Housewife Forced by Old School Friend [Mf, Noncon, Forced, Acquaintance, Literate]

Potential Triggers:

* Realistic rape
* Mild violence (hair-pulling, slapping and name-calling).

# Class of 2006: Alice

It was early-afternoon on a Thursday when the doorbell rang. Alice had been upstairs sorting through her drawers, seizing on her unexpected free time to do a little spring cleaning. Having indulged the obligatory “who the hell could that be?” as she’d at the same time tried to decide whether or not to keep this or that set of bureaucratic correspondences, she’d stood amidst the mess of papers and ephemera that surrounded her and flounced her way from the bedroom downstairs to the door.

When she opened it, there was a man looking in at her. His face was beaming, his dark brown eyes glinting brightly in the sun.

“Alice!” he’d cried, appearing incapable of containing his joy, “Alice Patterson!”

Alice peered back at him, still a little preoccupied with the letters and the mess upstairs:

“Oh… Hello.” The utterance confounded her, for the man had not just used her name, but her maiden name as well.

He continued:

“It’s so nice to see you again! After all these years!”

Her brow furrowed and her smile faded just a little. He knew her, that was clear, and as she examined his features, she began to think that maybe she knew him too. He was about 6′ with short light-brown hair (though it was not shaved); he was about her age (late-20s or early 30s) and he possessed a fleshy somewhat square face. She started to think back quickly – teachers, professors, old family members she hadn’t seen in years, former colleagues, old neighbours even – she’d not lived in this house that long, so it could easily be someone she knew from back home. Due to her pride and her deep sense of politeness, she did not want to offend him by asking him who he was. Instead, she raised her hand awkwardly to play with the beaded necklace around her throat and tried to imitate his enthusiasm:

“Yes, it’s good to see you too – it’s been how long now?”

He laughed jovially. He knew she was faking. Her tone lacked the certainty she’d wanted to portray, but nevertheless he chose not to help her out.

“13 years!” he said, “it’s been 13 long years!”

He took a step backwards to look her over, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. She was wearing jeans, the door rested against her hip and she wore a burgundy jumper with a dark zigzag pattern on it; the jumper was a couple of sizes too large for her and looped down a little off her shoulder to reveal the thin eggshell blue strap of a silk camisole.

“You’re looking great; you’ve hardly changed at all.”

Alice’s mind was scrambling to do the maths – ’13 years? That would have made her 18, was it? Yes, 31 minus 13 is 18. So maybe it was university or high school?” On the face of it, he looked a little older than 31, but it wasn’t impossible. His face was a little rough looking, weathered and lined, but no, it wasn’t impossible and as she tried to imagine him with younger features, she felt more sure that she did know him from somewhere.

“So come on,” he said, “you’re not just going to leave me standing out here in the cold are you? Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Ah -”

Her first thought was to the chaos upstairs, the fact she wanted to be finished before teatime and before Craig got home; the next thought was that she still didn’t know who he was: this thought was a lighter thought. Though she would never have given him a second glance in a store or in the street, here, now, speaking to him like this (whether it was down to his self-confidence or her returning memory) she was sure she did know him from somewhere. His name seemed to be on the tip of her tongue, but at the same time, very far away.

Her final thought (and the one on which she based her decision) was one of politeness, not wanting to offend a man who may have travelled a considerable way to see her.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

She stepped to the side, held open the door and allowed him to enter. He’d smiled another broad and beaming smile as he’d crossed the threshold, looking about himself with awe-struck curiosity as he evaluated the hallway.

“It’s a lovely little house,” he said, unzipping his jacket and handing it to her.

“Thank you, yes, we’ve only been here about 4 years.”

“We?” he asked, “are you married?!”

She laughed lightly, hanging his jacket on a coat-stand in the corner:

“Yes – it’s been almost 7 years now.”

“7 years,” he echoed, bringing his eyes back from his surroundings to look at her, drawing a light whistle through his teeth.

She’d chuckled, “Indeed, you’d get less time for murder… Can I get you a drink of something? Tea? Coffee? Water? maybe a beer? It’s a bit early for that but I think Craig has some -”

“A beer would be great!” he’d enthused, allowing Alice to escort him into the living room, “I assume Craig is the lucky man?”

“He is.”

Again, he began to look around the spacious interior in the manner of one overwhelmed by its grandeur. The delight he took in the house was far more than it warranted, but this could easily be put down to his over-the-top desire to be polite, not to mention the fact he had the appearance of a man who hadn’t himself achieved much economic stability in his life. His jeans were faded blue and threadbare, the white trainers on his feet scruffy and battered and his physical stature carried the outward appearance of a starved bulldog.

The house was tidy, the room an open-plan living-room and kitchen with laminated flooring. Alice told him he could just sit anywhere, crossing the floor in sprightly steps to the fridge and opening it. When Alice bent to rummage through its contents, the man watched her darkly, taking advantage of Alice’s averted attention. He watched the quick movements of her head and hands (her neck pale, thin and fragile); he noticed the jumper hung down loose around her waist, almost like a very short dress, and he noticed the way its low neckline revealed the delicate upper bones of her shoulders. Further down, there was the swell of her ass; though the jumper covered much of it, he could nevertheless gauge its provenance in the tight dark-denim of her jeans. Following a short interval, she extended a hand with a bottle, holding it out to him whilst still searching the fridge for possible alternatives:

“Is Becks alright?”

“That’s fine,” he answered.

Before she turned, he withdrew his gaze, replacing his brooding expression with the same winsome smile he’d been manufacturing for the entirety of their encounter. It amazed him how easy it was – following social energies. She said things, he said things – they bounced off each other in the light psychology of play; nothing either of them said meant anything beyond sustaining the social momentum. Reflection, he supposed, came after conversation; a thing to dissect in the private heart.

She opened a drawer, withdrew a bottle-opener and popped the bottle cap; he met her in the neutral zone between the kitchen and living room, took the bottle with a smile and returned to sit himself down on the sofa. Alice had poured herself an orange juice and was sat just across from him to his right in one of the chairs. She was barefoot and the jumper hung loosely, again giving him a view of both her shoulders. The blue of the camisole straps mixed strangely with her dishwater blond hair and the burgundy of her top – from the perspective of fashionable style, it was a somewhat clattersome concoction.

“So what about you? How’ve you been since we left school?” (she was by now certain he was from high school) “are you married? Have children?”

He sighed and took a deep drink from the bottle:

“Nah. I never found Miss Right – you’re very lucky you found the one.”

Alice laughed, a little embarrassed by the notion of ‘the one’.

“I’m sure there are lots of ‘ones’,” she replied, “but when you find one, you stick with them. I’m sure you’ll find one some day.”

“Maybe. It’s all about attitude I think – like you say, when you find one, you stick with them. I’m not good at that. I mean, I get bored too easily – I’m too restless… Are you religious?”

“God no. We married in a registry office,” she took a drink of her orange juice then placed it down on the coffee table in front of her. Tucking one leg in under herself on the chair and letting her hands fall to her lap, she laughed adding: “It was a little more romantic than that sounds.”

The man smiled. “So is he at work, Craig? Or will I have the pleasure of meeting him?”

“Yeah, he’s working,” she replied, “he won’t be back till 7, maybe 8.”

The man nodded and then took another drink. He looked at Alice’s remaining foot – bony with small toes; he looked at the hands resting in her lap – thin wrists and an expensive looking gold watch that hung limp like a forgotten bangle.

“Oh, I have something here that might interest you,” he said, placing his beer down on the table and then raising himself to dig into his back pocket. After a moment of rooting round, he withdrew what appeared to be a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to her.

“Take a look at this.”

She took it and looked. It was a photograph. On it were several rows of smiling school kids, probably in their final year of high school. As she perused the various faces in turn, she began to recognise them as former classmates and eventually spotted herself up on one of the higher rows.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “there’s Michael Dickson – I’d forgotten all about him; and Marie Shedwell!”

The picture had been taken in 2006, her final year of 6th form. She remembered it vaguely – a cold-assed day in the middle of winter. It had been taken in the playground – no one had given any thought to how cold it would be for the girls standing around for an hour in their skirts with no coats. On the surrounding grass verges and the here-and-there hedges you could make out a light icing of dusty white frost.

“I don’t know about my not having changed,” she laughed, referring back to what he’d said about her at the door. Her hair was longer in the image, a rabbit-brown instead of dishwater blonde, and her face was softer, shyer and somewhat demure:

“But where are you. I don’t see you anywhere?”

He observed her carefully, studying the unfiltered pleasure on her face at seeing all these old and barely remembered faces.

“I wasn’t in that day,” he explained, taking another drink from the bottle and placing it back down on the coffee table. “I hated school photographs. I probably skipped class just to avoid it.”

He gave a bitter smile at the memory and she looked at him with an expression somewhere between sympathy and mistrust.

“Turn it over,” he said.

She paused, looked at him quizzically and then flipped over the sheet. On the back there were scrawled several lines of hand written text. As she examined the writing, she noticed a number of things: firstly, the lines were all a list of names followed by addresses (probably the addresses of the people named); secondly, she noticed that the list comprised of only girls’ names. At the top of the list there was a name, “Shannon Taylor,” only this name had been crossed out in a bold black line. Her own name came directly after this first name – the address matching the residence in which they presently sat.

After what felt like a long time, Alice looked up at the man, her expression one of puzzlement. He was leaned back in the sofa, appearing entirely relaxed, studying her with great interest. She looked back down at the paper:

“So what’s this? Did you write all this out? Are you visiting all these people?”

It was a strange thing to do, write out all of these names, and how on earth did he acquire them? And why just the girls? All these questions were occurring to her as she continued rattling off her enquiries:

“Shannon Taylor – I remember her, but why is her name crossed out? Nothing has happened to her has it? Like, she’s not died or anything? She was -”

“No,” he interrupted, “she isn’t dead.” He leaned forward, picked up the bottle and took another drink. “She did get raped though.”

The word hit Alice like a bus. She looked up horrified:

“God!” pausing for a moment, “how …? Who …? Did they catch him? Do they know who did it?”

He shook his head, “It happened about a fortnight ago – in her own home.” I’m not sure she’s told anyone about it.”

She paused, puzzled, “… then…?” she looked again at the paper, as if it might hold the answers to her questions, but the man leaned forward and extracted it from her grasp. “Then how do you know about it? Have you seen her?”

The man refolded the page and put it back into his back pocket.

“It was me that raped her.”

Alice stared with wide eyes, unable to take in what he just said. She’d heard the words, but they seemed so fantastic, so unreal that she just couldn’t force her mind to make them make sense. She was waiting for him to smile, to say something that would bring the words back into an acceptable comprehensible frame, but how could anyone possibly make such words normal again?

“I’m going through the whole class. You might have noticed that you’re next on the list.”

Mute and open-mouthed, she was only able to shake her head.

“If you scream,” he continued in the same neutral tone, “I will fuck up your face. That’s the rule – no screaming.”

Another second or two passed, then she stood abruptly, grasping for the last feelings of domestic power: this was her home – he could not speak to her like this in her own home:

“I think you’d better go.”

“Sit down!” he snapped.

“No,” her voice breaking with emotion, “I think it’s time for you to go!”

But she was no longer guiding him out or pointing at the door, or in any way confidently instructing him to leave her home. Instead, she had begun to scamper, quick legged, for the hallway door, hoping to get out of the house before this could go any further. The man stood, intercepted her and gripping her shoulders, threw her back into her seat:

“Sit down!”

She remained still, looking up at him with watery blue eyes, petrified by the figure towering over her.

“The rule,” he repeated, stabbing a bony finger at her, “is no screaming. If you want to struggle or fight or cry, that’s fine. I don’t mind that. I’ll hit you, but I’ll try not to hurt you too much. You scream though – I’ll fuck up your face. Actually, I’ll probably fuck up a lot more than that!”

Alice was on the edge of her seat – everything in her wanted to yell or run, but she didn’t dare move.

“Please,” she said, “Craig will be home soo -”

“Craig won’t be back till 7 or maybe 8,” he parroted back at her, “remember, you already told me that.”

She turned her head to glance again at the exit.

“By my reckoning, that gives me at least another 5 hours before I have to worry about anyone finding you.”

She looked back at him, a helpless fear in her eyes.

He looked down, still fascinated by the blue straps of the camisole contrasted against the bare shoulders.

“So what’s it to be?”

She could say nothing.

He bent; grabbed her hair with one hand and-grabbed a strap and the neckline of her jumper with the other. With a sudden tug, he jolted her to her feet.

“I said ‘what’s it to be!?'”

Alice shrieked, her voice colliding with his, “Don’t hurt me!” her voice was already broken and small.

“Is that your answer? ‘Don’t hurt me?'”

“Please!” she spluttered.

“Is that your answer Alice? ‘Don’t hurt me’?”

He pulled hard on her hair making her cry out. Her mind scrambled through all the options: ‘There must be other options!’

“I can give you money! There is money in the house – I can get you more. Take my jewellery… my car,” she pointed over at a sideboard by the window where a set of car keys glittered in the sun, “anything you want!”

“I don’t want money and I don’t want a car!” he shook her violently by the shoulder and hair, “I want a fuck and I want to know if you’ll keep quiet while I do it!”

“I won’t scream,” she blurted out instinctively.

It was hard to believe what she’d just said, and suddenly there was a memory in her mind – a memory of a conversation with a girl from school called Kate. She could see her clearly in her mind’s eye – there on the photograph in the second row, and there around the desk in the final year of high school talking about rape. It had always been an occult word at school, a word which elicited a grim mix of dangerous fascination, horror and unmitigated disgust. TV dramas, grim news stories, internet feminists and shit-talking, shit-posting males (not to mention good ole pornography) had brought the word into their lives in all kinds of obscure and uncontrollable ways.

“There’s no way I’d let a man rape me,” Kate pronounced defiantly to the group, “I’d die fighting before I let that happen!”

Another girl, Sophie, as if from a distant dream, had joked that she’d let Nick Carter rape her if he wanted to (Sophie’s long-standing obsession with Nick Carter being a well-established cornerstone of her public persona). The table exploded like a libidinal bomb – jokes and laughter and innuendo passing back and forth at random. Alice remained quiet and didn’t contribute. When Kate asked her what she’d do, she’d smiled shyly and said she didn’t know. She did know though – the idea of violence terrified her. She knew then what was becoming blindingly obvious to her now: that if rape were ever something she had to deal with, she’d likely collapse into the kind of mess she was collapsing into presently, the kind of mess that would do anything to avoid escalating its violence.

Bringing her back to herself, the man asked again, shaking her: “Are you going to scream!?”

“No!” she repeated, “I won’t scream.”

He swung her and dragged her in the direction of the living room door: “Your bedroom! Show me your fuckin’ bedroom.”

***

They stumbled down the hall towards the stairs. On the stairs, the laminate was substituted by carpets, a theme which continued out across the landing and into the bedrooms. The man dragged Alice in strugglesome jolts, still holding her hair and one of her arms, causing her to cry out things like “don’t,” and “stop,” and “you’re hurting me” and “You don’t have to do this”. He threw her down, her arms extending to break her fall, both hands catching hold of the fourth step. The man was a little tired by the twists and strains of his struggling quarry. Behind them, his arm bumped against the coat stand where less than an hour ago she’d been hanging up his jacket and inviting him into her home.

No sooner had Alice fallen than she was up and bolting up the stairs. The man went after her, Alice crying out “Please,” and “Don’t,” and “Just go away, ” and “leave me alone.” He tackled her on the landing, fought with her, rolled her onto her back and slapped her face. Her eyes streamed with tears, helpless beneath him as he pinned her wrists in one large hand above her head. His other hand covered her mouth. Though she hadn’t once given out the kind of loud cry for help he’d warned her against, she was nevertheless making a disconcerting amount of noise. He couldn’t afford to have her alerting her neighbours.

“Alice, Stop!” he’d cried breathlessly.

Her body squirmed and her legs thrashed behind him.

“Alice, just Stop!”

He released her mouth and slapped her face – a full contact slap that knocked her head sideways. Its sheer volume was enough to snap her out of the panic that had seized her (the stinging pain would only come gradually).

With Alice stilled, he took hold of her wrists (one in each hand) and pinned them to the carpet. Her eyes were wide and pleading, her lungs drew frantically at the air trying to regain the breath she’d lost during the fights and hysteria. The man’s eyes swept over her, wild and greedy. He looked at her hair, splayed out across the carpet; he looked at her face, straining with an anticipatory terror. Round her neck, the beads had fallen to the side between her neck and her collar-bone, and the stretched neck of the burgundy jumper had all but exposed the entirety of one of her shoulders. He stared and stared; the image was all too much. He’d fuck her here, right now, right here on the landing floor. He’d do her again in the bedroom later – he had plenty of time. Alice read his face:

“No, please no!”

He released her wrists, his hands went up the jumper; bending his head to her neck, he got started.

***

He raped her on the landing. Up her jumper, his hands groped over the top of her camisole – smooth silk, so soft. With Alice lying on her back, her breasts were small pert mounds, tiny hard nipples erect and uncupped. He forced up her top, forced up her camisole (both bunching up around her neck to join the beads) and he brought his mouth down to suck on the protuberant swellings. He was a lunatic! Every so often she would raise her hands to protect herself, to tentatively try and push him off, but her wrists would be slammed right back down on the floor. His hands mauled her and the mouth sucked at her: tummy, breasts, nipples, hands on ribs, rubbing over her face, lips on her neck and the tongue licking over her mouth, her nose and in her teary eyes. He called her names like “whore” and “tease”; she tried to protest, but knew it was pointless.

Overtaken by his savage momentum, he started to unbutton and unzip her jeans, carelessly tugging them from her hips, down her thighs, over her ankles and feet. Frantically, she tried to struggle free, to crawl away, but he just kept pulling her back to the same point of origin. Her jeans were tossed aside, heedlessly strewn across the hallway floor and it was not long before her panties had joined them. And then he was in her, holding her mouth and hair, his body banging in and out of her like a jack-hammer, Alice wailing and crying to the propulsion of his thrusts. Her mind was empty of almost everything -every thought subsumed by the relentless sensation of the invasive pain between her legs. She was hardly ready for him when he’d entered – the penetration hurting, stinging, scratching, her thighs having been unceremoniously parted by fingers and hands that didn’t care for anything other than opening her up to this violation. It was slow, his getting inside – too slow. His penis had to force its way in, centimetre by centimetre, the vaginal muscles (barely stimulated) straining to prevent his entry. By the time he came in her, she was wet of course – her body had slowly caught up with what was happening, but the beginning had been a pain worse than that of losing her virginity.

Following his ejaculation, she was sobbing and mindless. Every nerve trembled and no thought could be comprehensibly assembled. Her body tingled, her pussy throbbed, she could feel the cold air drying the saliva trails on her skin and every part of her body ached, bruising where greedy fingers had pushed and pressed and probed too roughly. He lay on her for a short while – God only knows for how long. At last he’d raised himself, his cock slipping out of her. Stroking her hair, he’d whispered:

“Alice, let’s go to bed.”

***

She lay on the king-sized bed staring blankly at the ceiling. Around the bed were the various bureaucratic correspondences that she’d been determined to get sorted before Craig came home. It made her sad to think about them – a deep sense of self-pity: a feeling that the banalities of life were getting on top of her. To her right, there was a dark-wooden dresser that stood between the bed and the bedroom wall; set into the wall there was a window over which the curtains had been drawn. Alice’s eyes had been fixed for some time on a spider’s web over in the corner of the ceiling; a spider was busying itself, working its way up and down its filigree thread paying no mind to the human misery that went on just meters away from its industry.

Between her legs, the lips had been working her pussy for some time. A gentle tongue, first at the very uppers of her inner-thighs and then working around the outskirts of her labia. She didn’t like for men to kiss her there even at the best of times – it made her feel unclean. It was even worse given that she hadn’t washed since morning, forcing into her a deep shame at what the man might be able to taste or smell. Nor had she shaved her legs or pussy for at least 2 days, a light stubble (and full silken hairs in places) dusting her mound, thighs and calves. The man (a man with no entitlement to use her body) was using his finger and thumb to part her labia and was gently pressing his lips against her slit. With little kisses and an invasive tongue, he was searching through the fleshy folds for any part of her that would make her body tense up or twitch.

Under any other circumstances, Alice would have tried to use her hands to push the man away. The situation became more desperate in those moments where, having found her clitoris, he would glide his tongue over and around it, bursting awful little tingles through her spine. At the present time though, Alice was unable to use her hands. The man, having thrown her down on the bed and climbed on top of her, had removed her jumper and used it to tie her wrists behind her back. And so there Alice lay, her eyes fixed wide on the spider’s web, the silk blue camisole covering her breasts, with a man’s head between her legs, sucking her clitoris and pushing his tongue in short swift penetrations into the opening of her vagina.

He was moaning: “Mmm, it’s nice Alice. You taste so nice… It’s so wet Alice. So wet and nice…”

Inserting tongue; extracting tongue; sucking, licking, sticky slabberous sounds from the delta of her thighs, and through her arms and neck and breasts, flowed little tingles that sensitised the surface of her skin preparing the ground for every future touch.

He would say other things too: “You taste so good”, “you smell so good”, “It’s a tight little hole”, and he inserted a finger, sliding it in easy, extracting gasps from her distant lips whilst he pushed it in and out and back and forth.

“You like that, don’t you Alice; you like me in your dirty little hole?”

Her mind, as far as it could be was disconnected, trying to disown the flesh about her that so readily betrayed her.

Having inserted a second finger, the hands worked faster, the mouth continuing to press against the clitoris. With the increased vigour came more little gasps, more anguished moans and more little humiliated sobs. It was soaking wet – the mix of saliva and lubrication running down her thighs and into the sheets. She tried closing her eyes, but it only seemed to focus her mind on these sensations. With visual distractions gone, there was only the sensual dark, a warm membrane that seemed to spark with electric-blue and map the nervous territory of her violation.

The man was crawling up her now, a slow insect that walked with kisses, up from her pussy, through the grooves that expressed her mound, over her tummy (tongue in her belly-button) then hands on her breasts and his face coming to loom over hers. She knew what was going to happen – it was time. Between her legs, his cock hung stiff, stabbing this way and that as, without guidance, it tried to enter her.

“Just get on with it,” she hissed, trying not to care – after all, what did it matter? He’d done everything he could do to her anyway.

Her eyes sought the spider; her breasts ached under rough hands – the man was completely enthralled by the nipples that strained beneath smooth silk. And there it was – it slipped in, the jutting cock between her legs penetrating her opening for the second time today. She winced and she groaned. His hand was in her hair and over her mouth and his lips were kissing her neck, her face and ear. Now it was time to close her eyes, the membrane of black be damned. She closed them because it was the only way she could face such violent thrusts – with his face so close to her face, his breath on her skin, she needed him gone, absented from his association with the things that went on inside her.

He fucked her – back and forth, back and forth; the girl wailed beneath him.

“Come on slut, that’s it, move a bit, come on, move your hips, come on! I bet Chris doesn’t do it for you like this! Come on, you know you like it; you’re wet as fuck! Come on slut!”

She continued to moan, eyes closed, stars exploding, nerves bursting, crying and wailing, helpless in the mess of things she wanted and things she hated. And then he came: a sharp moan, a wild sound that bordered on anguish. She felt it – warm jet after warm jet, curling and floating, spirals of foreign genetic matter that for the second time mixed and mingled with her own vital fluids. At some point, these genes would mix with her genes, joining with all that seed he’d previously deposited. Though she was on “The Pill,” still the prospect of pregnancy assailed her, the prospect even of his seed swimming about in her and conjoining with her most private depths. Could it alter her, this seed, as it touched against her and left its trace in the reproductive tract: master regulators switching genes as their effects cascaded downstream? He had altered her in any case – and wasn’t the mind the map of ones genetic expression, ones genetic expression just a representation of the mind?

***

At some time around 6, the man finally left. He untied Alice and made her put her clothes back on. Allowing her to accompany him downstairs, he’d stood with her at the open door and beamed at her effusively:

“Goodbye Alice, it’s been lovely seeing you again.”

Alice quivered from head to toe; the door was the only thing that prevented her from falling. Her hair was dishevelled and her eyes were still red from crying; she’d tried to smile – the smeared mascara shadowing her face in a smoky charcoal dusk:

“Goodbye,” she managed, and then, catching a cautionary expectancy in his eye, she added, “it was… It was lovely to see you too.”

All the menace in the man dissolved , a radiant warmth taking its place. They shook hands – the man clasping her in an affectionate embrace. When the door finally closed, Alice fell to the floor, her knees unable to bear the enormity of all that had happened.

—

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/vlb7uc/housewife_forced_by_old_school_friend_mf_noncon