S** A neighbor rapes a girl in a secret hideaway underground

From first chapter of Lovely Bones (2002) by Alice Sebold.

    "I got to go, Mr. Harvey. This is a cool place, but I have to go."

    He stood up and did his hunchback number by the six dug- in steps that led to the world. "I don't know why you think you're leaving."

    I talked so that I would not have to take in this knowledge: Mr. Harvey was no character. He made me feel skeevy and icky now that he was blocking the door.

    "Mr. Harvey, I really have to get home."

    "Take off your clothes."

    "What?"

    "Take your clothes off," Mr. Harvey said. "I want to check that you're still a virgin."

    "I am, Mr. Harvey," I said.

    "I want to make sure. Your parents will thank me."

    "My parents?"

    "They only want good girls," he said.

    "Mr. Harvey," I said, "please let me leave."

    "You aren't leaving, Susie. You're mine now."

    Fitness was not a big thing back then; aerobics was barely a word. Girls were supposed to be soft, and only the girls we suspected were butch could climb the ropes at school.

    I fought hard. I fought as hard as I could not to let Mr. Harvey hurt me, but my hard-as-I-could was not hard enough, not even close, and I was soon lying down on the ground, in the ground, with him on top of me panting and sweating, having lost his glasses in the struggle.

    I was so alive then. I thought it was the worst thing in the world to be lying flat on my back with a sweating man on top of me. To be trapped inside the earth and have no one know where I was.

--

    Mr. Harvey started to press his lips against mine. They were blubbery and wet and I wanted to scream but I was too afraid and too exhausted from the fight. I had been kissed once by someone I liked. His name was Ray and he was Indian. He had an accent and was dark. I wasn't supposed to like him. Clarissa called his large eyes, with their half-closed lids, "freak-a-delic," but he was nice and smart and helped me cheat on my algebra exam while pretending he hadn't. He kissed me by my locker the day before we turned in our photos for the yearbook. When the yearbook came out at the end of the summer, I saw that under his picture he had answered the standard "My heart belongs to" with "Susie Salmon." I guess he had had plans. I remember that his lips were chapped.

    "Don't, Mr. Harvey," I managed, and I kept saying that one word a lot. Don't. And I said please a lot too. Franny told me that almost everyone begged "please" before dying.

    "I want you, Susie," he said.

    "Please," I said. "Don't," I said. Sometimes I combined them. "Please don't" or "Don't please." It was like insisting that a key works when it doesn't or yelling "I've got it, I've got it, I've got it" as a softball goes sailing over you into the stands.

    "Please don't."

    But he grew tired of hearing me plead. He reached into the pocket of my parka and balled up the hat my mother had made me, smashing it into my mouth. The only sound I made after that was the weak tinkling of bells.

    As he kissed his wet lips down my face and neck and then began to shove his hands up under my shirt, I wept. I began to leave my body; I began to inhabit the air and the silence. I wept and struggled so I would not feel. He ripped open my pants, not having found the invisible zipper my mother had artfully sewn into their side.

    "Big white panties," he said.

    I felt huge and bloated. I felt like a sea in which he stood and pissed and shat. I felt the corners of my body were turning in on themselves and out, like in cat's cradle, which I played with Lindsey just to make her happy. He started working himself over me.

    "Susie! Susie!" I heard my mother calling. "Dinner is ready."

    He was inside me. He was grunting.

    "We're having string beans and lamb."

    I was the mortar, he was the pestle.

    "Your brother has a new finger painting, and I made apple crumb cake."

    Mr. Harvey made me lie still underneath him and listen to the beating of his heart and the beating of mine. How mine skipped like a rabbit, and how his thudded, a hammer against cloth. We lay there with our bodies touching, and, as I shook, a powerful knowledge took hold. He had done this thing to me and I had lived. That was all. I was still breathing. I heard his heart. I smelled his breath. The dark earth surrounding us smelled like what it was, moist dirt where worms and animals lived their daily lives. I could have yelled for hours.

    I knew he was going to kill me. I did not realize then that I was an animal already dying.

    "Why don't you get up?" Mr. Harvey said as he rolled to the side and then crouched over me.

    His voice was gentle, encouraging, a lover's voice on a late morning. A suggestion, not a command.

    I couldn't move. I couldn't get up.

    When I wouldn't —was it only that, only that I wouldn't follow his suggestion? —he leaned over to the side and felt, over his head, across the ledge where his razor and shaving cream sat. He brought back a knife. Unsheathed, it smiled at me, curving up in a grin.

    He took the hat from my mouth. "Tell me you love me," he said.

    Gently, I did. The end came anyway.

*** Innocent governess is helped from the clutches of one bad man just to be raped by another

Rosalie is harassed by a man in dark London streets. Lord Randall Berkeley rescues her - but only with the intention to use her himself. He takes the witless girl to his apartment and, when she comes around the following morning, demands her sexual favors as a thank you for helping her.

Where Passion Leads (1987) by Lisa Kleypas, chapter 2. Exerpt from an eBook.

"Don't," she finally said in a cry that sounded smothered under his mouth, aware that the masculine body so close to hers was powerful enough to break her in two. Inexorably he dragged her to the bed and tossed his robe to the floor. She gave a little squeak as she realized that he was naked. "I am personal maid to Lady Winthrop, companion to her daughter! I—"

"I don't care if you're femme de chambre to the Princess of Wales," he muttered, flinging her across the mattress and spreading her arms wide. Her wrists strained against the confinement of his warm hands until her fingers were numb. Rosalie could feel every detail of him through the thin material of her under­clothes. The solid heaviness of his chest and shoulders was a burdensome weight on her breasts, and she writhed in discomfort. Quaking, she shrank from the taut pull of muscle across his waist and stomach, the resilient strength of the legs that eased hers apart. Most unfamiliar of all was the bold heat that branded her as his hips pressed into the cradle of hers. Fear spread through every pore like a delicate liquid, causing her pulse to rocket, her thoughts to crash against each other.

"Don't do this to me. You could have anyone," Rosalie panted, trying to escape the heat of him between her legs. Rand responded by settling more deeply against her, hard and impatient for the softness of her body. The light feminine scent of her, the young warmth of her flesh caused a hunger inside him that he had not felt in a long time. It was unexpected, the strength of this desire for a reluctant maid. "Please . . . I've never been with a man," she whispered, pulling out her last card, and he stilled. Hazel eyes met brilliant blue in a split second of challenge. Momentarily Rand allowed himself to wonder if what she claimed was true. But it couldn't be. Someone in her position and with her looks would have lost her innocence years ago. Comely housemaids were readily accessible and very desirable targets for men of almost any means and station.

"I don't believe you," Rand replied flatly.

"It's true, damn you!"

Prompted by painful arousal and the inexplicable necessity to have her, Rand closed his mind to the possibility that she was not lying. It must be, he reasoned, that she was afraid he would not recompense her well for her favors, or perhaps she was merely playing the tease to heighten his desire for her. He was well used to that game.

"Then," he drawled insouciantly, "it seems I'm called upon to find proof of your claim." He trans­ferred both of her wrists into one hand. Her fingernails curved into fragile, translucent claws. Desperately Ro­salie fought, but even in her fury there was little she could do to stop him. He stripped her garments off easily, with an offhand attitude that was as much an indignity as a physical violation. Her naked body quiv­ered in reaction to the cool air and the unfamiliar experience of being revealed completely in the day­light. Sickly Rosalie closed her eyes as Rand inhaled slowly. He placed a warm, gentle hand on her finely structured rib cage, his reverent touch drifting upward along the velvet skin to the fullness of her breast. As he took its weight in his palm, the expert caress of his thumb brought the tender softness of her nipple to complete arousal. At the same time he bent over her other breast and took it into his mouth, the heated flick of his tongue sweeping over her again and again. Her soft skin, her quivering flesh . . . was so sweet . . .

As Rosalie struggled against him she realized he was ten times stronger. His body was hard and invulnera­ble, built for aggression, so very different from her own. The hair on his chest brushed against her skin like rough silk, the abrasion feeling unutterably strange. I don't believe it is happening, Rosalie thought, frozen with shame as she pictured the scene from above. Herself, pale-skinned in the morning light, stretched out on the rumpled luxury of the bed, the man devoting his attention to the most private parts of her body as if he owned them. His dark amber hair gleaming immaculately, his large hands cupped around her, one of his legs insinuated between her tense and parted knees. She could barely hear through the labored rushing of her breathing and the drumming of her heart.

"This is disgusting," she choked, and he dragged his mouth up to the fragile line of her jaw, careful not to disarrange the silk kerchief around her neck.

"A wounding observation. Usually my services are more highly recommended," Rand said, his mouth curving in a momentary touch of humor. She turned her face away from him, clenching every muscle in rejection of what was occurring. She merely succeeded in imprisoning his leg more securely between hers. Then her breath caught in her throat as his hand stroked over the lowest part of her abdomen. "If you would relax, I believe this would all be more . . . tolerable to you," he suggested gently, and Rosalie thought she would die of shock as his fingertips drifted in an idle pattern through her soft, light curls. The world was spinning crazily, its humming whirl resonat­ing in her head. The scents of bare masculine skin and sandalwood soap drifted seductively to her nostrils.

"Don't!" she choked, yet still the strange undreamed­of caress continued while she lay under him like a block of ice. It deepened, intensified until he was stroking the snug, shrinking tenderness of her virgin flesh, watching her stiff expression curiously. He continued until two wavering tears of humiliation wound their way down the sides of her face, yet still he did not appear satisfied with her response. "When are you going to stop?" The words fitfully issued from her lips, and Rand's mouth thinned. He discarded all efforts to make the act more pleasurable for her.

"You would prefer a fast-paced finale? I'll endeavor to oblige you," he said, and before she could take another breath he thrust into her, hard and demand­ing, rending her feminine softness without restraint. Rosalie cried out in surprise and pain, her body arching sharply into his in immediate reaction. The disembod­ied feeling returned as she realized that he had pene­trated inside of her, that he remained there and was suddenly still as he stared into her dazed face. Rand whispered something, a trace of some undefinable emotion in his tone. He remained unmoving as Rosalie endured the uncomfortable sensation of being filled, too much and too deep. He held her face between his hands, but she would not meet his eyes or accept the touch of his mouth. She had not wanted to be possessed by him, neither did she want his consolation. Patiently he let her adjust to the feel of his body, allowing the first shock to wear off before he began to ease in and out of her with exquisite care.

As remorse mingled with his desire, Rand's manner changed entirely. He was extraordinarily gentle, trying to soften the stiffness of her body with his touch, brushing the lightest of kisses across her face. Although she lay underneath him like a stone, he continued to make love to her in a way that ordinarily would have given a woman unimaginable pleasure. But she was a virgin, and not only her body but also her spirit was wounded. She felt no gratification from his touch, only degradation.

Rosalie's arms, freed now, drifted down to her sides as she felt the control and the power of his movements echo through her body. Each thrust aggravated the burning discomfort between her legs, and she felt as if she had been scorched by some inner fire. Now I know what it's like, she thought dully, her quivering thighs locked on either side of his. It was just what Amille had predicted it to be, full of pain, embarrassment, the baseness of physical desire. She had been told that women were created to serve man's needs, to give pleasure with their bodies. But how, Rosalie wondered miserably, did a man find pleasure in this? She doubted now that she would ever submit to someone voluntari­ly, not to this kind of invasion, this insult to her innocence, her dignity.

Finally, mercifully, he stopped, tensing as he pressed into the feminine sheath of her, then breathing out with a taut sigh. Exhausted, Rosalie lay beside him in misery, turning away as soon as he moved off her. She could feel rather than see the unnerving gaze that swept up and down her body. Rand glanced at the sheet, shaking his head slightly at the fresh stain of bright red. Even with such obvious proof, it was difficult to believe that she had been an innocent. He had never taken a woman's virginity until now. Baffled and disquieted, he rose on one elbow and contemplated her forlorn figure silently. At age twenty-eight Rand had known a considerable number of women, yet not one of them had provided such acute pleasure as he had just experienced. Somewhere in the midst of possessing her, his lusty enjoyment of her body had changed into awareness of her fragility. How vulnera­ble she was, how delicate the feel of her body clasping him, how crude his pleasure had been in comparison to her tender inexperience. She should not have been used so, and he felt a shame in the realization, a shame he covered up with his customary brusqueness.

"You were telling the truth," he admitted quietly, and as Rosalie quivered with hatred, she refused to look at him.

** The happenings of a violent novel she’s translating start leaking into a woman’s life

Transgressions (1997) by Sarah Dunant. The excerpts are mostly taken from Amazon book preview but I had to supplement with chapters of my own translation as the preview doesn’t contain every single page of the book and I had access only to the Finnish book. The parts between # marks are those I’ve translated and will thus probably differ from the original English text.

CHAPTER 3. A drug mule abused during delivery.

    She slid both hands slowly up her legs and under her skirt, shimmying her ass down to help her reach the top of her panties. She teased them loose, letting them slip down onto the floor and stepping carefully out of them. She pushed a lock of hair back from her face and lifted her right foot onto the chair, the skirt pulling up high over her thighs to reveal a line of naked leg right up to the curve of her buttocks. Then, slowly, she slid the fingers of her hand up into her crotch.

    She moved her way inside for a moment, probing, playing, all the time keeping her eyes fixed on the man who was sitting opposite. Her face showed no signs of pleasure, no emotion at all, just a cool expressionless stare.

    He kept on looking. He was thin and sallow-skinned, a man who hadn’t seen the sun for so long he had started to feed on darkness. His eyes flicked between her face and her fingers, lips parted in a half-smile, his breath an echo of sound.

    After she had played for a little longer she slowly removed her fingers. Between them she held up a thick plastic tube, six or eight centimeters long, glistening, its covering slightly wet. She tossed it across the room. The man caught it neatly, lifting it briefly to his nose before peeling off the wrapping. Released from its covering, a heavy little bag unfolded, packed with white stuff. He held it up, weighing it casually in his palm.

    “Ninety percent pure,” she said softly, as if amused at the ritual, both his and hers. “A thank-you from Jerome. He says to remember who it came from.”

    “Tell him I already have,” he said quietly. “I’ll also remember from where.”

    She nodded, then sat back down and reached for her panties: the gesture this time more ordinary, more self-absorbed–a woman getting dressed after the show, regardless of who was watching her.

    “Uh-uh.”

    She glanced up at him, as if surprised to still find him there.

    “Why don’t you open your legs again,” he said quietly.

    She gave a shrug, her hand already under the chair, the white lace curled up in her fingers. “Sorry. I’m not part of the free gift,” she said coolly.

    “I said open your legs.” This time the voice was harsh. “Or I’ll open them for you.”

    She sighed slightly, as if threats bored her, but she did as she was told, moving her knees just far enough apart to show the pubic bush under her skirt.

    He sat staring directly at her snatch. She let him stare. She almost seemed to like it. Slowly she shifted her buttocks forward on the chair, spreading her legs farther apart, so the view was better and more insolent. He laughed, tossing the bag down onto the table and walking lazily over to her. With one hand he lifted her chin up and held it cupped in his palm, a little too high for comfort. Then he slipped his other hand up into her. “Just checking that everything that’s mine is out of there,” he said slyly, his fingers working overtime.

    She sat absolutely still, apparently oblivious to his touch.

    “Satisfied?” she said after a while, and this time the voice dripped with scorn.

    He slammed a finger farther in and up, savagely deep, and this time she cried out. “Bastard,” she said between clenched teeth.

    “And what other kind of men do you know?” he said as he used his other hand to unzip his fly. “Let’s get on with it, eh?”

    “Yeah, well, you’d better get your finger out if you want to fit anything else in. Unless, of course, it’s even smaller than I think.”

    “Bitch, he said, as he hit her hard across the face. “That’s not where I’m going to put it.” And he hit her again.

    Her eyes glazed over, the look of a woman on automatic pilot. “Shit,” she said under her breath as the skin around her right eye began to swell.

    “You got it, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER 13. X complies with her rapist during a night time home invasion to save her life. The man has seen her translations of sex scenes and imagines she’s gagging for it.

    “Why don’t you put down the hammer?” she said at last, and to her amazement her voice sounded almost loving. “You don’t need it, you know, I can’t go anywhere and I swear to you I won’t try to escape.”

    She felt rather than saw his fingers twitch, then tighten further around it. She counted to ten in her head, then slowly, so slowly that he could see her every move, she lifted her finger to his face. He let out a kind of growl, and his right hand whipped up and grabbed her wrist, forcing it down onto the bedspread, twisting the skin savagely as he did so. She registered the pain, but also the fact that the hammer had been left behind.

    “Bitch,” he hissed under his breath. “Bitch.”

    “You’re hurting me, she said between clenched teeth as the burn worsened. “You’re hurting me. Let me go.”

    He was breathing hard now, too hard to speak.

    “Please,” she said, and they both heard the way the words came out, as much a quiet command as a plea. His response was to squeeze even tighter, his hand shaking with the force of the grip. She let out a small yelp of pain, though she didn’t take her eyes away from his face. The burn made her want to cry, then, just at the point where she couldn’t hold out any longer, she felt the pressure reduce, until gradually his fist relaxed and her hand was almost free. It took all her courage not to snatch it back, but instead to let it lie limply in his, both of them registering the touch without violence.

    This time, as she moved her hand to his face, the air between them was alive with anticipation. And this time he let her touch connect. Her fingers fluttered over his cheekbone. She held them there till they were steady, then slowly traced the line of his cheek down to his mouth, and, after a beat of hesitation, played across his lips. His mouth fell open slightly. She took a breath, then with her forefinger she pulled down his bottom lip, feeling the moistness, exposing the fleshy bit inside. He made a sound, halfway between a moan and a growl, and bit backward. At first she thought he would take her fingers with him, crush and break them between his teeth, but it was more by reflex than design, like someone recoiling from a flame.

    Relax, she thought. Relax. Maybe she said it out loud. It was meant for both of them.

    She waited, then began again, now pushing her fingers inside. She encountered the edge of his bottom teeth, uneven and jumbled, as if they had grown crooked and never been properly corrected, then moved further in to find the tongue. The flesh was alive with muscle, rough and quivering, almost like the feel of her own vagina. It sent a shudder through her and she had to steel herself not to pull out. No time for the fainthearted now.

    She lifted herself up from where she was sitting on the bed and moved toward him. Their joint breaths sounded huge in the night. As if neither of them could get enough air in their lungs. She felt his hand clutch at his side, searching instinctively for the hammer, his fingers closing over it.

    “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t need it. You don’t have to hurt me. That’s not how it has to be.”

    She waited, counting off her heartbeats. At ten she moved again.

    Where she had first used her fingers, now she used her tongue. His lips trembled, then parted to let her in. Slipping in through the portcullis of his teeth, she made herself think of all the lovers she had known who could turn a kiss into making love–teasing and catching at your lips, pulling them into theirs, making the kiss its own act of seduction, a kind of devouring that made you want to take off your clothes and guide their pricks into you. Making you ache for them, all from a kiss.

     Remember it now, she thought. Remember it now because your life depends on it. She pushed her tongue in. His mouth was limp. “Kiss me back, “ she whispered. “Use your tongue.”

    She could almost hear his heart beating. The tongue fluttered, then whipped out, like a lizard. She could feel the tension in him, like some uncontrollable seismic buildup, and she felt the hammer hand jerk across the coverlet. The kiss continued, his tongue darting, still lost but still trying. God help me, she thought. God help me here to know what to do.

    She brought her hands up to cup his face. “That’s better,” she murmured. “Again.”

    This time he did as he was told and the kiss connected. They both felt it. As it went deeper, she slid her hands over his neck, then slowly down his back. The wool of the sweater he was wearing was coarse and prickly and damp to the touch. Under his clothes he would be sweating. Who says it’s only the woman who feels the fear. She pulled up at the sweater to discover a shirt underneath and some kind of vest. Too many clothes. He was dressed as she had been, smothering the desire, hoping it might go away. As her hands finally reached his bare skin he let out another noisy breath. She stopped, waiting, reading the signs, then slowly continued the caress. Again he relaxed. She let her hands linger, then slid one of them down over the edge of his trousers onto the bed and toward his right hand. At her touch the fist clenched. She kept her hand cupped over it, waiting, then slowly the fist opened itself, the hammer slipping onto the bedspread. She slid it as far away as she could without risking the noise of its falling on the floor. She took his hand in hers, entwining their fingers, using her thumb to play with the inside of his palm. The skin was surprisingly soft, almost like a girl’s, soft and wet with sweat. She felt a sudden shaft of power.

    And as she did so she thought of the woman in the Prague apartment. And the girl in the attic. And she knew that there had to be another way, a female way, where redemption is as powerful as violence.

    This time when she moved away from his lips, he came toward her, his mouth messy, greedy. For a second the taste of him repelled her, the saliva and the smell making her want to puke. She pushed away the thought and sucked his lips back into hers.

    She had released the rest of the clothing from his trousers and was exploring his chest. The skin underneath was rough and dry, with wiry little curls around small nipples. Not cared for. Not loved. How does it happen to some people? she thought. How do they miss out? If you’ve never been touched, how do you know how to touch? If you’ve never felt, how do you know how to feel? So unfair. So dangerous. She brought his hand up and guided it slowly to her body, cupping it over her breast.

    The first contact made him shudder. Before he could pull away she moved her body into his hand, pushed the weight of her flesh against his palm and heard him groan, a dark, painful sound dragged out from a long way down. To her astonishment the noise delighted her, as if the control she was feeling really did contain its own sexuality, the pleasure of her control. Don’t show it, she thought. Whatever you do don’t let him know.

    She was about to help him further when his fingers found her nipples, hard from the cold and the fear and a sudden muddied, confused kind of desire. The first squeeze was too tight, it made her draw a breath too quickly. “Gently,” she said in a whisper. And this time he heard her and did as he was told. Slowly they toppled from sitting to lying on the bed. And as they did so she brought up her right leg and used the bottom of her foot to locate the hammer on the coverlet and push it gently toward the edge.

    It hit the floor with a thud.

    The sound, or maybe the sudden weight of him pinning her down onto the bed, brought back a flash of fear. They both felt it, both sensing the change and tensing themselves away from the other. She recovered first, reaching up to kiss him again, maneuvering herself half out from under him, at the same time moving her hand to the top of his trousers, fumbling to free the button. She used the ball of her palm to push down the zipper, then slid her hand inside, slipping under the frayed elastic of the underpants until she found his penis, limp and curled. You’re not ready, she thought with a sudden panic. Is that your problem? Or is this what you need the hammer for, to get a hard-on?

    Maybe he heard the thought. At her touch he pulled back violently, and for a moment she thought she had lost it, could feel him trashing around in search of some way back into control. In search of a weapon that would give it to him.

    “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “It’s all right.”

    She kept her hand over his softness, holding it there almost tenderly, as she pulled her T-shirt farther up her body and over her head, rubbing herself against him, letting him feel her nakedness underneath him. Instinctively his hands went out to touch her again, moving down from the breasts to her stomach, clumsy, urgent caresses, until his fingers slid into the tangle of pubic hair. And as he did so she heard herself moan.

    The sound had not been deliberate. In fact, if anything it was more a release of fear than anything to do with pleasure. But somehow it helped. Both of them.

    He hesitated and she knew he was frightened to go further. Knew that at that moment he was more frightened of her than she was of him.

    I am here, she said to herself, although the thought didn’t make sense. This is me doing this. Here. Now. It’s not someone else.

    “I’m here,” she said, this time out loud. “And I’m not pretending. Anything you want to do to me is okay.”

    And as she said it, his penis took a jerky leap in her hand, and he let out a sharp groan of pain and pleasure. At the same time his fingers slid into her, pushy and overeager, a sudden haste to everything, the onslaught of a frenetic kind of lust. To her amazement she realized she was wet. The discovery sent its own shock wave through the pit of her stomach. She ran her hand gently up and down his prick, her own breath coming quicker now, teasing him into further erection. Then, registering the sudden urgency of his need, she slid herself underneath him so she could guide him into her. It wasn’t that easy, as he was still only half erect, but as he moved inside the mouth of her he stiffened further, then slid in all the way, letting out another shattering groan. She heard her own voice join his. And so, almost without giving her time to move, she felt him rise up, and, with two or three thrusts, come inside her, a juddering, jerky orgasm that was too hurried and crude to bring any lasting pleasure.

    AIDS, she thought, in a sudden blind moment of panic. AIDS, and the clap, and a million other diseases that will rot me slowly for my sins. But even as she recited the litany, those thoughts were overwhelmed by another. The realization that he was crying.

    He had fallen heavily onto her body after the orgasm. Now he tried to pull himself off, the sobs clutched and angry, searching frantically around him, groping for something that she knew would be a weapon. But this time, rather than his violence, all she could feel was his pain.

    “It’s okay. You’re all right,” she said fiercely, pulling herself up with him and putting both her arms around him, hugging him hard to her and holding on to him, despite his attempts to wrench her off. “It’s all right,” she said again. “Really. You don’t have to do anything more. It’s done. You did it. It was fine.”

    And slowly, as she clung to him, reading the battle in his body between the rage and the release, she felt the fury diminish and the crying win out.

    So it was that she sat there in the winter night, her body shivering with the cold and the adrenaline, holding on to a man sobbing his heart out for the fact that the rape he had planned had turned into an act of lovemaking.

    Time passed. And eventually the sobbing subsided so that now when he started to pull away she knew to let him go. she stood up and took a robe from the door to cover herself, as she did so feeling the cold trickle of his semen running down the inside of her thigh. Cold, she thought. Why is it always cold when it has just erupted from such hot depths? She used the inside of the robe to wipe it away, and then, as she tied the belt around her, she felt about the floor with her feet until she came across the cold edge of the hammer and slid it farther under the bed.

* Woman kidnapped and forced to serve as a Sheik's sextoy

Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. I should have known better than to expect anything as the book is from 1919 even though when I started reading it I had no idea it was that old. Hull barely describes the ridiculous Sheik kissing Diana, let alone fucking her. This book is such a waste of time. Instead of saying she was raped she writes, ‘She had experienced his tremendous strength.’ The book’s archaic.

The Sheik (1919), by E. M. Hull. Excerpts form an eBook.

END OF CHAPTER II

    "Why have you brought me here?" she asked, fighting down the fear that was growing more terrible every moment.

    He repeated her words with a slow smile. "Why have I brought you here? Bon Dieu! Are you not woman enough to know?"

    She shrank back further, a wave of colour rushing into her face that receded immediately, leaving her whiter than she had been before. Her eyes fell under the kindling flame in his. "I don't know what you mean," she whispered faintly, with shaking lips.

    "I think you do." He laughed softly, and his laugh frightened her more than anything he had said. He came towards her, and although she was swaying on her feet, desperately she tried to evade him, but with a quick movement he caught her in his arms.

    Terror, agonising, soul-shaking terror such as she had never imagined, took hold of her. The flaming light of desire burning in his eyes turned her sick and faint. Her body throbbed with the consciousness of a knowledge that appalled her. She understood his purpose with a horror that made each separate nerve in her system shrink against the understanding that had come to her under the consuming fire of his ardent gaze, and in the fierce embrace that was drawing her shaking limbs closer and closer against the man's own pulsating body. She writhed in his arms as he crushed her to him in a sudden access of possessive passion. His head bent slowly down to her, his eyes burned deeper, and, held immovable, she endured the first kiss she had ever received. And the touch of his scorching lips, the clasp of his arms, the close union with his warm, strong body robbed her of all strength, of all power of resistance.

    With a great sob her eyes closed wearily, the hot mouth pressed on hers was like a narcotic, drugging her almost into insensibility. Numbly she felt him gather her high up into his arms, his lips still clinging closely, and carry her across the tent through curtains into an adjoining room. He laid her down on soft cushions. "Do not make me wait too long," he whispered, and left her.

    And the whispered words sent a shock through her that seemed to wrench her deadened nerves apart, galvanising her into sudden strength. She sprang up with wild, despairing eyes, and hands clenched frantically across her heaving breast; then, with a bitter cry, she dropped on to the floor, her arms flung out across the wide, luxurious bed. It was not true! It was not true! It could not be—this awful thing that had happened to her—not to her, Diana Mayo! It was a dream, a ghastly dream that would pass and free her from this agony. Shuddering, she raised her head. The strange room swam before her eyes. Oh, God! It was not a dream. It was real, it was an actual fact from which there was no escape. She was trapped, powerless, defenceless, and behind the heavy curtains near her was the man waiting to claim what he had taken. Any moment he might come; the thought sent her shivering closer to the ground with limbs that trembled uncontrollably. Her courage, that had faced dangers and even death without flinching, broke down before the horror that awaited her. It was inevitable; there was no help to be expected, no mercy to be hoped for. She had felt the crushing strength against which she was helpless. She would struggle, but it would be useless; she would fight, but it would make no difference. Within the tent she was alone, ready to his hand like a snared animal; without, the place was swarming with the man's followers. There was nowhere she could turn, there was no one she could turn to. The certainty of the accomplishment of what she dreaded crushed her with its surety. All power of action was gone. She could only wait and suffer in the complete moral collapse that overwhelmed her, and that was rendered greater by her peculiar temperament. Her body was aching with the grip of his powerful arms, her mouth was bruised with his savage kisses. She clenched her hands in anguish. "Oh, God!" she sobbed, with scalding tears that scorched her cheeks. "Curse him! Curse him!"

    And with the words on her lips he came, silent, noiseless, to her side. With his hands on her shoulders he forced her to her feet. His eyes were fierce, his stern mouth parted in a cruel smile, his deep, slow voice half angry, half impatiently amused. "Must I be valet, as well as lover?"

CHAPTER III

    The warm sunshine was flooding the tent when Diana awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion that had been almost insensibility, awoke to immediate and complete remembrance. One quick, fearful glance around the big room assured her that she was alone. She sat up slowly, her eyes shadowy with pain, looking listlessly at the luxurious appointments of the tent. She looked dry-eyed, she had no tears left. They had all been expended when she had grovelled at his feet imploring the mercy he had not accorded her. She had fought until the unequal struggle had left her exhausted and helpless in his arms, until her whole body was one agonised ache from the brutal hands that forced her to compliance, until her courageous spirit was crushed by the realisation of her own powerlessness, and by the strange fear that the man himself had awakened in her, which had driven her at last moaning to her knees. And the recollection of her abject prayers and weeping supplications filled her with a burning shame. She loathed herself with bitter contempt. Her courage had broken down; even her pride had failed her.

--

    "Why have you done this?" she murmured faintly.

    Then for a moment her heart stood still, her eyes dilating. He had come close behind her, and she waited in an agony, until he caught her to him, crushing her against him, forcing her head back on his arm.

    "Because I wanted you. Because one day in Biskra, four weeks ago, I saw you for a few moments, long enough to know that I wanted you. And what I want I take. You played into my hands. You arranged a tour in the desert. The rest was easy."

    Her eyes were shut, the long dark lashes quivering on her pale cheeks so that she could not see his face, but she felt him draw her closer to him and then his fierce kisses on her mouth. She struggled frantically, but she was helpless, and he laughed softly as he kissed her lips, her hair, her eyes passionately. He stood quite still, but she felt the heavy beating of his heart under her cheek, and understood dimly the passion that she had aroused in him. She had experienced his tremendous strength. She realised from what he had told her that he recognised no law beyond his own wishes, and was prepared to go to any lengths to fulfil them. She knew that her life was in his hands, that he could break her with his lean brown fingers like a toy is broken, and all at once she felt pitifully weak and frightened. She was utterly in his power and at his mercy—the mercy of an Arab who was merciless.

    She gave in suddenly, lying quiet in his arms. She had touched the lowest depths of degradation; he could do nothing more to her than he had done. For the moment she could fight no further, she was worn out and utterly weary. A numb feeling of despair came over her and with it a sense of unreality, as if it were a hideous nightmare from which she would wake, for the truth seemed too impossible, the setting too theatrical. The man himself was a mystery. She could not reconcile him and the barbaric display in which he lived with the evidences of refinement and education that the well-worn books in the tent evinced. The fastidious ordering of his appointments puzzled her; it was strange to find in such a place. A dozen incongruities that she had noticed during the day crowded into her recollection until her head reeled. She turned from them wearily; she was too tired to think, too spent in mind and body. And with the despair a kind of indifference stole over her. She had suffered so much that nothing more mattered.

    The strong arms around her tightened slowly. "Look at me," he said in the soft slow voice that seemed habitual to him, and which contrasted oddly with the neat, clipping French that he spoke. She shivered and her dark lashes flickered for a moment. "Look at me." His voice was just as slow, just as soft, but into it had crept an inflection that was unmistakable.

    Twenty-four hours ago Diana Mayo had not known the meaning of the word fear, and had never in all her life obeyed any one against her inclination, but in twenty-four hours she had lived through years of emotions. For the first time she had pitted her will against a will that was stronger than her own, for the first time she had met an arrogance that was greater and a determination that was firmer than hers. For the first time she had met a man who had failed to bow to her wishes, whom a look had been powerless to transform into a willing slave. In a few hours that had elapsed she had learned fear, a terrible fear that left her sick with apprehension, and she was learning obedience. Obedient now, she forced herself to lift her eyes to his, and the shamed blood surged slowly into her cheeks. His dark, passionate eyes burnt into her like a hot flame. His encircling arms were like bands of fire, scorching her. His touch was torture. Helpless, like a trapped wild thing, she lay against him, panting, trembling, her wide eyes fixed on him, held against their will. Fascinated she could not turn them away, and the image of the brown, handsome face with its flashing eyes, straight, cruel mouth and strong chin seemed searing into her brain. The faint indefinite scent of an uncommon Turkish tobacco clung about him, enveloping her. She had been conscious of the same scent the previous day when he had held her in his arms during the wild ride across the desert.

    He smiled down at her suddenly. "Bon Dieu! Do you know how beautiful you are?" he murmured. But the sound of his voice seemed to break a spell that had kept her dumb. She struggled again to free herself.

    "Let me go!" she cried piteously, and it was her complete immunity from him that she prayed for, but he chose wilfully to misunderstand her. The passion faded from his eyes, giving place to a gleam of mockery.

    "There is plenty of time. Gaston is the most discreet servant. We shall hear him when he comes," he said with a low laugh.

    But she persisted with the courage of desperation. "When will you let me go?"

    With an exclamation of impatience he put her from him roughly, and going to the divan flung himself down on the cushions, lit another cigarette and picked up a magazine that was lying on an inlaid stool beside him.

    She bit her lips to keep back the hysterical sobs that rose in her throat, nerving herself with clenched hands, and followed him. "You must tell me. I must know. When will you let me go?"

    He turned a page with deliberation, and flicked the ash from his cigarette before looking up. A heavy scowl gathered on his face, and his eyes swept her from head to foot with a slow scrutiny that made her shrink. "When I am tired of you," he said coldly.

    She shuddered violently and turned away with a little moan, stumbling blindly towards the inner room, but as she reached the curtains his voice arrested her. He had thrown aside the magazine and was lying back on the divan, his long limbs stretched out indolently, his hands clasped behind his head.

    "You make a very charming boy," he said lightly, with a faint smile, "but it was not a boy that I saw in Biskra. You understand?"

    Beyond the curtains she stood a moment, shaking all over, her face hidden in her hands, able to relax a little the hold she was keeping on herself. Yes! She understood, plainly enough. The understanding had already been forced upon her. It was an order from one who was prepared to compel his commands, to make herself more attractive with all that it implied in the eyes of the man who held her in his power and who looked at her as no other man had ever dared to look, with appraising criticism that made her acutely conscious of her sex, that made her feel like a slave exposed for sale in a public market.

    She must take off the boyish clothes that somehow seemed to lend her courage and substitute, to gratify the whim of the savage in the next room, the womanly dress that revealed more intimately the slender lines of her figure and intensified the uncommon beauty of her face.

--

Her tired body shrank from the struggle that must recommence so soon. If he would only spare her until this numbing weariness that made her so powerless should lessen. She heard his voice at the door and her icy fingers grasped at the book that had slipped to the ground. The thick rugs deadened the sound of his movements, but she knew instinctively that he had come in and gone back to the divan where he had been sitting before. She knew that he was looking at her. She could feel his eyes fixed on her and she quivered with the consciousness of his stare. She waited, shivering, for him to speak or move. His methods of torture were diverse, she thought with dreary bitterness. Behind the tent in the men's lines a tom-tom was beating, and the irregular rhythm seemed hammering inside her own head. She could have shrieked with the agony of it.

    "Come here—Diane."

    --The proprietory tone in his voice roused all her inherent obstinacy. She was not his to go at his call. What he wanted he must take—she would never give voluntarily. She sat with her hands gripped tightly in her lap, breathing rapidly, her eyes dark with apprehension.

    "Come here," he repeated sharply.

    Still she took no notice, but the face that he could not see was growing very white.

    "I am not accustomed to having my orders disobeyed," he said at last, very slowly.

    "And I am not accustomed to obeying orders," she retorted fiercely, though her lips were trembling.

    "You will learn." The sinister accent of his voice almost shattered her remaining courage.

    She crouched, gasping, on the ground, the same horrible terror that had come to her last night stealing over her irresistibly, paralyzing her. Waiting, listening, agonizing, the tom-tom growing louder and louder—or was it only the throbbing in her own head? With a choking cry she leaped to her feet suddenly and fled from him, back till the side of the tent stopped her and she stood, with wide-flung arms, gripping the black and silver hangings until he reached her.

    --"Little fool," he said with a deepening smile. "Better me than my men."

    The gibe broke her silence.

    "Oh, you brute! You brute!" she wailed, until his kisses silenced her.

CHAPTER IV

--Her mind travelled back slowly over the days and nights of anguished revolt, the perpetual clash of will against will, the enforced obedience that had made up this month of horror. A month of experience of such bitterness that she wondered dully how she still had the courage to rebel. For the first time in her life she had had to obey. For the first time in her life she was of no account. For the first time she had been made conscious of the inferiority of her sex. The training of years had broken down under the experience. The hypothetical status in which she had stood with regard to Aubrey and his friends was not tolerated here, where every moment she was made to feel acutely that she was a woman, forced to submit to everything to which her womanhood exposed her, forced to endure everything that he might put upon her—a chattel, a slave to do his bidding, to bear his pleasure and his displeasure, shaken to the very foundation of her being with the upheaval of her convictions and the ruthless violence done to her cold, sexless temperament. The humiliation of it seared her proud heart. He was pitiless in his arrogance, pitiless in his Oriental disregard of the woman subjugated. He was an Arab, to whom the feelings of a woman were non-existent. He had taken her to please himself and he kept her to please himself, to amuse him in his moments of relaxation.

* A leper is miraculously cured when he scifis himself to another world. There he uses his new vigor to rape the first woman he meets

Terribly poor example of a rape scene, no description what so ever, just meaningless abstracts.

Lord Foul’s Bane (1977) by Stephen Donaldson. Chapter 7.

    Covenant's back clenched abruptly still, and he said with preternatural quietness, "Are you trying to drive me crazy?"

    His ominous tone startled her, chilled her. For an instant, her courage stumbled; she felt the river and the ravine closing around her like the jaws of a trap. Then Covenant whirled and struck her a stinging slap across the face.

    The force of the blow sent her staggering back into the light of the graveling. He followed quickly, his face contorted in a wild grin. As she caught her balance, got one last, clear, terrified look at him, she felt sure that he meant to kill her. The thought paralyzed her. She stood dumb and helpless while he approached.

    Reaching her, he knotted his hands in the front of her shift and rent the fabric like a veil. She could not move. For an instant, he stared at her, at her high, perfect breasts and her short slip, with grim triumph in his eyes, as though he had just exposed some foul plot. Then he gripped her shoulder with his left hand and tore away her slip with his right, forcing her down to the sand as he uncovered her.

    Now she wanted to resist, but her limbs would not move; she was helpless with anguish.

    A moment later, he dropped the burden of his weight on her chest, and her loins were stabbed with a wild, white fire that broke her silence, made her scream. But even as she cried out she knew that it was too late for her. Something that her people thought of as a gift had been torn from her.

    But Covenant did not feel like a taker. His climax flooded him as if he had fallen into a Mithil of molten fury. Suffocating in passion, he almost swooned. Then time seemed to pass him by, and he lay still for moments that might have been hours for all he knew -hours during which his world could have crumbled, unheeded.

    At last he remembered the softness of Lena's body under him, felt the low shake of her sobbing. With an effort, he heaved himself up and to his feet. When he looked down at her in the graveling light, he saw the blood on her loins. Abruptly, his head became giddy, unbalanced, as though he were peering over a precipice. He turned and hurried with a shambling, unsteady gait toward the river, pitched himself fiat on the rock, and vomited the weight of his guts into the water. And the Mithil erased his vomit as cleanly as if nothing had happened.

    He lay still on the rock while the exhaustion of his exacerbated nerves overcame him. He did not hear Lena arise, gather the shreds of her clothing, speak, or climb away out of the shattered ravine.

* A brother rapes sister in a jealous rage

The scene is short and non-descriptive but here goes.

Flowers in the Attic (1979) by Virginia Andrews. Excerpt from an eBook.

    This wasn't Chris . . . this was someone I'd never seen before . . . primitive, savage.

     He yelled out something like, "You're mine, Cathy! Mine! You'll always be mine! No matter who comes into your future, you'll always belong to me!

    I'll make you mine tonight. . . now!"

    I didn't believe it, not Chris!

    And I did not fully understand what he had in mind, nor, if I am to give him credit, do I think he really meant what he said, but passion has a way of taking over.

    We fell to the floor, both of us. I tried to fight him off. We wrestled, turning over and over, writhing, silent, a frantic struggle of his strength against mine It wasn't much of a battle.

    I had the strong dancer's legs; he had the biceps, the greater weight and height. . . and he had much more determination than I to use something hot, swollen and demanding, so much it stole reasoning and sanity from him.

    And I loved him I wanted what he wanted—if he wanted it that much, right or wrong.

    Somehow we ended up on that old mattress—that filthy, smelly, stained mattress that must have known lovers long before this night. And that is where he took me, and forced in that swollen, rigid male sex part of him that had to be satisfied. It drove into my tight and resisting flesh which tore and bled.

    Now we had done what we both swore we'd never do.

    Now we were doomed through all eternity, damned to roast forever, hung upside down and naked over the everlasting fires of hell.

** A young woman is sexually abused by her new legal guardian

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson, chapters 11 to 14. Exerpts from an eBook. The original Swedish book Män som hatar kvinnor (literally: men who hate women) was published in 2005.

She sent evil thoughts to Herr Bjurman, but then she bit the bullet and called her guardian to explain that she needed money for an unexpected expense. Bjurman’s secretary said that he had no time to see her that day. Salander replied that it would take the man twenty seconds to write out a cheque for 10,000 kronor. She was told to be at his office at 7:30 that evening.

--

    Bjurman came round the desk to show her the statement of her bank account – which she knew down to the last öre, although it was no longer in her disposal. He stood behind her. Suddenly he was massaging the back of her neck, and he let one hand slide from her left shoulder across her breasts. He put his hand over her right breast and left it there. When she did not seem to object, he squeezed her breast. Salander did not move. She could feel his breath on her neck as she studied the letter opener on his desk; she could reach it with her free hand.

    But she did nothing. If there was one lesson Holger Palmgren had taught her over the years, it was that impulsive actions led to trouble, and trouble could have unpleasant consequences. She never did anything without first weighing the consequences.

    The initial sexual assault – which in legal terms would be defined as sexual molestation and the exploitation of an individual in a position of dependence, and could in theory get Bjurman up to two years in prison – lasted only a few seconds. But it was enough to irrevocably cross a boundary. For Salander it was a display of strength by an enemy force – an indication that aside from their carefully defined legal relationship, she was at the mercy of his discretion and defenceless. When their eyes met a few seconds later, his lips were slightly parted and she could read the lust on his face. Salander’s own face betrayed no emotions at all.

    Bjurman moved back to his side of the desk and sat on his comfortable leather chair.

    “I can’t hand out money to you whenever you like,” he said. “Why do you need such an expensive computer? There are plenty of cheaper models that you can use for playing computer games.”

    “I want to have control of my own money like before.”

    Bjurman gave her a pitying look.

    “We’ll have to see how things go. First you need to learn to be more sociable and get along with people.”

    Bjurman’s smile might have been more subdued if he could have read her thoughts behind the expressionless eyes.

    “I think you and I are going to be good friends,” he said. “We have to be able to trust each other.”

    When she did not reply he said: “You’re a grown woman now, Lisbeth.”

    She nodded.

    “Come here,” he said and held out his hand.

    Salander fixed her gaze on the letter opener for several seconds before she stood up and went over to him. Consequences. He took her hand and pressed it to his crotch. She could feel his genitals through the dark gabardine trousers.

    “If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”

    He put his other hand around her neck and pulled her down to her knees with her face in front of his crotch.

    “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he said as he lowered his zip. He smelled as if he had just washed himself with soap and water.

    Salander turned her face away and tried to get up, but he held her in a tight grip. In terms of physical strength, she was no match for him; she weighed 90 pounds to his 210. He held her head with both hands and turned her face so their eyes met.

    “If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you,” he repeated. “If you make trouble, I can put you away in an institution for the rest of your life. Would you like that?”

    She said nothing.

    “Would you like that?” he said again.

    She shook her head.

    He waited until she lowered her eyes, in what he regarded as submission. Then he pulled her closer. Salander opened her lips and took him in her mouth. He kept his grip on her neck and pulled her fiercely towards him. She felt like gagging the whole ten minutes he took to bump and grind; when finally he came, he was holding her so tight she could hardly breathe.

    He showed her the bathroom in his office. Salander was shaking all over as she wiped her face and tried to rub off the spots on her sweater. She chewed some of his toothpaste to get rid of the taste. When she went back to his office, he was sitting impassively behind his desk, studying some papers.

    “Sit down, Lisbeth,” he told her without looking up. She sat down. Finally he looked at her and smiled.

    “You’re grown-up now, aren’t you, Lisbeth?”

    She nodded.

    “Then you also need to be able to play grown-up games,” he said. He used a tone of voice as if he were speaking to a child. She did not reply. A small frown appeared on his brow.

    “I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to tell anyone about our games. Think about it – who would believe you? There are documents stating that you’re non compos mentis. It would be your word against mine. Whose word do you think would carry more weight?”

    He sighed when still she did not speak. He was annoyed at the way she just sat there in silence, looking at him – but he controlled himself.

    “We’re going to be good friends, you and I,” he said. “I think you were smart to come and see me today. You can always come to me.”

    “I need 10,000 kronor for my computer,” she said, precisely, as if she were continuing the conversation they were having before the interruption.

    Bjurman raised his eyebrows. Hard-nosed bitch. She really is fucking retarded. He handed her the cheque he had written when she was in the bathroom. This is better than a whore. She gets paid with her own money. He gave her an arrogant smile. Salander took the cheque and left.

--

    The plan began to go wrong almost from the start.

    Bjurman was wearing a bathrobe when he opened the door to his apartment. He was cross at her arriving late and motioned her brusquely inside. She was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, and the obligatory leather jacket. She wore black boots and a small rucksack with a strap across her chest.

    “Haven’t you even learned to tell the time?” Bjurman said. Salander did not reply. She looked around. The apartment looked much as she had expected after studying the building plans in the archives of the City Zoning Office. The light-coloured furniture was birch and beech-wood.

    “Come on,” Bjurman said in a friendlier tone. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her down a hall into the apartment’s interior. No small talk. He opened the door to the bedroom. There was no doubt as to what services Salander was expected to perform.

    She took a quick look around. Bachelor furnishings. A double bed with a high bedstead of stainless steel. A low chest of drawers that also functioned as a bedside table. Bedside lamps with muted lighting. A wardrobe with a mirror along one side. A cane chair and a small desk in the corner next to the door. He took her by the hand and led her to the bed.

    “Tell me what you need money for this time. More computer accessories?”

    “Food,” she said.

    “Of course. How stupid of me. You missed our last meeting.” He placed his hand under her chin and lifted her face so their eyes met. “How are you?”

    She shrugged.

    “Have you thought about what I said last time?”

    “About what?”

    “Lisbeth, don’t act any more stupid than you are. I want us to be good friends and to help each other out.”

    She said nothing. Advokat Bjurman resisted an impulse to give her a slap – to put some life into her.

    “Did you like our grown-up game from last time?”

    “No.”

    He raised his eyebrows.

    “Lisbeth, don’t be foolish.”

    “I need money to buy food.”

    “But that’s what we talked about last time. If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. But if you’re just going to cause trouble…” His grip on her chin tightened and she twisted away.

    “I want my money. What do you want me to do?”

    “You know what I want.” He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her towards the bed.

    “Wait,” Salander said hastily. She gave him a resigned look and then nodded curtly. She took off her rucksack and leather jacket with the rivets and looked around. She put her jacket on the chair, set her rucksack on the round table, and took several hesitant steps to the bed. Then she stopped, as if she had cold feet. Bjurman came closer.

    “Wait,” she said once more, in a tone as if to say that she was trying to talk sense into him. “I don’t want to have to suck your dick every time I need money.”

    The expression on Bjurman’s face suddenly changed. He slapped her hard. Salander opened her eyes wide, but before she could react, he grabbed her by the shoulder and threw her on to the bed. The violence caught her by surprise. When she tried to turn over, he pressed her down on the bed and straddled her.

    Like the time before, she was no match for him in terms of physical strength. Her only chance of fighting back was if she could hurt him by scratching his eyes or using some sort of weapon. But her planned scenario had already gone to hell. Shit, she thought when he ripped off her T-shirt. She realised with terrifying clarity that she was out of her depth.

    She heard him open the dresser drawer next to the bed and caught the clanking sound of metal. At first she did not understand what was happening; then she saw the handcuffs close around her wrist. He pulled up her arm, placed the handcuffs around one of the bedposts, and locked her other hand. It did not take him long to pull off her boots and jeans. Then he took off her knickers and held them in his hand.

    “You have to learn to trust me, Lisbeth,” he said. “I’m going to teach you how this grown-up game is played. If you don’t treat me well, you have to be punished. When you’re nice to me, we’ll be friends.”

    He sat astride her again.

    “So you don’t like anal sex,” he said.

    Salander opened her mouth to scream. He grabbed her hair and stuffed the knickers in her mouth. She felt him putting something around her ankles, spread her legs apart and tie them so that she was lying there completely vulnerable. She heard him moving around the room but she could not see through the T-shirt around her face. It took him several minutes. She could hardly breathe. Then she felt an excruciating pain as he forced something up her anus.

--

    Salander was allowed to put on her clothes. It was 4:00 on Saturday morning. She picked up her leather jacket and rucksack and hobbled to the front door, where he was waiting for her, showered and neatly dressed. He gave her a cheque for 2,500 kronor.

    “I’ll drive you home,” he said, and opened the door.

    She crossed the threshold, out of the apartment, and turned to face him. Her body looked fragile and her face was swollen from crying, and he almost recoiled when he met her eyes. Never in his life had he seen such naked, smouldering hatred. Salander looked just as deranged as her casebook indicated.

    “No,” she said, so quietly that he barely heard the word. “I can get home on my own.”

    He put a hand on her shoulder.

    “Are you sure?”

    She nodded. His grip on her shoulder tightened.

    “Remember what we agreed. You’ll come back here next Saturday.”

    She nodded again. Cowed. He let her go.

--

    Salander spent the week in bed with pain in her abdomen, bleeding from her rectum, and less visible wounds that would take longer to heal. What she had gone through was very different from the first rape in his office; it was no longer a matter of coercion and degradation. This was systematic brutality.

    She realised much too late that she had utterly misjudged Bjurman.

    She had assumed he was on a power trip and liked to dominate, not that he was an all-out sadist. He had kept her in handcuffs half the night. Several times she believed he meant to kill her, and at one point he had pressed a pillow over her face until she thought she was going to pass out.

    She did not cry.

    Apart from the tears of pure physical pain she shed not a single tear. When she left the apartment she made her way with difficulty to the taxi stand at Odenplan. With difficulty she climbed the stairs to her own apartment. She showered and wiped the blood from her genitals. Then she drank a pint of water with two Rohypnol and stumbled to her bed and pulled the duvet over her head.

** When two young Swedes befriend a pair of border guards, the other girl ends up getting raped

17-year old Vivi and Elna are on an overnight bicycling trip in the summer of 1941. They meet two young border guards near the Norwegian border and the summer night they spend together ends badly for Elna. Later she gives birth to her rapist's daughter.

Daisy Sisters (1982) by Henning Mankell, pages 43-45 of 651. The original book is in Swedish and it has not been translated into English. The following text is my humble attempt of a translation to English from the Finnish translation of Daisy Sisters they had in our local library.

    Suddenly Vivi and Fingers have disappeared to the darkest corner of the barn, and when Elna feels an urgent need to go out into the night to get some fresh air, pale Nils accompanies her eagerly. But why on earth he drags the other sleeping bag with him? Handsome he’s not, but he seems to be suspect to peculiar whims. And why not? They can lie outside a moment in the beautiful summer night. Dew is refreshing and dim summer stars spin like shimmering wasps in the sky. Or are they bolts of lightning in her head, behind her eyelids? She really can’t tell.

    And when Nils tries stubbornly to crawl on top of her, she lets him, assuming it’s something she has to put up with, and she knows exactly at which point she’s going to tell him to stop. But the man isn’t satisfied with hands and head, face and neck. He claws and yanks tenaciously. When he gets his hands under her dress and starts squeezing her breast, Elna has had enough and rolls over on her stomach. It seems like he’s going to leave her alone; she hears him fuss next to her, but why should she care? The grass is moist and cool against her face, actually she should sleep already, she has a hunch she’s going to see a lot of dreams. But then the man is on top of her again. Before she has time to react he has pulled her dress up on her back and yanked her panties down to her knees. She’s furious. She doesn’t want this, but arousal has given him strength and Elna has to flail and struggle a long time before she manages to turn on her back again. She sees that Nils doesn’t have his pants on. His penis juts out from beneath the hem of his shirt, and it’s not pale like his face but purple and engorged. He tears her panties off and forces himself between her legs. When Elna grabs his hair and pulls, the man gives her a hard cuff on the ear and pins her hands down. He pokes and pokes but can’t find the right spot, and Elna twists and turns all she can. She manages to squeeze his testicles, giving him a jolt, but as if the pain gives him more strength he aims true and thrusts himself inside her with an agonized grunt. Elna realizes she’s being raped. Her face still stings from the force of his slap, booze makes everything hazy – upstairs and downstairs. She fights him but can’t get free. He pants and pumps and it feels like he’s up deep in her belly. Then he twitches hard a few times, gasps and drools, and collapses heavily on top of her. When Elna now beats his back with her fists, the man doesn’t care. Elna inches away from under him. He lies stretched out on the ground, huffing. Elna spots her panties in the grass, puts them on and finds her crotch all sticky. She has only one thought, she wants to sleep. She takes the sleeping bag and staggers to the barn wall. She crawls in the bag and zips the zipper close all the way up. She just wants to sleep. What happened didn’t happen. In the morning everything will be better and they still have a long way to pedal.

    In the morning the men are gone. When Elna wakes up Vivi is sitting down making coffee on a portable stove. It’s a beautiful new day. A bumblebee buzzes by her head. Elna’s mouth is dry and she has a throbbing headache.

    - Good morning, Vivi says. – Look at the state of you!

    The state of her? She crawls from the bag and totters shakily into the barn where she has a small mirror in her bag. When she sees her face she remembers Nils hitting her. She has a scratch mark on her cheek and a bruise on her neck. Whether it’s the result of a love bite or a smack she can’t say.

** A deckhand assaults young Susan in a dark sinking cruise ship

The Poseidon Adventure (1969) by Paul Gallico, end of chapter 13. Excerpt from an eBook.

    She moved cautiously down the first aisle to her left. Two doors were shut but a third at the far end was open and as she illuminated the room to investigate, she thought she would die of fright.

    Within, overhead, an indescribable, heart-stopping 'thing' was coiled as though to pounce upon her. She thought she saw a dead white face, black insect body and not only two arms reaching for her, but tentacles waving snakelike and glittering wickedly in the torchlight. It was so unexpected, so monstrous, so unbelievable, so imminent that her limbs froze and her throat constricted choking off her scream.

    Then she was seized from behind in a relentless grip, paralysing her with cold terror. Her light was knocked from her hand, but before it went out it flashed across the monstrous thing on the ceiling, still immobile, and she was aware that it was another pair of arms that had embraced her. She had not heard the soft footsteps or breathing behind her. It was this knowledge that kept her from fainting; this embrace was human. It took her, spun her about and pinioned her down. A hand was forced over her mouth.

    She felt herself thrown violently upon her back and with the hand still cruelly pressing her lips to prevent outcry, a body, a something, a someone lay on top of her in such a manner that she was unable to move.

    Strangely she was able to separate the two horrors now; the 'thing' from the ceiling and that other pressing her down, imprisoning her limbs and her will. She felt helplessly immobilized not only by the one holding her but by the weight of the darkness itself enveloping her. A hand tore at her underclothes and not until she felt the sharp internal pain did she understand that she had been pierced and entered - was being violated, abused, defiled and taken.

    Oddly enough the word 'rape' never entered her mind. She was aware only that something was being done to her and that she was powerless to move or cry out, helpless from hurt and the awful indecency of the jostling. The smothering hand pressed so hard that she felt her teeth cutting into her lips. Darkness, evil and pain!

    The agony continued. She wanted to shed tears like a child who is being beaten, but could not. Sounds reached her ears but not like any she had ever heard before; hardly human but frightening in their intensity and so, in the end, she could only lie there filled at last with knowledge and recognition, wondering when he would have done with her.

    The sounds and the movements ceased and the body still lay upon her. The physical pain diminished but transferred itself to somewhere within her being at her very centre, an anguish of grief. The hand was removed from her face but she no longer cared about or even thought of calling out or giving vent to any kind of cry. She was lost; the blackness was a bottomless pit into which she was falling, falling, from which she would never rise again.

--

Hurting in every part of her body, within and without, Susan picked herself up off the floor, retrieved the torch and arranged her clothing. She did not bother to examine herself. It was all being done by that other Susan that had been born out of that moment of darkness and with whom she must now get acquainted. She walked painfully to the entrance of the alley and as her torch flashed across it, she was once more picked up by the beam of the big lantern.

    She heard her father's voice echoing down the long alley, 'Hello there, Susan! Are you all right?'