Rape Fantasies

Jeans, work boots, stubble. I’m naked. I’m on a pool table. Green felt rubbing my knees raw, unflattering fluorescent tubes in the over-table light. A man under me, his cock slick with the semen already in me, his hands below my hipbones, grabbing the place where legs and body meet, sliding me back and forth on his body, his belly rubbing my clit. Another man stands at the table edge, impatient for his turn. There are other men, their faces in shadow, their hands rough and eager on my breasts, my ankles, pinching my nipples, pulling my legs apart. Some of them are betting on how many times I’ll come, how soon I’ll come again. “Fuck her with this,” says one, light flecking in his eyes and on the beer bottle in his hand, “This’ll make her come.”

That’s what makes me come, what pushes me over the edge if I’m almost there. Sometimes Lover is there watching. Sometimes he’s the one who’s given me to the group. Sometimes it’s more subtle, Jodie Foster on the table in my place, surrounded by chanting low-rent rednecks.

When I babysat, I always hunted for the porn. The Bechtels kept theirs in the bathroom – the main bathroom! Right there under the counter next to the hot rollers! – and Hustler was much, much better than Playboy if you didn’t really care about Norman Mailer. The picture in my head still: a blond prison guard, breasts falling out of her ripped bluegrey institutional-yet-flattering jump suit, the men holding her down careful not to obscure the shot. Later I found Brit porn better still, actual penetration instead of the thick black cock frozen inches from her pussy. She asked for it…


On my knees again, a tavern this time, straight out of Blackadder. The worn-smooth wood of the table under my hands while I suck at the cocks thrusting into my face, my hair already sticky with come, sweating, face a mess of tears and spit and everything else, the men are laughing and shouting. The youngest one is the leader, he takes his sword and thrusts the hilt into my pussy. “Let’s see you fuck that, slut.”

I mentioned the commonality of “rape fantasies” in the hearing of a puzzled friend of Powergirl’s.

“Why would anyone want to be raped?”

“Not by a stranger with a knife, but being overpowered, or someone wanting you so badly they have to have you no matter what.”

I played rape with my ex-lover Writer, I play it with Lover, even with new men there is power and gratified hunger in teasing them until they snap, grab my arms, pin me against the wall or the bed or the hood of the truck, wrists above my head while the other hand slides up my skirt, inside my panties, inside my pussy to see how they make me feel, thrust their wet fingers into my mouth, the pressure that says suck for me.

Rollercoasters do it for me, too – the metal frame shaking, did some old guy assemble this on the weekend with a ratchet set? – sandals and water bottle in the cubby, safety bar down hard, the floor drops away, bare feet dangling and the cars whip around, never screaming, just breathing hard. Maybe this is the day that makes headlines.

First bent over the dirty white sink, then on the floor of the theme park bathroom right after closing, I’ve gone back for something forgotten, a purse, a bag, it doesn’t matter but that it’s something the ride attendant makes me beg for, first playfully and then in earnest as he roughly lifts my skirt, sets me on the counter, his fingers leaving red marks on the inside of my knees, a red mark across my cheek, “Shut up bitch. I’ve been thinking about this all day…”

Will met me in a Laundromat. I’d like to think I was wearing my tight black spandex crotch-length minidress, horizontal slits from bottom of breast to collarbone, because it was the only thing clean, but more likely I was just being eighteen. I sat on the sidewalk, legs out, back against the window while he chatted me up. That night his fingers in me hard, his sister turning the TV up louder and louder and the neighbors calling over to find out if she was OK. The next night Taco Bell, and in the tall weeds between that parking lot and the next we made out, me play-resisting and Will pushing back my hands, prying open my mouth, holding down my shoulders until suddenly I was fighting for real in panic and terror, trying to keep my legs closed while he pulled back my hair, opened my thighs and took me, his excitement enough to come in a quick minute, then adjusting our clothes, back to the car, and me quiet for a long time, realizing, this could really happen to me.

Will raped me twice more, both times in the context of our relationship, anally, and with the memories lasting longer and more pleasantly than the acts. The first time was among my first anal, no lube other than what came out of my pussy, no condom, thrusting in with me on my stomach, protesting until he finally said, “You can have it in your ass or I’ll put it in your mouth.” I couldn’t sit for days without the memory. The second time, the front seat of his car (bench seat, older car) we were making out before breaking up, parked in a field in the woods where kids in upstate Eastern states go to do that sort of thing. Later, “I thought you wanted it, you turned over so easily.”

He’s still in my top three lovers of all time. None of your business. 90th percentile or better.

I’ve never been raped by a stranger, but I’ve felt coerced or badgered or worn down quite a few times and escaped date rape once, I think before penetration but the memory is distant and all that remains is cold terror in the front seat, parked at the end of the runway to watch the planes, a tan and muscled body holding me down. My rapes are fantasies, men I liked and wanted to fuck, just maybe not right that minute. No-one holds a weapon to my head, and their whispered “hold still” comes from longing and not contempt.

Emma Kelly and her husband Scott write about cuckolding, his “tiny” penis, the way she fucks other men while he watches. The photo of her white body wrapped around Don the Marine carved from wood, his brown skin playing half my rape fantasies and every stereotype in the book, made me wet when it first flashed on my screen. The first man I cheated on Lover with was black, we played that fantasy for weeks afterwards, going in the space of days from,don’t ever fuck anyone else again, that’s my pussy to describe it for me while he came.

He doesn’t have to be black. He doesn’t have to be better endowed. He only has to be there, and the fear of being replaced by something bigger, better hung, just better, becomes an erotic plaything, something to wank to rawness over, just as the fear of strange cock, strange skin, strange hands, the unthinkable and constantly present unreality of me-and-a-gun-and-a-man-on-my-back every time I walk home from the station alone becomes rape fantasies, multiple solos, the shove over the brink of pleasure.

Motorcycle gangs who offer me a ride and waylay me to the hideout. The Hispanic guys at the carwash, covered in soap and water, bodies sliding over each other and me. Brit boys on a stag who find me lost in the alleys of Prague. Malkovich as Valmont, Rickman as anything. Force, dirt, darkness and power. Lust overpowering all.

Now I remember. The Southern Town Girls Club. After the fair, the leader of the volunteers, a man I crushed on for months, sleeping in his shirt long after it stopped smelling of him. The women who lived with him wore collars, I aped them with a homemade necklace, a blue bead on a leather thong. After the fair, dressing up and playing and finally having friends because they were from different high schools and friends because they were older than me. After the fair, in the room where the punch cups lived, the last of the red bug juice poured down the drain, the yellow barrel coolers hosed out and turned over to dry. After the fair, a man to whom I owe a major life skill and thus can never purge. After the fair, on my back bent onto the table, “that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

Thank you for the skill. Bought and paid for, Dan.

Thank you, don’t come again.