A Bestiary of Unnatural Women (30 page)

When he had finished taking his pleasure with
me, he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me off the bed. Holding
my head at waist level, he pulled me across the room. With my feet
free, I could scramble across the floor, making sure that the rest
of me followed my head. When I felt tile underneath my feet, I
realized that he was taking me into the bathroom. He pulled me
backward until I tripped and fell, ass first, onto the toilet seat.
I hadn't drunk anything in more than twenty-six hours and was
thirsty as a camel, but I still had to pee bad. To hell with
modesty. I peed even though he was probably still in the bathroom
watching me. It was the first and last time that I ever peed in
front of a man. At least I think I peed in front of him. Because I
was still blindfolded, I don't know if he was actually there or
not.

With my hands taped behind my back, I
couldn't wipe myself dry but there was nothing that I could do
about that, either. Today, chaffing was the least of my
worries.

I waited, too tired and sore to try to guess
what he would do next. After a short time, he subjected me to the
cruelest part of the entire experience. Grabbing me by his favorite
handle, my hair, he pulled me off the toilet, bent me backwards
over the sink until the back of my head was forced against the sink
faucets and began wrapping duct tape around and around my head and
the spout. He kept wrapping and wrapping, fastening my head, face
up, firmly to the strong, immoveable iron pipe. Every so often he
would stop, tear the tape off, and start wrapping again. He must
have used the entire roll. The only part of my head that was left
sticking out of the layers of tape was my nose and the top of my
scalp.

My position was excruciating. My back was
bowed over the sharp edge of the narrow strip of counter in front
of the sink. The corner was cutting into my upper arms. My legs
were in a terribly awkward position and straining to take as much
weight off my back as possible. My neck was stretched out and I
feared that if my legs gave way, the weight of my sagging body
would break my vertebrae, leaving me dead or paralyzed.

After he was finished, the bastard took the
opportunity to play with my tits for a seemingly endless amount of
time. He massaged them, he tweaked my nipples, he caressed their
curves, he bounced them back and forth. He must have spent ten
minutes playing with them, ignoring that I suffered the agonies of
hell during every second.

Then, when he tired of that, he pulled my
legs apart, straining them even more, and spent another few minutes
playing with my cunt, pulling at my outer lips, stretching the
inner ones, poking my clit, probing around inside with his
fingers.

By the time he finished, he must have known
my nether regions better than my gynecologist. Certainly he knew
them better than my husband. He was a curious bastard and I was
terrified that he was sizing me up for some hideous mutilation.

I made my third unholy vow to God during this
torture. I vowed that, if I survived this day with my parts intact,
I would let my husband play with my tits and cunt any time he
wanted for as long as he wanted. There was no way that Rick
deserved to receive anything less than this man was taking from
me.

I felt his knife again, but he didn't use it
to carve my womanhood into ribbons of bloody flesh; he slipped it
between my wrists and cut through the tape that bound them together
behind my back. He only cut only the side furthest from my back,
but I could pull my wrists away from the tape if I wanted. If I
dared. What was he planning next? How would he bind me now that he
had my head taped to the bathroom faucet? Would he tape my hands to
some other part of the plumbing? All I could do was wait and see,
fearful that if I moved, I would displease him and feel his wrath
in the form of a knife cutting my throat.

Suddenly I was seized with terror because I
saw the logic behind this bondage. My head was bent back, exposing
my throat. My throat was fixed directly over top of the sink. He
could drape a small, improvised plastic tarp over my head and neck
to catch any spray and then slip the knife underneath it and slit
my throat with a single stroke. I would bleed out in a minute,
every drop of my blood swirling down the drain. When he had bled me
dry, he could carry my white corpse out to his car wrapped in a
sheet without spilling a single incriminating drop. Though everyone
would know that I had stayed in this room overnight, there wouldn't
be a speck of evidence that I had been killed here. I had paid for
the room in advance. If he drove away in my car and disposed of my
body elsewhere, the police would assume that I had been running
away from my husband and had stopped here overnight before driving
off to parts unknown and beginning a new life under a new name.

Rick would spend the rest of his life
wondering what had happened to me.

With a furious surge of desperation, I ripped
my hands away from the tape and began scrabbling at the wrappings
that held my head in place. I pried my fingers under the edges of
the tape and pulled at them, this way and that, but couldn't loosen
it. Giving up and thinking for a minute, I realized that I had to
find the end of the tape and unwind it. I wasted another few
minutes scrabbling around trying to catch the end of the tape and
failing. I told myself to calm down. I had to solve this problem
methodically. Trying to ignore the pain in my back and the strain
on my legs, I began following the edges of the tape. The outermost
piece would be distinguished by having two edges that I could feel;
the lower layer would have some if its edges covered by the
outermost layer.

By the time I found the end of the tape, my
legs were quivering from the strain. I could not hold myself up
much longer; death by broken neck was looming large in my mind. I
wanted to bawl my eyes out, but dared not, remembering that, as
long as my mouth was covered, a stuffed-up nose would kill me more
certainly than anything else.

I unwound and unwound the tape. Every time I
came to the end of a piece, I had to discard it and search anew for
the end of the next piece. As best as I could tell by feel, the
pieces seemed to be about five feet long. I must have unwound more
than a dozen pieces before I got to the final layer.

Then the fun really began. The tape was stuck
tight to my hair and skin. I was sure that I was leaving my scalp
half bald as I frantically jerked the tape free, certain that I was
pulling of huge chunks of skin from my face as I ignored the pain
and yanked at it. I did it because I had no time left for finesse;
I would be better off scarred for life than dead for eternity. The
sociopath could return at any time and finish me off. I didn't know
why he had been gone for as long as he had – maybe he was having
trouble finding a suitable plastic bag to catch the blood spray –
but I was sure that he was going to come back and kill me at any
second. Why else would he have left me in such a convenient
position for a throat cutting? And even if he didn't come back in
time, my legs were giving out. They were quivering violently from
exhaustion. If they collapsed before I freed my head, the weight of
my body would surely break my neck. If the break did not kill me
outright, it would leave me quadriplegic, which, in my mind, would
be even worse.

When I finally ripped the last bit of tape
from the faucet spout, freeing myself, I collapsed to the floor in
utter exhaustion. But I forced myself to move again right away; I
dared not linger for even a second. I peeled the tape from my eyes,
taking both eyebrows with it, and squealed behind the gag that was
still covering my mouth. After being blindfolded for more than
twelve hours, my eyes were hypersensitive to light. The bastard had
left every light in the bathroom shining. Squinting against the
pain, I pulled the last bit of tape from my mouth and took the
first really deep breath that I had been permitted all night.

My mouth was dry and scummy with stale spunk
but that was the least of my worries. As soon as I could see basic
shapes, I looked around to see if the man was still in the
bathroom, enjoying watching me struggle to free myself, knowing
that he could restrain me again when he wished. But he was not
there. I was alone in the little room.

I crawled over to the bathroom door and
locked it. I was under no illusion that the door would hold against
a serious battering, but that would make a lot of noise and noise
in a place with walls as thin as this motel room would be my
salvation.

Until now, my attacker had been as silent as
a ghost. He had spoken once from outside, claiming to be the
manager. Since then, he had not said another word; not a single
word during an entire night of abusing me physically, sexually, and
psychologically. And he had kept me equally silent during all that
time with the gag. He was a monster, but a canny, careful monster,
not a raging out-of-control monster.

When I could see properly, I looked around
the bathroom again. It was littered with piles of duct tape. Great
clumps of my lovely red hair were stuck to it. I expected to see
bloody hunks of skin as well, but saw nothing like that.

Peering fearfully into the mirror, I saw my
face looking back. It was covered with livid red splotches but no
actual blood. My eyebrows were mostly gone, but I seemed to still
have a full head of wildly-tangled red hair. I touched my cheeks.
They felt sticky; the tape had left half of its adhesive stuck to
my skin.

I tried to wash the adhesive off, but it was
impervious to water. I shouldn't have been surprised. The tape had
been designed to repair ducts. To clean my face, I would have to
scrape it off. I would worry about that later.

I rinsed the scum out of my mouth and drank
copious handfuls of water but it didn't help much. My mouth still
felt foul. I wouldn't feel right until I could brush my teeth.
Fuck. Who was I kidding? There was no way that a tooth brushing or
a douching or anything else was going to make me feel right; not
now and maybe not ever. Not only had a stranger deposited his cum
in my mouth and cunt, he had put the memory of his filthy cock in
my mind. However much I washed my body, there was no way to wash my
mind. I would never again be clean of him again.

I began to cry. This time, with my mouth
clear, I could let myself cry for as long as I wanted.

How stupid had I been to get myself into this
position?

And I wasn't in the clear yet. I was still
trapped in the bathroom. Was the rapist waiting in the motel room,
ready to beat me into submission as soon as I came out, to slap his
handcuffs back on me and spend another night raping me with casual
abandon? Did I dare open the door and find out if he was there? Did
I dare not open the door?

I grabbed the doorknob, turned off the
lights, and crouched low on exhausted legs before opening the door
a crack. My logic was that, if he tried to stab me in the dark, he
would do it at chest level and the knife would pass over my head;
and if he tried to rush the door, I could tackle his knees and trip
him. It was a slim chance, but it was my only chance and I had to
take it, come hell or high water.

My logic was good, but unnecessary. There was
no man waiting outside; or anywhere else that I could see. The room
looked empty.

I crept out and checked the closet, looked
under the bed, and peered around the furniture. I found no trace of
the man anywhere. The only evidence that anything untoward had
happened here was the piles of duct tape in the bathroom and the
tee-shirt, bra, and panties piled next to my jeans, all sliced
up.

I checked my purse. My wallet was still there
with my money and credit cards inside. My rapist was not a thief.
As well, my car keys, house keys, and the motel room key were in
the purse, too. I checked the motel room door. It was locked from
the inside.

I looked at the phone. A woman who had been
raped – really raped like I had – was supposed to call the police
and report it. They would interview me; collect evidence –
fingerprints, fibers, semen samples, photograph bruised and torn
intimate parts – and then interview witnesses, including the
manager of the motel, the other guests, and people in the buildings
across the street.

What would happen when they completed their
investigation? My marriage would be over. I didn't think that Rick
was the man who had raped me last night, but if he was, then he
would be arrested. I would swear that I had consented, that we were
just playing a game, and Rick would be tried and convicted anyway.
The evidence would show that I had been damaged by real violence,
not playacting. The evidence would contradict my testimony that we
had engaged in consensual sex and juries loved hard evidence. Even
if I could convince the police not to arrest Rick, he would never
trust me again. How could he trust a woman who had asked him to do
something and then reported him to the police for doing exactly
what she had asked?

On the other hand, if a stranger had raped me
– the more likely scenario – then Rick would leave me. We both knew
that he was supposed to be the one who raped me. Yet I had gone out
of my way to ensure that I would be available to some stranger
instead. I had run from our home, picked a random hotel, and opened
my door to a strange man in order to get myself raped.

A simple sexual affair would be enough to end
most marriages. But this? This was far worse than having a simple
affair. How could he ever believe that I had asked him to rape me
and then deliberately avoided him and 'accidentally' made myself
vulnerable to someone else? As soon as he heard the facts, he would
have to conclude that I didn't think that he was man enough to do
the job on me and had solicited another man to replace him. How
could he live with me after I kicked him in the balls like
that?