He steps forward in my distracted state, startling me; I lash out, clawing at him, kicking his shins with my bare toes, screaming strings of profanities—all to no avail. Shivering naked in the cold, damp basement, my once pristine pajamas now lie in a shredded pile on the floor, my captor’s steely strong hands gripping my wrists.
Anger rolls off his heaving shoulders, and though I want to fight more, to provoke him to make a mistake, my self-preservation and fear mingle and win. He steers me to the shower and shoves me roughly under the warm stream. With my hands free, I cover myself the best I am able while still keeping an eye on him.
He points to a single bar of soap and a washcloth sitting on a small stool to my right before crossing his arms. This pervert wants to just…watch me shower? For what reason?
The realization hits me then as a wave of steam swirls in my face and brings with it my stench.Oh. Ohno.
He wants me clean before he…
Powerless, fury courses through me, and I snatch the bar of soap while water trickles into my eyes, launching the hefty rectangle at his head with every ounce of strength in me.
With no other motion than sticking his huge hand up to catch the flying bar, he stands still as stone and stares me down, his own fury simmering beneath that nightmare-inducing mask. Crying, I sputter and back away until my shoulders hit the wall behind me and the shower streams down in front of me, giving me a staticky view of those deadly muscles and lethal eyes.
With a slow shake of his head, he lowers his hand still gripping the soap and steps forward menacingly. My eyes cut to the left; the toilet and stool stand proudly in my way of escape. To my right, there’s only three or so feet until I hit a wall. By the time I look at him again, he’s stepping into the stream with no reaction whatsoever, letting the water douse his mask, the droplets running down his torso in between each defined muscle and staining his jeans a deeper shade of blue.
With his free hand, he reaches toward me again, and I grit my teeth and smack his wrist away. It barely moves him and takes away what little coverage I’d been able to provide myself. He tries again. The slap of my palm against his forearm echoes inthe humid basement. He does the whole deep-breath, annoyed-sigh again, but when he moves next, it’s inhumanly fast. My muddled brain is unable to keep up with the motion before he has me pinned to the wall with his body, one of my wrists anchored by his calloused hand above me.
Sobbing, I kick at him and even attempt to bite at his bicep—anything I can do to prevent this cleansing and prolong my impending rape. But he’s too strong, too steady and determined, and I am losing hope and energy at a rapid pace.
Eyesight swimming with shower water and tears, I cast my gaze to the wet floor and focus on the little rivers running to the grated drain. He wets the bar of soap, eliciting a soft, feminine scent that I’ll remember even after I’m dead. Bubbles foam up in his wide palm, suds squeezing out between his knuckles. He brings the bar toward me, pausing just above my heart. My free arm covers my breasts, my breath shaking, chest rising and falling in a wild tempo.
He remains controlled, steady, even as his breathing becomes harsher…more excited. A small voice in the back of my head reminds me that though I won’t win a physical battle against him, maybe I can worm my way into his mind and find any weakness possible. Just as he’s tensing to begin washing me, my tremulous voice speaks.
“Why are you doing this?”
It’s a hoarse whisper, just loud enough to be heard over the pattering of water on the cracked concrete. A soft squelching sound draws my attention to his hand still hovering above my chest, the bar disintegrating as he crushes it in his mighty fist.
My only answer is a stiff shake of his head, the reprimand for questioning him evident in the way the muscles along the sides of his neck and down his shoulders tense so hard that veins begin to pulse just below the surface of his skin.
He washes me, and I am powerless to stop him. The bar slips easily over my wet body, his hand steady, his motions somehow reverent.
He is worshipping a fantasy, and I am in a living hell.
Forcing me to turn and face the wall, he continues his ministrations, swiping the soap across my shoulders and down my spine, never lingering, and never dipping too low. By the time both of my arms and legs have been cleansed, I sway under the stream, completely free but entirely incapable of doing anything about it. It’s as though I am in some sort of trance, but I know logically that it’s shock. The reality is settling in again, this time in a different way.
I’ll have to lose the battle for my body, and pray I win the war for my soul.
The less I fight him, the more intense he becomes, spearing his fingers into my hair, knotting them at the base of my skull. The pressure of his fingers against me, rubbing deep circles into my scalp, feelsgood. And I hate that.
My head tips back on his command, the water rinsing my hair out, his deft fingers caught in my wild curls. Eyes slitted, I watch him, his gaze raking over my naked, conquerable body. If I fight, he may just kill me. If I stay in this hazy realm of shock, I can survive this. Right?
But then I remember the size of his cock, and reality snaps me back into my body just as he’s trailing the soap down my stomach. Lurching away with a yelp the second that hard, slick bar touches my bare mound, the commotion causes him to drop it, and he snaps, pinning me back against the wall with his body, his soap-coated fingers diving down to finish my cleansing.
Bucking against him, thrashing my head back and forth, I scream a litany of curses and slurs, but he’s too entranced to seem to notice or care. The pad of his thumb brushes over my slippery clit as his fingers part me, and my hips jerk toward thepleasurable sensation instinctively. I am wrenched in two, a soul at war with a body, but I somehow manage to choke out one word with every emotion I can muster just as his thumb begins to swirl at my soaked entrance.
“Please.”
He’s rigid against me, his fingers possessively cupping my cunt, his thumb seated right in my entrance. My pussy clenches and my clit aches at his stillness, my heart racing faster than the speed of light. I don’t fucking want this, but my body is suddenly craving it, and I don’t understand why. Stuck in the midst of that horrible confusion, a sob wracks me, jostling my body against his. With the differences in our heights, his thudding cock has been pressed to my lower stomach.
The movement of my sob forces his thumb deeper inside me, right at the crest of where I need him with a desperation I can’t fathom, but it also makes his cock dig harshly into my flesh.
A garbled noise issues from beneath his terrifying, emotionless mask, and he thrusts his hips into me, pumping over and over, my eyes wide on the way his torso and pelvis roll with expert fluidity.
A flash of hot liquid seeps between our bodies, hindered by the thick fabric of his jeans, and my cheeks bleed in shame at what I realize has just happened. Everything goes as cold and still as a winter night, and in a flash, he rips away from me, chest and shoulders heaving as he turns and storms up the stairs, leaving me alone to pick up the shards of my humanity.
CHAPTER THREE
UNKNOWN
