I received two from irate sexual assault victims—and I do mean victim by the wording of their letters—and one from a survivor.
Through a series of emails, I discovered she was a former student bullied by her gang of assailants. She praised my efforts and wished me good luck, but not before informing me of all of her fantasies centering around that night.
She was brutally hurt, but she admitted to craving the attention she received during those hours. Her reality had evolved to the primary subject of her fantasies. I wanted to further our conversation, but after her last email, she never responded again.
I followed up but still nothing.
She proved the case and point of the problem—expressed control becomes like a drug—and cravings begin, which can never be duplicated.
It wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome, but a replication to seize the loss of control, thereby regaining control.
She didn’t want to befriend her attackers or meet them again, but the feelings of free-falling generated by their will over her body proved insurmountable by her psyche.
She longed for the loss of control.
Her answer was found in the confines of subservience, under a Master, as a house slave, but that did little to provoke my thought.
Our correspondence ceased around the time I received another email—“Do you want to be a house slave?”
I didn’t want to be a submissive.
Submissive equated the delinquent word of consent—and it indeed was delinquent to me. I didn’t want to negotiate a contract, define limits, or discover my triggers to avoid them. I wanted to be pushed—hard, unapologetically for hours.
The sting of my teeth bites my lip as I watch the porn video. There are plenty of good ones out there, but I’m a bit particular.
I don’t like the circle jerk assaults in the bathroom or girls who look like they put every ounce of makeup on that they own. I prefer the innocent victims—the unassuming, shy ones—the ones who look like me. I also don’t necessarily need a guy buffed to the max on steroids.
A penetrating pair of eyes will work just fine.
The rustle at the front door causes me to jump and drop the vibrator against my ass cheek. I pause the video. My bedroom door is open since Selia is gone for the night at a family gathering in San Francisco.
All of the safety latches on the door are fastened, including the deadbolt, but I hear the key flip over the mechanics with a distinguishable thud.
I wonder why she is home when I hear her try to open the door. “Hold on. I’m coming.”
I was about to, too.
In my oversized shirt, I toss on my panties and rush for the door. “I’m so sorry, Selia.” I spot the door open a few inches with only the two chains securing it. I peer out the crack and see nothing. No signs of Selia. No signs of anyone. “Selia?” I call out, shutting the door and throwing the deadbolt. I run back to the bedroom and grab my phone from the nightstand. I check her GPS location—she’s in San Francisco. “Fuck…”
This is it.
Slowly, I venture closer to the sliding glass door in my room, which connects to the balcony. I glance down and drop to my knees, trying to catch a sneak peek beneath the curtain. I don’t make a sound. I don’t touch the fabric. My heart races when I open my eyes to see nothing but the black frame.
I anticipate having some horrific attacker behind the curtain, trapped behind the glass of our second-story apartment. He’ll smile wide, break his way in, and attack me. I wipe my clammy hands against my shirt, drying them.
I never thought I would feel so…anxious.
On edge.
Fucking scared as hell.
‘Just do it, Abs,’ I think to myself as I rip back the curtain and see nothing but a few plants, chairs, and our small orb-shaped barbecue grill. I pivot fast and sprint back to the front door, madder than hell.
I swing off the chains and pop the deadbolt before stepping outside. There are three other apartment doors on the landing. One is empty. One belongs to Spencer. And the last one is occupied by a little old lady, Lillian Nakamura, who stashes about ten cats in her overly decorated space.
It’s lovely inside, really.
She invited me in for tea once, but I know, she is in bed at this hour—this hour being nine at night. She is a person instilled with routine, gets up at three-forty-five, has a cup of matcha, runs either on her treadmill or the perimeter of the complex for an hour and a half. She also goes to bed by eight every evening.
I look over the back rail, which leads to green space. There are plenty of lights, but no one is around. I spin and run into a strange man. “… Hello?”
“Hey, girl,” he says, sounding as gay as the day is long. His turquoise suit is flamboyant and clashes horribly with the orange shirt. Style isn’t always sexual preference specific. “How are you doing?”
I don’t bother with a greeting as I point. “If you’re looking for Spencer, he’s in that apartment.”
Carefully, I tiptoe down the cement steps to the parking lot. Maybe Selia forgot her phone in San Francisco and had an armful of items. It wouldn’t be the first time the postman piled her brother’s packages from Hawaii in the mail room.
I scout the lot in search of her car. She doesn’t have the reserved space under the awning; that is mine. But her older sports car is missing. There is nothing odd going on. A family across the way is piling into their minivan, probably going for ice cream. A few couples are out holding hands and walking their dogs. A car zooms fast toward the gate.
With the building surrounded by lawn on two sides, I decide to go back inside. I’m halfway up the steps when I hear the rev of an engine in the lot. I turn around to see a motorcycle zipping past. Again, not unusual. A few of the collegiate boys have them.
On the landing, I notice the apartment door ajar next to Miss Lily’s place.
That’s odd.
I cringe at the sight of my door left wide open. “I’m so stupid,” I whisper as I overhear the moans of Spencer and the man. “Well, at least one of us is getting lucky.”
I jump at the sound of Lily’s door opening behind me. “What was all that racket?”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone was next door to me, banging on the wall, and woke me up!” she angrily yells. “I called security!”
“It wasn’t me,” I mutter. “I thought Selia was back.”
“Damn, kids need to find something better to do besides ransacking empty units!”
Sneaking inside of my apartment, I mutter, “Goodnight, Lily.”
“Sleep well, Echo.”
I quietly close the door and press my back against the frame. My heart pumps on the verge of exploding. I worry he may have snuck inside. I click on all of the lights and scurry from room to room, frightfully checking in closets and peering with worry under the beds.
“No one is here,” I whisper on my knees as my phone rings, and I hop up. “Hello?”
“Hi!” my mother says. “Just wanted to let you know we’ll be there for your graduation. We reserved our flight.”
“That’s great, Mom!”
“You sound tired,” she sympathetically remarks. “Did I wake you? I figured you would still be up with the time difference.”
“Yeah,” I excuse. “I am up.”