Just one word, and damn, it’s sharp as a nail.
My lungs seize. My whole body paralyzed with fear.
I fucked up. I fucked up bad.
“You said... you said you were gay,” I croak, desperate for the illusion. “You said—”
He cuts me off. “I never said that. You just never shut the hell up long enough to hear the truth.”
He leans in, breath hot against my cheek.
“I’m bi.”
Tears burn hot trails down my face. I shake my head, like I can undo it. Rewind. Erase.
He was never safe. I let him in. I skipped right into his trap. Drunk, smiling, and naive.
“Please,” I beg. “Don’t. Please don’t do this.”
Then—
He snaps.
His hand lunges, iron wrapped around my forearm. The grip makes me scream. He yanks me violently toward the back of the van.
I thrash. Scratch. Kick. My fingernails rake his face. He snarls. My heel connects with something. He curses. But it doesn’t matter.
He’s too strong. So much bigger. So much faster.
I scream, “Stop it! Get off me! Help! Someone!”
He only laughs. “No one can hear you out here.” He slams me to the van’s floor. The carpet is coarse, stained, gritty against my face.
In one swift move, he drags my wrists forward, hooking the handcuffs to a metal clip under the seat. He loops rope around my ankles, tightening them and securing to another clip in the floor. I’m stretched out.
Helpless. Bound. Crying.
He kneels over me, straddling my hips, breathless, triumphant. All testosterone, evil, and immovable muscle.
I don’t stop crying. I can’t.
Because I know how this ends.
A pair of scissors appears. He cuts my shirt inch by inch, taking his time. Dragging it out. He’s enjoying stripping me of my clothing — and my dignity.
He grunts after slicing through the middle of my bra, my breasts now uncovered.
I feel it.
His hands, slick with something cold. The crude pressure as he pushes my breasts together.
And—
His dick is out.
The slap of his body. The weight. The sick rhythm of what he’s doing.
I clench my jaw. I won’t look. That’s the only power I have. I keep my eyes shut. Tighter. Tighter.
