Erica stepped lightly onto the pavement, and wrapped her coat around her as the bus pulled away from the kerb. A breeze sprang up, stirring the skeletal leaves at her feet, then died away once more. "Bollocks," she muttered, hitching her handbag up higher on her shoulder, and set off along the road. Her breathe misted in the cold autumn air, and, not for the first time, she wished she had taken a taxi instead of waiting for the late bus. The evening had been fun, a few drinks with the girls from the office followed by an hour and a half of feminist propaganda masquerading as a romantic comedy. The warm, comfortable haze of the time spent with her friends seemed very far away from the cold, barren street that stretched in front of her.
One street led on to another, and then Erica's path led down a narrow alley between two office buildings, and from there into the underpass which ran beneath the busy motorway - a motorway that was all but silent at this hour of the night, but which was still bounded by high steel fences to prevent anyone from crossing. Erica clenched her teeth and quickened her pace.
The underpass was illuminated only by two orange streetlights bolted to the wall behind toughened glass, their baleful glow pitifully inadequate. The rough concrete walls were covered in graffiti and posters for bands and for nightclubs which Erica had never heard of, while the floor was damp and dirty, the gutters full of dead leaves and discarded wrappers and cans. She knew from countless late-night walks that it took her exactly thirty-eight steps to reach the other end of the underpass and emerge back onto the streets. Steeling herself, she began counting.
One. Two. Three.
There was nothing to worry about. She'd been this way a hundred times, and never even been threatened. Things like that didn't really happen, it was all just stories.
Nine. Ten. Eleven.
And even if something did happen, she had her strategy all worked out. She'd say she had crabs, or maybe AIDS. That's scare them off. She'd be fine. She just had to be brave.
Eighteen. Nineteen. Twen-
The violent impact from behind almost knocked her off her feet. She fell hard onto the concrete, her ankle twisting painfully, her cry of alarm cut off by the impact of the rough ground on her cheek. Panic exploded in her mind. Was she being mugged? Something worse? Scrabbling around, she tried to get back to her feet, but a strong hand on her shoulder stopped her from rising. Next to her head, there was a flash of silver, and a long, curved knife was resting, point-first, on the ground. "Don't fight. Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you, but I will."
Terrified, Erica allowed herself to be rolled over. Her assailant was clearly a man, tall and well-built, his upper body and head concealed within a baggy hooded top. He held the knife in his right hand, watching her for signs of flight. Erica lowered her eyes to distract him, a technique learned from a painfully brief self-defence class, then lunged at his face, her fingernails seeking his eyes -
Effortlessly, he caught her wrist in his impossibly strong grip, and leaned over her. The freezing point of his blade pressed hard against the soft, yielding flesh of her breast. "Fuck with me," he hissed, "and I'll cut your fucking tits off, bitch."
"Please -" Erica whispered.
"Please what? Are you asking for it, bitch?"
"God, please," she moaned, her fear rising.
"You are!" The shadowy figure laughed and Erica could feels flecks of his spittle landing on her breasts. "You're fucking begging me, you slut! Please? Say please again, bitch, and I'll do it. You want it, right? Say please, mister, I want your fat cock to tear into my little cunt!"
"No, God," she protested, "listen, I've got money, you can take it, my mobile's in my bag -"
"I don't want that shit, you dumb little fuck," snarled the voice, the cold, damp fingers pressing harder against her pale skin. "Now are you gunna play nice or am I gunna start cutting?"
"Alright - alright, I'll do w-whatever you want."
"I know you will," the voice chuckled. "You bitches all want it anyway, don't you? You all want a man to jump you and give the fuck of a lifetime, you're just too scared to ask for it. Aren't you?" His question was punctuated by a stinging slap across her face, and Erica forced herself to nod. "Say it, you stupid bitch. Say you want me to fuck you."
"I do, you can do anything, just don't hurt -"
His grip relaxed on her arm, and, a heartbeat later, she felt the breath explode from her lungs. The grim concrete walls of the underpass spun around her, and she suddenly realised that she was on the ground. He knelt across her, his face still obscured by the grey hood of his jacket, his hands pulling open her coat, her blouse, his thick, graceless fingers prodding the soft, yielding flesh of her breasts. The razor-sharp knife traced a dispassionate arc across her throat, sliding down across her heart until, with a flick of his wrist, the shadowy figure cut through her bra. Slowly, moving only the knife, he lifted the delicate lace cups of her bra away from the alabaster skin of her bosom. The air was freezing, but the steel of the knife seemed colder still.
The man nodded appreciatively, and his hood fell back far enough from his face that Erica could make out a pair of thick, expressive lips, pressed together in a cruel smile. There was nothing about the man that she recognised, nothing that seemed even vaguely familiar. Even when she tried to concentrate, thinking that she must be able to give the police a description if - no, damn it, when - she walked out of this, the details wavered and changed, her mind refusing to accept the grim reality of her situation.
Working methodically, the man revealed her round, generous breasts, her chest rising and falling erratically as she struggled to breathe around terrified sobs. Teasing her hard nipples with the point of the dagger, the man's smile broadened, and he suddenly slapped her fleshy right breast with his open hand, the sound echoing around the dank underpass. Erica cried out, but quickly stifled the sound as the blade returned to her throat.
"No noise," he whispered. "No noise, and I'll fuck you nice. I'll make it good for you, bitch."
Moving quickly, her pulled the hem of her dress upward, exposing the blue satin panties she had chosen that morning. Moaning in appreciation, he slipped his fingers into the waistband, his blunt fingertips brushing through her sparse pubic hair in search of her tender pussy. Then, with a vicious wrench, he tore the panties from her body, leaving her bare buttocks to slap against the cold concrete floor, his hands on her knees, pulling her legs open savagely, leaning in toward her. Erica opened her mouth to scream, but she had no breath. There was nothing she could do.
He leaned over her, maneuvering his body into position, the sodium glow of the streetlights glistening on the wet flesh of his prick. "I'm going to rape you, you fucking slut, just the way you want it." Erica sobbed, her shoulders heaving, but the sharp pressure of the blade re-appeared at her throat. "Don't fucking move, or you're a dead slut," the man snarled.
.... There is more of this story ...