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Introduction:

A woman, sick of typical dates, takes drastic action when she learns about the violent parttner of an old friend.

"Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot break time and time’s desire—that is the Will’s most lonesome tribulation.*

Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself devise in order to get free from its tribulation and mock at its prison? "

- Nietzsche, The Redeemed. Thus Spake Zarathurstra

It was in her, the rape. It had been there for as long as she could remember. A dark simmering of silent awareness that hooked its million pinned proboscis into the drifting energies of the environment from which she’d grown. Consent classes, graphic news stories, harassment panics, extreme TV and virtual reality, a confused miasma of cultural expression that from one minute to the next, couldn’t decide its own intent. At once, it expressed itself in an elaborate edifice of terror and deterrence, yet, at the same time, secretly, through subterranean blood, it cultivated an attraction, a desire, an inexorable, seductive melody that had begun to lead Michelle outside the constraints of what she’d come to view as a narrowly prescribed life.

Everywhere she looked, there was this same sickness. At first, she had diagnosed it only in herself. It was something in her, she thought, that was the origin of her sexual alienation. The men she dated were kind, conscientious, seemingly courteous, but she couldn’t stand that. She couldn’t stand them in fact, after shorter and shorter intervals becoming more and more frustrated by their reserve. And because of this reserve, she’d extended the diagnosis of sickness to them too. Everything felt wrong. For Michelle, in every interaction and in every touch, she sensed a deep restraint, a contrivance that even familiarity could not kill. These men did not feel natural to her, every encounter one of extreme self-consciousness. She felt artificial in their gaze. There was no passion, there was no challenge; with sex, stripped of its occult aspect, she never felt endangered, and the more she felt she lacked it, the more profoundly she felt she needed it. And this was the sickness – a universal sickness - that as they became more restrained, she demanded more violent proximity, and it was in this way that, over time, her imagination became darker and her fantasies more pressing.

Michelle had been sitting at the table with Janet for over an hour now. It had been years since they’d seen each other. Old school friends, they’d run into each other by chance in a local supermarket and arranged the catch-up in which they were presently engaged. Janet had by now married and started a family with which she seemed very happy. Michelle, on the other hand, had never married. She worked as an administrator in a bank, a role she found utterly unbearable yet financially necessary. And so it was that their conversation went, intermingling stories about Michelle’s multitude of oft tragi-comic relationships and lovers compared with Janet’s relatively stable domestic setup. They’d had a good time, they’d laughed lots (mostly due to Michelle’s indefatigable wit), and right now, there sat in the sun-refracting glass of the coffee-shop window, they’d had a momentary conversational lull. Michelle had been the one to break the silence, stirring the dregs of coffee that remained in her cup and picking at a scone. “So, do you ever hear from anyone else from school?”

Janet had pondered, was about to name someone but was struck suddenly by a different story. “Oh, do you remember Chloe Meadows?”

Michelle thought for a moment, “I think so. Wasn’t she the little one with the face?”

Janet looked at her perplexedly, responding, “We were all little with faces!” They’d both laughed, but Janet went on, “But yeah, you’re right. It’s her. I ran into a friend of hers in the supermarket a couple of weeks ago...”

“You spend too much time in supermarkets,” Michelle interrupted with a relaxed sarcasm.

“Shush,” Janet replied, “if I didn’t, I’d never see anybody… Anyway, as it happens, she’s been seeing this real bastard.”

Michelle woke up, raising dark eyes that momentarily glowed behind her black eye-liner. The moment was brief, a secret self revealed, but it had been enough to cause Janet to pause. “Yeah,” she said. “He hits her apparently. I don’t know why they stay with guys like that.”

“No,” said Michelle, seeming to ponder it deeply, momentarily glimpsing all the potential divergences of gynocentric and phallocentric complexity. “I don’t either. But there was always something about that woman."

That very same evening, as soon as she’d returned home, Michelle had begun investigating. She’d been on the main social network sites, found Chloe, and in no time at all, she’d found the boyfriend too. His name was Scott. He and Chloe had exchanged various public messages, though there was no sign of anything untoward. The guy called her “babe” frequently, was clearly a bit rough. His pictures suggested a wiry masculinity, probably in his late 20s, and from the lines that etched his face, she had the impression he’d lived a hard life. He was by no means attractive - shaved sandy hair, square faced with yellowing eyes and teeth - but she kind of liked this. Though skinny, he had muscular arms with large hands; there was also an arrogant glint to his eye. She sat and looked at him for some time. Bit by bit, a plan was forming.

Over the next few days, she’d worked to track him down. This wasn’t so hard – she’d created a fake account with fake pictures and then befriended him. She’d been flirty, he’d been pretty sleazy. “Ooh, ur hot,” - her opening message; “Tnx hun! u 2!” He’d sent her a picture of himself topless and he’d asked for a picture of her tits. She’d sent random ones off the web, “thy not yrs!”, “thy r 2!”, “LOL!” and so on. But it was in this way that, over the space of 3 or so days, she’d got herself his address. She was pretty disgusted that, all the while, he was still communicating with Chloe. But in this fact too, she found herself enchanted, something in the unpleasantness of his character seducing her and confirming for her all the hopes that swirled about in her idea of him.

Once his address had been acquired, she’d scrapped the account. The disappointment he would feel amused her. She elected to do what she was going to do on the Saturday. She’d spent the morning getting ready – bathed, shaved her whole body, washed and straightened the long brown hair that hung thinly down below her shoulders at her mid-back. She’d worn black lace panties and a matching bra over which she’d worn a medium-blue dress. The hemline came to just above her knee – not too short, not too long, sexuality with ambiguity. The neckline was just low enough to imply the cleft that separated her breasts. She applied her make-up carefully, dark burgundy lipstick with strong black eye-liner, then she looked at herself for some moments in the mirror on her dresser. She looked alright – round face, prominent nose, eyes that could switch between intense or sad on a whim. Her nerves had already begun to play havoc with her stomach. It was beyond belief what she was about to do.

She’d removed all her jewellery and worn a long-dark brown trench coat before leaving the house. These were precautions – there was no guarantee what state her clothing would be in after this was over and the coat was conceived to be a way to cover the potential indignity. The jewellery? Well, she didn’t want to lose it or for it to end up cutting her. It was a warm, sunny afternoon when she left the house. The taxi had just pulled in. Getting in, she’d felt like some condemned film-star or aristocrat. Giving the driver Scott’s address, she slammed shut the cab door.

The estate he lived on was a shit-hole. Even though the sun was shining, the grey pebble-dash of the various homes seemed to drain the light out of the streets themselves, everything colluding to empty down into the same base mean deficit in colour. Kids played here and there, there were grass verges and some of the homes even had front gardens, but most of them contained old furniture and junk that the occupants probably couldn’t afford to get rid of. Michelle had stepped out of the taxi and was crossing the pavement to Scott’s home. Her trenchcoat had been unbuttoned in order that her body would be properly displayed when she met him. Her heels were abnormally loud on the concrete paving stone and seemed even louder to her in her overwrought nervous state once she’d reached his garden path.

Scott had been indoors watching TV when he’d heard the brass of the door knocker bang 3 times on his door. He was half way through his third can and was watching the football in a medium state of excitement. The knock had irritated him and he’d decided to ignore it. Probably just a salesperson – they’d fuck off in a minute. Outside, Michelle was anxiously waiting. Though the sheets he’d draped over his windows prevented her seeing inside, she could hear the sound of the TV and was certain that he was home. Again, Michelle took hold of the knocker and banged it on the door for a second time, this time adding a touch of impatience.

Scott put down the can in frustration, standing and leaving the TV to play to itself. Michelle braced herself when she heard him at the door, looking in when the man opened it, observing his expression transition between one of vexation to one more akin to hospitable confusion. Her appearance had clearly made some sort of impression. “Err, hi? You OK?” he’d asked, dressed in khaki knee-length, loose-fitting shorts, a white t-shirt and white socks.

Michelle fought for some control over her nervousness. How in the hell was she going to play this? Her lips slightly pursed and with a tone that expressed hostility, she’d asked him, “Can I come in?”

He’d looked back at her, his eyes suspicious and surprised. This gaze also seemed to extend beyond her, behind her, him physically looking around the corners, appearing like a man expecting some kind of trick or trap. In the warm air that emanated from his home, contrasting with the cold sun, she could smell the sweet smell of marijuana. Maybe he suspected she had something to do with a dealer or a debt collector. Her hostility probably wasn’t helping this impression, but it was part of her plan. It was the way she’d always intended to play it. Again though, his eyes were on her “I guess,” pulling open the door, stepping aside, confused.

The door opened, and she’d maintained the same hostile posture, passing him curt and brisk in the hallway. The smell of her perfume mixed with the unpleasant smells of his home. The hallway was wallpapered in what was probably once a cream, but had turned yellow with nicotine. It was an old style – obviously something he’d not chosen. The hallway floor was bare boards with a threadbare rug on which she now stood. She’d turned to look at him, arms folded; the football could be heard from the room to the right of her. He’d looked back at her, opened his hands in a questioning way, “Well, what is it you want?”

It was hell for her, this keeping herself together, trying to remain composed given what she was about to try to achieve. How the hell do you get someone to rape you? She held him under a piercing gaze and her eyes seemed to dance like fires whilst she summoned the words. “You hit your girlfriend. I think that’s fucking low!”

He was taken aback, “What...?” What the fuck was this? Was she police or something? “What the hell are you talking about?”

Michelle unfolded her arms, letting the trench coat fall open and stabbing a finger at him, “You hit your fucking girlfriend. What kind of asshole hits their fucking girlfriend?!”

“Look sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” buckling a little, a kind of fear in him. Who the hell was this woman and what business was any of this of hers? He said, “I think you need to get out of my house,” beginning to turn towards the door, but she grabbed his arm, digging her nails into his wrist.

“What sort of an asshole hits their girlfriend?!” there was a fury in her eyes, a rage in her tone that mixed with an incredible, churning anxiety. She had no idea where the rage came from, but it was working. He’d turned, shocked, alarmed, an angry impatience in his own eyes on which she’d followed through. She raised her hand and went to hit him.

There was a sudden panicked motion in which he’d fallen backwards, however he’d recovered in the same moment and caught her wrist. Her other hand had gone re actively to claw at his face, but he’d grabbed that wrist too. She was shouting at him to get off her, get the fuck off her! He didn’t know what was happening, pushing her backwards down the hall. She was clearly nuts.

“Will you shut the fuck up and calm down!” shouting back at her.

She kicked at his shin, her shoe grazing along his bare skin, causing his own eyes to flare in anger and pain. Before she knew it, she was face down on the hall floor with him on the back of her. He’d thrown his full weight against her, taking advantage of her being off balance from the kick. When she’d fallen, she had hit the ground pretty hard with her hip, him rolling her onto her front, still holding her wrists which he’d pinned to the floor.

Behind him, her legs were kicking, the tips of her shoes beating into the wooden boards of the floor “Get off me! Get the fuck off me!” Her head rising from the ground to yell at him. He needed her to shut up. The people next door were used to this shit – it wasn’t the first time he’d argued like this with a woman and on both sides of his home, the neighbours didn’t seem like the kinds of people that gave a toss about this sort of thing. But still, he hit her anyway, releasing her right wrist in order to crack a hand with an open slap against her ear. The impact knocked her head sideways, made her ear ring. It knocked the breath from her, not just physically, but emotionally. For the first time in her life, she felt like someone had made a meaningful, mortal contact with her.

Her hair was grabbed and her head was pulled backwards. “Aghh!” an accidental cry she’d instantly suppressed. With her free hand, her nails dug into the wood beneath her. Her neck strained where his hand pulled at her hair. He was looking down at her with a wild anger, his thoughts confused, trying to make sense of what was going on. “What are you doing here you bitch?” he’d hissed at her, “What the fuck do you think you're trying to do?”

Michelle said nothing. She just remained there, neck straining, eyes closed tight, hair pulling at the base of her scalp. It was only necessary to push him so far. She didn’t want to end up dead or put in a hospital. Heart racing, she kept her mouth shut, just waiting for the next action.

“You come here in your short little dress, trying to pick a fight, your tits all on show, what the fuck do you think you're doing?” The proximity of their bodies, her scent and feel beginning to sexualise his violence.

Again, no answer. She knew that her silence was emboldening him. He’d called her ‘a bitch,’ he’d remarked on her provocative attire, but she’d not defended herself. Instinctively, this served as permission for him to go further. With his other hand, he released her other wrist, moved it to the side of her left breast and began to press his fingers through the fabric of the trench coat. Michelle squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, “Don’t hurt me,” her words seeming to reflect the solemn darkness that enveloped her behind the closed eyelids.

“You’re going to regret coming here you little whore.” He’d moved his face down close to her ear in order to whisper. She could smell the lager, the weed, the animal maleness of the house. She was too warm in the trench coat, trembling too, she had no idea what she might have gotten herself into.

“You come here yelling at me, hitting me, dressed like some two bit tart from a shit film. What the fuck did you think I’d do to you you dumb bitch!” Pulling harder on her hair, pushing his hand into her breast.

“Owl” she could actually feel herself on the brink of tears, not only physical pain, but an unexpected wave of wounded feelings, the mean-spiritedness of his comments upsetting her in ways she'd never anticipated.

With the hand that mauled her breast, he was beginning to pull roughly at the sleeve of the coat, trying to get it down over her shoulder. Extending his tongue, he’d begun licking down the side of her ear. She spoke again, “I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me.” There was something about this woman. He was increasingly sure she was only here for this. It made him angrier to think this was some kind of set up.

“You lie still while I take your coat off,” he’d dropped her head down to the floor, relieving the tension in her hair. Her eyes were still closed, but she stayed perfectly still. The sleeves came roughly down her shoulders and he’d discarded the coat. Though the dress had flimsy blue straps, her shoulders were mostly bare. His hands had brushed aside her hair, his mouth taking turns moving over her shoulders and over the back of her neck, sucking, licking, leaving cold, sticky trails, cannabis residue and drying saliva.

From Michelle’s perspective, this was a horror that came with considerable arousal. Pleasure tingled over her body, flesh raising goose-bumps, helpless in the hands of a total stranger, one who was proving that he had no qualms about raping her. She said to him “Please don’t,” though she didn’t move, she didn’t resist, his mouth now in the cleft of her neck, sucking, breaking little blood vessels whilst he whispered to her words like "tease" and "bitch".

The words were repeated, “Please don’t,” proving to herself the guy didn’t care what he was doing to her, making sure he knew he was raping her. It aroused her more and it aroused him more, her because she knew he would wilfully ruin her, willfully ruin himself in and for her; for him, because it proved he was punishing her – punishing her for coming to his house, for hitting him, for dressing the way she had - “Stupid, fucking bitch.”

He’d rolled her onto her back now, was sat on her waist, a knee either side of her. Just for fun, he hit her, a hard slap across her face. She’d yelped, her head knocked sideways, hands instinctively clawing at him to stop it happening again. For the second time, he’d caught and pinned her wrists, leering down at her. Her eyes had opened following the hit – an expression of fear, teary-upset, anger and alarm. When their eyes met, he’d responded, moving his face down against hers, forcing his lips against her lips. Her mouth closed tightly. He’d raised himself and hit her again, telling her to kiss him. Her cheek was stinging red. The next time he went down, her mouth opened, but she didn't kiss back. Just lay there, the passive receiver of an exploring mouth. He tasted like warm lager, weed and rot. It was nauseating. For him, the lipstick was strawberry, her breath milky, warm, wet, involving.

Whilst kissing her, his large hand was becoming more frantic at the front of her dress. Fingers dug into her flesh, squeezing, mauling, beginning with a demented eagerness to try and break the strap that held the breast's covering in place. The fabric was flimsy, it snapped easily and then it was the cup of her bra that was being forced upwards, her small swollen nipple exposed to the hand and increasingly putrid air.

"Don't," she tried to say into his mouth, "You're hurting me." It was unclear to her to what extent she meant it. It was all a bit out of control. Things were happening that she couldn't get a-hold of, sensations, thoughts, pains and impressions. Things were happening too quickly, no time to process them, no time to decide if they were good or bad and in any case, it didn't matter because she just couldn't stop it. The mauling, the biting, the nipple twisting, the pinching, sucking and slapping and the foul, dead foul, taste and smell. It was all too much.

He went on like this with her for some time. Both the straps of her dress had been torn, and both her breasts had been exposed. He’d slapped her multiple times – sometimes her face, at other times her breasts and body. He’d sucked her arms, shoulders, neck, face and chest, he’d pulled at her hair, made her kiss him. She’d grunted, groaned, yelped, told him ‘No’ and asked him not to hurt her. He’d pulled down her underwear, he’d finger fucked her multiple times with multiple fingers. Her hair had been pulled and her head banged here and there, him spitting threats whilst he did it. At last, he’d finally stuck his cock in her.

The first time he penetrated her, he did it vaginally, roughly there on the wooden floor. She’d been in tears by this point, the hitting having finally gotten to her. Him inside her though had felt extraordinary. Already well lubricated, the fingers having already given her 2 or 3 intense orgasms which, through her tears and sobs, she’d been unable to prevent from being expressed. Though she hadn’t signified them with more than an intense breath, her body had gone rigid with each wave of pleasure, conduiting them through herself in sighs and gasps. When He’d fucked her it was the same – 2 orgasms, maybe 3, the moisture between her legs significant, humiliating.

He’d cum in her vaginally and following that, he’d sodomised her. This had been more painful – for both of them. She’d never done this before. It was tight, without lubrication and he’d been pretty rough. She’d cried out through the whole process, face down now, him holding her arms behind her back and pulling at her long brown hair. He’d driven her into the hard wooden boards of the hallway, crushing her breasts beneath her. From the other room, the sound of the sports channel could still be heard, though it was analysis now, not play. Her noises were animal, as were his, her grunting in pain, him in exertion. After some moments, he came in her that way too – a warm foreign liquid making its way through her insides.

Once done, he’d stood up and pulled up his shorts. He’d gone back into the living room without a word, leaving Michelle there to put herself back together, cover herself in her trench coat. When she left, she did so in a trembling state of emotional and physical exhaustion. She felt sick, disgusted, but she knew that beyond the momentary trauma, the throbbing bruises and the stinging skin, there lay a sort of peace, and though it was nothing like happiness, she experienced a spread of relief that resembled a kind of completeness.

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