From the side of the door, as if spawned in a digitally-induced realm, a familiar body comes out of hiding before me. Her glasses masking any facial expressions on her tiny, delicate, face; Laura stands there with an undecipherable smile. The thoughts flooding my brain cells prevent me from acknowledging any type of emotions or even physical expressions I may have practiced, but as sure as the bottle was sucked dry on the coffee table, she stands there before me.
Perhaps going back to the events, I may have stood there staring at her for quite some time. Perhaps she may have come in for a friendly visit, maybe even discussed old topics and debates left unfinished in our untimely departure from one another. And maybe, just maybe, we temporarily soothed one another’s growing frustrations with a solitary, romantic moment of repair.
I blink. She’s still there. I blink again, then explode out of the door to grab her unwillingly inside the domicile. I pick her right off the ground by her porcelain arms, and if not broken by the time they hit the linoleum floor, they break when I come down on them with my knees while I close the peering door. She’s planted stomach first against the cold linoleum, she quivers in pain, but doesn’t attempt to scream until she looks back to see me holding her down. I can see her face drop, even through her mask, she fills her lungs with air and before she can fill the morning with cries for help, I have at her face with a balled fist, knocking her glasses clear off her face and leaving her with a red iris growing on her cheek bones. I hold her frail body up by her hair and converse with her through monologue while ripping her shirt to expose her back.
Don’t you fucking move, Laura. Make no mistake. You’re going to hurt. You’re going to hurt really fucking badly. So just shut the fuck up and let it happen.
She doesn’t cry. The only tears she produces are involuntarily ones from the bruising cheek.
I pretend she’s crying.
I bite at her spine and back, drawing blood every time. She lays immobile, perhaps in attempt to make me stop. Or maybe the poor slut likes it. I pull her jeans off without unbuttoning them. The course denim scratches her pale body as it’s peeled off her skin, leaving red tracks on her thighs and ankles. I continue yelling out the raping standards:
You fucking bitch!
Take that, you fucking bitch!
She has her panties around her knees and, with my pants around my ankles, I pull my dick out of the pisshole of my boxers. I spread her buttocks and spit right directly on her sphincter before sticking my dick in the ass of her fragile body. She starts to cry immediately. I’m pumping in and out of her, breaking her, violating her, perhaps killing her.
She looks so good when she’s crying. I want her to love this. I want her to grab my balls while I fuck her ass. You don’t have total control over this situation. As ridiculous as it may sound, you have more control over what a girl does when you don’t rape her. I left my car keys in my pants. They’re really annoying me. Oh shit. I have a pack of cigarettes in my glove compartment.
She’s been unconscious for about ten minutes when I retract my dick. It’s covered in blood and when looking down, I see there’s blood dripping down her crotch onto the linoleum. The wounds on her back have poured onto the floor and are crusting over. Her cheek is turning green, and stray hairs cover the entire circumference of the scene.
She loves the pain. She loves the pain. She loves the pain. Laura loves the pain. She loves the pain. She loves the pain.