Every week she considered not going. Every week she was nearly late — only having accepted at the very last minute that, once again, she couldn’t resist.
He’d been part of a gang that had robbed her exclusive bank. She’d had the misfortune to be in the manager’s office discussing some investments at the time of the raid.
He’d barged in, herded the manager out to join the rest of the staff, face down on the floor, hands tied.
But somehow he’d sensed something about her — or maybe just fancied her — he’ll never say. Whatever the reason, he’d put a hand in her hair and forced her to her knees, made her lay her head on his thigh as he rifled through the desk drawers, looking for keys.
She couldn’t help it — the panic she felt connected immediately, directly, shamefully to her fantasies. Her chest was heaving, and she was a little hysterical with fear — but her sex was also tingling, her nipples stiff. She became incredibly docile, and he had noticed, had stood, opened his flies and pushed his cock into her mouth.
And she’d sucked him, moaning weakly, but not resisting. He’d come, fast, hard, deep in her throat, grabbed her handbag and left.
That was it. She’d managed to repair enough of the damage so that no-one realised what had been done to her — she was too ashamed to say; answered questions as truthfully and helpfully as she could, with two exceptions. She didn’t mention the sexual assault, and she said nothing about the tattoo on his arm — the only way she would be able to identify him.
As a valued customer, she was above suspicion — the bank offered her compensation for her stress, and that was the last she heard of it.
Until, ten days later, her new mobile rang. A strange number — except that she had lost many numbers with her old phone, and so she picked up.
A strange voice — but she knew immediately who it was. Panicked, she rang off.
And then stared at the device for the next hour, waiting for him to call back — reliving the event, the feel of his strong hands on her, the intensity of having a rapist’s cock pushed into her mouth, and of finding herself so shamefully responsive. She’s quivering. Until now, she has repressed all memory of the assault, with desperate resolve.
All of that is undone, now. Why doesn’t he call? She’ll never hear from him again! Why does this seem so tragic? Why is her heart thumping so hard? Why can’t she move on?
She should call the police, she tells herself. She’s going to, she tells herself. Right now, she tells herself. Only …
Only, she doesn’t move, just sits, staring at her phone.
When it does ring again, she shrieks, out loud, so extreme is the release of tension. It rings twice, and she’s frozen.
Then, without willing it, she is scrabbling for it, fingers trembling …
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello? Hello! Is … is that … is that you?”
“Hotel Deschamps, Friday, 7pm. Ask for Mr Tailpipe. Dress nicely. There are some things on this phone that I guess you might not want anyone to read.”
And that’s it. When she rings back, the number seems not to work.
She feels cold; ‘things on this phone’ can only mean those silly fantasies she’d written. But she’d deleted them. Had she? Maybe he’d recovered them? She feels sick, stomach churning, panic stricken.
She’s turned on, as well. Useless to deny it to herself — that delicious tingling at her sex, a softness, looseness in her thighs.
Mr Tailpipe! She knows her french slang. Bastard.
That was three months ago. This must be the 7th or 8th time.
He’s coarse, rough, uneducated — but not stupid. And he’s richer than her husband, now — with the bank’s money.
She’s bought this shameful get up herself. Spent hours and hours choosing it, to be honest. Hoping it would make him happy. Wore it under her dress all day, the cuffs and collar in her handbag.
She’s been going to the gym, too, lost a little weight, had her pubes trimmed.
He’s got her on the edge of orgasm again; god, but she is addicted to this feeling now — she’s gasping, letting out soft, desperate, shameful little cries, hips jerking — out of control, almost. He does this every week.
Only this time there’s another man. A stranger — foreign, overweight, older. Later, she’s been told, he’s going to thrash her and then fuck her; if he likes her, he’ll be having her on Tuesday evenings.
She said no — as strongly as she could, but it had sounded weak even to her, and the men had laughed. Then they’d slapped her a few times, and asked her, did she want to say no again?
Her head had dropped, tears dripping.
“Okay, Farid — she’s all yours.”
