Date Rape or Dark Fantasy Fulfilled?
Posted: Tue May 06, 2014 12:17 am
A true story from my first year working in Canada...Mrs. HH
It was a double date with my co-worker, a Japanese woman who has a white boyfriend. The boyfriend has a friend from England in town for business, and he wants to be set up on a date. I only find out much later that the co-worker asks me because her boyfriend wants her to find a Japanese girl who will "put out," the phrase he used, and somehow, much later, when the stories begin to filter around the office, I hear through the gossip that I have a “reputation.” Among my co-workers, I discover, I am the subject of innuendo and whispered stories of kinky sex and being “easy.”
This co-worker who wanted to please her boyfriend thought I might be perfect to “satisfy” this out of town friend who wants a one night stand with a sexy Japanese girl. She asks me if I am still single, and even though I am not exactly friends with her, she acts as if she wants to do me a favour by setting me up with a potential good match, perhaps a long distance relationship with this wealthy good looking man from England. Little do I know that she is actually thinking of me as available, and perhaps even desperate for a good fuck...
That night I go from work with my co-worker to meet her boyfriend and his friend. I dress this morning in one of my more provocative office outfits, still suitable for work, but sexy enough to be enticing on a blind date. It is a black dress, not too revealing, but fitted to reveal my figure. I wear sensible high heels, not too flashy or slutty, but underneath my dress I put on stockings and garters rather than my normal pantyhose, and a slinky lingerie thong that barely covers my lips, and which I know from experience does not even cover them when I am swollen.
At the restaurant, I am impressed with the English man. He is not too tall, but good looking and well built. Even though he is middle aged, it is obvious he takes care of his body. He has muscular arms and a flat stomach, and he speaks with a sexy English accent that seems to make everything he says sound wittier. Especially as I drink!
There is too much drinking and too little food. After a few hours--I can’t even tell how long--we leave the restaurant and go to a bar. More drinks and conversation, and I begin to warm to this man, although the alcohol surely helped. He is worldly, and carries a confidence and self-assurance that is attractive, even compelling. He and I begin to talk almost exclusively, and at some point my co-worker and her boyfriend leave the two of us alone at the bar. Suddenly, it seems, the bar is closing, and I realize it is long after midnight. I feel tired, and am more than a little drunk, but I decide to go to the man's hotel room after he asks if I would like to continue our conversation.
What did I expect would happen? Probably that we would have sex. That I would see what it would be like to sleep with him. He was handsome, after all, and was a good conversationalist. I was horny at the time, and although out of pride I would not have admitted it, I also wanted this genteel English man to want me. We walked through the lobby of the hotel, which was deserted, and I felt self-conscious getting into the elevator with this stranger at 2am. What kind of girl visits a strange man’s hotel room at two in the morning on a weekday? Did the front desk clerk think that I was an escort girl or a prostitute?
I realized that I had to concentrate on walking straight as we entered his luxurious suite. He poured us drinks from the hotel mini-bar, but only took one sip before we sat on the couch in his room and kissed. There was no hesitation on his part. He was not tentative like many men, no waiting for a sign of approval from the woman. He was confident, cocky, almost aggressive, and I responded by melting and moaning with desire. He pressed me into the couch, smothering me with the force of his desire, and I began to pant in anticipation. Soon he was naked, posing for me, showing off his muscular body and erect penis.
And then my memory becomes spotty, to the point that I would recall later almost nothing of what happened afterward, nothing except intermittent memories that would be triggered by what he said next--"Impress me."
Six months later, hearing my lunch companion say that phrase jokingly to me about some utterly unrelated subject would unleash a trickle of memories, like fragments of a broken pot with most of the pieces missing.
I still cannot remember exactly what happened next. Did I in fact try to "impress him"? Did I slowly strip off my clothes in return, to show off my body in response to his? Was it not yet "bad" at that moment, nothing yet to forget, just sex play, showing him my firm breasts and toned curves to match his hard cock and hard body? Did I want to turn him on, make him mad with desire for me, just like I do on every one of my dates when I am horny and in need of a good fucking? Perhaps I went to his room thinking that if I could “impress” him in bed that he would continue to communicate with me even after he left town, that I would visit him in England, continue a long distance relationship from afar. I knew I was capable of it, and that he would enjoy fucking me—what man wouldn’t!
Was the "yuckiness" of his manner, his arrogance, disturbing only in hindsight, tainted with what would happen next?
Or was it actually that disturbing at all...?
The next blurred memory I recall is of both of us naked, my legs open, of him trying to enter me without a condom, and me saying "no."
He gets angry.
Is this where the fear begins, of being trapped, of having put myself in a bad situation where his aggression and anger now rules? How will I get out of here? I think to myself, maybe at that moment, maybe later, how was I so stupid as to put myself in this spot, of being in his hotel room, with no way out now except to please him and accede to his aggression? Perhaps this is why I block out the memory of this night later on. The only way I can give myself some control back is to tell myself later that I had been stupid, that I should never have chosen to go to his hotel room.
But that is hindsight, and at that moment in reality, in the fragments that still float around disconnected from each other, I still feel perhaps that I have control, that I can make up for my refusal to fuck him without a condom by giving him a blowjob, as good a blowjob as I can muster in this situation.
I take his hard cock into my mouth, licking its head, swirling my tongue around until he groans. The shaft is thick and like the only other white man’s cock that I have experienced, soft and almost spongy to the touch even though fully erect. A dribble of clear precum oozes out of the slit and I lap it up, moaning with pleasure as I taste it. Then I lick all around his shaft, slicking it with my saliva so that I can use both my hands to pump his cock, jacking him off while I suck on the swollen head. I love sucking cock, especially big cocks, and this one is no exception. He enjoys the blowjob I am giving him, grunts his approval, tells me that I "really know how to suck cock," which sends a surge of pride through my horny body. Grabbing my hair, he begins to push my head up and down his shaft, sending the head deep into my throat. I gag, the wet sound of my choking so loud that it seems to fill the room. This seems to make him even more horny, and he becomes more forceful, aggressive, pumping in and out of my mouth and utterly unconcerned with whether I can breathe as he is fucking my face.
Is it a false memory that I am so turned on by this that I begin to groan and whimper? Or is the true memory the sense of fear that also fills me, wondering if I will suffocate? Perhaps I feel both, and as he thrusts in and out of my throat, the wet saliva drooling out of my open lips and dripping onto my chest, I know that I am losing myself in the feeling of giving in to his desire, to abandon all thought and just wallow in the pleasure of being wanted and being taken.
He tries again to fuck me, pushing me back and opening my legs, his hands grasping my ankles high above me. I moan, perhaps I am moaning “noooo,” or perhaps it comes out just as a guttural slutty animal sound. He does not wait to find out what I want, his cock filling me with one quick thrust that makes me gasp with pleasure. His flesh is warm and thick and hard inside me, making me scream as he begins to fuck me, in and out, in and out, feels so good, feels incredible. But I don't want him to come inside me, don't want to get pregnant because I have no birth control, and so I force myself again to say "no," pushing him off, his wonderful hard cock slipping out of me with a wet plop. Again he is angry, and he protests that he still "has not come." I am truly scared now, his eyes look insane, unrecognizable, and his voice sputters with rage. He is breathing quickly, from exertion, from anger, and his still erect cock wags with every intake of breath, my wetness glistening on the hard shaft. My cunt is burning, wanting him back inside, but I am insistent that I want to leave, that I must go. I know if I do not leave now I will not be able to stop myself from losing myself in the pleasure of fucking him, will not be able to stop him from coming inside me. He accuses me of being a cock tease, of leaving after I have made him hot and horny. His rage suffuses his white skin with a red glow.
Perhaps I say that he can come by himself in the bathroom, or something brave and dismissive…
The rest of the night is the most difficult to piece together. How I got out of the room, how I got home, very little even in my memory of the next day, of going to the pharmacy to get a morning-after pill to prevent a half-white, half-Japanese baby growing in me. Did he hit me, knocking me unconscious? Or maybe he had slipped a date rape drug into my drink in the room. Or maybe I had just drank too much and I passed out or my memory blanked. All three are possible. All three explain the headache I had the next day, and the loss of memory.
But later on, when the memories began to come back in fragments, triggered months later when I hear the phrase “impress me” said in a casual conversation over lunch, it is not horror that the words "impress me" trigger.
The memories do not come out of my mind suffused with terror and fear. It wasn't as simple as that...
What I most want to forget about that evening, perhaps, is that I enjoyed the sex, that somehow even as I felt the fear of being trapped in that hotel room and having to accede to his commands and desires, that this in fact turned me on, that when he pinned me underneath him, forcing his hard cock into me, and began raping me, that I was wet and horny from the idea that I was not in control. Perhaps it is not a drug he gave me that makes me forget that night, or too much alcohol that I drank, but maybe it is because being raped revealed a side of myself that I would rather not remember, that despite my protests to the contrary, in fact I wanted to be fucked like this, taken against my will, and that in a way that disturbs me now to remember, I came again and again that night, screaming like a slut for more. Did I really abandon myself to lust in the way that came back in those snippets of memory? When he became rough and violent with me, taking what he wanted, did I really scream for more, beg to be fucked harder…?
Perhaps that is why my co-worker looked so ashamed the next time she saw me. Why she could not even meet my eyes, only cryptically say that her boyfriend's friend had said that he had "really enjoyed" that night. Was she feeling ashamed for having introduced me to him, or ashamed that I turned out to be even more of a slut than she imagined…?
All of the stories he would tell his friend later on, and which would be passed on to my co-worker, about what a great fuck that I had been and of how wanton I was, she must have listened in shock and amazement at just how much more of a slut I was than even she imagined. I had thought at first that he must have told some stories out of male bravado, bragging about having done “more” with me in order to cover up a night turned sour without a climax for him. I think I wanted to remember that night that way when I wanted to consider myself a victim. But these other memories...
After the lunch when hearing “impress me” began to unlock my jumble of memories, they would come to me at unbidden moments at work and at home, forgotten phantoms suddenly floating into my consciousness. My heart would race as this new moment would return to me, a shock of excitement and recognition as I saw each memory both as alien to me and yet undoubtedly a part of me, long lost.
Fragments, none of them more than a bundle of physical sensations and images: in the bathroom bent over the counter with him behind pumping in and out of me so hard that I’m lifted up on my toes and with some thrusts even into the air; seeing his grimacing face in the mirror as he cums inside me realizing the screams and moans of pleasure filling my ears is my own voice; how surprised and proud I feel that he is still hard after coming, and still fucking me, not even caring that I might get pregnant, only focused on the wonderful feeling of his cock; the feeling of my hair being pulled and how my eyes look surprised and shocked as he is literally pulling the skin of my forehead up by the roots of my hair; the feeling of sucking on his fingers as he stuffs them inside my mouth and pulls on my cheek like a fish hook; the searing burning as he pushes the head of his penis into my ass and the sensation when he has driven all the way inside; the cold feel of the tile on my knees in the bathroom as I suck his slimy cock back to hardness after he has cum inside my ass; seeing his face between my feet and the ceiling waving back and forth behind them as I lay back on the bed and he fucked me from above; the soreness in both openings as I stagger out of the hotel with the sun rising still unshowered and my hair messy and stringy with dried sperm; sitting in my bathtub soaking in water for so long that the scalding water that I entered had turned ice cold; trying to understand the Pakistani accent of the pharmacist explaining the morning after pill’s effects; wondering as I awoke in the afternoon after my bath if I had remembered to phone in sick that morning.
Even now as I think back on those still incomplete fragments, I wonder how should I understand what happened? Was it a simple case of date rape, no matter how I responded physically and sexually? If I didn’t want it to happen, why did I go to his room, why did I stay so long? He came at least three times that I can remember, probably even more considering the amount of dried sperm that was in my hair and on my face (which I did not even remember how it had gotten there…)—I can’t count the number of orgasms I had but there were many, and when I remember them I can still feel the power of them and how they seized my whole body. What does it say about me, how should I think about myself…?