The Backwoods

out on anything. But what she wouldn’t miss out on was life, her career, the future. Sex would have to wait.

It was right before school would let out for summer—for some reason she remembered that—and she recalled nothing sexual about her motive, the business about skinny-dipping. She and Judy had gone to a late double feature at the town theater. She’d asked several friends to join them, but, alas, they were all going on to another skinny-dipping party. She and Judy had both passed on the invite—electing instead to go see Star Wars, which everyone was talking about—but regrettably they were forced to sit through some grueling first feature about an Egyptian cannibal in the catering business. Patricia found the schlocky farce hilarious in its bad production, but Judy had left halfway through, too revolted by the hokey violence and fake blood that looked like house paint. Star Wars was fun, though, and exciting. However, while walking home . . .

. . . Patricia got to thinking.

Maybe I’ll try it, she dared herself. In case I ever decide to do it with my friends, I’ll know what it’s like. It wasn’t sex she was considering; it was merely skinny- dipping.

I’ll try it alone first, see if I like it.

But where? Everyone else was out at the lake in Luntville. I know, she thought. She saw the sign right there as she walked along Point Road:

BOWEN’S FIELD.

There was a pond there, and the field itself was almost entirely surrounded by woods.

Perfect.

Her parents were at the fire hall tonight—bingo—and would be home late. The heat and humidity were sky- rocketing as the summer deepened; Patricia was sticky with sweat just minutes after leaving the cool movie theater. A late-night dip in the pond is just what I need.

She cut through more woods, her sandals snapping twigs. Peepers cheeped like parrots, and she had to walk slowly, keeping her eyes on the ground for toads. Then the woods broke, and there she was. . . .

The clearing opened, ringed by tall trees. The moon was just edging over the tallest oaks. Bowen’s Field was a little-used municipal lot: mainly county softball games and holiday gatherings. Picnic grounds with tables and grills dotted the area, and off to one side was the pond.

Patricia looked around guardedly. No one around. She felt satisfied. She walked off to the trees, then thought nothing of skimming out of her shorts and top. A moment of hesitation; then the rest came off, panties and bra dropped atop the sandals. And one last look around . . .

Everyone else is skinny-dipping in Luntville, and I’m skinny-dipping here. . . . Simple. There was no need to be self-conscious or embarrassed—she was a logical girl. So she shrugged her bare shoulders, then, and walked nude across the field. See? No big deal. She giggled. When she looked down at herself, the only shock was how white she was. She was fair-skinned; she didn’t tan well. Her natural hue touched over by the moonlight made her look ghostly.

The warm air caressed her skin as she moved on. Another giggle: I’m walking naked in public! The night’s heat licked up and down her body.

Cicadas buzzed in their unique drone. The pond lay flat and still before her, a solid black mirror with the moon’s reflection floating on top. Mud squished up through her toes when she stepped in, first to her ankles, then to her knees. She lifted her foot and took the next step, which should’ve brought her hip-deep, but—

Splunk!

—she dropped into a surprise gully deeper than she was tall. She sprang back to the surface, laughing, then began to dog-paddle around. Where the night’s heat had felt heavy on her skin, the cool water felt absolutely luxurious. A sudden liberty swept her as she let the water devour her: No one knows I’m here; I’m totally alone. She liked that feeling, a forbidden independence—being naked and by herself, as though the world existed solely for her, and she were its only inhabitant. The moon looked down, a luminous voyeur. Her flesh felt buoyant; cool water rushed between her legs and over her stomach and breasts. She smiled to herself, kicking out farther, totally tranquil in the water.

Patricia was at peace. . . .

It was some sort of a sack, canvas, or maybe several layers of burlap; she’d never figured out what it was exactly. And she never saw it coming.

He must’ve been in the water the whole time. Waiting? But that was impossible, because no one knew she was out here. She’d told no one she’d be skinny-dipping tonight; in fact, she hadn’t even made the decision until after leaving the theater. Nevertheless, as she’d turned to come back closer to the pond’s edge, a heavy, wet sack was pulled over her head from behind and tightened immediately by a drawstring. It couldn’t have been more effective. . . .

It smothered her scream.

A strong arm girded her neck. Her attacker was breaststroking back to shore, Patricia in tow, but as he did so his hand plowed into her most private area as though it were a squeeze ball. Fingers tried to wriggle in. Each time she attempted to suck in a breath and bolt out a scream, the wet sack sucked against her lips, and all she could do was wheeze. And when they reached the edge and her ankles began to kick through mud—

Thwack!

—a fist hard as a stone knocked her unconscious. Deathlike blackness filled her mind. Was she dead? No, but as her consciousness began to trickle back, her previous terror had been supplanted by an all-encompassing nausea. She opened her eyes but couldn’t see. It wasn’t the sack; instead, the only thing she could figure was that a wide strip of tape had been pasted over her eyes. When she tried to move, her wrists and ankles rose . . . but only an inch.

She’d been tied down.

More of her senses began to fall back into place. Her eyes had been taped but her mouth hadn’t, and just as she sucked in a deep, deep breath to try another scream, a palm slapped across her lips.

Then something very sharp and very pointed pricked the side of her neck.

“Feel this?”

A coarse whisper.

“It’s a knife. If you make any noise at all, I’ll cut your throat. Understand?”

She felt burning hot yet immobile, as if frozen solid. At first the terrified paralysis wouldn’t even allow her neck muscles to work.

The knife point pricked a little harder.

Patricia nodded.

Next: “If ya bite, I’ll cut‘cher tongue out ‘n’ slice yer big tits off and leave ’em on yer mama’s doorstep. Understand?”

Patricia nodded.

The clammy palm left her mouth, only to be replaced by a slavering mouth. At least her rapist was passionate—he wanted to kiss first. The dirty mouth sucked her lips, a tongue pushing through. Reflex caused Patricia to squeeze her eyes shut in spite of the blindfold, and from there . . .

Her mind went blank.

More reflex, more defensive instinct. Earlier it was the moon, but now, blinded and lashed to the ground, she became her own voyeur, sight replaced by sense. It was as though she were watching herself with her mind. Her mouth fell open and she simply let him do it—Don’t fight your rapist, she’d read in a women’s column once—so she admitted his tongue, tasting liquor and bad breath. The tongue continued to slaver, his drool falling into her mouth. Then the strange mouth sucked her own tongue out, sucked it hard, and that was when she noticed the gap.

His two front teeth were missing.

Eventually the abominable kiss ended; the mouth lifted, then fell right back to her breasts. Wet, ugly suction drew each nipple between the gap in his teeth, and the tongue began to whirl furiously. She could feel that he was naked himself—that hot, hard weight pressing down. All the sensations and mental images collided with revulsion, but Patricia now was disengaged, her own self not part of what was happening.

He never said another word.