104 lines
5.7 KiB
Plaintext
104 lines
5.7 KiB
Plaintext
The bookstore was nearly empty, and probably about to close. I was
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wandering idly through the stacks near the front of the store, where
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the rare and expensive books were kept in locked cases. First
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editions, with crabbed signatures scrawled on the fragile pages. I
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studied them through the glass, wondering why the same stories cost
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so much more here than in the paperback umpteenth editions in the back.
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I craned my neck, leaning on the lever that would open the case if it
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weren't locked. Unexpectedly, the latch slipped, and my chin bumped
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against the glass door.
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He was on me in the next second, seeming to tower over me as he shouted.
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"What were you doing in here? It's after 9, we've been closed for ten
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minutes!" He held me by the collar, shoving me back against the other
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bookcase. The back of my head cracked against the shelf and his eyes
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bored into me. "And what's a punk like you doing here with the first
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editions anyhow?" He jiggled the broken latch, then slapped me. He
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patted over my pockets, reached inside my jacket. "Didn't you have time
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to take anything, kid?" I was too scared to speak.
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Not finding any books with that cursory search, he shoved me into a back
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room and locked the door behind me. It was a workroom, full of broken
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and half-bound books, with a long, high table of scarred wood running
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down the middle of the room. There was knife on the table, small but
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sharp. I had almost made up my mind to take it and fight him when he
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returned. "OK, punk, the store's empty and the door's locked, so I have
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time to look for my merchandise and call the police." I backed away
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from him slightly. "But I haven't done anything wrong! Really, sir,
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I wasn't going to take anything...I was just looking...I didn't know
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the store was closed..." He stopped me with another slap. The edge of
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the table bit into the small of my back, and I couldn't retreat any more.
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He unzipped my jacket. "I don't believe you. The police won't believe
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you either." I let him take my jacket, then my sweater. "They're
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cracking down on shoplifters these days. You should get at least a
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few weeks in Juvenille Hall." His tone was almost casual as he fished
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my wallet out of my pocket, looked at my driver's license. "But you're
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a bit too old for Juvie. That's too bad." His hand was relaxed,
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he knew the back pockets of my jeans were empty. "A kid like you could
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have a rough time in prison, even for a weekend." I shivered, pressing
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back against the table, pleading with him. "Please, sir, don't turn me
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in. I didn't steal anything. You know I didn't. And I never will.
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Really. Please let me go." I was almost in tears.
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"Maybe I will let you go." My heart leapt. "But not yet." He stepped
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away from me, opened a closet that seemed full of tools. "Take off
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your jeans and hand them over." I protested, not very coherently. He
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cut me off impatiently. "I know you're not hiding books in your
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pockets. Just do as I say. You're still getting off easy, you know."
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His eyes sparked dangerously in the dim light. I kicked off my sneakers,
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and gave him the jeans. The eyes raked over me as I blushed and looked
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down, noticing a hole in my sock.
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He was very fast. He turned me around, lifting me by a handful of cloth
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at the back of my T-shirt, forcing me against the table. "Grab the other
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side of the table! Hold on with both hands." I had to stretch across
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the table, my toes barely touching the floor, my weight balanced
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painfully on the bones of my hips. His hands were almost gentle as
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he pulled down my underpants. I started to cry. "Remember, Adrian,
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you're getting off easy. I could still call the police. In fact, if
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you let go of the table, or if you scream, I think I will call the
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police." He stroked my buttocks lightly. "And they certainly
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wouldn't believe your account of this little interlude. Though it
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might amuse your cellmates." A slap, not very hard, but frightening.
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"I'm sure they would find other ways of amusing themselves with you."
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I was silent, biting my lips and clutching the wood.
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I trembled on the edge of the table for a long moment. I didn't
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know what to be afraid of - rape, a beating, maybe even a camera.
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My breathing was ragged. "Please, sir? What are you going to do
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to me?" He was silent. I couldn't see him, but didn't dare let
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go of the table to look behind me.
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Then the cane bit my flesh with a fierce heat. The blows were fast
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and hard, so overwhelmingly painful I could scarcely squirm under
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them. Sasha had caned me before, after erotic spankings that left
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me giddy with endorphins. This was different. It was punishment,
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and a brutal dare not to scream. I bit back all but a whimpering
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moan, tears already soaking into the wood.
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My legs flailed helplessly, with no leverage as they dangled from
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the edge of the table. I had lost count of the blows, my whole
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bottom was on fire, I must be bleeding already. He paused a moment.
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Was he going to stop? Taking pity on obvious suffering? The
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cane came down again, striking deep along the curve at the top of
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my thighs. I jerked against the table, biting my lip and tasting
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my blood. He struck the same place, hard. The shriek tore past
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my clenched teeth.
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He stopped. His voice was teasing, almost gentle. "Too bad about
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that scream. I *did* try to go easy on you." I heard the rustle of
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cloth, through my gasping sobs and the pounding blood in my ears.
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His hands were rough, forcing my buttocks apart. My feet left the
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floor entirely.
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Sasha has never been able to rape me convincingly. No matter how
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rough the scene, no matter how intense the role-playing - the
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recognition is too strong and the implicit consent is too deep.
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Adrian
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