index


Message-ID: <30783asstr$992301003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Souvie <souvie@netdot.com>
Reply-To: Souvie <souvie@netdot.com>
Subject: {ASSM} "No Right Turn" (MF, nc, caution)
Date: Mon, 11 Jun 2001 19:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


"No Right Turn" 
by Souvie 
December 2000/June 2001

***** 
This story is not my usual light-hearted fare.  I
can't tell you where the inspiration came from, or what
prompted me to write this.  I do not condone rape, or non-
consensual sex, but yet, the story had to be written. Maybe
to exorcise whatever demons dwell inside me, I don't know. 
I just hope that someone out there will get whatever sort
of enjoyment they may from reading it.

If you're not of legal age to be reading this type of
material, then please don't.  The story is copyright by me,
Souvie, so please no reposting unless you've gotten
permission from me first. In the spirit of the Blow Job
Principle, I welcome any and all comments. In fact, I get
off on feedback. Just no flames, please.  Email me at
souvie@netdot.com

*****

"No Right Turn"




I am anything you want me to be.  I am your wailing wall,
your father confessor. I hold the truth and support the
falsehoods that lie fallow within us all.  I want to know
your secrets.  I am your psychoanalyst, your mother, and
your doctor.  I will withstand the slashes of your Bic ball-
point pens, your sharpie markers, and the scratches of your
keys in my paint when you express your rage, or share your
humor.  My only regret is that the confessional of the
porcelain goddess offers no advice.  Alas, my voice is but
the sound of rushing water mingled with the background
music of the sanitary hand dryers and slamming doors.
Please, come in and close the door.  Sit down and write on
my walls. We have all the time in the world . . . 

-~-

"Seth Lewis is a rapist," I wrote, tracing it over and
over so the blue ink would darken, and the warning would be
more obvious to the other women who used this particular
toilet stall.  Sure, I'd had a few beers with my taco salad
tonight, but I still would have written the message.  After
all, women need to be warned that it doesn't just happen to
their sister's best friend's third cousin.  It was the
public service sticker that had prompted my abrupt
vandalism of the bathroom wall.  The sticker stated that
rape was any unwelcome physical contact.  Some wiseass had
written beneath it, "Even kissing," but I, Lisa Griffith,
knew that it could be much more, and much worse.

I had met Seth at my apartment complex.  He was ten years
older, cool and collected, and certainly not a student at
the university.  Though his confidence was disarming at
times, I liked him and came to depend on him in an odd way.
To some extent I viewed him as I would have one of my older
brother's friends; one of the guys I grew up seeing around
the house who ate dinner with us and played games afterward
seated around the oak dining table.  He wasn't any of those
things.

When he asked me if I would be willing to help him move
from his apartment to a house he had bought, I quickly
agreed.  By this time, I had more than a small crush on
him; one of those little and meaningless crushes, just like
I had when I was much younger for some of my older
brother's friends. It was just a romantic affectation that
would never come to anything.

Pulling into the driveway of the little spec house that
Seth had recently purchased, I never thought once of the
vulnerable position into which I was now entering.  I never
considered that nobody even knew of my whereabouts that
afternoon, a fact for which I had berated myself many times
over the last four months.  If only somebody had known I
was there, maybe...

The moving, if it could be called that, had gone well.
Seth had either paid movers to move the big items into the
house, or had gotten friends to help him.  Either way, when
I arrived at the house it was full of misplaced furniture
and boxes.  My assignment was to unload the boxes, and to
put away the things contained therein.  We worked for three
hours; tough work at times, both of us working up a sweat.
He took his shirt off at one point.  He had a nicely-shaped
chest, the kind that caused my breath to hitch in my chest.
inscrutable expression on his face.  

The one thing that marred the picture of masculine
perfection was the inscrutable expression on his face every
time I caught him looking at me, which was pretty often.
After about the sixth time, it was starting to make me
uneasy. By the end of the afternoon, I was more than ready
to escape to the safe solitude of my own apartment three
miles away. I had begun to feel the first tinges of
vulnerability; I was alone with a man I really didn't know
that well. However, when I began to bid my farewells, Seth
was quick to ask me to stay and share a pizza and some beer
that would be "the least he could do" in exchange for my
hard work.

During the pizza and beer, the conversation was, as it
usually was, about my love life. Seth questioned me about
Roger, the boy I had gone out with most recently.

"How did it go with that Roger guy? I saw him bring you
home the other night," Seth asked between slices of the
loaded pizza he always ordered.    

"It went.  He's just another guy.  They're all the same,
you know?" I answered idly.

"No, I guess I don't know."  He put down the slice of
pizza he'd been eating.  "Us guys are all the same, the way
all you women are nothing more than stuck up bitches, who
tempt and tease a man until his dick's ready to burst, then
you put on the brakes, and we're just supposed to smile and
accept it?"

I was floored in the face of his language and tone.  I'd
never suspected such words could come from such kissable
looking lips.

He shook his head and instantly looked embarrassed and
contrite.  "God, I'm sorry Lisa, I don't even know where
that came from.  Can we just pretend that never happened?"
His smile spread across his whole face.

I smiled shyly and nodded my head.

The conversation had gone as such, with me slowly
loosening up, forgetting my earlier discomfort, and
remembering my slight crush on Seth.  When we cleaned up
the empty beer bottles, and threw away the stained paper
plates, Seth's hand had grazed my behind.  Feeling cold
discomfort instead of warm excitement, I knew the time had
come to make my exit.

"Seth, congratulations on your new house," I said as I
stood by the door with my purse in my hand.

"You're not leaving?" He said it as a question, but then
added, "Well, wait a minute.  Let me put my shoes on and
I'll walk you out."  With that said, he disappeared into
the back of the house to search for the shoes he had
discarded in some random place hours earlier.   I didn't
even hear him walk back into the living room as I stood
behind the couch, idly watching Saturday Night Live, and
knowing it was past time to leave.  I knew nothing other
than the canned laughter on SNL until I felt his hand on
the back of my neck, tried to struggle away and found that
I couldn't.

A dirty sock was forced into my mouth and with a hand
gripping the back of my neck, I was forced over the back of
the couch.  When I felt my shorts and underwear being
forced down my hips, the world seemed to dissolve into a
grainy apparition of itself.  I was too shocked to scream,
too taken aback to fight as much I should have.  This
happened to people I heard about on TV, not to me.  The
rough hand spreading my crotch for his penetration was all
too real.  My world was reduced to counting down the
seconds until I felt him stiffen and an obscene warmth fill
me.  I was cold, clammy, how could any part of me be warm?
He withdrew and the hand on the back of my neck tangled in
my hair and twisted painfully.  I felt his lips against my
cheek, his hot breath whistling in my ear as he whispered,
"Thanks."  He walked away and I just slumped against the
couch, my hands shaking as they tried to claw the sock out
of my mouth.  A trickle of wet made its way slowly down the
inside of my thigh.

Four months later, the tears were all cried; nevertheless,
the ghost of the past was still around in the form of
sleepless nights, shame, and an unbending rage that
surfaced for no reason on occasion. After the rape, I had
left Seth's house in dazed shock, not knowing what to do,
who to call, or even if I had really been raped or if the
whole incident was my fault in some way.  I had coasted
through the last four weeks of that semester, and gone home
for the summer.  Being away from the scene had given me a
vacation from thinking about what had happened; however,
now that the new semester had started, all the old
landmarks were there like huge reminders of that night.  I
had never spoken to Seth again, and had tried to forget
that the whole awful thing ever happened. By denying it, I
absolved myself of the guilt I carried like a millstone
around my neck. If only I'd never agreed to help him out.
If I'd had the courage to go to the police afterward, or
tell someone, anyone. If I'd never started flirting with
him in the first place.  The "If I" game is a lonely one
that goes on forever.

Confronted with the red on white sticker, the memories
were dredged up again.  I sat in the toilet stall looking
at the rectangular sticker.  "Rape is a crime," I read over
and over again.  The sweat that had begun to trickle down
my back caused my shirt to stick to my skin.  I couldn't
help thinking, sarcastically, "What a classy place to have
an emotional catharsis."

I looked at the words I'd written.  I traced them over and
over as though each layer of ink were another slap of
revenge.  I took a deep breath. Exiting the stall, I
reapplied my lipstick in the smudgy restroom mirror, and
walked out as if nothing had happened.

I don't know if it was my dark blue etchings on the
bathroom wall or not, but I read in the paper three weeks
later that a university student had come forward and
accused him of rape.  I sat at the tiny dining table, my
coffee forgotten, as I absorbed the words of the article.
It was just a snippet, a minor detail on page four of
section C, but the words burned into my brain.  The paper
reported that he'd been accused of rape three years ago,
too, but the charges had been dropped.  I got dressed,
tossing on clothes with careless abandon.

-----

He was in a grimy jail cell, awaiting the posting of his
bail.  His eyes were blank black pools in a face I would
never, could never forget.

"You?" he asked, stubbing out a crumpled cigarette. "The
squealer. I never figured you to be a squealer, but I
should have known; the quiet ones never are. What the fuck
do you want?"

"Why?" I whispered.

"Why what?"

"Why did you rape that girl? Rape me?" 

He grinned at me without humor. "Lisa, isn't it? Yeah, the
moving girl." He was so casual, as if I was just someone
he'd met once on the street and not bothered to take a
second look at.

I stepped up and gripped the bars of the cell.  They were
cold and clammy and my hands seemed fused to them, white-
knuckled grip and pink nails in stark relief.  "Yes, me,
why'd you rape me, violate me?"  I *had* to know.  Maybe
then I could start to sleep again, date again and laugh
again.  

He shrugged and grinned.  "Because I could."

It wasn't good enough.  I didn't move a muscle, just
waited, barely breathing.  I needed more.

His grin turned nasty, giving me a glimpse of the monster
I'd never seen lurking beneath the surface.  "Listen, girl,
I don't have to explain myself to you or to anyone.  But,
if it'll get your ass out of here faster, I did it just
because you were there, I wanted you and I didn't want to
ask for nothing.  My way's faster - no wine 'em and dine
'em and then *maybe* sixty-nine 'em.  My way I'm sure to
score."  He turned and faced the wall then, and I was
dismissed.  Just as easily as he had done all those months
ago.

I pried my fingers from the bars and with tears in my
eyes, but determined not to let them show, I left.

---

I don't know when I decided to buy the gun. I just found
myself outside of a non-descript pawn shop one day after
classes.  It was easier than I'd thought to convince the
man to sell it to me "under the counter."  Some sob story
about losing my father's gun and wanting to replace it
before he noticed the loss, plus a lot of cleavage, and I
walked out, the extra weight in my purse somehow
reassuring.  

They'll be starting his trial tomorrow.  I can't even bear
to use his name, even think it in my head.  It makes him
more of a non-person to always refer to him with a pronoun;
more an animal than human.  Fitting, I think.

Anyway, I figure if I sit near the front in the courtroom,
I should be able to get a clear shot.  I've been practicing
at a shooting club an hour from the college, and I'm
confident I won't miss.  Especially at that close range.
This isn't a sensational trial, after all - a simple rape
case, open and shut, the attorneys would say.

When they ask me afterward why I did it, was it for
revenge, I'll just shake my head no. Nothing lofty or grand
as "an eye for an eye."  It's simply . . . because I could.


THE END

***** 
"Things that go bump in the night"
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Souvie/www
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Souvie



----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+