The Playboy's Proposition (24 page)

He ran the rim of the bottle around my own puckered rim. He
continued to finger my pussy.

He pushed the mouth of the bottle against my tight asshole.

Was that a warning of intent? The horrible question flashed
like a beacon in my brain.

He pushed some more, let more liquid trickle out of the
bottle, over my skin, down between my labia, dripping onto the floor.

He pushed the rim against my asshole even harder, beginning
to open me.

No, no. This wasn’t something I could do. Never. Especially
not with him. If he were planning what I thought he was planning, then he’d
best think again.

I went for the polite route, and said firmly, “No, stop,
please ... Sir.”

Kamun didn’t respond. His breathing sounded like the rasping
of a saw.

He pushed harder, opened my asshole a little more.

Why wasn’t he stopping? I had told him to stop. To hell with
polite, then.

I turned my head to look at him, said loudly, “No. Not that!
No!”

But his gaze was intent on my ass. He only had eyes for what
he was doing, and obviously didn’t care to hear what I had to say about it. He
pushed harder, the side of the rim relentlessly pushing past my taut muscles.

I began to panic, searching wildly for the right word that
would make him stop. I found the only thing I could think of, the only word I
knew, the word Michael had given me the night of my punishment.

I cried, “Yellow! Yellow!”

Nothing came from Kamun, no response but the raw scrape of
his breathing, the hard thrusts of his fingers driving faster in and out of my
pussy ... and the mouth of the bottle stretching me wider and wider.

Every muscle in my body was clenched. I would not have this
happen. Would not allow it. Could not allow it. This man would not stick that
bottle inside me, not there, not ever. No. No. No.

And right at that moment, I snapped.

I went into an entirely different mode, fight or flight, or
both, whatever you called it, the man behind would stop what the fuck he was
doing. I’d damned well make sure of it.

Strength flooded my system.

I screamed out a powerful, “No!” then I thrust myself
upwards and backwards, twisting as I rose, leg, stomach and back muscles
joining together to give me the force needed to swing myself up into a standing
position.

And as I was rising upward and twisting my body toward my
assailant, I brought my arm around in a wide arc, my hand fisted, leading the
charge.

The side of my wrist connected with the bottle just at the
moment Kamun pushed it past the last of my resistance. The impact of my arm
sent the bottle flying out of Kamun’s hand, out of me, sending the bottle
whirling through the air until it landed somewhere far away in a satisfying
crash and crunch of shattered glass.

No time for me to enjoy that satisfaction.

Before Kamun could react, I reared back then shoved forward,
slamming my palms against his chest, putting every ounce of my
adrenaline-fueled strength into the power I needed to push him the fucking hell
away from me.

I will never forget the round “oh” of surprise on his face
as I shoved him with enough force to propel him backwards, his arms windmilling
as he tripped over his own feet ... then the sight of him falling flat on his
ass.

There was no way to check my forward momentum, and because
my ankles were still restrained by the velcro straps, I began falling, knees
bending, legs twisting, trying to turn my torso back around as I headed to the
floor. I took most of the impact of the landing onto one shoulder and upper
arm, and on my butt.

But I didn’t feel any pain. I quickly raised myself up so I
could get at the straps restraining my ankles. I yanked one of the straps off
then tackled the other.

Get away. Get away. It was a steady warning in my head.

I stripped off the other strap and turned around. Kamun’s
surprise had worn off, and he looked angry, scary angry, and he was getting to
his feet.

I scrambled up, gaining ground faster than he could. I tore
out at a dead run toward the door.

Kamun was behind me, coming after me.

I needed to run faster.

Then Michael charged into the room, and called, “Hey!” and
grabbed me up into his arms when I tried to run past him. He swept me up and
off my feet. The split second my feet hit the ground again, I shoved against
his chest as hard as I could. I kicked at him, and squirmed to get away.

Kamun was almost on me. Didn’t Michael understand?

Then Michael let go of me, tossing me to the side, away from
the door. And I saw Kamun surging forward, reaching for me, his eyes full of
fury.

But Michael jumped between us, snagged Kamun by the arm,
swung him around, away from me. I never turned my back on the pair of them,
keeping watch on their struggles while I scrambled farther away from them, back
into the center of the room because they were blocking the door.

No huddling in corners for me, no. Corners were a trap.
Hidey holes were traps. I needed space to maneuver, to make a break for it if I
could.

Michael wrapped his arms around Kamun, Kamun’s back squeezed
tightly against Michael’s hard chest. Kamun struggled to break free, lifting his
legs, throwing his head back to bash into Michael’s face. But Michael countered
his every move, and his more bulky musculature was more than the thinner man
could counter.

Through the roaring in my ears, I could make out Michael
saying, “Calm the fuck down, man. Calm down. Knock it off.”

And Kamun was saying, “The fucking bitch! Let me go, you
bastard. Teach that fucking bitch a lesson! Let me go!”

But Michael wasn’t letting go, and Kamun only had so much
strength left for the fight.

The struggles between them slowly, inexorably died down.

I calculated the odds of success on an attempt to rush past
them and out of the door. Decided they weren’t good enough, so I stayed on the
balls of my feet, half crouched, prepared for a better moment to charge.

Kamun continued to mutter about me being a bitch, and
Michael continued to tell him to calm down, their combined breathing was a
harsh, ragged thing. And I realized the roaring in my ears was the beating of
my heart, the rush of the blood racing through my veins, the grating rasp of my
own heaving breaths.

Kamun finally stopped struggling, but Michael didn’t let him
go.

Michael said, “Just go on home, man. It’s over. Go home.”

Kamun said, “Okay, let me go.”

Michael said, “I will. But don’t go after her again. I mean
it.”

“Okay. I won’t. Let me go, for fuck’s sake.”

Michael waited a few more long moments, then released him.

And I prepared myself anew, ready to run if needed, on such
high alert that I don’t think I had blinked for a very long time, unwilling to
miss a single nuance that might be the difference between escape and capture.

Kamun took a deep breath, then turned around to face
Michael, who had taken a few steps backward.

Kamun looked down at his chest and said, “Look what that
crazy fucking bitch of yours did to me!”

Even from where I stood, I could see what he was complaining
about. There were six or seven small spots of blood on his chest.

I thrilled to see them. Hadn’t realized I had done that to
him. I must have sunk my fingernails into him when I pushed him.

I thought, good. Good.

I hoped they got infected.

Michael only shook his head, said, “Just go on home. It’s
all over now.”

Kamun glared at me.

I returned his glare.

Kamun looked back at Michael. “I need my fucking shirt.”

Michael said, “I’ll get it. Stay there.”

Michael walked sideways over to the table where he and Kamun
had tossed their shirts earlier, back in another time when I hadn’t imagined I
might be raped with a beer bottle.

I stepped to the side, too, maintaining the distance between
myself and Kamun, keeping Michael between us.

Michael grabbed up the shirt and tossed it to Kamun. He
crammed his arms into the sleeves and headed to the door.

He stopped in the entryway and shot one last evil look at
me. He said, “Fucking whore,” then he left.

Michael turned to me, opened his mouth to speak, but I cut
him off.

I said, “Follow him! Make sure he leaves.”

Michael sighed. “He’ll leave, he ...”

I said, “You have to do it. Now. To make sure. Fast.”

Michael must have seen I wouldn’t let this go, because he
turned and trotted out of the room. Quick as lightening I shot to the door,
slammed it shut and locked it.

I backed away from the door, my mind a jumble of
possibilities, potentialities of Kamun’s return. I back-stepped into the center
of the room and stood there breathing hard, waiting for what might come next.

Chapter 15

What came next was a knock on the door.

Michael’s voice called out, “Unlock the door, Nonnie. He’s
gone. I checked. I promise he’s gone.”

I shook my head. Hard to know what to believe.

He called, “Let me in, baby. I’m so sorry about whatever it
was that happened. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Unlock the door so I
can help you.”

I shook my head.

I heard muttering, then nothing.

I waited.

Then I heard new sounds at the door, and the knob turned,
and the door was opening, and I thought my heart would pound out of my chest.

But it was Michael who stepped inside the room.

I thought, okay then.

I took a deep breath. Said, “Shut the door. Lock it. Take
the key.”

He obliged me, the look on his face saying that he believed
he was placating a crazy person, but obliging me all the same.

He came toward me.

I took a step back. Said, “Stop. Don’t.”

He said, “Okay, okay. But it’s just me, now, baby. Just me.
Kamun’s gone. I promise.”

I eyed him and breathed. Felt some of the racing adrenaline
begin to die down. Told myself I was safe now. The bad man was gone.

Michael took a few steps toward a table. He said, “Let me
just give you my shirt. Here. You’re shivering all over. Put this on.”

He held out the shirt to me.

Why was he offering me his shirt?

I looked down at myself. I was naked. Completely naked. Not
a stitch on me. I had forgotten that. How had I forgotten that?

I shivered. And I was cold. Freezing suddenly. I
half-wondered how could I be cold when I had sweat on my forehead. I knew I had
sweat there.

I allowed Michael to step close enough that I could snatch
the shirt out of his hand. I wrapped it around myself, not even bothering to
put my arms in the sleeves.

Michael said, “That’s good, baby. Now come sit down with me.
Over ... uh ... here.”

He looked at the bench. THE bench.

I shook my head.

He said, “No, right. Um ... there. We’ll sit down over
there.”

He pointed to a pair of chairs nearby. I nodded and followed
him over to them. I sat down in one and he pulled the other chair in front of
mine and sat down.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and asked, “Can I
lift up your feet? They must be freezing. I want to warm them up.”

Yes, he was right. My feet were freezing. I nodded.

He smiled gently and lifted my feet into his lap, and began
chafing them between his big, warm hands.

My whole body began to tremble, and I suddenly felt weak all
over, as if my struggle with Kamun had stolen everything from me.

Michael rubbed my feet. “They’re like ice.”

I shuddered inside when the thought passed through my mind
that something else tonight had felt like ice.

And then I began to cry. Nothing gentle about it. Big sobs
that racked my body, my cheeks instantly flooded with tears, gulps and hitches
deep in my chest.

Michael frowned. He said, “Christ. That’s fucking it.”

And then he was scooping me up and out of my chair and
carrying me toward the door. I managed to eke out a hiccuped “wait” and a
“don’t.”

Michael only said, “I swear to you it’s safe. I’ve got to
get you warmed up. I’ll protect you, I swear.”

I closed my eyes and sobbed into his chest. All my strength
to fight had fled when my tears arrived. I would have to trust him, though it
was hard, so very, very hard.

He threw open the door and took me to his bedroom. In only a
few moments he had me tucked away under the blankets, me lying on my side, face
crushed up against his chest, his arms wrapped around me, rubbing my back, legs
pressed up against his, my feet held between his own warm ones.

I couldn’t seem to stop shivering and crying. My nose ran
like crazy, and I wiped it off on the sleeves of Michael’s shirt, not caring
that I was making it all snotty.

He kept saying to me, “You’re going to be okay, baby. You’re
going to be fine.”

I guess that should have soothed me, his reassurances that I
wasn’t hurt, that I would be okay.

And it did for a little while. Until I stopped sobbing so
hard.

Until my brain started working properly again.

But that took a while. In the meantime, I let Michael
comfort me.

When I finally warmed enough that I wasn’t shaking anymore,
and when I finally stopped crying, I said, “I need a drink.”

Michael hopped to, and was gone and back with a glass of
water in a flash. I sat up and drank and drank until the whole glass was gone.

Michael asked if I wanted more. I told him no then dropped
onto my back, pulling the covers up around me again.

Michael put down the glass and sat down on the side of the
bed, next to me.

He stroked the sides of my face, and gently pushed my damp
hair off my forehead and cheeks.

He looked so compassionate. So caring. So concerned about my
welfare.

A voice inside me said, “Yeah, he was so concerned about you
that he left you alone and naked with a very, very bad man.”

He asked, “Feeling better now?”

I said, “Yes. Better.”

But the voice inside me said, “Not really. Just different. I
feel different now.”

Out loud, I said, “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “If you’re ready to tell me, then
I’m ready to hear it. What happened, Nonnie? Why did you attack him?”

I said, as bluntly and with as little emotion as possible,
“Your friend was going to use a beer bottle to rape me in the ass, so I stopped
him.”

The voice inside me added, “because you weren’t there to
protect me.”

Michael’s eyes were full of pity and remorse. He said, “So
that was it. Oh, Nonnie. I’m so sorry you felt that way. So sorry it happened.
But I swear he wouldn’t have raped you.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. I said, “He was going to
rape me ... with a bottle.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m so sorry, baby. He was just
going to taunt you with it a little. He wouldn’t have actually done anything.
We talked about it ahead of time. You ...”

I jerked bolt upright in the bed, and pushed myself away
from him. It was either push away from him or punch him in the face.

I said, “You what? This was some plan of yours? You wanted
to scare me a little? It’s just ... it’s just ...”

I was so outraged, I sputtered and didn’t know what to call
it.

Michael held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I can’t say it
enough. Obviously, it wasn’t a good thing to do. We thought it would be sexy.”

I snarled at him. “Oh yes, rape is so sexy.”

He lost some of his pity-you look. “Not rape, dammit. He
wouldn’t have raped you.”

I said, “Then what do you call it when a man does something
bad to a woman who is telling him not to do it?”

He shook his head.

I pressed on. “I told him no, several times.”

Michael said, “He didn’t understand. Subs are always saying
no, when they don’t actually want you to stop. That’s why we use safe words.”

I said, “I used my safe word. The one you gave me for my
punishment. I distinctly said ‘yellow’ over and over.”

He grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, Nonnie. It’s
all just one big fuck up. He probably thought ‘yellow’ meant what it usually
means, to slow down, be more careful, lighten up some. If you had said ‘red’
...”

“I didn’t know about ‘red.’ You never told me to use ‘red.’”

“I know. I know I didn’t. It’s my mistake. And I’m sorry for
it. I am. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

I shook my head, trying to take in everything he was saying.
Trying to process the difference between what I had experienced, and what he
was telling me actually happened.

He closed his hand softly over my knee. “It’s all just a big
misunderstanding. I’ll explain what happened to Kamun. He’ll get it. You don’t
have to worry about him. He’ll understand why you did what you did.”

I said, “Worry about him? Seriously? You think I’m worried
about what I did to him? I’m just wishing I could have done more.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant, he was over the
top there, after you attacked him. He frightened you, came after you. I meant
that you don’t have to worry about him still being pissed at you, worried that
he might come after you again.”

I blinked. “Oh, okay, then.”

And it really, truly was a huge relief to hear him say that.
A weight lifted from me that I didn’t even realize was there, a remaining dread
that I hadn’t recognized yet because it hadn’t been there long enough for me to
do so. I was safe. Really safe now. I could finally take a deep breath.

We sat there quietly for a while.

Finally, Michael sighed long and loud. He rubbed his
temples. “I can’t believe we’ve had another night together turn to shit.”

I couldn’t either.

He asked, “How do you feel now? About what happened? It’s
better, right? Knowing that he wouldn’t have raped you?”

I nodded.

He said, “Fuck, I’m so glad. You had me scared. I would
never, could never let anything like that happen to you. You believe me, don’t
you?”

And he looked so hopeful, so penitent, so worried that I
might reject him. I said, “I believe you.”

I wanted to, so very, very much.

I told myself I wasn’t going to be raped. It was all a
misunderstanding. I had misread the situation. It was only an unfortunate
event. Should be thankful for that. Should be relieved. I had been safe all
along, had been mistaken in Kamun’s intent.

And Michael cared so much for me. Wanted to make it all
better. Felt so badly about what had happened. Blamed himself. I could
understand that.

Michael reached out for me, pulled me into his arms, said,
“Beautiful, beautiful, girl. I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Then he was kissing me, his lips slanting tenderly over
mine, the brush of his tongue against my lips. He murmured about how sweet I
tasted, and how much he cared for me, how sorry he was and that he would make
it up to me.

His hands gently stroked my back, and he lulled me, lulled
me into this embrace, into opening my mouth for him, the touch of his tongue on
mine, the loving sweetness of his fingers stroking the back of my neck. The
shudder of skin on skin. The quick and quiet intake of a gratified breath.

It was so easy, so very easy, to let him sooth all the hurt
away, to let him take away my fears and make it all better.

The blissful fugue of giving yourself over into the care of
another. Of letting yourself believe in someone else, believe in their capabilities,
their selflessness, their very goodness. To let yourself be swept away.

So, so easy to do.

Easy to do until you remember how it felt to have a beer
bottle shoved just inside your asshole.

Easy to do until you remember the look on that man’s face while
he was pushing inside you, and you know, deep in your soul, that the only
reason he didn’t rape you was because you stopped him.

Easy to do until you remember that the man holding you in
his arms right now wasn’t there to protect you when you needed it, and then you
realize he’s the one to blame, that he was always the one to blame.

When you remember these things, letting a lover sweep you
away isn’t such an easy thing to do at all.

I felt a resolve growing inside me, a resurrection of
something I had lost along the way in this short journey of mine. At some point
between signing my divorce papers, and finding myself in Michael’s bedroom
tonight, somewhere along that path I had misplaced the new me.

How had I allowed that to happen? Again. No sooner did I
belong to myself, then I handed myself over into the care of someone else.
Another wrong someone. What had I been thinking?

It didn’t matter. Not now. Not in this moment. I had plenty
of time later to figure it all out.

Right at this moment in time, I needed to think for a few
seconds, allow myself to come together again, to figure out my next step.

I returned Michael’s kiss and let him stroke me some more,
let him tell me, one last time, how beautiful I was and how much he wanted me.

Then when his hand seemingly wandered between my legs, and
he wormed fingers up my thighs, I pulled out of the kiss and looked deeply into
his eyes.

I said, “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m just, I’m still worried.
About Kamun.”

He kissed my forehead and said, “No, no worries. I’ll
explain it all.”

I said, “I know. But would you mind calling him now? Can I
hear you explain everything? Then I’ll really know everything is okay.”

He blew out a breath, but he smiled and took his hand from
between my legs and went off to get his phone.

When he came back into the room, I was waiting patiently for
him. Patience, one of the hallmarks of a good sub.

I listened carefully while he explained everything to Kamun.
And I made gestures when the time was right to have him hand the phone to me so
I could hear Kamun say, “Yeah, all right. It’s okay. I get it.”

Then I handed the phone back to Michael and knew it really
would be okay.

It would be okay because I had ensured that Kamun understood
he was off the hook for what he had done, and also for what he would have done
if he hadn’t been stopped. Made sure he believed that I had bought into the
bullshit, that I believed he wasn’t really going to rape me.

It was so okay, in fact, that I didn’t even flinch when I
heard Michael say, “So anyway, we’re both really sorry about what happened. We
hope you can get past it.”

We. He had said “we,” and “both,” as if I held any share of
the blame for that night, as if I had any blame for anything, regardless of
which version of events you chose to believe.