said. I trailed my fingertips up his cheek to his eyes. As I traced his eyebrows lightly, he shut his eyes and groaned. I wanted to hear him groan again, but inside me, like he did when he raped me. And this time I wanted him to make me come. I wasn't sure I could go through with it, but I wanted to try.

"Tell me you want me," I said. "Tell me you want to have sex with me."

"What?" he opened his eyes, looking alarmed. "No."

"You don't want to have sex with me?"

"No, I do. I'm sorry I said that before, that I scared you," he laughed humorlessly. "I'm not going to rape you, or hurt you. I'd like to say I'd never do that to you, but we both know I would. But I won't."

"I'm not asking you to rape me. I'm asking you to have sex with me."

"Oh God," he groaned. He hung his head, "Listen to me," he said hoarsely. "I don't know what this is. You feel so ashamed about it that you think this is what you deserve? It's not. Or is this some kind of alternative therapy treatment."

"It's not any of that. Not totally," I said. "I don't know if I can even have sex. Maybe I'll freak out. But I know that I want you, physically, and I think you want me, too."

I took a deep breath.

"And," I said. "You will be gentle with me... won't you?"

He paused and I couldn't get a read on his thoughts. "It's too soon. Your body isn't even fully healed."

"How long should I wait? Six months, six years? How about this - you come back when I can be normal again and we'll pick this back up."

But he didn't leave. He just stood there in front of me. I could feel the tension in his body. His shoulders were slumped and his head was down as if he was dejected, defeated. But that wasn't the energy he was giving off. It felt like he was restraining something massive, something that might break free.

"You can have anyone," he finally said. "You don't have to pick me because I'm here or because I was the one who raped you. You can find someone else who will be gentle and be ... worthy of you. You are beautiful. And so precious. You know that don't you?"

"I know that you think that," I said softly. "That's why I want it to be you."

"I want you so badly," he said. "I shouldn't have tried to scare you with that, but it's still true. I want to make you come. Will you let me do that?"

Could I? I wasn't sure. And my throat felt tight. I nodded.

He stepped closer to me, almost touching. His hand reached up again, to my breast, still covered in my bra and shirt. Then he paused, his hand curved but not touching. He looked up into my face, searching.

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

"Yes. Please."

He touched his hand to my breast, molding it. His hand curved along the side and underneath, testing its weight. His thumb reached up to swipe my nipple lightly. I shivered. I didn't want him to stop.

"I don't want to scare you. I don't want to hurt you," he said. He hung his head, his hand still on my breast. "Rachel. Tell me what to do."

Wait, what?

"I'm afraid that I'll be too rough, that I'll do something to scare you. If you tell me what to do, I'll do it and not anything else."

Jesus -- do I even want that? Is it a responsibility or a freedom he is offering?

He looked up at me, supplicating. "You can tie me up - if you want."

"I don't want to tie you up. But I will tell you what to do."

"Okay," he said, as if agreeing to a pact, "Okay. I'll do what you tell me." He lowered his hand to his side.

"No," I said. "Touch me again."

He lifted both hands up to my breasts and began to fondle them tentatively.

Too light.

"Yes. Like that but harder."

He used more pressure.

Oh god.

A strange feeling was coming over me. We stood face-to-face like we had before, but suddenly I felt taller, stronger. He seemed -- well, he was still large -- but he seemed almost worshipping. All he was doing was touching me, in ways I had been touched before, but I was more turned on than ever. He was touching me now at my command - how I wanted for as long as I wanted.

I felt a tingle in my cunt, aching for him to touch me there too, for him to bring me to completion. But I was enjoying this too much to end it quickly.

"Stop," I said, and he froze.

"Take off your shirt."

He pulled his hands back to tear off his shirt. I held my hand out. He put his shirt in it. Then he stood straight, hands by his side. His eyes were intense and dark, fixed on my face, waiting for my next command. His arousal was an obvious bulge in his jeans. I could feel his body straining for more, to touch me and to take his pleasure, but I knew that he wouldn't. Not until I told him to.

I didn't want to tie him down, to take his choice away, because I never wanted to make someone feel what I felt - the helplessness and the shame. But if he wanted to give this to me, that was something different. Every act of obedience, every moment of sweet restraint he showed, was a gift.

I reveled in my power. I stepped up to him and put my fingertips on his chest. I trailed them down and in circles, tracing the contours of his muscles. Those muscles contracted and rippled with unfulfilled pleasure. His breathing quickened and his bulge grew more obvious.

"Your pants. Remove them," I said.

He reached up and, carefully, undid his jeans and they dropped to the floor. He hooked his thumbs in his underwear and hesitated.

"Yes," I told him, "Those too."

He pushed them down to the floor with his jeans and stepped out of them. I hadn't seen almost anything of his body the last time. He'd remained fully clothed except for his cock, which he took out to rape me. But I hadn't really gotten to see that -- only feel it. I examined it now. It was average thickness, I thought, but it seemed longer than average. I was surprised I had taken it without any pain. Although, maybe he hadn't put it quite all the way inside.

He was already so hard that his cock pointed straight out and upwards. It looked red and wet at the tip and I wondered at his self-control to stand there for my perusal.

"Do you like this?"

He looked at me.

"Answer me," I said. "Do you like standing there, waiting for me to tell you what to do?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Good. Because I like this, too. I like telling you what to do. And I like watching you stand there, having to wait. And I like this." I touched the my fingertip to the tip of his cock. His cock jerked and my cunt clenched in response.

I wanted to explore him. To learn everything about him. His mind, yes, but that was for later. For now, I wanted to know what he smelled like, what he tasted like, the shade of his skin underneath his cock and his balls. Still fully dressed, I stepped over to a kitchen chair and sat down.

He remained where he was, facing the wall.

"Come here," I told him.

He stepped over to me and between my legs. Even sitting down in front of him, with his cock standing proudly in my face, I felt power course through me. I gripped his cock in my hand and squeezed lightly, savoring the catch in his breath. I pumped up and down, slowly and not too far, teasing him.

Holding the base of his cock in my fist, I touched my tongue to the tip of his cock -- not licking him, just pressing down my tongue into his slit. He groaned softly. I slipped my lips around him and pushed forward to take him into my mouth a few times. He caught my rhythm and his hips started thrusting forward. I reached up my other hand and tapped his hip.

No, no moving allowed.

His hips stilled.

I continued sucking him in a steady rhythm just to see if he would move. His breathing grew ragged but he stayed mostly still. I pulled my mouth off of him and trailed licks and kisses and light touches of my teeth down the underside of his cock. When I reached his balls, I licked them and sucked on them. His entire body jerked at that, but I assumed it was involuntary and didn't chastise him again.

Lower I went, down the underside of his balls. I couldn't reach, his legs were too close. I tapped again, this time on the inside of his thighs.

Wider.

And he widened his stance. I used my fist on his cock like a handle, lifting it up and out of the way. I resumed licking his balls, reaching underneath until I hit the seam where they met his body. My face was buried in his groin, and his musk was overpowering, intoxicating. I licked with my tongue, anywhere I could, not quite reaching his asshole.

He started to shake and pump his hips erratically, and I thought he might be close to coming. I tapped his hip again, but then figured nonverbal cues may not help with this one. I lifted my head and said, "Don't come. I'll tell you when you can come." His eyes were glazed over and I knew my suspicions were correct. But he seemed to focus on me and calm himself. He nodded.

I had felt more powerful with my clothes on, but now they felt like a hindrance. I pulled off my shirt abruptly, enjoying his sharp intake of breath. Then I pulled my bra off, and watched his eyes stare intently at my breasts.

"You wanted to touch me here.

Before

," I said with emphasis -- when he was raping me. "Well? Tell me. Did you want to touch them when I was lying there, helpless?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"They are so beautiful. I knew they would be, even when I'd only seen you at the bar. And then seeing them bare and in front of me, I -- I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry for finding them beautiful, for wanting to touch them. Do it."

He reached his hand up but I stopped him.

"No," I said. "With your cock."

He paused and his eyes flew to me, but I didn't help him out. It had just come to me as an idea when his beautiful cock was already in close proximity to my naked breasts. I wasn't even sure what I wanted him to do, but I was content to let him figure it out.

He gripped his cock in his fist, holding it more like a weapon than something tender. He moved his hips forward until the tip of his cock bumped my nipple. When he pulled back slightly, a bead of precum glistened on my nipple.

I felt entranced by my arousal and my power. I had never realized how many thoughts would flicker through my brain, ideas and requests, that I had never voiced. But now I was given a free pass for anything I wanted. He wouldn't judge and he wouldn't say no.

"Suck me there. Taste yourself on me."

He immediately knelt and latched his mouth onto my breast, sucking me greedily. I felt the pulls through my breast and my cunt.

"The other side," I gasped.

He started to lean over, but I put my fingers on his arm to stop him. I pointed down to his cock. He stood up, and, more hurriedly this time, more crudely, he coated my nipple with his pre-cum. Then he knelt down and suckled me, cleaning all of his cum off of my breast and then sucking more.

"Stand back up."

I pulled his cock gently towards my body. He leaned into me, following my lead. I trailed his cock down along my breast, from the inner edge to the underside and down along my ribs.

When I released him, he knelt down and licked along the trail I had drawn.

"Enough." I wasn't sure how much more of this I could take. I doubted I could come from nipple stimulation alone, but I thought a tiny rock against the seam of my jeans just might finish me.

He stood up. I gripped his cock and pulled it into my mouth again. He gasped. I almost smiled but I couldn't with my mouth full of cock.

He was too long for me to really take into my mouth. I could take the tip, and then halfway in, which would be plenty enough on most guys. But I wanted more. I wanted to possess him. I knew most women wouldn't do this for him, wouldn't even try. But I wanted to do this and then I would have that part of him.

I began working him deeper on every suck, until I could feel him hitting the back of my throat. I forced myself to even breaths and a steady rhythm, and got him deeper still. My gag reflex kicked in but I continued my thrusts. I felt him tense, and I knew that he wanted to tell me not to, that I didn't have to do that. But that wasn't the game we were playing and he knew it. He was silent.