THE CLUB
Brad Hunter
Bridgette stepped out of the glass shower; tendrils of steam followed her like ghostly hands, engulfing the tiny bathroom. She breathed deeply, exhaled, and wrapped a white towel around her glistening body; her pert thirty-four C breasts kept the cloth from slipping. Bridgette pushed her hair back, then swiped her palm across the cool glass of the mirror. The condensation vanished in a watery streak, revealing her pale, smooth face and…
Bridgette gasped; it was about all she had time to get out before a hand, clad in a leather glove, clamped firmly over her mouth, stifling any further noise. Staring wide-eyed into the mirror, she saw a hooded figure draw next to her ear, then felt his breath—hot and coarse—against her tiny hairs.
“You scream, you’re dead. You struggle, you’re dead. Understand?”
The instructions were simple. Bridgette nodded—as much as the firm grasp allowed. With the initial shock over, she tested her arms, they were bound tightly against her body by a thick, obviously male arm. Suddenly, with a quick, powerful move, her whole view changed. Bridgette was forced to bend at the waist, her head went down, cheek pressing hard against the porcelain counter; she grunted. At the same time, both her wrists were pulled back and behind her, bound by the attacker’s large hands.
“Agghh.” It wasn’t quite a scream, but she had to release the pain.
Holding both her slender wrists in a single hand, the man used his other hand to push Bridgette’s head harder into the countertop. “Shut the fuck up,” the voice hissed with venom.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m… ” the pleas turned into blubbering. The sobs seemed to bother the man and he gave a final hard push; Bridgette quieted down.
His hand untangled from her wet hair and head, and moved to Bridgette’s towel. He flipped the cloth up onto Bridgette’s back, exposing the cold, still wet skin of her behind. “No! No, please!”
The hand returned to her head, winding up a thick chunk of hair, then pressed her back into the counter. Her breath hitched against the force. The man used his feet to kick apart Bridgette’s legs. She almost slipped on the wet tile, which elicited another grunt of pain. The grunt was returned with further pressure to her skull. Feeling his point had been made, the hand released her hair.
It was hard to hear over the pounding of blood in her temples, but Bridgette was sure she heard the sound of a zipper. Then it was unmistakable as firm, hot flesh pressed itself up against the tender folds of her labia.
It was going to happen, finally; she’d let the hysteria build up in her and then released it in a stream of pleas. “No, no, no, stop! Please, stop!” Her voice was frantic and cracking.
The attacker ripped Bridgette’s arms upward in an unnatural manner. Her head slammed down against the porcelain, hard this time—a direct contrast to the simply firm pressure he’d applied before. Simultaneously, the attacker’s engorged member tore into her, searing her loins. She screamed in pain.
“Agggh! No, shit, stop. Please, God, make it stop!”
Suddenly all the pressure was gone and Bridgette found herself being pulled up and turned around. “I’m sorry, you ok?” the man said, removing the hood to reveal a slightly chubby, red-cheeked man. He put his hands on her shoulders, looking concerned.
“Goddammit, Walter!” Bridgette yelled. “Are you fucking serious?”
“I… I thought,” he stammered, cursing himself for blowing it. “I thought you were hurt. You sounded hurt.” He raised his eyebrows as if the statement would make sense and alleviate him of any failure.
“Of course, I was hurt,” Bridgette said, the volume leaving her voice. “That’s the point, Walter. I want to be hurt. I want to be pushed to the limit.” She stared into his eyes; her voice was disappointed, not angry. “You said you understood. You said this time would be different. I mean,” her voice started to rise again, “of course I need to yell. It makes it real. Yelling is normal in a rape fantasy. That’s why we have the safe words. What’s the safe word, Walter?”
“Apples,” he said, sheepishly, adverting his eyes.
“Apples, Walter,” she said, adjusting the towel to properly cover herself. He really wished she would stop saying his name. He felt like a poorly trained dog. “No one accidently says apples when they’re being hurt. That’s why we use it. If I want you to stop, I’ll say apples.” She breathed heavily as if it would release her stress and frustration. But it didn’t; alcohol didn’t work, food didn’t work, and deep breathing didn’t work. Bridgette knew what she wanted. “Apples,” she said one last time, opening the bathroom door and exiting into the bedroom.
“We can start again,” Walter said, struggling to the put the mask back on, following behind her, wanting desperately to please.
She squeezed her wet hair into the towel and sighed. It wasn’t his fault, really, he just didn’t get it. Not many people did. He volunteered because Bridgette was hot and he wanted action. But they weren’t a compatible match. So far she hadn’t found anyone that was. Even though Walter wanted to sleep with her, the desire alone wasn’t going to make him good at her fetish. “No, Walter. It’s ok.”
He winced at the sound of his name again.
“The mood’s kind of over. I just want to be alone.” She smiled, trying to be kind. She did feel bad about coming down on him so hard, he didn’t know that his second failure was actually the eighth time her role playing scenarios had failed.
“Ok,” he smiled. He took off the gloves and stuffed them, along with the mask, into his back pocket. “Call me, ok? See ya later.”
She waved him off knowing full well that Walter would not be getting a call.
Fifteen minutes later, Bridgette answered her cell. “Hello?” she said dejectedly.
“Oh, you answered. Not a good sign. Guess I don’t have to ask how it went,” Stacy, her friend from college, replied.
“Yeah, don’t bother, there’s not much to tell. Guess it’s frozen dinners alone tonight.”
“Screw that, girlie, there is still time for you to get your ass down here and make something of tonight,” Stacy shouted over the din of whatever club she was at.
“Where?” Bridgette asked with apprehension in her voice. She was not in the mood for clubbing. She was tired of looking for men. Tonight had been the icing on the cake. She didn’t even know what she wanted anymore. Obviously, the goal was a loving relationship. Who didn’t want that? But what was the point of a relationship when the sex always ruined it.
“I’m at Trans.” She strung out the syllables, hoping to entice her friend. “If you’re looking to find a replacement freak for the night, this is the place.”
Bridgette sighed on the inside. She hated that word, she wasn’t looking for a freak, and it bothered her that her own friend used the term. What was so wrong about what she was asking for anyway? People had all sorts of fetishes; why was hers such a turn off to the men she’d fallen for? Yes, Bridgette had fallen in love a few times, only to be crushed when it came to sexual encounters. Relationships were supposed to be built on trust, and when the men would finally ask: what can I do to make you feel great? She always told the truth, and it always backfired.
“You want me to pretend to rape you?” one had asked, astounded. “What is wrong with you? That’s a serious crime!”
“Look, I don’t know, Stacy. I’m tired.”
“It’s only 7:30,” she replied, her voice not as loud as before—she must have moved away from the music.
“No, not just tonight; I’m tired of this lifestyle. I’m thirty, I don’t want to go to bars and drink and dance all night looking for guys. We did that in college, it was fun, but…”
But what? She didn’t know; what did other people do for fun? Certainly there were better things she could be doing than drinking and searching for guys. At this stage, she was ready to resign herself to not being sexually satisfied ever again. After all, was it that important? She could just watch porn to fulfill her fantasies, that’s what other people did. It wasn’t like the whole world was getting off and it was just poor Bridgette that was the only person who couldn’t cum the way she wanted to.
“Oh, please! You just had a bad night, that’s all. You sound like you want to crawl into a hole and die. Jeez.”
“Well… ”
