Possession 1975

There had been a drink, she thinks. They were friends, nothing more. It wasn't that he was not attractive, but there was a "type" she thought,

her

type, more specifically, and he was not it. She liked them intense and difficult; he was kind and . . . gentle. She could not abide by gentleness, so even though he had never asked, not really, she already knew what she would have answered.

He was safe. They had been with friends, a loose, warm group, and then she was stumbling a bit, but it was alright; they were friends; she was safe. She remembered a car and the streets flashing by them in an unfocused blur. It was early fall, too early to be beautiful (and anyway, you couldn't see the jewel-colored leaves of trees at 1:30, 2am), but cool enough that she needed the warm breath of air blowing out of his dashboard, caressing her knee.

She thinks it was the air, the heat.

The radio was on, something low, and he was talking to her sometimes too, lower, and they were both laughing. She remembered that he hadn't drunk at all, had volunteered to be the sober one for the group - devoid of alcohol and poor judgment, like the rest of them.

His arm was around her lower back, not too tightly around her coat, and they were in an elevator. It was cooler, the metal against her cheek, and their own reflection was disconcerting to her in burnished silver. The small, rumpled girl with the too bright, flushed cheeks, and the tall man looming behind her. Looming? But it was just her friend.

There was a hallway, their footsteps silent in the thick carpeting, and then his arm round her waist again, and the jingle of keys. The door opened like a sigh, and they were in. In the low light of a lamp, she realized they were in her apartment. Home, she read somewhere, was the one place where it smelled like nothing. Everywhere else smelled like

something

, but home is where it smelled like

you

.

He was setting her keys down, not in the usual little blue glass plate where she did, but next to it, and then his hands were shrugging her thick coat off. She shivered a little, clad only in a thin black dress - sleeveless, with a fluttery skirt that kissed her knees. It was more suitable for summer than right now, but she loved this dress and the way it hugged her body, the way it made her feel.

Cold, he asked? He was helping her, or she was finding her own way to the couch; either way, she sank into it gratefully. A plump pillow was in her hands, her eyes were closing again. She thinks she said thank you, for helping to get her home, for being the cool, watchful one, but perhaps not before there was a glass brushing her lip, and she half opened her eyes even as she opened her lips, like a child.

The vodka was a shock to her slightly numb lips, and she licked the salt from them as she swallowed, automatically, her mind thinking, oh another one; we're not yet done. It was fire in her belly, and she giggled at nothing, and she heard him laugh, too.

More, he said, his tone just a little bit serious, like the doctor when he tells you good advice. Make sure you finish it.

She took the glass from him and swallowed it bravely, with a toss of her long hair, one long swallow in her slender throat. All done, she murmured to herself, and he whispered, Good girl.

It was blurry after that, as blurry as they had been in the elevator, or the buildings had been from the car. It had been her neighborhood, seen hundreds of times, but rendered unrecognizable tonight.

She was lying in her bed, against the soft white sheets. One of the bedside lamps was on, and she turned her head from the too bright yellow pool, hiding her face against the pillow. Her heels were being removed, delayed for a moment at the tricky straps that circled her ankles, then tugged off to click quietly on the foor.

The dress was up around her waist, and fingers brushed her hips, found the waist of her stockings and pulled them down. Not just the stockings; her lacy panties were entangled and removed with them. Her thighs were pale and exposed and cool, and she was uncomfortable, shifting without quite stirring or opening her eyes.

The dress wrapped across her chest, and this was opened, pulled down. Her bra was lace too, but not matching, not meant to be seen. It felt almost good when this was tugged down too, her nipples scratched by the lace and then freed, stiffening in the cool night air.

This seems . . . strange to her, and she tries to turn her head from the pillow, but then a hand is on her cheek, firmly, keeping it there. No, he says.

It is the sound, the voice of her friend and this reassures her. Nice, he is nice. He is gentle. She thinks this even as a finger, longer and much thicker than her own, so stiff it hurts, presses between her legs and finds her most secret spot - the hidden the place where all the fire from the drinks has gone - and suddenly pushes into her.

She cries out a little, a wordless plea, but her face is still hidden in the pillows. This is not right . . . her own hand, so slow and heavy, limply moves to her thighs. She is shocked that she is naked there, no panties and no stockings, just her soft, bare mound, but her hand is brushed easily away, pressed firmly down on the bed.

The finger doesn't enter all the way at first; it has to try again, pushing deeper, until his palm is cupping her. The finger is still for a moment, buried all the way inside her, as if it has always been there.

His voice is thick when he says, I knew you'd be tight, and then it starts moving, in and out. In and out, and it gets easier for him. She sighs. Her hair has fallen across her face, a long dark veil, but her eyes flutter open just a bit and she sees him leaning over her, a dark, looming shape. One of her knees is held up towards her waist, and he is looking down intently between her legs.

The finger is moving in and out still, and then she thinks no, no.

No, she whispers. She tries to get up, but her small body is so very heavy, and she can't even keep her eyes open.

Someone is on top of her, heavy, pinning her to her bed. Lips are against hers, and the scratch of a chin that needs shaving after a long night out, scrapes her smooth cheek. She tastes someone else's mouth, someone else's tongue is filling her, almost choking her, as she lies there. Then the lips are gone, and there is a sharp

bite

on her nipple, and she cries out.

Good, he says. I don't want you totally asleep for this.

Is she sleeping, she wonders. Is this a dream? Her nipple still throbs, a hot little point on her chest, matched only by the melting heat betwen her legs. A finger is thrust into her mouth, roughly, more rough than the tongue was, and she recoils a little because it tastes . . . like pussy. Two fingers push between her lips then, and she silently takes it.

She isn't a virgin, but it has been a while. Her legs are being bent back, knees clutched to her chest, and she knows the feel of something blunt and hard and hot, a weapon between them, probing, seeking. I don't, she wants to say, but the fingers are still in her mouth, and she can't say anything at all.

The tip of him spreads her open, and it feels so hot, even hotter than the vodka in her belly is this cruel thing pushing at her, opening her up, and forcing its way into her.

There is something tiny and salty glittering from her eye and running down her cheek. Her legs don't respond when she tries to close them, to keep herself un-taken.

Then she is taken. He is halfway inside of her, and has an animal grunt, the sound of inarticulate triumph any animal makes when it is claming its bitch.

It hurts, it hurts, and she is mewing softly. The fingers are out of her mouth, and they close almost gently around her throat. They squeeze a little, just enough that her mewing stops, then starts again, like a song he is orchestrating her to play.

He is big, bigger than she is ready for, bigger than she can take, it feels like. She is too dry, clinging to him too tightly, and his skin rasps against hers as he keeps forcing it in. Wiry hairs brush her, her bare mound, her body so full it hurts, it hurts, and she realizes she is being fucked. He is fucking her.

She is being raped. He is raping her.

His bare cock is all the way inside of her naked pussy, and she can only take it as he starts to fuck in and out.

She doesn't know how long it lasts. Her mind wanders away for a little while, dreams and comes back. He bites her other nipple, he squeezes her throat almost rhythmically, as he fucks her. Her pussy, which doesn't know, gets warmer and helps him. His wetness? Hers? make her slicker, and he groans again when this happens, when her body fully submits, when it asks him to keep going, this is what her body is for, fill me.

His body slaps against hers, the unmistakable sound of fucking, of a woman being used and used well, and she is so sore inside. Gentle, she'd thought. He is gentle.

But there is nothing gentle about this.

He speeds up, his breath ragged, and she feels it coming and make one last effort, her hand finding his chest, pressing, pushing him away, but there is no strength to it.

His hand tightens on her throat in response, and she can't . . . she drops her hand, but he keeps squeezing, he's choking her as he fucks her, as he rapes her, and then he freezes and she has no breath to cry out in dismay, as he comes, and comes, and comes, filling her with his wetness and his heat, claiming her. Marking her, indelibly, he comes.

Once you let a man inside of you, she once read . . . he's always there.

His weight settles heavily on her. His hand isn't around her throat anymore, it's tangled in her hair. His face is against her neck, breathing hard. She can feel his sweat drip onto her. She can feel his come drip out of her, on her thighs, on her clean white sheets. She hurts inside. Her throat is raw. Her nipples hurt.

He kisses her, savagely. He bites her lower lip between his teeth, and then he takes her chin. Look at me, he says.

Like a doll, she opens her eyes. It is too bright from the lamp, but his form blocks out almost all of it. It smells like sweat, and sex, the smell of pussy.

Next time, you'll come for me, he says. She doesn't know what to say. She can't speak, not fully, she can't think, not clearly. He isn't her type. He is her friend. He is kind. These are fragmented half-thoughts in her head. She was wrong. She was wrong about all of it, wasn't she?

Answer me, he says.

She licks her lip. It's swollen from his bite, another mark he's left on her, perhaps the only visible one. Her voice is soft, unsure . . . next time I'll come, she whispers, for you.

He brushes her hair from her face, and smiles. You will, he agrees, when I want you to. Good girl, he says, and she closes her eyes again.