** Seamen mistake a runaway virgin for a whore and snatch her to be their captain’s on-ship entertainment

The scenes are pretty lame for serious lack of detail, but I included them for the setting is such a turn on – the long duration and repetition of Heather’s torment, the first rape taking her virginity, her disbelief when it's followed by another, followed by a third, and she’s completely helpless to do anything else but suffer the captain’s advances.Later she gives birth to his son.

The Flame and the Flower (1972) by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, first chapter. Excerpt from an eBook.

    She shook her head slowly, dropping her gaze to the floor. He laughed softly and came forward to stand close before her. He took the bundle she clutched and tossed it in a nearby chair as he stared down at her, dazzled by her youthful beauty and the gown that seemed only a sparkling veil over her body. Her ivory skin glowed softly in the candlelight, and by the golden flames he saw before him a small woman, gracefully slender with breasts full and round, generously and temptingly swelling above her gown. They rose and fell slowly with her breath.

    He moved closer and in a rapid movement slipped his arm about her narrow waist, nearly lifting her from the floor, and then covered her mouth with his, engulfing Heather in a heady scent, not unlike that of a brandy her father had been fond of. She was too surprised to resist and hung limp in his embrace. She saw herself as if from outside her body and felt with mild amusement his tongue parting her lips and thrusting within. From a low level of consciousness there grew a vague feeling of pleasure and, had the circumstances been different, she might have enjoyed the hard, masculine feel of his body against hers. He stepped back, still smiling, but with a new fire kindled in his eyes. As he took his hands from her she gasped in stunned surprise for her gown fell in a heap about her ankles. She stared at him for a split second before she hurriedly bent to retrieve the garment, but those hands caught her shoulders and straightened her and she was again enfolded in his arms. This time she fought, for with sudden clarity it dawned on her just what he had in mind. She realized her disadvantage as her exhausted body struggled weakly against him. If William Court’s grip had been of iron, this man’s entire being was of finely-tempered steel. She could not free herself and her hands pushed in vain against his chest. Her struggles pulled his shirt loose and then his furred chest lay bare against her with only the thin film of the chemise between them. She was left breathless each time his mouth took hers and passionate kisses seemed to cover her face and bosom. She felt his hands go up her back and with an easy tug he separated the shift and snatched it from her. Her naked breasts were crushed against his chest and in fearful panic she pushed hard and for a moment was free of him. He gave a deep throaty laugh and used the interlude to rid himself of boots and shirt and as he shed his breeches he grinned.

    “A game well played, m’lady, but have no doubts as to the winner.”

    His eyes burned with passion’s fire as he stood enjoying her now unbridled charms, far lovelier than he had imagined or even hoped, and she stared in horror at her first sight of a naked man. She stood fixed to the floor until he stepped forward and with a frightened squeak she turned to flee but found her arm seized in a grip that was gentle yet as unyielding as a band of steel. She ducked under his arm and sank her teeth into his wrist. He grunted in pain and she jerked away, but in her haste she stumbled and fell full length into his bunk. Almost immediately he was on top of her, pinning down her writhing body, and it seemed that every move she made only abetted his intent. Her hair came loose and seemed to stifle her in its mass.

    “No!” she gasped. “Leave me alone! Let me be!”

    He chuckled and murmured against her throat. “Oh no, my bloodthirsty little wench. Oh no, not now.”

    Then he moved upward and she was relieved of his heavy weight, but only briefly. She felt his hardness searching, probing between her thighs, then finding and entering that first tiny bit. In her panic to escape she surged upward. A half gasp, half shriek escaped her and a burning pain seemed to spread through her loins. Brandon started back in astonishment and stared down at her. She lay limp against the pillows, rolling her head back and forth upon them. He touched her cheek tenderly and murmured something low and inaudible, but she had her eyes closed and wouldn’t look at him. He moved against her gently, kissing her hair and brow and caressing her body with his hands. She lay unresponsive, yet his long starved passions grew and soon he thrust deep within her, no longer able to contain himself. It seemed with each movement now she would be split asunder and tears came to her eyes.

    The storm at its end, a long quiet moment slipped past as he relaxed against her, once more gentle. But when he finally withdrew, she turned to the wall and lay softly sobbing with the corner of the blanket pulled over her head and her now used body left bare to his gaze.

--

    “Good morning, love,” he whispered softly and rose above her to kiss her lips.

    She lay perfectly still, fearing any movement might stir his passions. He needed no stirring. The fires in his loins were already burning high and growing hotter with each passing moment. His kisses passed from her lips, over her eyes, down her throat and paused at her shoulder where his teeth made tiny nibbles, sending shivers down her spine. She stared horrified as he pressed his bearded mouth to the pink crest of her breast and lightly teased it with his tongue.

    “Don’t!” she gasped. “Don’t do that!”

    He raised his heated gaze, smiling. “You’ll have to get used to my caresses, ma petite.”

    She withdrew from those amused eyes and fought to turn away, pleading with him. “No. Please, no. Not again. Don’t hurt me again. Just let me go.”

    “I won’t hurt you this time, sweet,” he breathed against her ear, pressing soft kisses to it.

    The weight of his body held her on her back in the bunk and now Heather began to fight in earnest. She held her knees tightly together while she sought to scratch or claw him anywhere she could, but always a hand or elbow was there to stem her effort. He laughed as if enjoying her struggles.

    “You show considerably more spirit this morning, m’lady.”

Then her arms were slowly drawn upward on either side of her head and held there easily in one of his hands. His other hand cupped a breast and he played with it to his pleasure while she twisted and fought against his overpowering strength. His knee slowly forced open her thighs and spread them and again she felt his manhood deep within her.

--

    A small, satanic smile curved his lips and he snapped his fingers and pointed to the bunk.

    “Now get back in that.”

    She was well conditioned to taking orders and she did so now, terrified of what he might do if she didn’t. Still clutching her bundle and gown, she sat down on the bunk and stared up at him as if she expected to be flogged. He dropped the strop on the table and wiping his face on a towel, came to the bunk and stood for a moment looking down at her. Then he threw the towel in a chair and took the things from her. He pointed to her shift.

    “Get that off.”

    Heather swallowed hard. Her eyes flew down his body and widened even more. She was fast losing her innocence.

    “Please—” she gasped.

    “I’m not a patient man, Heather,” he said and his voice was very menacing.

    Her fingers shook as she untied the ribbons and unfastened the tiny buttons between her breasts. She caught the hem and raised it over her head. Her eyes lifted shamefully to his as she felt his fiery gaze upon her body.

    “Now lie down,” he directed.

    She slid down into the bunk and her whole being quaked with fear of him and of what was to come. She tried to cover herself with her hands, feeling the awful humiliation of being naked and a coward.

    “Don’t,” he said and slid in beside her and drew her quaking limbs to his.

    “Please,” she whimpered. “Aren’t you satisfied that you’ve taken the one thing that was only mine to give. Must you keep torturing me again and again?”

    “You might as well accept your lot as a paramour, my sweet, and become aware of the finer arts of the profession. The first thing I’m going to show you is that it doesn’t necessarily have to be painful. You fought me twice now and the last time caused your own misery. This time you will relax and let me do as I want without a struggle and though you may not enjoy it yet, you’ll see what I say is true.”

    “No! No!” she cried, trying to struggle free, but he clamped his hand tightly on her waist.

    “Be still.”

    Again he commanded, again she obeyed. She hated him but her fear was greater by far. She trembled violently with it.

    “Is this the way you treat your wife?” she asked miserably.

    He smiled and bent over her lips. “I’m not married, sweet.”

    She had no more to say when his kiss ended but lay tense and waiting. He made no move to mount her. Instead he played gently with her, caressing, softly titillating, cupping her breasts and pressing kisses over her body.

    “Relax,” he murmured against her throat. “Just lie still and don’t fight me. Later you can learn what pleases a man, but for now just lie still.”

    Her mind tumbled over itself in its frenzy and no words sought her tongue. As she lay and submitted to his pawing, her life passed before her as if she were dying, and she wondered what great evil she had done that the past years should have abused her so cruelly. Yet even Aunt Fanny’s endless heckling would be better than having to lie here under this man’s hands while he pleasured himself with her. Trapped! Caught! Like a bird in a snare and now, plump and roasted, she must wait on the platter while he whetted his knife for the carving. And when the feast was done, what then? The same table? The same dinner? Again and again? Surely no simpleminded fowl ever suffered its fate but once.

    Her thighs were parted and she could not suppress a gasp as he drove home.

    “Easy, sweet,” he breathed.

    She closed her eyes tightly and stilled her careening fears. There was nothing to do now but let him have his way. When he lay finished above her, he whispered against her hair.

    “Any more bruises, m’lady?”

    She kept her eyes shut and turned her head aside. She loathed the very thought of him. He moved against her, urging her answer.

    “Did I hurt you this time?”

    “No,” she choked out.

    He laughed softly and freeing her from his embrace, sat on the berth beside her and drew the sheet over her.

* Vera is taking down laundry at an attic when an unknown male barges in and rapes her. Later she gives birth to a son.

The Half Brother (2001) by Lars Saabye Christensen. Section: The Women. Chapters: The Drying loft, The Dove. Excerpts from an eBook.

Vera stretches up to the clothesline to take the final piece, her own blue dress, which she hasn’t yet had the chance to wear, and at that moment, as she unfastens one of the wooden pegs and holds up the garment with her other hand so that it won’t fall onto the dusty floor, she hears footsteps behind her. Slowly they come closer, and for a moment Vera imagines it’s Rakel who’s come back. -- But then she realizes it’s not her mother, nor is it Rakel, for these steps have another rhythm, another weight, the floorboards give in the wake of their passing, and the dove on the corner suddenly stops cooing. These are the steps of war that keep going, and before Vera can turn around someone has gripped her and held her tightly, and a dry hand has been pressed over her face and she cannot even scream. She senses the harsh stench of unwashed skin, the raw stink of a strange man’s mouth, a tongue that rasps her neck. She tries to bite, her teeth sink into the rough skin, but he doesn’t let go of his hold. She can’t breathe. He lifts her and she kicks for all she’s worth; one of her shoes falls off and he forces her down onto her knees and pushes her forward. She notice that the dress is hanging at an angle on the line by the one clothespin and she tears it down with her in her fall. He takes his hand away from her mouth and she can breathe, yet now that she’s able to scream she doesn’t all the same. She sees his hands tearing up her skirt, and it’s only this that she sees of him – his hands – one of them missing a finger, and she plunges her nails into his hand, but even then he doesn’t make a sound. Nine fingers, that’s all he is. He forces her face to the floor and her cheek is chafed by the rough planks. The light is distorted now and the clothes basket has toppled over; the dove is preening itself. She feels the man’s hands around her hips, nine fingers that scrape against her skin, and he tears her open, he pulls her apart. She doesn’t hear him; she shoves the dress into her mouth, chews the thin material over and over, and the sun in the loft window shifts with a shudder. He presses himself through her and in the same moment the church bells begin ringing, all the church bells in town ring out at the same time. And the dove suddenly takes off from the corner under the coal shaft and flaps wildly about them; she can feel the wings brushing against her, and now it’s all too late. She still isn’t twenty, and in the end it’s he who screams.

Afterward everything is quiet. He lets her go. She could get up, but remains lying nonetheless. He puts his hand on her neck. It smells of urine and vomit. Then he runs. She can feel it, a soundless drumming against her face, her cheek. He crept up on her, and now he’s running away through the long attic corridors in Church Road, on may 8, 1945. The dove sits on the window frame. And Vera, our mother, just lies there like that, her cheek against the floor, her dress in her mouth and her hand full of blood, as a beam of sunlight slowly passes over her.

--That’s how she finds her own daughter. Vera is squatting beside the clothes basket. In her lap she’s holding the newly washed dress, and she strokes it, over and over again, humming softly to herself all the time. -- Vera turns slowly toward her mother and smiles. Her lips and whole face are twisted, her left cheek is all swollen. She has a cut on her temple, under her hair. But it’s her eyes that are worst. They are huge and clear, and they focus on nothing and nowhere.-- “Little Vera,” she whispers. “Has someone been bad to you?” But Vera makes no reply, she only turns away.

** Stone quarry worker resolves attraction between himself and a socialite by rough means

The Fountainhead (1943) by Ayn Rand, Part Two: Ellsworth M. Toohey, chapter 2. Excerpt from an eBook.

She did not hear the sound of steps in the garden. She heard them only when they rose up the stairs to the terrace. She sat up, frowning. She looked at the French windows.

He came in. He wore his work clothes, the dirty shirt with rolled sleeves, the trousers smeared with stone dust. He stood looking at her. There was no laughing understanding in his face. His face was drawn, austere in cruelty, ascetic in passion, the cheeks sunken, the lips pulled down, set tight. She jumped to her feet, she stood, her arms thrown back, her fingers spread apart. He did not move. She saw a vein of his neck rise, beating, and fall down again.

Then he walked to her. He held her as if his flesh had cut through hers and she felt the bones of his arms on the bones of her ribs, her legs jerked tight against his, his mouth on hers.

She did not know whether the jolt of terror shook her first and she thrust her elbows at his throat, twisting her body to escape, or whether she lay still in his arms, in the first instant, in the shock of feeling his skin against hers, the thing she had thought about, had expected, had never known to be like this, could not have known, because this was not part of living, but a thing one could not bear longer than a second.

She tried to tear herself away from him. The effort broke against his arms that had not felt it. Her fists beat against his shoulders, against his face. He moved one hand, took her two wrists, pinned them behind her, under his arm, wrenching her shoulder blades. She twisted her head back. She felt his lips on her breast. She tore herself free.

She fell back against the dressing table, she stood crouching, her hands clasping the edge behind her, her eyes wide, colorless, shapeless in terror. He was laughing. There was the movement of laughter on his face, but no sound. Perhaps he had released her intentionally. He stood, his legs apart, his arms hanging at his sides, letting her be more sharply aware of his body across the space between them than she had been in his arms. She looked at the door behind him, he saw the first hint of movement, no more than a thought of leaping toward that door. He extended his arm, not touching her, and fell back. Her shoulders moved faintly, rising. He took a step forward and her shoulders fell. She huddled lower, closer to the table. He let her wait. Then he approached. He lifted her without effort. She let her teeth sink into his hand and felt blood on the tip of her tongue. He pulled her head back and he forced her mouth open against his.

She fought like an animal. But she made no sound. She did not call for help. She heard the echoes of her blows in a gasp of his breath, and she knew that it was a gasp of pleasure. She reached for the lamp on the dressing table. He knocked the lamp out of her hand. The crystal burst to pieces in the darkness.

He had thrown her down on the bed and she felt the blood beating in her throat, in her eyes, the hatred, the helpless terror in her blood. She felt the hatred and his hands; his hands moving over her body, the hands that broke granite. She fought in a last convulsion. Then the sudden pain shot up, through her body, to her throat, and she screamed. Then she lay still.

It was an act that could be performed in tenderness, as a seal of love, or in contempt, as a symbol of humiliation and conquest. It could be the act of a lover or the act of a soldier violating an enemy woman. He did it as an act of scorn. Not as love, but as defilement. And this made her lie still and submit. One gesture of tenderness from him--and she would have remained cold, untouched by the thing done to her body. But the act of a master taking shameful, contemptuous possession of her was the kind of rapture she had wanted. Then she felt him shaking with the agony of a pleasure unbearable even to him, she knew that she had given that to him, that it came from her, from her body, and she bit her lips and she knew what he had wanted her to know.

He lay still across the bed, away from her, his head hanging back over the edge. She heard the slow, ending gasps of his breath. She lay on her back, as he had left her, not moving, her mouth open. She felt empty, light and flat.

She saw him get up. She saw his silhouette against the window. He went out, without a word or a glance at her. She noticed that, but it did not matter. She listened blankly to the sound of his steps moving away in the garden.

She lay still for a long time. Then she moved her tongue in her open mouth. She heard a sound that came from somewhere within her, and it was the dry, short, sickening sound of a sob, but she was not crying, her eyes were held paralyzed, dry and open. The sound became motion, a jolt running down her throat to her stomach. It flung her up, she stood awkwardly, bent over, her forearms pressed to her stomach. She heard the small table by the bed rattling in the darkness, and she looked at it, in empty astonishment that a table should move without reason. Then she understood that she was shaking. She was not frightened; it seemed foolish to shake like that, in short, separate jerks, like soundless hiccoughs. She thought she must take a bath. The need was unbearable, as if she had felt it for a long time. Nothing mattered, if only she would take a bath. She dragged her feet slowly to the door of her bathroom.

She turned the light on in the bathroom. She saw herself in a tall mirror. She saw the purple bruises left on her body by his mouth. She heard a moan muffled in her throat, not very loud. It was not the sight, but the sudden flash of knowledge. She knew that she would not take a bath. She knew that she wanted to keep the feeling of his body, the traces of his body on hers, knowing also what such a desire implied. She fell on her knees, clasping the edge of the bathtub. She could not make herself crawl over that edge. Her hands slipped, she lay still on the floor. The tiles were hard and cold under her body. She lay there till morning.

** A friendly neighbor betrays the trust of a girl next door by raping her

Jack – middle aged, married and a soon to be father – is smooth in making lonely Dolores, living with her ma and grandma in the apartment below, feel special. They develop a relationship that from Dolores’ point of view hovers in between innocent friendship and a tentative crush. As so many times before, trusting Dolores gets in Jack’s car after school. She agrees to taking a drive though Jack is in a strange mood, drunk and, in fact, still drinking. Warning: the victim is underaged.

She’s Come Undone (1992) by Wally Lamb, chapter 7

     ”Yup. So where’s this waterfall?”

     ”We’re friends, right?” he said. ”Can I ask you for a favor?”

     “I don’t know. What is it?”

      “You promise you won’t take it the wrong way?”

     “I won’t,” I said.

     “Could I give you a kiss – just a friendly one?”

     My stomach pulled in; blood pounded in my head. “I don’t think so.”

     “Some friend.”

     Then he bent toward me and kissed me anyway – softly, on the mouth. His breath was smelly and sweet from the liquor. His fingers dug into my back. The dogs were barking again.

     “That felt nice,” he said. “Nicest kiss I’ve ever had. Don’t be afraid.”

     He tried to do it again but I pulled away and stood by the car.

     “And you said there’s a reservoir?” I said. My voice was quivery.

     He laughed and got back in the car, shaking his head. I got in, too. Our door slamming echoed in the trees. His hand moved to the ignition switch, then stopped.

     “Can I ask you something?” he said.

     “What?”

     “Do you think much about sex?”
     “No,” I said. “Can we go?”

     “Because I think you’re very, very sexy – as if you didn’t know already. Sometimes when she and I are…”

     I wanted to be back at Grandma’s, in the bathroom with the door locked, figuring everything out. “Can we just go?” I said.

     He reached in front of my knees and flopped down his glove compartment. I was surprised to see his hand shaking a little. He pulled out a rolled-up magazine.

     “See this,” he said.

     It took me a second to figure it out: a woman on the cover had her mouth on a man’s penis. I flung it back at him.

      “Here,” I said.

     “Don’t you want to take a look? Aren’t you curious?”

     I started to cry. “No.”

     “You sure?”

     “Shut up.”

     He chuckled. “They’re doing a great job with you over at that school. You’re going to make a terrific nun.”

     I didn’t speak.

     “Stop shaking. It’s just a magazine.” He was trying to sound calm and cool, but his words came out tight and his breathing was quick and jerky. I could tell he was losing his temper. “Sometimes I forget what a little kid you really are,” he said. “What a little baby…”

     I jammed my hands under my legs. “I’m not a little kid. I just don’t feel like looking at dirty pictures,” I said. “So shoot me.”

     “Maybe I will,” he laughed. “The thing is… the way I look at it, anyway, is that love isn’t dirty. And neither are pictures of it. But some people’s minds are.”

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “Besides, it’s not even mine. I borrowed it from someone for a joke. But I guess I made a big mistake… Either that or I was misled by a little cocktease who’s probably going to run back and tell Mommy.”

     “Look, I don’t tell her stuff, okay? And I’m not that thing you just said, either.”

      “What thing?”

      “You think I’m such a baby, but I’m not.”

      “Okay, okay,” he said. He reached over and began playing with my hair. “Because we’re good friends,     you and me, and I hate to think I couldn’t trust you.”

      “Well, you can, all right? Can we just go home now?”

     He rolled the magazine back up and ran the edge of it against my leg, down to my foot, over and over. “I’ll probably have this for a while. Before I have to give it back to that guy. You tell me if you ever want to look at it. We’ll look at it together.”

      “No thanks,” I said.

      “No thanks,” he mimicked. He slid it under the seat.

     A few of the dogs were lying down. One paced his cage.

      “Dolores,” he whispered. “Look.” His hand was between his legs. He was rubbing his lump, watching me.

      I turned away and stared hard out of the window, tears falling fast. “Would you please stop that?” I said. He didn’t even seem to be the same person. A sudden thought slammed into me: I might not get home.

     “Stop what?” I could hear him still doing it.

     “That!” I said, flailing my hand back at him. Then I flung the door open, was out of the car, running past the dog pens. The animals barked and leapt. None of it seemed real.

     He caught me behind the building. I lost my balance and he fell down onto me. He twisted my arm back, yanking and pulling. “Don’t tickle me!” I cried. “This isn’t funny. What are you doing?”

     He didn’t seem to hear. “Little Miss Innocence… fucking fed up with your bullshit. Give you what you been looking for.” The words spit out of him. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” he shouted. “Bitch!”

     His knee jabbed against my leg, pinching the skin against the ground. I looked.

     “Now, say it: say ‘Fuck me, Jack.’ Tell me to fuck it into you.”

     When I swung, he reached out and caught my wrist, pressing the bone against the ground. He gave my arm another painful yank. This isn’t Jack, I told myself. Somebody – Daddy, the real Jack – will come and save me.

     With his free hand, he yanked my skirt up and I heard something tear. “If you rip this uniform, you’re paying for it!” I screamed. “Honest to God!”

     “Shut up,” he whispered. Begged. “Listen. It’s nicer if you don’t fight it. We’re friends, you and me. Don’t wreck it. I can’t… It won’t hurt if you don’t fight. I promise…”

     He kept fumbling and poking at me. I tried to pull my head up, to punch and spit, but my fists wouldn’t land. The drool fell back against my chin. His elbow swung out and jabbed against my throat, gagging me.

     His rubbing was rough and mean. His pants were down. “I hate you!” I shouted. “You pig!”

     I stopped fighting, cut off by the pain of it. The sound of the barking dogs fell away so that all I could hear was his cursing and grunting, over and over, in rhythm with each thrust, each rupture. He’s splitting me open, I thought. He’ll break me and then I’ll die.

     I turned my head away and watched my fingers rake the dirt. My hand opened and closed, opened and closed. I couldn’t feel myself controlling it. “Just pretend I died,” I had told my father – and I knew no one was coming for me, that I was by myself.

     Jack’s anger shook us both. Then he stopped altogether, his dead weight on top of me. He was whimpering, catching his breath. When he got up, he kicked me hard on the leg and walked back out in front.

     I heard him talking softly to the dogs, soothing them.

     On the drive home, he sobbed and talked. He wouldn’t shut up. “We’re awful people, you and me. Don’t think this was all my show. We did what we did together.”

     My mind was numb; my insides burned. He seemed to drive so slowly.

     --

     When he pulled up near Connie’s, he reached over and brushed dead grass off my uniform. I was scared not to let him. “I feel so much closer to you now,” he said. “You and I are together in this.--”

     I looked only at my shoes, one in front of the other, getting home. -- My underpants and legs were filthy with blood and him. -- What had happened was going to be always on me, in me, as permanent as one of Roberta’s tattoos. -- I was afraid to stay in my room, afraid to be alone. I could hear him up there.

** A young peasant woman is coerced to sex by a lord who holds her fiancé’s lands

Later in the book she gives birth to her rapist's son.


World Without End (2007) by Ken Follett, chapter 28.

     Ralph belched fruitily and sighed. ”What do you care whether Wulfric inherits?”

      “I love him, my lord. Now that he has been rejected by Annet, I hope he may marry me – with your gracious permission, of course.”

      “Come closer,” he said.

     She moved into the center of the room and stood in front of him. His eyes roamed all over her body.

      “You’re not a pretty girl,” he said. “But there’s something about you. Are you a virgin?”

      “Lord – I – I —“

      “Obviously not,” he laughed. “Have you lain with Wulfric yet?”

      “No!”

      “Liar.” He grinned, enjoying himself. “Well, now, what if I let Wulfric have his father’s lands after all? Perhaps I should. What then?”

      “You would be called a true nobleman by Wigleigh and all the world.”

      “The world won’t care. But will you be grateful to me?”

     Gwenda had a horrible feeling that she knew where this was leading.

      “Of course, deeply grateful.”

      “And how would you show it?”

     She backed towards the door. “Any way I could without shame.”

      “Would you take off your dress?”

     Her heart sank. “No, lord”

      “Ah. Not so grateful, then.”

     She reached the door and touched the handle, but she did not go out. “What… what are you asking me, lord?”

      “I want to see you naked. Then I’ll decide.”

      “Here?”

      “Yes”

     She looked at Alan. “In front of him?”

      “Yes.”

     It did not seem much, to show herself to these two men – not by comparison with the prize, winning Wulfric’s inheritance back.

     Swiftly, she undid her belt and pulled her dress over her head. She held the dress in her hand, keeping the other hand on the doorknob, and stared defiantly at Ralph. He looked greedily at her body, then glanced over at his companion with a grin of triumph; and Gwenda saw that this was about showing his power as much as anything else.

     Ralph said: “An ugly cow, but nice udders – eh, Alan?”

     Alan replied: “I wouldn’t climb over you to get at her.”

     Ralph laughed.

     Gwenda said: “Now will you grant my petition?”

     Ralph put his hand to his crotch and began to stroke himself. “Lie with me,” he said. “On that bed.”

      “No.”

      “Come on – you’ve already done it with Wulfric, you’re no virgin.”

      “No.”

      “Think of the lands – ninety acres, all that his father had.”

     She thought. If she agreed, Wulfric would have his heart’s desire – and the two of them could look forward to a life of plenty. If she continued to refuse, Wulfric would be a landless labourer, like Joby, struggling all his life to make enough to feed his children, and often failing.

     Still the thought revolted her. Ralph was an unpleasant man, petty and vengeful, a bully – so different from his brother. His being tall and handsome made little difference. It would be disgusting to lie with someone she disliked so much.

     The fact that she had done it with Wulfric only yesterday made the prospect of sex with Ralph even more repellent. After her night of happy intimacy with Wulfric, it would be a terrible betrayal to do the same with another man.

     Don’t be a fool, she told herself. For the sake of five minutes of unpleasantness, will you condemn yourself to a life of hardship? -- Was it not better to prostitute herself to Ralph one time, for just a few moments, than to condemn her unborn children to a life of poverty?

     Ralph remained quiet while she vacillated. He was wise: any words from him would only have strengthened her revulsion. Silence served him better.

      “Please,” Gwenda said at last. “Don’t make me do this.”

      “Ah,” he said. “That tells me you’re willing.”

      “It’s a sin,” she said desperately. She did not often talk about sin, but she thought there was a chance it might move him. “A sin for you to ask, and a sin for me to agree.”

      “Sins can be forgiven.”

      “What would your brother think of you?”

     That gave him pause. For a moment he seemed to hesitate.

      “Please,” she said. “Just let Wulfric inherit.”

     His face hardened again. “I’ve made my decision. I’m not  going to reverse it – unless you can persuade me. And just saying please won’t work.” His eyes glistened with desire, and he was breathing a little faster, his mouth open, his lips moist behind his beard.

     She dropped her dress to the floor and walked to the bed.

      “Kneel on the mattress,” Ralph said. “No, facing away from me.”

     She did as he said.

      “Better view from this side,” he said, and Alan laughed loudly. Gwenda wondered if Alan was going to stay to watch, but then Ralph said: “Leave us alone.” A moment later the door slammed.

     Ralph knelt on the bed behind Gwenda. She closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness. She felt his thick fingers exploring her. She heard him spit, then he rubbed a wet hand on her. A moment later he entered her. She groaned with shame.

     Ralph misinterpreted the sound and said: “You like that, eh?”

     She wondered how long this would take. He began to move rhythmically. To ease the discomfort she moved with him, and he laughed triumphantly, thinking he had excited her lust. Her greatest fear was that this would sour her entire experience of lovemaking. In future, when she lay with Wulfric, would she think of this moment?

     And then, to her horror, a warm flush of pleasure began to spread through her loins. She felt her face redden in shame. Despite her profound repugnance, her body betrayed her, and moisture flooded inside her, easing the friction of his thrusts. He sensed the change and moved faster. Disgusted with herself, she ceased to match his rhythm; but he grabbed her hips, pushing and pulling alternately, and she was helpless to resist. She remembered with dismay that her body had undermined her in the same way with Alwyn in the forest. Then as now, she had wanted her body to be a wooden statue, numb and impassive; both times, it had responded against her will.

     She had killed Alwyn with his own knife.

     She could not do the same to Ralph, even if she had wanted to, because he was behind her. She could not see him, and she had little control over her body. She was in his hands. She was glad when she sensed that he was approaching the climax. Soon it would be over. She felt an answering pressure in her own loins. She tried to make her body limp and her mind blank: it would be too humiliating if she, too, reached a climax. She felt Ralph ejaculate inside her, and she shuddered, not with pleasure but with loathing.

     He sighed with satisfaction, withdrew from her and lay flat on the bed.

     She got up and quickly pulled on her dress.

      “That was better than I expected,” Ralph said, as if he were paying her some kind of polite compliment.
     She went out and slammed the door behind her.

* An insane hermit takes a young woman captive after shooting her husband

Nothing Gold Can Stay (2000) by Dana Stabenow. Excerpts from an eBook.

Chapter Ten

She was so beautiful, in her own way as beautiful as Elaine, so rounded and so feminine. She was frightened at first, of course, but as soon as she realized she had no choice, she calmed right down. Women were like that. They were a lot smarter than most men gave them credit for, they knew how to survive. They were the weaker sex, certainly, but that didn’t mean they were any less intelligent. She knew the instant she looked into his eyes what survival would entail.

… 

He told her that he was hungry. She cooked for him, noodles with green onions sliced into them at the last moment before serving and a few drops of sesame oil added, a dish new to him but which he liked very much. He said he was thirsty. She made him coffee, good coffee, too, the best he had had in many years. She fussed a little when it came time to take off her clothes, but that was only due to the natural modesty of women.

She lay still beneath him, like Elaine, Elaine-fair, and kept her eyes closed, the way Elaine had at first. Her skin was so soft to the touch. He told her to open her eyes. They were so large, the pupils expanded almost to the edge of the blue irises. Her breath came in soft expulsions of air that touched his face in quick pants. Her hands lay at her sides until he told her to place them on his back. It was fine, so very fine, to be held within those arms again.

She was weak and he was strong. It was his duty to protect her, it was her duty to submit. Where he led, she would follow. Their roles had been laid down by God and the Church many years ago. At last, at last, Elaine had come back to him.

Chapter Twelve

She would not think of how he had stood looking at her as seconds passed, then minutes, as she did nothing, said nothing. No protest, no scream for help, she hadn’t tried to run, nothing. He’d told her he was hungry, and shed made him the lunch she had planned for Mark. He’d admired her beadwork, and shed said thank you. He’d told her to take her clothes off, and she had. He’d told her to lie down on the bed, and she did. He had raped her, and she had endured it, motionless, unprotesting, her husband’s body cooling in the creek not fifty feet from where they lay.

…

She shouldn’t have run off, he had told her reproachfully during the night. She was safest with him, he would protect her, watch over her, and their children. She almost came alive at that, but then he spread her legs and raped her again, and again she went numb.

Chapter Eighteen

She knew he wasn’t far behind her. She could feel him coming, feel his rage, feel his hands on her, his penis thrusting into her, and she simply could not bear to endure that again. Better to die out here in the wilderness.

…

One thing she did know. The man who had killed her husband and kidnapped and raped her repeatedly was still after her. Her escape had been an affront to his pride, and if she had any doubt of his determination to keep her forever, it had been banished by the sight of those wooden markers. All Elaines. He had called her Elaine. All those Elaines. Twelve. My god, twelve of them. Twelve women before her. Had he kidnapped them all? Raped them all? Buried them all?

Ongoing irregularly updating list of books with rape content that didn't make it into the blog

Not all books with rape content qualify as fantasy fodder and thus as material for this blog. I'm looking for lengthy, rather detailed, graphic and descriptive scenes with the whole chain of events explained. The following lack that.

The book has (a) rape in it but there is not an actual scene or a whole scene about it, or the scene comprises of just a few non-descriptive sentences that, from my viewpoint and for my masturbation purposes, amount to nothing

- Atonement, Ian McEvan, chapter 13. One character witnesses another character getting on his feet and walking away after raping a third characte.
- Hovimäki, Ruotsin vallan iltarusko (Finnish). A woman is carried off by a Russian soldier on horseback and later found disheveled on a road - all the action has been left out.
- Crank by Ellen Hopkins, written in verse.
- Two Women by Alberto Moravia, originally La Ciociara in Italian. In chapter 10 the rape of the narrator’s daughter happens conveniently while the narrator is unconscious.
- Don’t move by Margaret Mazzantini, originally Non ti muovere in Italian. The guy grabbed her and forced her on the floor. Practically the next thing the reader is told is the guy walking away.
- The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving. A girl is carried off and raped by high school fotball players but the rape is not described as the narrator is a sibling left behind.
- The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. Chapter Spring. There is no description of the rape, just a vague ramble of the train of the perp's thoughts. 

Rape serves in the book only as a background

-Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. A rape takes place between the first and second part of the book, but the insinuation is so roundabout that unless I read from Wikipedia that it was there, I wouldn't have noticed.

 - Rape: A Love Story by Joyce Carol Oates. Quick flashes and tidbits of information about the incident is given here and there but there is not an actual scene in the book of the rape happening.

- The Color Purple by Alice Walker. The narrator is abused by her father, and later her husband, but there are no actual whole scenes of any of the incidents.

- The Breaker by Minette Walters. Rape happened before the events in the book take place. The book is about the police investigation of the rape.

- Breath, Eyes, Memory by Danticat, Edwidge. The main character was born as a result of a rape.

- Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. The book is about stepfather-stepdaughter incest but the coquettish girl is at least partially into it so no rape. There is very little sexual content of any kind, sex being described in words like "a quick connection before dinner."