© Informed Consent
Nerves are funny things.
I turned up at the bar, humidity-flustered and stomach cramping with anxiety. You were running late; which actually suited me down to the ground. It gave me time to compose myself, go to the toilets and check my makeup, settle down with a drink and wait for my hands to stop trembling.
I'm not too proud to admit that I was nervous. We'd spoken – all innocently at first – and got to “know” each other, and everything had gone along nicely.
But…oh, but. That soon tumbled into a bit of a pit of filth, didn't it? I'm sat here, perfumed and preened like some kind of quivering Persian cat, safe in the knowledge that you more or less know every dark, dingy corner of my mind. I've confessed and suggested and flirted, and you've managed to scoop out every sordid little detail. And yet, you don't know my surname.
I try and play it cool and not look whenever there's a flash of movement at the corner of my eye. The bar has descended into mood lighting and the quiet hubbub of conversations going on around me, and it's somewhat comforting.
And then you're there, sliding into the seat opposite me, and I'm a bit lost for words. All that composure, snowflake-fragile in its construction, is gone.
But you're polite, and gracious, and you don't scare me just yet. The conversation flows, the muscles in my neck relax and, just for a brief bubbleskin of time, I forget what you may be capable of.
You're immaculately dressed, and erudite, and eloquent. I find myself upping my game, trying to spar a little with you. Keep up.
The oh-so-polite member of staff comes over and settles the bill, sneakily reminding me that the safe, public part of the evening is drawing to a close. Those cosy walls, that soft amberglow lighting, all exchanged for warm damp air and the darkening street.
I blather on a bit, apologising for the size of my car (and realise that fuck, you're a lot taller than me) and hope that you don't judge me too harshly for my driving. The nerves are back, sliding insidiously through my veins and spreading like blood under a bruise.
Formalities. I don't want to seem presumptuous and just follow you, so I ask. You respond, and I try to concentrate on not being sick.
The room is quiet, dark and calm. I don't quite know what to do and find myself wandering around like a guest who hasn't had their coat taken off them yet. I loiter at the window, looking at the deserted street outside. I press my palm against the cool pane and watch my handprint disappear.
I sit at the table and absent-mindedly remove the ropes of pearls from around my neck. Your shadow enters the room before you do, and I look up.
“Do you want me to take off my rings?”
“If you value them”.
Each one drops audibly onto the table.
You sit opposite me again, but it's different this time. Your posture and expression have changed, your very being even. Your eyes are all pupil and incredibly, worryingly focussed. I suddenly feel very exposed.
We both know what's going to happen, and you tell me to stand in the middle of the room.
“Now,” you said earlier, “I don't know you. I don't know how much you can take. So I'll be gentle”.
Your “gentle” has me on the brink of vomiting. Your knuckles crash into my ribs and wrench a grunt from my throat. I half-spin, and your fingers dig into the flesh at my upper arm, pulling me back to face you. My breath is trapped in my throat, jaw slack and mouth open. I try desperately to draw in ragged gulps of air.
You pull me to you. Your fist is in your hair and your tongue fills my mouth, rude and demanding, and I find myself clutching at your clothes to stop my knees from buckling beneath me. Moans start at the base of my throat and travel up, weakening into whimpers. You're all teeth and tongue and aggression and I'm dizzy.
You're fast. Too fucking fast. You wait until I'm all breathless and lustdrunk and somehow, just somehow, you hit me in such a way that has me floored immediately, on my back.
I'm too fucking shocked to cringe at the indignity of it.
Your fingers are at my chest, wrapping around the neckline of my dress. The pretty dress, the one I'd received so many compliments about, the one I perhaps foolishly told you I'd bought a duplicate of “just in case”.
It rips. It fucking rips. From the top to the bottom, all the way down, right down the middle. I don't doubt that my face is a blow-up doll 'O' of shock. I know I provoked you – why else would I mention the fact that I'd bought an identical one? – but…but…it's my favourite!
Then the flimsy little slip that goes underneath it. It sounds exaggerated, like how something should rip; a cartoon, a parody.
Then my bra. My fucking bra.
I don't have long to feel indignant. I'm too busy groaning as your fist buries itself into my stomach. Once, twice.
I'm still reeling from the shock of the blow when your hand forces my thighs apart and pushes aside my underwear, rubbing at the wet flesh, determined to see me ride the jolt of the punches.
Oh God, the sounds coming from me are atrocious. All guttural and uncontrolled and unrestrained. I'd tried to be the height of ladylike flirtation earlier this evening, and here I am writhing on my back and lifting my hips so your fingers can go deeper. There's a word for girls like me...
Your other hand is around my throat, and I suddenly become very aware of the ridge of my larynx underneath my skin.
The comes the slap. Your palm and fingers, hard and far too fast, against the padded fist of my cunt. I yelp – too loudly for your liking, it would seem.
“Now. You're going to be quiet”.
You squeeze, just that little bit too hard, to make sure.
The sound turns my stomach. The dull, wet thud of your hard, tight fist slamming into my cunt. All your lust and determination bound into one bone-and-muscle weapon. The pain shoots down my legs and up into my belly; dulled only by your cruel, manipulative hand and its expert circular motion.
You carry on with this horrible, glorious dexterity; alternating between pounding at my flesh and caressing it into a pulpy, swollen mess. My thighs shake uncontrollably, spasming, and I'm digging my heels into the floor and not knowing whether to move away from you or push into you, demanding, needing, more.
I lose count of how many times you punch me there. But it drives me to near-silence, the unnerving quiet. I remember how they teach paramedics to check the person making the least noise when a car is a mangled chaos of metal and plastic.
“Get on your knees”.
Ah, now that's it. My chance to redeem myself, to regain some of that composure that I had held on so tightly to earlier. I try desperately to be alluring, realising that my dress now simply slips clean off my shoulders and my underwear is soaked and twisted between my thighs.
You unbuckle your belt – I'm depressingly, predictably Pavlovian – and I gaze up at you. This is my moment to claw back some dignity, some skill, as opposed to being a stretching, mewling tramp. I prepare to show off, to regain some ground, to make you lose control.
Not a chance. Your hands are on the back of my head and you fuck my mouth with complete disregard for my spluttering and choking and my hands splayed, pushing, on your hips. I try desperately to breathe and concentrate and not gag – and there I was thinking I didn't have a gag reflex, the heaving in my stomach and chest would dictate otherwise – as you continue to rut into my mouth, that ring of muscle at the back of my throat clenching around you.
I look up at you, and your smirk crucifies me. You wet your thumb and rub it over my eyes, smearing my sooty makeup. Seems my eyes haven't streamed enough yet.
You remedy that soon enough. Skill doesn't matter; you're fucking my mouth, and that's it. Nothing more than a warm, willing orifice to get you off. Never mind the carefully-constructed conversation and lingering gazes over my glass.
I curse every choking sob and every heave of my chest. I was supposed to be better than this.
No matter, it works for you. You pull out and come over my tongue, which I eagerly stick out like all the pornandCosmo-influenced girls, and deliberately get my face and hair. You fucking cunt.
You zip yourself up, and I kneel there, shaking; wondering how I can cobble together any kind of dignity now. You reach forward, lifting my hair off my shoulders, and wipe your hands in it.
You leave the room, and I'm left to try and compose myself.
I don't know how much time passes before you return.
I do, and my legs shake.
I push my knickers down past my hips and kick them off my toe.
“Pass them to me”.
You grip my chin and force them into my mouth. I splutter, and you offer a disparaging look that cuts me to the core. “Come on. All the way in”. Your fingers probe my mouth and push the fabric to the back of my throat.
You produce a roll of tape and place a strip across my mouth, wrapping it around my head. I can taste myself.
You move behind me.
“Now. I think you're going to be very noisy. And I don't want that”.
Then that slip-and-clunk of your belt being pulled from you. My whole body tenses; I don't know where you're going to hit me.
You get me right in the centre of my back, and I shriek against the gag. The sting is agonising; sharp and precise and searing. Again and again; my shoulder blades, my ribs. The strip curls around and catches the tender flesh of my breast and I don't think I have the energy to scream.
A moment's peace. I breathe through my nose and push my tongue against the gag, my mouth is painfully dry.
Your punch sends me onto my knees, and I barely have time to put my arms out in front of me. You loop the belt around my neck and yank hard enough for me to see stars. You push inside me and I don't know whether the animal moan that comes from my throat is pleasure, or a protest that the skin that you'd made livid with pain is being violated. The ache throbs, skin desperately tender, but I still find myself balling my hands into fists and pushing back against you. Everything hurts, everything, and still my body slyly betrays me by gripping you; tightening and contracting around you, thanking its abuser.
You're still in your trousers, and I feel somewhat whorish in my stockings. If clothes could represent the upper hand…
I suddenly realise that I haven't inhaled for some time, and my vision starts to swim.
You pull me up by the belt and I'm on my feet, sucking in huge, grateful mouthfuls of air as you release me. My throat is raw.
Another blow to the ribs sends me sprawling across the sofa. Something hard – a fist, a backhander, I can't tell – catches me on my cheekbone and my neck strains as my head swings back.
My breath comes in short, stuttering gasps. I daren't look up at you, partly because I'm ashamed. Here I am, battered and bloodied, once all pearls and good manners and now a saturated, pulped heap of flesh.
I don't know how much time passes before I finally lift my gaze, and I don't know whether to come or cry. You're above me, and the expression on your face frightens the hell out of me. All resolve, lust, determination, and a darkness I've never seen before. Lip slightly curled, jaw set, eyes fixed on me. Just standing there, silent, in suit trousers and shoes and nothing else. The muscles in your arm suggest that your fists are clenched. It's fucking unholy.
You'd said previously that you liked my independence, my determination. I knew you didn't want a delicate sort, all doe-eyed and gooey. You wanted the fight in me, the anger.
I refuse to drop your gaze, despite the fact that it hits me harder than any of your punches. This is the most difficult endurance of the whole evening, and I feel more turned on and scared of you than I ever have been before. I won't allow myself to look away, even though I'm desperate to hide behind my hair and raise my shoulder to protect my face.
You don't blink. “You just want more, don't you?” I don't know you well enough to determine whether there's disgust or anger in your voice.
I nod anyway.
Fuck, FUCK. Blows rain down onto my torso and I feel like you're beating the breath, the life out of me. I try to fall, try to protect myself, but you just keep hitting me. Knuckles in my ribs, my back, pulling me back by my hair and getting my face. I groan and grunt and cry out and resign myself to it. So much for that fight, for that anger.
You stop, and the only sound in the room is my erratic breathing, punctuated by the occasional moan. Nothing from you, no sound, nothing at all.
You grab at my hair and wrench my head back, peering at my eyes. They're dry. You sneer, and I know what's coming.
I don't know how many punches there were, how many slaps. I don't know how many times I cry out, or how many times I put a shaking hand out to steady myself.
What I do know is what starts it. Both of your fists against my ribs, crippling me, and those belittling slaps across the back of my head. One, two, three, four.
Here they come. Deep from the pit of my belly, jagged ugly sobs. My eyes prick with tears and I feel my gluey, ruined makeup begin to pool. Here they come.
My whole body convulses. This is what you wanted, isn't it?
I hear you leave the room, the pulsing rush of water as you turn on the shower. I'm alone with my sobs and my agony, and I'm more grateful to you than you realise.
"When you're going through hell, keep going."
- Winston Churchill.