He’s behind her in a position of power, and Reagan struggles to turn as he grinds his crotch against her backside. She tries to pull away, to get away from him, but he holds her fast as he works at his belt buckle. The hood from her sweatshirt falls back, and he aggressively yanks the ball-cap off, freeing her springy, messy curls.
“Nice, sugar. Why were ya’ hiding all this under there?” he inquires after her hair and strokes it, making her want to vomit again.
All she can hear is her own quiet whimpers and moans and his mindless grunting as he struggles with his belt some more in the silence of the richly appointed room. Nobody ever explained to her that an act of rape is more about sounds and smells and what you can see more than what you actually feel. The room is eerily silent, and their sounds are so loud, as if coming from a megaphone. He grabs a handful of her hair to better hold her head down, and Reagan can see Dr. Krue’s medical degrees hanging on the wall beside them. She’s looked at those degrees and awards many times but never with blind fear in her heart and never from this angle. A bead of sweat runs down her forehead and lands on the table. He has successfully manipulated his pants buckle and zipper and lets them fall to his knees. Reagan feels him push against her from behind through her own thin pants.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he asks as if that makes any sense because what he is perpetrating is nothing more than rape and not consensual in any way. Reagan doesn’t answer, however, because she knows her reply to the negative will earn her a slap or punch or something far worse.
She is struggling with him, trying to keep him from getting her pants unbuckled, too, but it’s not doing much good. Luckily for her, he is preoccupied with his single-minded determination to do what he intends that she is able to slide her grandpa’s pocket knife from her cargo pocket and conceal it in her palm.
“Hold still, you stupid little whore,” he grinds out through his gritted teeth. He is bent over her, his spittle hitting the side of her exposed cheek again. Disgusting beast. She opens the blade with only one hand. “You’re gonna love this, bitch.”
At this exact moment, Reagan rears up slightly, just long and high enough to plunge the knife into his thigh. She’s praying she hit his femoral artery and that he’ll bleed out quickly, but with the bad lighting and the awkward angle of doing so from a face down position she isn’t too confident. It doesn’t stop her assailant from howling in pain, though, so she must have gotten it in pretty deep. She pulls it back out and lurches backward, successfully throwing him off of her.
Whipping around to face him, Reagan sees that she has hit him square in his thigh muscle, and blood is gushing fairly quickly out of it. His face is a perfect blend of anguish and fury as he lunges for her, and his cold eyes have turned downright arctic. Reagan is knocked backward again onto the desktop as he has now resorted to strangling her. He is obviously an equal opportunity murderer and sees no problem with changing up his modus operandi.
She gags and gags and feels the air rushing from her lungs, her vision starting to blur. Her chest burns as the air is expelled, and Reagan can hear wheezing deep in her throat. Realizing there is no way she can get his hands off of her neck, she relinquishes that fight and stabs him again, this time in the shoulder. Seemingly undaunted, he punches her to the side of her head, knocking her into senselessness. Reagan isn’t sure if she blacks out or just momentarily loses her vision. But she sure isn’t functioning on too high of a level at this point. This is when she feels her own blade being used on her.
When her vision clears again, she can see his shoulder is bleeding, and he is wielding her knife which he apparently dislodged from his own shoulder muscle. What strikes her as odd is that she doesn’t feel
“Nice, sugar. Why were ya’ hiding all this under there?” he inquires after her hair and strokes it, making her want to vomit again.
All she can hear is her own quiet whimpers and moans and his mindless grunting as he struggles with his belt some more in the silence of the richly appointed room. Nobody ever explained to her that an act of rape is more about sounds and smells and what you can see more than what you actually feel. The room is eerily silent, and their sounds are so loud, as if coming from a megaphone. He grabs a handful of her hair to better hold her head down, and Reagan can see Dr. Krue’s medical degrees hanging on the wall beside them. She’s looked at those degrees and awards many times but never with blind fear in her heart and never from this angle. A bead of sweat runs down her forehead and lands on the table. He has successfully manipulated his pants buckle and zipper and lets them fall to his knees. Reagan feels him push against her from behind through her own thin pants.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he asks as if that makes any sense because what he is perpetrating is nothing more than rape and not consensual in any way. Reagan doesn’t answer, however, because she knows her reply to the negative will earn her a slap or punch or something far worse.
She is struggling with him, trying to keep him from getting her pants unbuckled, too, but it’s not doing much good. Luckily for her, he is preoccupied with his single-minded determination to do what he intends that she is able to slide her grandpa’s pocket knife from her cargo pocket and conceal it in her palm.
“Hold still, you stupid little whore,” he grinds out through his gritted teeth. He is bent over her, his spittle hitting the side of her exposed cheek again. Disgusting beast. She opens the blade with only one hand. “You’re gonna love this, bitch.”
At this exact moment, Reagan rears up slightly, just long and high enough to plunge the knife into his thigh. She’s praying she hit his femoral artery and that he’ll bleed out quickly, but with the bad lighting and the awkward angle of doing so from a face down position she isn’t too confident. It doesn’t stop her assailant from howling in pain, though, so she must have gotten it in pretty deep. She pulls it back out and lurches backward, successfully throwing him off of her.
Whipping around to face him, Reagan sees that she has hit him square in his thigh muscle, and blood is gushing fairly quickly out of it. His face is a perfect blend of anguish and fury as he lunges for her, and his cold eyes have turned downright arctic. Reagan is knocked backward again onto the desktop as he has now resorted to strangling her. He is obviously an equal opportunity murderer and sees no problem with changing up his modus operandi.
She gags and gags and feels the air rushing from her lungs, her vision starting to blur. Her chest burns as the air is expelled, and Reagan can hear wheezing deep in her throat. Realizing there is no way she can get his hands off of her neck, she relinquishes that fight and stabs him again, this time in the shoulder. Seemingly undaunted, he punches her to the side of her head, knocking her into senselessness. Reagan isn’t sure if she blacks out or just momentarily loses her vision. But she sure isn’t functioning on too high of a level at this point. This is when she feels her own blade being used on her.
When her vision clears again, she can see his shoulder is bleeding, and he is wielding her knife which he apparently dislodged from his own shoulder muscle. What strikes her as odd is that she doesn’t feel
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