CODES: * means plain. The scene is unsatisfactory due to lack of length or detail. ** means average. *** means hot.
V is a warning for above average violent content. S is a warning for snuff content - the excerpt is usually from a crime novel.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

S* A psychic has a vision of the rape/murder of a hitchhiker

Carolina Moon (2000) by Nora Roberts, Chapter 10. Excerpt from an eBook. Warning: snuff

    "She's hitchhiking, to the beach. He picked her up, back there, somewhere back there."
    "Wait. Hold on." He caught up with her, had to drag her around. "Honey, you're shaking."
    "He took her." It was sliding into her head, images and shapes, sounds and scents. There was a burn in her throat, a smoker's rasp from pulling deep on one too many cigarettes. "He took her, pulled off the road, pulled off and into the trees. And he hit her with something. She doesn't see what it is, she only feels the pain, and she's dazed. What's happening? What's the matter? She pushes at him, but he's dragging her out of the car."
    "Who?"
    She shook her head, fighting to find herself in the confusion, in the pain. In the terror. "That way. Just up that way."
    "All right." Her eyes were huge, unfocused, and her skin had gone clammy under his hands. "You want to walk up there a little ways?"
    "I have to. Leave me alone."
    "No." He wrapped an arm firmly around her. "That I won't. We'll walk. I'm right here. You can feel me right here."
    "I don't want this. I don't want it." But she began to walk. She opened herself, overriding her instinct for self-preservation. She didn't struggle when the images shifted, solidified.
    The stars wheeled overhead, blindingly bright. Heat closed around her like a fist.
    "She wanted to go to the beach. She couldn't get a ride. She was angry at her friend. Marcie. A friend named Marcie, they were supposed to drive together, spend the weekend. Now she's going to hitchhike because, by God, she's not going to let that stupid bitch ruin her trip. He comes along, and she's happy. She's tired and she's thirsty, and he says he's going all the way to Myrtle. It's less than an hour by car."
    She stopped, held up a hand. Her head lolled back, but her eyes stayed open. Wide open. "He gives you a bottle. Jack Black. Blackjack. You take a drink, a long one. To kill your thirst and because it's so cool to be riding along and drinking whiskey.
    "It must've been the bottle he hit you with. Must've been, because you passed it back to him, and were laughing, then something crashed into the side of your head. Christ! It hurts!"
    She staggered, and her hand flew to her cheek. The taste of blood filled her mouth.
    "No. Don't." Cade pulled her against him, surprised she didn't slide out of his arms like smoke.
    "I can't see. Can't. There's nothing in him. Just blank. Wait. Wait." With her hands fisted, her breath in rags, she pushed. Sickness rolled in her stomach, but she slipped through, and saw. "He took her in there." She began to rock. "I can't. I just can't."
    "You don't have to. It's all right now. Come on back to the car."
    "He took her in there." Pity and grief overwhelmed everything else. "He rapes her." Now she closed her eyes, let it come, let it burn. "You fight for a while. He's hurting you, and you're so scared, so you fight. He hits you again, twice, hard in the face. Oh it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. You don't want to be here. You want your mother. You just cry while he grunts and pants and finishes.
    You smell his sweat and his sex and your own blood, and you can't fight anymore."
    Tory lifted her hands, ran them over her own face. She needed to feel the lines of her own cheeks, nose, mouth. She needed to remember who she was.
    "I can't see him. It's dark and he's just a thing. There's nothing from him for me to feel that seems real. She doesn't see him, either, not really. Not even when he uses his hands to strangle her. It doesn't take long because she's barely conscious anyway and hardly struggles. She hasn't been with him more than half an hour, and she's dead. Lying naked in the shadow of the trees. That's where he leaves her. He—he was whistling on his way back to the car."

Saturday, March 17, 2012

* Jeannie finds her friend raped and accompanies her to the hospital

This doesn’t include an actual rape scene but describes the aftermath of a rape from the victim’s point of view when she’s treated with extreme disrespect during a police interview and a doctor’s examination.

The Third Twin (1996) by Ken Follett. The end of chapter one. Excerpts from an eBook.

The end of chapter one

    He would make his fire just below the fan. He would get a can of gasoline and pour some into an empty Perrier bottle and bring it down here along with some matches and a newspaper for kindling and that wrench.
    The fire would grow quickly and produce huge billows of smoke. He would tie a wet rag over his nose and mouth and wait until the storeroom was full of it. Then he would detach the ventilator pipe. The fumes would be drawn into the duct and pumped out into the women's locker room. At first no one would notice. Then one or two would sniff the air and say: "Is someone smoking?"
    He would open the storeroom door and let the corridor fill with smoke. When the girls realized something was seriously wrong, they would open the locker room door and think the whole building was on fire, and they would all panic—
    Then he would walk into the locker room. There would be a sea of brassieres and stockings, bare breasts and asses and pubic hair. Some would be running out of the showers, naked and wet, fumbling for towels; others would be trying to pull on clothes; most would be running around searching for the door, half-blinded by smoke. There would be screams and sobs and shouts of fear. He would continue to pretend to be a security guard and yell orders at them: "Don't stop to dress! This is an emergency! Get out! The whole building is blazing! Run, run!"
    He would smack their bare asses, shove them around, snatch their clothes away, and feel them up. They would know something was badly wrong, but most of them would be too crazy to figure it out. If the muscular hockey captain was still there she might have the presence of mind to challenge him, but he would just punch her out.
    Walking around, he would select his main victim. She would be a pretty girl with a vulnerable look. He would take her arm, saying: "This way, please, I'm with security." He would lead her into the corridor then turn the wrong way, to the pool machine room. There, just when she thought she was on the way to safety, he would smack her face and punch her in the gut and throw her on the dirty concrete floor. He would watch her roll and turn and sit upright, gasping and sobbing and looking at him with terror in her eyes.
    Then he would smile and unbuckle his belt


Chapter two

    She found herself in a big room full of pumps and filters, presumably for the swimming pool. The smell of smoke was strong, but she could breathe normally.
    She saw Lisa right away, and the sight made her gasp.
    She was lying on her side, curled up in the fetal position, naked. There was a smear of what looked like blood on her thigh. She was not moving.
    For a moment Jeannie was rigid with fear.
    She tried to get hold of herself. "Lisa!" she shouted. She heard the shrill overtone of hysteria in her own voice and took a breath to keep calm. Please, God, let her be all right. She made her way across the room, through the tangle of pipe work, and knelt beside her friend. "Lisa?"
    Lisa opened her eyes.
    "Thank God," Jeannie said. "I thought you were dead."
    Slowly Lisa sat up. She would not look at Jeannie. Her lips were bruised.
    "He ... he raped me," she said.
    Jeannie's relief at finding her alive was replaced by a sick feeling of horror that gripped her heart. "My God. Here?"
    Lisa nodded. "He said this was the way out."
    Jeannie closed her eyes. She felt Lisa's pain and humiliation, the sense of being invaded and violated and soiled. Tears came to her eyes, and she held them back fiercely. For a moment she was too weak and nauseated to say anything.
    Then she tried to pull herself together. "Who was he?"
    "A security guy—"
    "With a spotted scarf over his face?"
    "He took it off." Lisa turned away. "He kept smiling."
    It figured. The girl in khaki pants had said a security guard felt her up.
    The lobby guard was sure there were no other security people in the building. "He was no security guard," Jeannie said. She had seen him jogging away just a few minutes ago. A wave of rage swept over her at the thought that he had done this dreadful thing right here, on the campus, in the gymnasium building, where they all felt safe to take off their clothes and shower. It made her hands shake, and she wanted to chase after him and strangle him.
    She heard loud noises: men shouting, heavy footsteps, and the rush of water. The firemen were operating their hoses.
    "Listen, we're in danger here," she said urgently. "We have to get out of this building."
    Lisa's voice was a dull monotone. "I don't have any clothes."
    We could die in here! "Don't worry about clothes, everyone's half-naked out there." Jeannie scanned the room hastily and saw Lisa's red lace brassiere and panties in a dusty heap beneath a tank. She picked them up. "Put your underwear on. It's dirty, but it's better than nothing."
    Lisa remained sitting on the floor, staring vacantly.
    Jeannie fought down a feeling of panic. What could she do if Lisa refused to move? She could probably lift Lisa, but could she carry her up that ladder? She raised her voice. "Come on, get up!" Taking Lisa's hands, she pulled her to her feet.
    At last Lisa met her eyes. "Jeannie, it was horrible," she said.
    Jeannie put her arms around Lisa's shoulders and hugged her hard. "I'm sorry, Lisa, I'm so sorry," she said.
    The smoke was becoming more dense, despite the heavy door. Fear replaced pity in her heart. "We have to get out of here—The place is burning down.
    For God's sake put these on!"
    At last Lisa began to move. She pulled up her panties and fastened her bra.
    Jeannie took her hand and led her to the ladder on the wall, then made her go up first. As Jeannie followed, the door crashed open and a fireman entered in a cloud of smoke. Water swirled around his boots. He looked startled to see them. "We're all right, we're getting out this way,"
    Jeannie yelled to him. Then she went up the ladder after Lisa.
    A moment later they were outside in the fresh air.
    Jeannie felt weak with relief—she had got Lisa out of the fire. But now Lisa needed help. Jeannie put an arm around her shoulders and led her to the front the building. There were fire trucks and police cruisers parked every which way

--

    McHenty said: "I have to take down the basic details of the case, miss would you excuse us for a few more minutes?"
    "Oh, sure," Jeannie said apologetically. Then she caught a look from Lisa and hesitated. A few minutes ago she had been cursing herself for leaving Lisa alone with a man. Now she was about to do it again. "On the other hand," she said, "maybe Lisa would prefer me to stay." Her instinct was confirmed when Lisa gave a barely perceptible nod.
    Jeannie sat on the bed and took Lisa's hand.
    McHenty looked irritated but he did not argue. "I was asking Mss Hoxton about how she tried to resist the assault," he said. "Did you scream, Lisa?"
    "Once, when he threw me on the floor," she said in a low voice. "Then he pulled the knife."
    McHenty's voice was matter-of-fact, and he looked down at his notebook as he spoke. "Did you try to fight him off?"
    She shook her head. "I was afraid he would cut me."
    "So you really didn't put up any resistance after that first scream?"
    She shook her head and began to cry. Jeannie squeezed her hand. She wanted to say to McHenry, "What the hell was she supposed to do?" But she kept silent. Already today she had been rude to a boy who looked like Brad Pitt, made a bitchy remark about Lisa's boobs, and snapped at the lobby guard in the gym. She knew she was not good at dealing with authority figures, and she was determined not to make an enemy of this policeman, who was only trying to do his job.
    McHenty went on: "Just before he penetrated you, did he force your legs apart?"
    Jeannie winced. Surely they should have female cops to ask these questions?
    Lisa said: "He touched my thigh with the point of the knife."
    "Did he cut you?"
    "No."
    "So you opened your legs voluntarily."
    Jeannie said: "If a suspect pulls a weapon on a cop, you generally shoot him down, don't you? Do you call that voluntary?"
    McHenty gave her an angry look. "Please leave this to me, miss." He turned back to Lisa. "Do you have any injuries at all?"
    "I'm bleeding, yes."
    "Is that as a result of the forced intercourse?"
    "Yes."
    "Where are you injured, exactly?"
    Jeannie could not stand it any longer. "Why don't we let the doctor establish that?"
    He looked at her as if she were stupid. I have to make the preliminary report."
    "Then let it say she has internal injuries as a result of the rape."
    "I'm conducting this interview."
    "And I'm telling you to back off, mister," Jeannie said, controlling the urge to scream at him. "My friend is in distress and I don't think she needs to describe her internal injuries to you when she's going to be examined by a doctor any second now."
    McHenty looked furious, but he moved on. "I noticed you had on red lace underwear. Do you think that had any effect on what happened?"
    Lisa looked away, her eyes full of tears.
    Jeannie said: "If I reported my red Mercedes stolen, would you ask me whether I had provoked the theft by driving such an attractive car?"
    McHenty ignored her. "Do you think you might have met the perpetrator before, Lisa?"
    "No."
    "But the smoke must have made it difficult for you to see clearly. And he wore a scarf of some kind over his face."
    "At first I was practically blind. But there wasn't much smoke in the room where ... he did it. I saw him." She nodded to herself. "I saw him."
    "So you would recognize him if you saw him again."
    Lisa shuddered. "Oh, yes."
    "But you've never seen him before, like in a bar or anything.
    "No."
    "Do you go to bars, Lisa?"
    "Sure."
    "Singles bars, that kind of thing?"
    Jeannie boiled over. "What the hell kind of question is that?"
    "The kind defense lawyers ask," McHenty said.
    "Lisa isn't on trial—she's not the perpetrator, she's the victim!"
    "Were you a virgin, Lisa?"
    Jeannie stood up. "Okay, that's enough. I do not believe this is supposed to happen. You're not supposed to ask these invasive questions."
    McHenty raised his voice. "I'm trying to establish her credibility."
    "One hour after she was violated? Forget it!"
    "I'm doing my job—"
    "I don't believe you know your job. I don't think you know shit, McHenty."
    Before he could reply, a doctor walked in without knocking. He was young and looked harassed and tired. "Is this the rape?" he said.
    "This is Ms. Lisa Hoxton," Jeannie said icily. "Yes, she was raped."
    "I'll need a vaginal swab."
    He was charmless, but at least he provided an excuse to get rid of McHenty.
    Jeannie looked at the cop. He stayed put, as if he thought he were going to supervise the taking of the swab. She said: "Before you do that, Doctor, perhaps Patrolman McHenty will excuse us?"
    The doctor paused, looking at McHenty. The cop shrugged and went out.
    The doctor pulled the sheet off Lisa with an abrupt gesture. "Lift your gown and spread your legs," he said.
    Lisa began to cry.
    Jeannie could hardly believe it. What was it with these men? "Excuse me, sir," she said to the doctor.
    He glared at her impatiently. "Have you got a problem?"
    "Could you please try to be a little more polite?"
    He reddened. "This hospital is full of people with traumatic injuries and life-threatening illnesses," he said. "Right now in the emergency room there are three children who have been in a car wreck, and they're all going to die. And you're complaining that I'm not being polite to a girl who got into bed with the wrong man?"
    Jeannie was flabbergasted. "Got into bed with the wrong man?" she repeated.
    Lisa sat upright. "I want to go home," she said.
    "That sounds like a hell of a good idea," Jeannie said. She unzipped her duffel and began to put the clothes out on the bed.
    The doctor was dumbstruck for a moment. Then he said angrily: "Do as you please." He went out.
    Jeannie and Lisa looked at one another. "I can't believe that happened," Jeannie said.
    "Thank God they've gone," Lisa said, and she got out of bed.
    Jeannie helped her take off the hospital gown. Lisa pulled on the fresh clothes quickly and stepped into the shoes. "I'll drive you home," Jeannie said.
    "Would you sleep over at my apartment?" Lisa said. "I don't want to be alone tonight."
    "Sure. I'll be glad to."
    McHenty was waiting outside. He seemed less confident. Perhaps he knew he had handled the interview badly. "I still have a few more questions," he said.
    Jeannie spoke quietly and calmly. "We're leaving," she said. "Lisa is too upset to answer questions right now."
    He was almost scared. "She has to," he said. "She's made a complaint."
    Lisa said: "I wasn't raped. It was all a mistake. I just want to go home now."
    "You realize it's an offense to make a false allegation?"
    Jeannie said angrily: "This woman is not a criminal—she's the victim of a crime. If your boss asks why she's withdrawing the complaint, say it's because she was brutally harassed by Patrolman McHenty of the Baltimore Police Department. Now I'm taking her home. Excuse us, please." She put her arm around Lisa's shoulders and steered her past the cop toward the exit.
    As they left she heard him mutter: "What did I do?"

Friday, March 16, 2012

** A Cro-Magnon girl is raped by a Neanderthal youth

I read this book because it was said to contain several rape scenes, but it barely has one; an even in this the actual intercourse lasts for exactly seven sentences. It’s ridiculous how people overreact to rape scenes in their reviews.

Clan of the Cave Bear (1980) by Jean M. Untinen-Auel, chapter 18

    Broud gave her a signal, and Ayla's eyes flew open. It was unexpected. Iza told her men only wanted that from women they considered attractive; she knew Broud thought she was ugly. Broud hadn't missed Ayla's shocked surprise, her reaction encouraged him. He signaled her again, imperiously, to assume the position so he could relieve his needs, the position for sexual intercourse.
    Ayla knew what was expected. Not only had Iza explained, she had often seen adult members of the clan engage in the activity -- all the children had; there were no artificial restraints in the clan. Children learned adult behavior by emulating their parents, and sexual behavior was just one of many activities they mimicked. It always puzzled Ayla, she wondered why it was done, but it didn't disturb her to see a young boy bounce harmlessly on a young girl in conscious imitation of adults.
    Sometimes it wasn't imitation. Many young girls of the Clan were pierced by pubescent boys who lingered in the limbo of not-yet-men, before their first kill; and occasionally a man, beguiled by a young coquette, pleased himself with a not-quite-ripe female. Most young men, though, felt it beneath their dignity to play games with former playmates.
    But Ayla had no male playmates near her age except Vorn, and since the earlier days when Aga actively discouraged their association, there had never developed any close contact between them. Ayla was not particularly fond of Vorn, who imitated Broud's actions toward her. Despite the incident on the practice field, the boy still idolized Broud, and Vorn was not about to play "mates" with Ayla. There was no one else who might have, so she had never even engaged in the imitation of the act. Within a society that indulged in sex as naturally as they breathed, Ayla was still a virgin.
    The young woman felt awkward; she knew she must comply, but she was flustered and Broud was enjoying it. He was glad he had thought of it; he had finally broken down her defenses. It excited him to see her so confused and bewildered, and aroused him. He hovered close as she got up, then started to lower herself to her knees. Ayla wasn't accustomed to men of the clan being so near. Broud's heavy breathing frightened her. She hesitated.
    Broud got impatient, pushed her down, and moved aside his wrap exposing his organ, thick and throbbing. What is she waiting for? She's so ugly, she should be honored, no other man would have her, he thought angrily, grabbing at her wrap to move it out of the way as his need grew.
    But as Broud closed in on her, something snapped. She couldn't do it! She just couldn't. Her reason left her. It didn't matter that she was supposed to obey him. She scrambled to her feet and started to run. Broud was too quick for her. He grabbed her, pushed her down, and punched her in the face, cutting her lip with his hard fist. He was beginning to enjoy this. Too many times had he restrained himself when he wanted to beat her, but there was no one to stop him here. And he had justifiable reason -- she was disobeying him, actively disobeying him.
    Ayla was frantic. She tried to get up and he hit her again. He was getting a reaction from her he never expected, and it stirred him to greater lust. He would cow this insolent woman yet. He hit her again and again, and felt a great satisfaction to see her cringe as he made a move to hit her once more.
    Her head was ringing, blood trickled out of her nose and the corner of her mouth. She tried to get up, but he held her down. She struggled against him, pummeling his chest with her fists. They had no effect on his hard muscular body, but her resistance aroused him to new heights. Never had he felt so stimulated -- violence increased his passion and lust added force to his blows. He reveled in her resistance and clouted her again.
    She was nearly unconscious when he threw her over on her face, feverishly ripped her wrap aside, and spread her legs. With one hard thrust, he penetrated deeply. She screamed with pain. It added to his pleasure. He lunged again, drawing forth another painful cry, then again, and again. The intensity of his excitement urged him on, rising quickly to unbearable peaks. With a last hard drive that extracted a final agonized scream, he ejected his built-up heat.
    Broud collapsed on top of her for a moment, his energy spent. Then, still breathing heavily, he withdrew himself. Ayla sobbed incoherently. The salt from her tears stung the open wounds on her blood-smeared face. One eye was swollen nearly shut and turning dark. Her thighs were stained with blood and she hurt deep inside. Broud got up and looked down at her. He felt good; he had never enjoyed penetrating a woman so much. He picked up his weapons and headed back to the cave.
    Ayla lay with her face in the dirt long after her sobbing stopped. Finally she pulled herself up. She touched her mouth, felt the swelling, and looked at the blood on her fingers. Her whole body ached, inside and out. She saw blood between her thighs and the stains on the grass. Is my totem fighting again? she wondered. No, I don't think so, it's not time. Broud must have wounded me. I didn't know he could beat me on the inside, too. But the other women don't hurt from it, why should Broud's organ wound me? Is there something wrong with me?
    Slowly she got up and walked to the creek, hurting with every step. She washed herself, but it didn't help the throbbing, aching pain, or the turmoil in her mind. Why did Broud want me to do that? Iza says men want to relieve their needs with attractive women. I'm ugly. Why should a man want to hurt a woman he likes? But women like it, too; why else would they make the gestures to encourage men? How can they like it? Oga never minds it when Broud does it to her, and he does it every day, more than once, sometimes.
    Suddenly Ayla was horrified. Oh, no! What if Broud makes me do it again? I won't go back. I can't go back. Where can I go? My little cave? No, it's too close, and I can't stay there in winter. I have to go back, I can't live alone, where else can I go? And I can't leave Iza, and Creb, and Uba. What am I going to do? If Broud wants it, I can't refuse him. None of the other women would even try. What's wrong with me? He never wanted that when I was still a girl. Why did I have to become a woman? I was so happy about it, now I wouldn't care if I was a girl all my life. I'll never have a baby anyway. What good is being a woman if you can't have a baby? Especially if a man can make you do something like that? What good is it anyway? What's it for?
    The sun was low when she plodded back up the knoll to look for her ptarmigan. The eggs, cushioned so carefully, were crushed, and stained the front of her wrap. She looked back at the creek and remembered how happy she was watching the birds. It seemed ages ago, another time, another place. She dragged herself back to the cave, dreading every step.
    As Iza watched the sun disappear behind the trees in the west, she grew more anxious. She walked partway up all the paths in the nearby woods and to the ridge to scan the slope toward the steppes. A woman shouldn't be out alone; I never do like it when Ayla hunts, Iza thought. What if she was attacked by some animal? Maybe she's hurt? Creb was concerned, too, though he tried not to show it. Even Brun began to worry as it grew dark. Iza was the first to see her walking toward the cave from the ridge. She started to scold her for making her worry, but stopped before her first gesture.
    "Ayla! You're hurt! What happened?"
    "Broud beat me," she motioned, her expression dull.
    "But why?"
    "I disobeyed him," the young woman gestured as she walked into the cave and straight to the hearth.
    What could have happened? Iza wondered. Ayla hasn't disobeyed Broud for years. Why would she rebel against him now? And why didn't he tell me he saw her? He knew I was worried. He's been back since noon, why is Ayla so late? Iza cast a quick glance in the direction of Broud's hearth and saw him staring across the boundary stones at Ayla, against all good manners, with a pleased smirk on his face.
    Creb had taken in the whole scene: Ayla's bruised and swollen face and look of utter desolation, Broud watching her from the moment she returned with an arrogant sneer. He knew Broud's hatred had grown over the years -- her placid obedience seemed to affect him worse than her girlish rebellion -- but something had happened that gave Broud a sense of power over her. As perceptive as Creb was, he could not have guessed the cause.
    Ayla was afraid to leave the hearth the next day, dawdling over her morning meal as long as she could. Broud was waiting for her. Thinking about his intense excitement of the day before had him stimulated and ready. When he gave her the signal, she almost bolted, but forced herself to assume the position. She tried to repress her cries, but the pain forced them from her lips, causing curious glances from those who happened to be nearby. They could no more understand why she was crying out in pain than they could understand Broud's sudden interest in her.

    Broud reveled in his newfound dominance over Ayla and used her often, though many people wondered why he chose the ugly woman he hated over his own comely mate. After a, time, it was no longer painful, but Ayla detested it. And it was her hatred that Broud enjoyed. He had put her in her place, gained superiority over her, and finally found a way to make her react to him. It didn't matter that her response was negative, he preferred it. He wanted to see her cower, to see her fear, to see her force herself to submit. Just thinking about it stimulated him. He had always had a strong drive; now he was more sexually active than ever. Every morning that he wasn't away hunting, he waited for her, usually forced her again in the evening and sometimes at midday as well. He even found himself aroused at night and used his mate to relieve himself. He was young and healthy, at the peak of his sexual prowess, and the more intensely she hated him, the more pleasure he derived.

--

Early one evening when Creb was away from the hearth, she beckoned to Ayla.
    "I want to talk to you."
    "Yes, Iza," Ayla replied, hauling herself up from her fur and slumping down in the dirt near the woman.
    "When was the last time your totem battled, Ayla?"
    "I don't know."
    "Ayla, I want you to think about it. Have the spirits fought within you since the blossoms dropped?"
    The young woman tried to think. "I'm not sure, maybe once."
    "That's what I thought," Iza said. "You're getting sick in the mornings, aren't you?"
    "Yes," she nodded. Ayla thought her sickness was because every morning that Broud wasn't gone hunting, he was there, waiting for her, and she hated it so much, she was losing her breakfast, and sometimes her evening meal, too.
    "Have your breasts felt sore?"
    "A little."
    "And they've grown larger, too, haven't they?"
    "I think so. Why are you asking? Why all these questions?"
    The woman looked at her seriously. "Ayla, I don't know how it happened, I can hardly believe it, but I'm sure it's true."
    "What's true?"
    "Your totem has been defeated; you are going to have a baby."

Thursday, March 15, 2012

S** Serial rapist/serial killer attacks a woman in her home. Later a psychic has a vision of the same incident.

Carolina Moon (2000) by Nora Roberts. Excerpts from an eBook. Warning: snuff

Chapter 19

    A movement at the corner of her eye had her heart wheeling into her throat. The bowl flew out of her hands, and she managed one short scream.
    Then a hand clamped over her mouth. The knife she'd used to make her dinner pricked at her throat.
    "Be quiet. Be very, very quiet, and I won't cut you. Understand?"
    Her eyes were already circling wildly.
    Wings of fear beat in her belly, had her skin going hot and damp. But confusion rode over it. She couldn't see his face, but thought she recognized the voice. It made no sense. No sense at all.
    His hand slid slowly away from her mouth to grip her chin. "Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me."
    “Now, why would I do that?" Her hair smelled sweet. A whore's blond hair. "Let's go in the bedroom where we can be comfortable."
    "Don't." She gasped as the edge of the knife teased along her throat, tipped up her chin. The scream was inside her, desperate to burst out, but the knife turned it into silent tears as he pushed her out of the kitchen.
    Her patio doors were closed now, the blinds shut. "Mongo. What did you do with Mongo?"
    "You don't think I'd hurt a nice, friendly dog like that do you?" The power of the moment cruised through him, spread, made him hard and hot and invincible. "He's just taking a quiet nap. Don’t you worry about a thing. This is going to be just what you want.”
    He shoved her belly down on the bed, put his knee in the small of her back and added weight. He'd brought precautions. A man had to be prepared, even for a whore. Especially for a whore.
    After a while, they screamed no matter what. And he didn't want to use the knife. Not when he was so good with his hands. He took the bandanna from his pocket, gagged her.
    When she began to stir, when she began to struggle, he was in heaven.
    She wasn't weak. She kept the body she liked to flaunt and tease men with in good shape. It only excited him to have her struggle. The first time he hit her, the thrill of it slammed into him like sex. He hit her again so they both understood who was in charge.
    He tied her hands behind her back. He couldn't afford those nails with their sluttish pink polish scraping any of his skin.
    Quietly, he walked over to shut the curtain and close them into the dark.
    She was moaning against the gag, dazed from the blows. The sound of it made him tremble so that he nicked her skin a little as he used the knife to cut her clothes away. She tried to roll, tried to buck, but when he put the point of the blade just under her eye, pressed, she went very still.
    "This is what you want." He unzipped, then flipped her onto her back and straddled her. "It's what you asked for. What you all ask for."
    When it was done, he wept. Tears of self-pity ran down his face. She wasn't the one, but what else could he do? She'd put herself in his path, she'd given him no choice.
    It wasn't perfect! He'd done everything he'd wanted and still it wasn't perfect.
    Her eyes were glazed and empty as he took off the gag, kissed her cheeks. He cut the cord from her wrists, stuffed it back in his pockets.
    He turned her music off, and left the way he'd come in.

Chapter 22

    "He was there. Just there." Tory's breathing came in quick, short bursts now. She had both hands fisted at her throat. "You didn't hear him. You can't see him. There's a knife. He has a knife. Oh God, oh God, oh God. His hand's over your mouth, squeezing. The knife's at your throat. You're so scared. So scared. You won't scream. You won't. You'll do anything if he doesn't hurt you.
    "His voice is at your ear, soft, quiet. What did he do with Mongo? Did he hurt him? It's all tumbling in your head. It's not real. It can't be real. But the knife's so sharp. He pushes you and you're afraid you'll stumble and the knife ... "
    She shuffled out of the kitchen, braced a hand on the wall when she swayed. "The blinds are drawn. No one can see. No one can help. He wants you in the bedroom, and you know what he's going to do. If you could only get away, away from the knife."
    Tory froze at the door to the bedroom. Nausea rolled into her in short, choppy waves. "I can't. I can't."
    She turned her face to the wall, struggling to find herself through all the fear and violence. "I don't want to see this. He killed her here, why do I have to see it?"
    "That's enough." Cade shoved away Carl D.'s restraining hand. "Goddamn it, that's enough."
    But when he reached for Tory, she stumbled away. "It's in my head. I'll never get it out of my head. Don't talk to me. Don't touch me."
    She pressed her hands to her face, trapping her own breath, and let it claw back inside her.
    "Oh. Oh. He pushes you on the bed, facedown. And he's on top of you. He's already hard, and feeling him, feeling him pressing against you, you struggle. The fear's wild inside you. Huge, choking. There's a heat to it. Fear burns."
    She moaned, went down to her knees beside the bed. "He hits you. Hard. The back of the neck. The pain's so sharp, it rushes through you, stuns you. He hits you again, the side of your face explodes with it. You taste blood. Your own blood. Blood tastes the same as terror. The same. He yanks your arms behind your back, and the pain of that's just another layer."
    Tentacles of that pain slithered and groped inside her, tangled with a horror so huge it seemed the mass of it all would burst out of her brain. She pressed her face to the side of the mattress, dug her fingers into it.
    "It's dark. The room's dark, and the music's playing and you can't think over the pain. You're crying. You try to plead with him, but he's tied a cloth over your mouth. He hits you again and you start sliding away somewhere. Half conscious, you hardly feel it when he cuts your clothes away. The knife nicks you, but it's worse, so much worse when he uses his hands on you."
    Tory doubled over, wrapped her arms around her belly, and began to rock. "It hurts. It hurts. You can't even cry when he's raping you. Just let it be over, but he keeps beating himself into you and you have to go away. You have to be somewhere else. You have to go away."
    Exhausted, Tory laid her head on the side of the bed, closed her eyes. It was like being smothered, she thought dimly. Like being buried alive, so the blood rings in your ears like a thousand bells and the sweat that coats your body is cold. So viciously cold.
    She had to fight her way back into the air.
    Back into self.
    "When he was finished with her, he strangled her with his hands. She couldn't fight anymore. She cried, or he did. I can't tell. But he cut the rope from around her wrists. He took it with him. He didn't want to leave any of himself behind, but he did. Like an ice rime on glass. I can't stay here. Please get me out of here. Please get me away from here."

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

V** A maniac makes an FBI agent listen in on the phone while he rapes a woman

Warning, the scene is very sadistic and violent compared to an average rape scene. It would have been more of a turn on without this. Also it has implied snuff content. In the audiobook version by Random House Audio this scene is shockingly intense.

Lisa Gardner, Say Goodbye (2008). The end of chapter 11. Excerpt from an eBook.

    The phone rang again shortly after two a.m. Kimberly wasn’t sleeping well, as if some part of her was expecting this moment. Beside her, she felt Mac tense at the first shrill note, and knew he’d been waiting, too.
    She sat up and flipped on a lamp. On the bedside table, she had positioned her cell phone, notepad, pen, and mini-recorder. Once again the display screen registered the toll-free number for the Atlanta FBI. This time, Kimberly wasn’t fooled.
    She gave Mac a slow nod of acknowledgment, then snapped on the mini-recorder. She answered her phone in the hands-free mode, so they could both hear.
    “Special Agent Quincy.”
    Nothing at first. No greeting, or crackle of a bad connection. Then, somewhere distant, as if in the background, that faint whisper again: “Shhhh…”
    Kimberly glanced at Mac. She brought the phone up between them, and with her ear closer, suddenly she could hear.
    Moaning. Panting. The slapping sound of flesh hitting flesh. A muffled cry of distress.
    “Do you like that? Is that good for you? Answer me!”
    A small, whimpered plea.
    “That’s what I thought.”
    Kimberly put her hand over her mouth to stifle her automatic cry of protest. Beside her, Mac had gone still. He’d heard it, too, and understood what it meant. They were eavesdropping on a sexual assault. Kimberly knew, because she had heard such tapes before, part of the work her father used to bring home before he realized his young daughters had taken to sneaking into his office and going through his things.
    Recorded? Live? She didn’t know, but she had seen the visuals that went with such sounds and already her stomach roiled…
    The whisper again, closer to the phone: “Shhhh…”
    Banging now. Hard, metallic. Handcuffs, pounding brutally against a metal headboard, as someone struggled to escape. Then, a low, unmistakable rasp. The sound of a blade, slowly sliding across a sharpening stone.
    All of a sudden, Kimberly understood this call was going to get much worse.
    Frantically, her shaking hand trying to scrawl the words across the page: TRACE IT!!!
    Mac throwing back the covers, leaping out of bed, grabbing for their landline.
    “You know what I want.”
    “Mmm, mmm, mmm.”
    “A name. Is one name really so hard? You just have to love her, that’s all. Give me someone you trust, call a friend, adore. That’s all I require of you. One single name. Then I promise your death will be quick.”
    “This is Special Agent Michael McCormack, requesting Special Agent Lynn Stoudt. I require immediate assistance-”
    A quick, short rip. Duct tape torn from the mouth.
    A wail. A long, thin, horrified scream that went on and on until Kimberly had her hand stuffed into her mouth and even then could feel that poor, exhausted cry reverberating down her spine.
    The voice, even closer now: “Shhhh…”
    “Tell me!”
    “Please…”
    The wick wick of metal slicing. A fresh, throaty scream.
    “I can skin you alive. Do you want to watch?”
    “Dear God, dear God, dear God…”
    “Darling, didn’t your mama ever tell you? There is no God! Just me. I am your savior and I am your damnation and you had better make me happy or I will flay the cheeks from your skinny white face. GIVE ME A NAME!”
    “I don’t kno-AAAGGH!”
    “ONE NAME!”
    “Please no, dear God no, please, please…”
    The girl was screaming. Wailing hysterically, and now the man was yelling, too, demanding a name over and over again while in between came terrible wet noises and a violent banging.
    Kimberly could feel herself start to disconnect. To disappear inside her skin, to spiral away from this moment, where a young girl begged for her life and a madman worked his knife.
    The voice in her ear: “Shhh…”
    Mac across the room: “Lynn, I need to be able to trace a phone call immediately. On my wife’s cell. Number-”
    “How does that feel? How does that fucking feel? It’s gonna get worse. I’m just going on and on and on, until you tell me a name…”
    “God, God, God.”
    “Didn’t you hear me? There is no GOD!”
    “AAAAAGH.”
    “Name, name, name. Tell me a-”
    “Karen. K-K-K-Karen.”
    “Karen who? What is her last name? How do you know her?”
    “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”
    A fresh sharp scream as he did something terrible.
    “Liar! If you cared about her, you would know her full name. If she mattered, you could remember her fucking details.”
    “Please, please, please…”
    “One last chance. Make me happy. Or I swear to you, next cut will be someplace you really value. I’m counting. One…two…”
    “Virginia!” the female gasped. “Her name is Virginia. Ginny Jones.”
    “And why do you love her?!”
    “She is my daughter.”
    A pause.
    “Excellent,” the man said.
    And the next sound needed no explanation at all.

    Mac was shaking her. Had she blacked out? Kimberly didn’t want to think so. She had never fainted before in her life. She glanced down in bewilderment at the bed. Her cell phone was there, the screen blank.
Had it all been a bad dream?
    And then she looked up, saw the somber expression on Mac’s face, the worry bracketing his eyes.
    “The caller hung up,” he said quietly. “It’s over now.”
    But she shook her head. “No, Mac. It’s just begun.”

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

V*** A young nobleman claims his father’s new castle and rapes his former betrothed

Pillars of the Earth (1989) by Ken Follett, chapter 5. Excerpt from an eBook.

Characters:
William, son of the Earl of Shiring
Walter, William’s servant
Aliena, daughter of the imprisoned previous Earl of Shiring
Richard, Aliena’s little brother
Matthew, the previous Earl’s steward

   There was no sign of life. William suddenly thought that Aliena might have gone. What a disappointment that would be! He and Walter would have to spend a dreary, hungry night in a cold and dirty castle. They went up the outside steps to the hall door. “Quietly,” William said to Walter. “If they’re here, I want to give them a shock.”
   He pushed open the door. The great hall was empty and dark, and smelled as if it had not been used for months: as he had expected, they had been living on the top floor. William trod softly as he walked across the hall to the stairs. Dry reeds rustled under his feet. Walter followed dose behind.
   They climbed the stairs. They could hear nothing: the thick stone walls of the keep muffled all sound. Halfway up, William stopped, turned to Walter, put his finger to his lips, and pointed. There was a light shining under the door at the top of the stairs. Someone was here.
   They went on up the stairs and paused outside the door. From inside came the sound of a girlish laugh. William smiled happily. He found the handle, turned it gently, then kicked the door open. The laugh turned into a scream of fright.
   The scene in the room made a pretty picture. Aliena and her younger brother, Richard, were sitting at a small table, close to the fire, playing a board game of some kind, and Matthew the steward was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder. Aliena’s face was rose-colored in the glow of the fire, and her dark curls glinted with auburn lights. She wore a pale linen tunic. She was looking up at William with her red lips in a big O of surprise. William watched her, enjoying her fright, saying nothing. After a moment she recovered, stood up, and said: “What do you want?”
   William had rehearsed this scene many times in his imagination. He walked slowly into the room and stood by the fire, warming his hands; then he said: “I live here. What do you want?”
   Aliena looked from him to Walter. She was scared and confused, but nevertheless her tone was challenging. “This castle belongs to the earl of Shiring. State your business and then clear out.”
   William smiled triumphantly. “The earl of Shiring is my father,” he said. The steward grunted, as if he had been afraid of this. Aliena looked bewildered. William went on: “The king made my father earl yesterday, at Winchester. The castle now belongs to us. I’m the master here until my father arrives.” He snapped his fingers at the steward. “And I’m hungry, so bring me bread and meat and wine.”
   The steward hesitated. He threw a worried look at Aliena. He was afraid to leave her. But he had no choice. He went to the door.
   Aliena took a step toward the door, as if to follow him.
   “Stay here,” William ordered her.
   Walter stood between her and the door, barring her way.
   “You have no right to command me!” Aliena said, with a touch of her old imperiousness.
   Matthew spoke in a scared tone. “Stay, my lady. Don’t anger them. I’ll be quick.
   Aliena frowned at him, but she stayed where she was. Matthew went out.
   William sat in Aliena’s chair. She moved to her brother’s side. William studied them. There was a similarity between them, but all the strength was in the girl’s face. Richard was a tall, awkward adolescent, with no beard yet. William liked the sensation of having them in his power. He said: “How old are you, Richard?”
   “Fourteen years,” the boy said sullenly.
   “Ever killed a man?”
   “No,” he answered, then with a little attempt at bravado he added: “Not yet.”
   You’ll suffer too, you pompous little prick, William thought. He turned his attention to Aliena. “How old are you?”
   At first she looked as if she would not speak to him, but then she appeared to change her mind, perhaps remembering that Matthew had said Don’t anger them. “Seventeen,” she said.
   “My, my, the whole family can count,” William said. “Are you a virgin, Aliena?”
   “Of course!” she blazed.
   Suddenly William reached forward and grabbed her breast. It filled his big hand. He squeezed: it felt firm but yielding. She jerked back, and it slipped from his grasp.
   Richard stepped forward, too late, and knocked William’s arm aside. Nothing could have pleased William more. He came out of his chair fast and hit Richard in the face with a swinging punch. As he had suspected, Richard was soft: he cried out and his hands flew to his face.
   “Leave him alone!” Aliena cried.
   William looked at her with surprise. She seemed more concerned about her brother than about herself. That might be worth remembering.
   Matthew came back in carrying a wooden platter with a loaf of bread, a side of ham and a jug of wine on it. He paled when he saw Richard holding his hands to his face. He put the platter down on the table and went to the boy. Taking Richard’s hands away gently, he looked at the boy’s face. It was already red and puffy around the eye. “I told you not to anger them,” he muttered, but he seemed relieved that it was no worse. William was disappointed: he had hoped Matthew would fly into a rage. The steward threatened to be a killjoy.
   The sight of the food made William’s mouth water. He pulled his chair up to the table, took out his eating knife, and cut a thick slice, of ham. Walter sat opposite him. Through a mouthful of bread and ham, William said to Aliena: “Bring some cups and pour the wine.” Matthew moved to do it. William said: “Not you—her.” Aliena hesitated. Matthew looked at her anxiously and nodded. She came across to the table and picked up the jug.
   As she leaned over, William reached down, slipped his hand under the hem of her tunic, and rapidly ran his fingers up her leg. His fingertips felt slender calves with soft hair, then the muscles behind her knee, and then the soft skin of the inside of her thigh; then she jerked away, spun around, and swung the heavy wine jug at his head.
   William warded off the blow with his left hand and slapped her face with his right. He put all his force into the slap. His hand stung in a very satisfying way. Aliena screamed. Out of the corner of his eye William saw Richard move. He had been hoping for that. He pushed Aliena aside forcefully, and she fell to the floor with a thud. Richard came at William like a deer charging the hunter. William dodged Richard’s first wild blow, then punched him in the stomach. As the boy doubled over, William hit him several times in rapid succession about the eyes and nose. It was not as exciting as hitting Aliena, but it was gratifying enough, and within moments Richard’s face was covered with blood.
   Suddenly Walter gave a warning cry and sprang to his feet, looking past William’s shoulder. William spun round to see Matthew coming at him with a knife held high ready to stab. William was taken by surprise—he had not expected bravery from the effeminate steward. Walter could not reach him in time to prevent the stroke. All William could do was to hold up both arms to protect himself, and for a terrible moment he thought he was going to be killed in his moment of triumph. A stronger attacker would have knocked William’s arms aside, but Matthew was a slight figure softened by indoor living, and the knife did not quite reach William’s neck. He felt a sudden surge of relief, but he was not yet safe. Matthew lifted his arm for another blow. William took a step back and reached for his sword. Then Walter came around the table with a long pointed dagger in his hand and stabbed Matthew in the back.
   An expression of terror came over Matthew’s face. William saw the point of Walter’s dagger emerge from Matthew’s chest, tearing a slit in his tunic. Matthew’s own knife fell from his hand and bounced on the floorboards. He tried to draw breath in a gasp, but a gurgling noise came from his throat and he seemed unable to breathe. He sagged; blood came from his mouth; his eyes closed; and he fell. Walter withdrew the long dagger as the body sank to the floor. For a moment blood spurted from the wound, but almost immediately the flow slowed to a trickle.
   They all looked at the corpse on the floor: Walter, William, Aliena and Richard. William was light-headed after his close brush with death. He felt as if he could do anything. He reached out and grabbed the neck of Aliena’s tunic. The linen was soft and fine, very expensive. He gave a sharp jerk. The tunic ripped. He kept on pulling, so that it tore all the way down the front. A strip a foot wide came away in his hand. Aliena screamed, then tried to pull the remnants of the garment together over her front. The torn edges would not meet. William’s throat went dry. Her sudden vulnerability was thrilling. It was much more exciting than when he had watched her washing, for now she knew he was looking, and she felt ashamed, and her shame inflamed him all the more. She covered her breasts with one arm and her triangle with the other hand. William dropped the strip of linen and grabbed her by the hair. He jerked her toward him, spun her around, and ripped the rest of the tunic from her back.
   She had delicate white shoulders, a small waist, and surprisingly full hips. He pulled her to him, pressing himself against her back, grinding his hips against her buttocks. He bent his head and bit her soft neck hard, until he tasted blood and she screamed again. He saw Richard move.
   “Hold the boy,” he said to Walter.
   Walter grabbed Richard and put him in an armlock.
   Holding Aliena hard against him with one arm, William explored her body with the other hand. He felt her breasts, weighing and then squeezing them, and he pinched her small nipples; then he ran his hand over her stomach and into the triangle of hair between her legs, bushy and curly like the hair on her head: He prodded her roughly with his fingers. She began to cry. His prick was so stiff he felt it would burst.
   He stepped away from her and jerked her backward over his outstretched leg. She fell on her back with a crash. The fall winded her and she gasped for breath.
   William had not planned this, and he was not quite sure how it had happened, but nothing in the world could stop him now.
   He lifted his tunic and showed her his prick. She looked horrified: she had probably never seen a stiff one. She was a real virgin. All the better.
   “Bring the boy here,” William said to Walter.”! want him to see it all.” For some reason, the thought of doing it in front of Richard’s eyes was intensely piquant.
   Walter pushed Richard forward and forced him to his knees.
   William knelt on the floor and prised Aliena’s legs apart. She began to struggle. He fell on top of her, trying to crush her into submission, but still she resisted, and he could not get inside her. He was irritated: this was spoiling everything. He raised himself on one elbow and hit her across the face with his fist. She cried out and her cheek turned an angry red, but as soon as he tried to enter her, she began to resist him again.
   Walter could have held her still, but he had the boy.
   Suddenly William was inspired. “Cut the boy’s ear off, Walter,” he said.
   Aliena went still. “No!” she said hoarsely. “Leave him alone—don’t hurt him anymore.”
   “Open your legs, then,” William said.
   She stared at him, wide-eyed with horror at the dreadful choice forced upon her. William enjoyed her anguish. Walter, playing the game perfectly, drew his knife and put it to Richard’s right ear. He hesitated, then with a movement that was almost tender, he sliced off the boy’s earlobe.
   Richard screamed. Blood spurted from the small wound. The piece of flesh fell on Aliena’s heaving chest.
   “Stop!” she screamed. “All right. I’ll do it.” She opened her legs.
   William spat on his hand, then rubbed the moisture between her legs. He pushed his fingers inside her. She cried out with pain. That excited him more. He lowered himself on top of her. She lay still, tense. Her eyes were closed. Her body was slick with sweat from the struggle, but she shivered. William adjusted his position, then hesitated, enjoying the anticipation and her dread. He looked at the others. Richard was looking on with horror. Walter was watching greedily.
   William said: “Your turn next, Walter.”
   Aliena groaned in despair.
   Suddenly he shoved inside her roughly, pushing as hard and far as he could. He felt the resistance of her maidenhead—a real virgin!—and he shoved again, brutally. It hurt him but it hurt her more. She screamed. He shoved once more, harder still, and he felt it break. Aliena’s face turned white, her head slumped to one side, and she fell into a faint; then at last William spurted his seed inside her, laughing and laughing with triumph and pleasure until he was drained dry.
 

Thursday, March 1, 2012

* A female soldier is interrogated first with sexual, then with violent methods

Unfortunately there is next to no description of the raping. A surprisingly tame scene compared to the outrage and accusations of brutality and hideousness some readers express.

Friday (1982) by Robert E. Heinlein. Chapter two. Excerpt from an eBook.

If I had been smart, I would have surrendered once I saw that I was hopelessly outnumbered.--

They had to take me alive, that was clear.--But why waste time by raping me? This whole operation had amateurish touches. No professional group uses either beating or rape before interrogation today; there is no profit in it; any professional is trained to cope with either or both. For rape she (or he - I hear it's worse for males) can either detach the mind and wait for it to be over, or (advanced training) emulate the ancient Chinese adage.

Or, in place of method A or B, or combined with B if the agent's histrionic ability is up to it, the victim can treat rape as an opportunity to gain an edge over her captors. I'm no great shakes as an actress but I try and, while it has never enabled me to turn the tables on unfriendlies, at least once it kept me alive.

This time method C did not affect the outcome but did cause a little healthy dissension. Four of them (my estimate from touch and body odors) had me in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It may have been my own room but I could not be certain as I had been unconscious for a while and was now dressed (solely) in adhesive tape over my eyes. They had me on a mattress on the floor, a gang bang with minor sadism. . . which I ignored, being very busy with method C.

-- I worked on all of them - method acting, of course-reluctant, have to be forced, then gradually your passion overcomes you; you just can't help yourself. Any man will believe that routine; they are suckers for it - but I worked especially hard on Straw Boss as I hoped to achieve the status of teacher's pet or some such. Straw Boss wasn't so bad; methods B and C combined nicely.

But I worked hardest on Rocks because with him it had to be C combined with A; his breath was so foul. He wasn't too clean in other ways, too; it took great effort to ignore it and make my responses flattering to his macho ego.

After he became flaccid he said, "Mac, we're wasting our time. This slut enjoys it."

"So get out of the way and give the kid another chance. He's ready."

"Not yet. I'm going to slap her around, make her take us seriously." He let me have a big one, left side of my face. I yelped.

"Cut that out!" -Straw Boss's voice.

“Who says so? Mac, you're getting too big for your britches."

"I say so." It was a new voice, very loud-amplified-from the sound-system speaker in the ceiling, no doubt. "Rocky, Mac is your squad leader, you know that. Mac, send Rocky to me; I want a word with him."

"Major, I was just trying to help!"

"You heard the man, Rocks," Straw Boss said quietly. "Grab your pants and get moving."

Suddenly the man's weight was no longer on me and his stinking breath was no longer in my face. Happiness is relative.

The voice in the ceiling spoke again: "Mac, is it true that Miss Friday simply enjoys the little ceremony we arranged for her?"

"It's possible, Major," Straw Boss said slowly. "She does act like it."

“--Mac, put the cuffs on her and throw a blanket over her. But don't give her a shot; I'll be talking to her later."

Straw Boss even took the trouble to police me-led me into the bathroom and waited quietly while I peed, without making a production of it-and that was amateurish, too, as a useful technique, of the cumulative sort, in interrogating an amateur (not a pro) is to force him or her to break toilet training. If she has been protected from the harsher things in life or if he suffers from excessive amourpropre - as most males do - it is at least as effective as pain, and potentiates either with pain or with other humiliations.

I don't think Mac knew this. I figured him for basically a decent soul despite his taste for - no, aside from his taste for a bit of rape - a taste common to most males according to the kinseys.

Somebody had put the mattress back on the bed. Mac guided me to it, told me to lie on my back with my arms out. Then he cuffed me to the legs of the bed, using two pairs. They weren't the peace officer type, but special ones, velvet-lined-the sort of junk used by idiots for SM games. I wondered who the pervert was? The Major?

Mac made sure that they were secure but not too tight, then gently spread a blanket over me. I would not have been surprised had he kissed me good-night. But he did not. He left quietly.

-- I was roused by a slap. Not Mac. Rocks, of course. Not as hard as he had hit me earlier but totally unnecessary. It seemed to me that he blamed me for whatever disciplining he had received from the Major. . . and I promised myself that, when time came to cancel him, I would do it slowly.

I heard Shorty say, "Mac said not to hit her."

"I didn't hit her. That was just a love tap to wake her up. Shut up and mind your own business. Stand clear and keep your gun on her. On her, you idiot! Not on me."

They took me down into the basement and into one of our own interrogation chambers. Shorty and Rocks left - I think that Shorty left and I know that Rocks did; his stink went away - afid an interrogation team took over. I don't know who or how many as not one of them ever said a word. The only voice was the one I thought of as "the Major." It seemed to be coming through a speaker.

--"I'm glad that you are in fine fettle, dear, as this session is likely to prove long and tiring. Even unpleasant. I want to know all about you, love."

--"Stand her up. Don't let her fall." Someone-some two-did so. I wasn't steady but they held me. "Start procedure C, item five."

Someone stomped a heavy boot on my bare toes. I screamed. -- I am not going to give details of what happened during the following endless time. If you have any imagination, it would nauseate you, and to tell it makes me want to throw up. I did, several times. I passed out, too, but they kept reviving me and the voice kept on asking questions.

Apparently the time came when reviving didn't work, for the next thing I knew I was back in bed-the same bed, I suppose-and again handcuffed to it. I hurt all over.