She Never Wanted to Escape
A Short Story By: Victor Villainous
***Warning: Extremely sensitive subject matter, reader discretion is advised.***
Ever since Sandra became a teenager she had a peculiar fascination with the idea of being sexually tortured. Her depraved thoughts would reside within her mind as nothing more than a quiet, bizarre fantasy.
Sandra concealed a brief flirtation with watching fetish porn; a secret affair that she would abandon as she emerged into adulthood and started developing a feministic objection to graphic nudity.
Relieved by her adoption of principled morality, Sandra believed, now that she was 20, her unusual lust would become but an embarrassing thing of the past.
Her world felt suffocating. Society claimed a victorious, golden era for the age of women. Oppression and subjugation were becoming yesterday’s headlines. Everywhere she turned, however, she felt the menacing glare of predatory men who were consumed by desire and restrained only by well-sanctioned law.
She knew what they wanted. They wanted to feast on her innocence. They wanted to devour every scrap of her soul until her virginity was mutilated, befouled and tossed onto a rickety shelf like a 3rd place trophy, where lay the tormented lost virginity of countless other young women.
These men were wicked, she thought, not sinful, but cursed by their own nature; instinct that could never again be congruent with a civilized society. In a way she pitied them, as one would pity the confinement of an exotic creature far removed from their indigenous habitat and relocated to an unfamiliar, concrete prison.
Sandra believed she was free. Not from the lingering patriarchal oppression once handsomely felt by her foremothers, but from her own perversions.
Never again would she penetrate herself, embracing fantasy, which unknowingly gave satisfaction to the very same oppressors who once tore the skin of the women before her. No longer would she allow their hunger to haunt and entice her imagination.
Sandra became increasingly angry at herself for ever having fantasies about being raped and sexually tortured. In an effort to quell the maddening guilt she convinced herself it wasn’t her fault, it was their fault.
She wanted to hurt one of them. She wanted to penetrate them and emasculate them. She wanted to see the look on his face that so many men have seen from their victims; fear, humiliation, the frozen look of suicide contemplation caught in an unforgettable, unforgivable moment.
Wait, she thought to herself, I’ve never been raped.
It was true. Sandra had never actually been assaulted, raped or ever physically mistreated in anyway.
What could I possibly know?
Realizing there were some errors in her thinking, Sandra decided it would be best to relax, take some time and get herself together. She needed to stop thinking so much. She needed to put aside violent thoughts that would inevitably prove disastrous for her.
A hipster joint downtown that periodically housed 80’s pop shindigs was having a blowout party that Saturday. City officials deemed the place irreparable and their liquor license would soon expire.
The owners were taking a huge risk, but were planning to fall back on a flimsy idea that they had no preconceived knowledge of the party should anything go awry. Young and rebellious, the owners went with their gut instinct: you only live once!
Anybody who was anybody was going to this party. They wouldn’t be checking IDs, no bouncers, no security; just a night of anarchy and debauchery.
Sandra and 3 of her girlfriends arrived fashionably late, which at an underground hipster club meant they were right on time.
Sips turned to swills and beers turned to shots. Before she knew it, Sandra was highly intoxicated and going on a wild tangent about female oppression to some uninterested onlookers. Her friends had abandoned her to dance with strangers.
“All you men are fucking whores!” she screamed.
A few dudes laughed and made fun of her, but they didn’t want to see her get hurt. One of the guys even went asking around to see if anyone knew who she was. He knew she was drunk and didn’t want her to get in trouble. The club was crowded and loud. He mine as well have been looking for the holy grail.
Sandra was stepping backwards away from the guys she was screaming at, for no reason, and bumped into someone. The collision caused him to spill his drink onto them both. Turning around to see the archetypal image of alpha-male superiority, she felt offended. She drunkenly scoffed, swung her hand around and struck him in the chest.
“Watch where the fuck I’m going!” she commanded him.
With a swift and thoughtless retaliation he slapped her.
They both stood still and just looked at each other.
Sandra looked at his pulsating muscles attempting to break out of his white, wet tank top and felt more aroused than she had ever felt in her life. Having lost all sense of inhibition she leapt towards him and passionately started to kiss him.
“Fuck off, bitch!” he exclaimed as he pushed her to the ground and walked away.
Sandra’s friend Beth happened to see her from a distance being pushed to the ground and quickly ran over to aide her. Beth wasn’t as intoxicated as the other girls, so the position of babysitter would soon fall upon her.
Beth grabbed Sandra as she was screaming at the man who pushed her down. The things that Sandra was yelling at the man would later concern Beth immensely.
“Get the fuck back here!” she shouted to him, “Rape me you fucking pussy, rape me!”
Beth and her friends were finally able to calm Sandra down, catch an Uber out of there and get her home before any further travesty could unfold.
Sandra may have been fortunate not to sustain any serious physical injuries, but she was not fortunate enough to forget. She remembered the entire night and everything that happened.
Consequently, Sandra spent the next 2 days confined to her room, avoiding calls and texts, enduring crippling depression. Laying around watching movies she slowly began to regain a sense of normalcy. ‘Titanic’ was on as background noise as she finally started answering texts from Beth and her friends.
Looking up from her phone and gazing upon the television, she fixed her eyes on the scene where Cal had confronted Rose about her alleged philandering with Jack, the poor boy trickster who won his way onto the boat from a lucky poker hand.
Sandra breathed heavily as she watched Cal slap Rose.
She grabbed the remote control, rewound the scene several times, and then paused the movie.
Sliding her hand down her pants she felt herself becoming more and more aroused, and then began to masturbate. Slow fingering soon turned into vigorous, almost violent, penetrating.
In a hastened fury she rewound the film while she continued her aggressive masturbating. She erupted in a thunderous orgasm as she watched Rose being slapped once more.
Terrible guilt and shame flooded her as she looked at the saturated bed sheets. She cried and returned to the bottom depths of her depression.
The next day Beth came over and they talked for a while. Beth expressed some sincere concerns for Sandra and implored as to what was going on. Sandra broke down and told her everything. Beth held Sandra in her arms as she wept, and told her that everything was going to be okay.
With Beth’s blessing and encouragement Sandra agreed to talk to a therapist and get some help.
Clinging on to the antiquated stigma of professional therapy, Sandra insisted that she go alone, despite Beth’s numerous attempts to tag along.
Reluctance was the only thing that accompanied Sandra into the office of her therapist, who was a handsome, 39 year old married man from Texas.
After Sandra had explained her situation to her therapist, he cordially asked her if she would feel more comfortable with a female therapist. He offered to refer her to one of his colleagues.
For some reason this bothered Sandra. Why can a man deliver so much pain, evil and suffering and then when he’s called to hear what he was done, he cowers?
Sandra became hostile and demanded that he listen to her and help her, because only a man can understand why men have such perverted desires. Desires which have twisted her mind into thinking that she wanted to be raped.
She talked about her vagina and how she likes to touch it when she thinks about a man having his way with her.
While she was talking she noticed that his eyes briefly lost focus to her eyes, and they descended for a moment. She felt him looking at her. She felt him undressing her.
She pictured herself pinned against the wall. Her naked, frail body being abused and used as if it were merely a vessel of pleasure–not human but human enough to fulfill a carnal satisfaction.
He felt himself becoming erect as she continued to talk about her wild fantasies. He tried, for but a moment, to resist.
His mind became uncomfortable and nervous as his body wrenched with excitement.
“I think it would be best if we ended today’s session for now” he pleaded.
Suddenly, as his eyes stayed focused on her, she lifted up her skirt and pulled her underwear off, showing him her naked vagina.
“Will you be gentle? I’ve never done this before” she said with a new level of confidence she never had before. “I won’t tell anyone”.
‘Nobody would believe her anyway’ he thought to himself as he justified a cautious advance towards her.
No foreplay. No kissing. No sense of love or bonding. No connection whatsoever except for his now rock solid penis throbbing inside of her, robbing her of her virginity.
She became detached. She thought about a time when she was a little girl playing outside with her friends. Her mother laughed as they carelessly played in the mud, convinced those days would never end. Convinced with the lie that her little girl would never grow up, like an hour glass whose sand had refused to fall anymore. They were such innocent times. Times that were now gone forever. Lost to corruption, lust, and the invincible notion that someone else’s suffering never has to be their own.
“Stop” she squeaked out as she lay on the couch with her therapist rapaciously pounding her fragile body.
“Stop!” she said loudly, hoping that her first attempt merely went unnoticed.
Terror welled up inside of her as she felt his hand grab her face, covering her mouth to silence her so he could resume his atrocity.
Panic replaced her terror and with her free hand she grabbed a vase from atop the end table that sat next to the couch and bashed it over his head.
He didn’t stop. He became enraged as he continued to violate her.
Blood rushed all over her as she jammed a shard of the broken vase into his neck.
She laid there with his lifeless body still inside of her. She felt something warm dripping out of her as she managed to push him off.
Trembling, horrified and bereft of any hope, she sat, unable to cry, stupefied by the ghastly scene that was now displayed before her.
Dazed and disconnected from reality, covered in blood, she didn’t know how she would get home. She fled to her car hoping that no one in the small office complex would notice her. Even if they did, she didn’t care, she just wanted to go home.
Bursting through the door of her parents house she flew to the bathroom and turned on the water. She was confused. Why did she go to her parents? Her parents would be home soon. She didn’t know what to do.
She stood in the shower, thoughtless until the water ran cold. She just stood there with the icy water caressing her body. She thought of her friends, her family, all of the people she was going to miss.
She touched herself, ashamed, guilty and with the agonizing realization that she now had a dead man’s sperm inside of her.
She trembled and whimpered with misplaced guilt, “what have I done?”
She went into her parent’s room, naked, cold and wet. Pictures of her family showcased a happy life. Happy marriage and a life filled with joy. She stood in contrast to the memories of her childhood.
She hugged a picture frame of her parents.
“I’m sorry God” she cried out.