Interview with a rapist. Imagine an interview room, painted green and cream as so often is the decor of the Police and municipal buildings. Imagine a stainless steel table, square, shiny from use and bolted to the floor. Three chairs surround the stained table top, cheap aluminium, easily replaced. Two large Police detectives face a grubby little man, unshaven, dirty and somewhat dishevelled from the poor treatment he alleges he received at the time of his arrest. The following is the one sided responses to their questioning:It didn't start out that way, just sort of happened. I didn't leave my house thinking I am going to go out and rape the shit out of someone today.
It looks like a rape, but read on and discover that it isn't. The following story is based on the imagination of a reader who has given permission for the use of her ideas. For the sake of privacy, her name will not be published and does not bare any resemblance to the characters portrayed herein. The beginning is entirely her story, with only editorial alterations, background, in fills and the conclusion on my part. As with all of the works posted by me, under my name, it is protected by international copyright and may not be copied, published or posted under any other name without express permission of the author.
I suppose that it was pure chance, a lucky throw of the dice, and a case of right time, right place, in which I met Lisa. The circumstances were hardly usual; in fact shock was possibly the first reaction she evinced from me. Definitely, shock. Intrigue and wanton lust also added to the brew of emotions that she caused. The experience of her was a life-changing event, one that would never ever diminish in the memory and would alter my perspective on life from that time onwards. I had been called by a man who's name reminded me of an out-board motor.
Six months earlier. It was at a beach party that Jack was turned. Someone, an acquaintance, invited him and a few bottles, to the dunes on the South Kentish Sea front near Dungeness. As usual, he drank a bit too much, but he was sure afterwards, that his drink was spiked. Certainly, he had a metallic taste in his mouth the next morning and a monumental headache, the like he had never experienced before. He was also quite photosensitive to the point of almost being blinded by the sunlight. He was alone and all that remained of the previous night's party were a few dying embers in the fire, and a few beer bottles and cans scattered around.
Lunch time in the refectory can be hectic. Students and staff share the same facilities, queuing for hot meals or paninis and coffee. It isn't the largest room in the college so, the tables and chairs can become precious, especially when they are pulled out of their serried ranks into group patterns so friends can socialize while they eat.Today was just like any other at lunch; hectic. The place heaved with a mass of young people whose voices joined in a cacophony of noise. The smell of food being cooked and coffee wafted on a warm breeze that circulated the canteen.The scrape of a chair on the herring-bone parquet flooring drew a glance from me, focusing my attention for a brief moment.
Oh! Fuck this, thought Rambo. Rain was hitting him like miniature scythes, bouncing off of his head and back, running into his eyes, dripping of his black and white coat, matting his fur into sodden strands that looked like a Rastafarian hair do. A cold wind kept blasting him from any directions it felt like and it was as much as he could do to keep from shivering to bits. The weather wasn't the worst of his problems though. The flock of belligerent, bastard sheep that were as pissed off with the rain and cold as Rambo was, just would not do anything he tried to lead them into. A limited vocabulary of understanding, after a fashion, can be established between a sheep dog and his charges.
It took Jon nearly a year to arrange it, but now his careful planning and meticulous timing was coming into fruition. Having past the wrought iron gates and driven down the gravel drive with tufts of grass growing through it, the end game was now in full swing, like a run away juggernaut, it was unstoppable. He could picture when it all started, the re-run going through his minds eye as he drove towards destiny. It seemed that it had been one of those days; one of those occasional days, when anything and everything that could go wrong, would go very wrong. The car had stopped for some inexplicable reason, probably electrical.
Occasionally, just occasionally, role play in the bedroom takes on a whole new intensity and, instead of role playing; the person becomes the role and is taken to another dimension. Occasionally, what starts out as a fantasy, stitched into a session of sex, soon becomes a situation, where anything becomes possible. Where inhibitions are left behind and the participants are removed from the real world of stresses and strife to a place, totally overtaken by the acts of present and future, lust and promise of fulfillment. The following is one such event; where the players become the played and all plans become secondary to the unfolding events, where the scene is the lasting real part of a fiction.
Sal's love. Brrrrb. Brrrrrb. Sal picked up the wall phone on the second ring and tucked it under her chin. "Hello." Her hands were covered in flour and a stray lock of hair got pushed back with her wrist. "I know what you did last summer." The heavily disguised voice announced through the earpiece. "Josh! Hi how are you? Where are you?" Her pleasure at hearing his voice was evident in the immediate flush to her cheeks and breathlessness he always caused. "Hi-ya Sal; I'm downtown and around for a few days; Just wondered if you fancied a meet sometime over the next day or two. I still know what you did last summer though." He laughed in his easy manner; oblivious of the effect he had on her.
"What is it this time Suzanne?""I was caught smoking in the toilets, Sir." She stood in front of his desk, one hip thrust forward, deliberately provocatively. Mr. French sighed in resignation of an on-going and unfathomable problem. It seemed that he and this particular young lady were having these chastisement meetings rather more frequently than he would like. "Adopt the position."Suzanne was a problem, a constant problem. At Saint Agnes School for girls, she was the misfit. Her teen head carried knowledge that was, by far, much too knowing for her years.