The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for adults in locations in

which it is legal. If it is illegal in your location, DO NOT read. This is a copyrighted work.

Reposting or any other use strictly prohibited without the express, written permission of

the copyright holder, except may by posted as part of a review or posted to free-access,

non-commercial archive sights.

Copyright 1998 by E. Z. Riter.

Email address: ezriter@hotmail.com

Please! Give me comments.

 

I wrote a story entitled "Winning Denver". Celeste's review (see Celestial Reviews 277 -

April 22, 1998) was disappointing but very fair. This is a rewrite of that story. The

character is now from the capitol of Montana rather than Colorado. The verb has been

changed for reasons which shall be obvious when you read the story.

 

RAPING HELENA

Las Vegas is America's adult amusement park. I try to spend two or three weeks a year

there to gamble and enjoy the other festivities. I am never a big winner or loser unless

you consider $20,000 a trip big. At thirty-seven, I was in my fifteenth year of Vegas trips,

and over the years, I was actually ahead by more than a hundred thousand.

I always stay at the same place and gamble there much of the time. As a regular, I get the

freebies they offer to generate repeat business, such as lunches, drinks or tickets to the

shows. Each trip I find a nice girl to share my bed a few times, which is part of the Vegas

appeal. No street walkers. Call girls. Pretty and clean.

On the first night of a two-week stay, I gambled until five in the morning. When I called it

a night, I was seventy thousand ahead, which made for sweet dreams someone rudely

interrupted by knocking at my door. As I stumbled to answer, the clock read ten thirty. It

was Walt Simpson, the assistant security chief, who I had gotten to know over the years.

A hard-nosed SOB with some old Mafia ties, he did a fine job for the casino, handling all

the tough problems while his pretty boy boss looked good for the Gaming Commission.

"Having a good trip, Dan?" he asked as I let him in.

"So far, Walt. What the hell do you want at this hour?"

"Planning on utilizing any of the females this time?"

"Like always. Got anybody special in mind?"

"Yeah. I do. You know this is top secret, Dan." That was Walt's code for telling me if I

mouthed this off, my legs got broken.

"Well, let me hear."

Walt told me an appealing story, a story I had heard other times but always believed to

be an urban myth. A young couple on their honeymoon got caught up in the gambling

and were down a total of $26,000 to three different casinos. Both husband and wife had

gambled, but the wife dropped ten grand at the crap tables in another casino. That

particular casino still had mob ties and was not a good place to leave a bad marker. Walt

agreed to handle the collection for all three places. Whether the couple knew it or not,

they were better off with Walt than with his counterparts.

"The woman has agreed to work it off, so to speak."

I studied his face but found nothing there. The term poker face was invented for Walt and

guys like him.

Suddenly, my cock came to attention. Walt, who never missed anything, relaxed enough

to let a twinkle come in his eye when he saw. The idea really intrigued me. But, why?

Was it the rape since she was being leveraged into doing it? Her age and innocence?

Was it fucking someone else's bride on their honeymoon, or, just fucking another man's

wife while he watched?

I guess Walt knew I was thinking hard because he waited patiently as thoughts, I must

admit, sexy, even obscene, thoughts, bounced around in my head. Whatever the

reason, I agreed to meet them. Walt waited as I quickly dressed. As we walked down the

hall toward his office, I made up my mind. "Walt, I will do it, if she is attractive." He did

not change expressions when he said, "She is a little small and lean for my taste, but

she is attractive."

Subject to meeting her, I agreed to the deal. I would get the woman for the thirteen days

remaining in my vacation on a twenty-four hour, no questions asked, all orders followed

happily basis. They got the bad guys off their back. Walt and his friends got their

money, $26,000 to be taken from the bank I had on deposit with the casino's cashier.

Her name was Helena, which she explained was because she was born there, the love

child of hippie parents. She was twenty-one. His name was Toby. Scared to death since

Walt and his boys had more than a few long talks with them, they knew they were in very

deep trouble with very bad people. She had been crying, but now was deathly still and

quiet except for a few involuntary, intermittent shakes. Toby was catatonic. As Walt sat

back studying the unhappily married couple, I addressed her.

"Talk to me. Tell me whether you understand what is going on here."

Since I had arrived, she had not yet looked directly at me. Still looking at me only

obliquely, her eyes flitted between her husband and me, lighting but a second on either

of us, continually moving in her embarrassment.

"He asked you a question," Toby said. I caught a glimpse of sexual desire reflected in his

voice which surprised me. I wondered if anyone else caught it. When I glanced at Walt, I

knew he had heard Toby the way I had.

"I will be a whore. I..."

Her voice cracked and she began to sob, tiny, little gasps released under great pressure

as she fought to maintain her composure. She was so pathetic, at first I wanted to

comfort her, but I did not. It was neither the time nor place for comfort. Had it been, it was

Toby's responsibility and he made no move toward her.

But, that is not the reason I abstained from comforting her. I was enjoying her turmoil,

her slide into the depths of despair. I realized my own deep desire which drove me to

participate in this game was her unwilling sexual submission . . . her rape. My cock was

hard as a rock and my heart was pounding at the thought.

Eventually, she took a long, deep breath, and slowly it let it out. Still, she had not

looked at me. As if relating a tale of death in her family, she spoke in a dark monotone.

"I know what I have to do and I will do it. I will be a bride on her honeymoon, being happy

about having wild sex, doing anything the man tells me to do, except the man will not be

my husband." Her voice would break the heart of a statue, but it was so erotic, I thought I

would be spilt open.

"Anything else?"

"No pain. They promised me no pain if I cooperated."

"Listen," Walt said, seizing our attention. Mesmerized by him, we listened in quiet horror

as Walt related a story of a woman who tried to negotiate her way out of having sex with

the man who paid for her losses. At the instruction of the casino bosses, she was brutally

gang raped by seven men. Walt was making it perfectly clear to Helena cooperation with

me was much better than the alternative, and making me understand I was to complete

my part in this drama.

I was watching Toby and Helena as Walt spoke. Toby acted sexually aroused and I

wondered what the hell was going on. At the end of Walt's tale, Helena, for a second,

looked at me directly for the first time. It was the expression a prisoner gives the

hangman, or, was it something more?

"Well?" Walt asked. There was a long silence.

"I can do this," Helena said very softly as if trying to convince herself rather than

communicate to us. I hoped she could do it because the fantasy of her being with me

under these circumstances was quickly growing in me. When she reached the point

where she looked at me openly, I knew she was ready for the next step.

"Helena? Do we have a deal?"

"Yes. We have a deal," she whispered.

Toby was a study in conflict. His eyes were wide, scared, but not angry. I saw lust in

them, and apprehension. Was Toby getting off at seeing his wife in this predicament?

"Toby, I suggest you leave Vegas. Go back home. We will send your wife to you when

we are finished with her." Walt's voice left little room for discussion, but Toby jumped to

answer.

"No. I want to see . . . " He froze, sweat breaking out on his face. She saw in his face

what we all saw. We all were beginning to understand why he let her gamble, why he

did not protect her as he should have . . . as he promised to do as he stood by her on the

altar just a few days ago. Consciously or subconsciously, it really makes no difference,

he had set her up for a fall.

She knew now what had happened. She started to weave as if she might faint, but fell

into a straight chair. We all waited as her ravaged mind pieced together the puzzle of her

life as it existed at this moment. "Go away, Toby. Go home. I will call you when they are

through with me. We can talk then."

"Helena, I want . . . " Walt stood, waving his arm to cut off Toby. "You heard her. The

lady has decided."

She accompanied me to my room, then put away her few clothes the bellman brought in

her luggage. She looked exhausted. When I suggested she take a nap, she mumbled a

thanks and fell on the bed, asleep before I left the room.

The ball game was in progress on the television. I was sitting in my boxers and T-shirt,

reading the newspaper, sipping a chardonnay, as I kept abreast of the televised action.

Some ironic broadcasting god caused a public service announcement for Gamblers

Anonymous to be playing on the TV as the door to the bedroom opened.

She looked dreadful in a beautiful, helpless, sensual way, which, while seeming to be a

contradiction, accurately describes her appearance. I could not understand but only

empathize with the feelings of betrayal and abandonment she must have felt when she

realized her husband maneuvered her into this situation. I could sympathize with her

feelings of helplessness and humiliation at what lay ahead. But, that empathy did not

deter me from my part in this play. It made me want the play to continue. I deeply

desired what was going to happen, without regard for the consequences to her.

She watched me now, her down-turned eyes slipping up to mine from under long lashes,

then darting away again. Slowly, she walked to the middle of the room, about four paces

from me.

 

"Where is Toby?"

"Gone. On a plane to the coast."

"May I sit down?"

I patted the couch by me. She moved as if every muscle and bone in her body ached

before sitting primly, legs together, hands folded in her lap, eyes always averted from me.

"What is going to happen?"

"You know that. Don't pretend you do not understand."

"Please, don't do it to me," she begged, unable even to look at me, turning to give me a

three-quarter view of her face which was angled down. But, her eyes flashed up at me

once.

"You heard Walt. You will cooperate! Do I need to call him? Do you want seven men to

fuck you instead of just one?"

She never responded. She never moved. She was a lump, devoid of emotion, dead

inside. It was I who spoke next.

"Go take a shower, change clothes. Wear something casual. I am ordering in room

service. Would you like to eat?" She nodded imperceptibly as she fought to stand. She

struggled to walk to the bedroom. Soon, I heard the shower. A suicide attempt by her

crossed my mind, but somehow I knew she was too tough for that. Still, I wondered if I

was correctly reading all the signals she was sending me.

By the time the food arrived, she had showered and was sitting on the couch in a pretty

blouse and a skirt which came to about three inches above her knee. Dinner was a

strange affair. Conversation attempts fell flat. We both ate a reasonable meal, however,

with a bottle of wine to wash it down. The tension, so thick you could not cut it with the

steak knives room service delivered, never eased.

After dinner, she excused herself for a few minutes. When she returned, she sat on the

opposite side of the room in a straight chair by the desk. I sipped my wine, ostensibly

watching the last of the ball game, but really watching her from the corner of my eye.

Helena again sat on the edge of the seat, back straight, hands folded primly, knees

together, a picture of demure womanhood. She never looked my way unless she thought

I was not watching her. Then, I would catch her staring at me with an expression I had

trouble reading because of the way I was watching her. When the game was over, I

clicked off the tube, sat down my drink, and sat on the edge of the couch, facing her.

"Stand up and let me see you, Helena."

Helena's head popped up to stare at me, her eyes big and frightened. She turned a

scarlet red and shook her head 'no'. My immutable stare told her to proceed. She stood,

a tear coming to her eye as she began unbuttoning her blouse.

There is something very erotic about forcing a woman sexually, about taking her to or

beyond her limits. She seemed unaware her hesitation, and the slow, rhythmic pace of

her undressing increased its erotic impact, as did the begging in her eyes.

My mind flashed to Gina, a wild Italian I had dated before she hooked a doctor. Gina

loved sex and was a master at building tension, of making foreplay itself so special and

unique, intercourse was almost anticlimactic. Gina knew how to make a man force her:

how to maneuver him into making her surrender to him, take her against her apparent

will. She would surrender with elan. The eroticism that dance with her generated fueled

dreams for a lifetime. Now, Helena was generating that kind of heat, all be it without

intent and with consequences, real or imagined, if she did not comply.

Had she looked away, or looked angry or disgusted, the spell would have been broken.

But, her eyes continually transmitted their message of humbling and involuntary

submission which the rhythm of her hands reinforced. It was a slow, desperate dance by

one building desire in another.

Clad now only in a bra and panties, with her hips turned so her leg blocked my frontal

view and her arms covered her breasts modestly, she finally verbalized what her eyes

and body had been saying: "Please, don't make me . . . "

I said nothing. I had no compunction about making her, forcing her to submit to my

demands, to bear my weight when I was ready. It was the incredible, exquisite tension

she was building I wished to continue for as long as possible. My cock had never been

that hard. I wanted her to continue at her own pace, the pace which was driving me to

unprecedented levels of desire.

I could see her back straighten as a hand slipped behind her to release her bra. The bra

fell loose, but not away, trapped against her breasts by her arm. She looked away and

closed her eyes. Slowly, with one hand, she began to slip the panties off her hips and

down her legs. She looked like "September Morn," her side to me, body curled to hide

her nudity, protecting herself as best she could with only her hands and arms, panties

trapped around one trim ankle like a white flag of surrender.

Did she realize how delicious she looked? How helpless, how feminine, with her ass and

legs so perfectly posed to arouse the animal in a man? Did she realize she was driving

me wild with desire?

Again, I neither moved nor spoke, letting her work her way through it, giving her time to

adjust. When she finally looked at me again, she stared openly, as if looking away was

more than she could bear. Looking into her big, doe eyes, I was stunned and excited by

her expression. It was sexual desire and a pleading for tenderness, more than a

reflection of humiliation. It was need as well as embarrassment. Or, was I mistaken, my

own desire clouding my vision? It made no difference. I was driven on.

"Move your hands away and let me see you."

She sobbed audibly and quivered. Tears, absent except for one lone tear since we first

began, rolled silently down her face. Her hands clenched, knuckles white, muscles in

her arms corded, as she fought to do what she knew she must. She turned, like a steel

bar being slowly torqued to straightness, until she faced me, legs together, arms rigid by

her side, eyes clenched shut, her face a grimace.

Who knows what in a woman appeal to a man? What one man sees as sexual and

physical perfection, another finds only vaguely attractive. Helena hit me right on target.

"You are magnificent."

It was muted, said very unintentionally, just an honest comment slipping out when not

expected. She looked very surprised, even pleased, I had said it, as a slow blush

crawled up from her belly to cover her face, a red glow to emphasize her sad, passive

eyes.

I waited until her hands fell open by her side and the tension lines in her face slackened.

I walked to her slowly, watching her eyes widen, tensions return as she stared

unblinking, fear evident in her frozen face. With the tip of a finger under her chin, I

guided her head upwards and held it there as I softly kissed her lips. Her lips were cool

and clammy, evidence of her mental state. Once again, she was rigid as she waited to be

taken. But, did her eyes have a hint of something?

Part of me, specifically the part sticking out like a tree desperate to be planted, wanted to

take her that instant. But, the larger part wished to continue the slow torture she had

begun. I slowly walked around her, dragging my left hand across her cool skin as I did. I

could feel her flesh moving under my fingertips.

I stopped in front, leaning into her, letting my hard cock brush her pubis through the

protective layer of the boxer's cotton cloth, as I kissed her again, feeling her lips part

slightly. I half-expected her to flee. She stood rooted in place.

Now, I wished to bring my desire to fever pitch. All my movements were slow, obvious,

visible to her, so her reactions would reflect in her face for me to see. I brought both

hands up in her line of vision and lowered them again to cup her breasts. She twitched

as if jolted by electricity, as my hands closed on her high, firm breasts and my thumbs

found her nipples. Anguish ruled her eyes, her lips curled in terror, but her body, except

for small tremors not controllable by her, was still, letting me do as I wished.

Did I misread again, or did desire flicker for an instant? Why were her nipples so hot and

hard in my hand, like the nipples of women who wanted my hands there, not like a

woman being raped?

I continued to enjoy her body with my hands, enjoy her emotions with my eyes, as I

touched her, all of her, slowly, decadently. I leaned to kiss the tender cusp between neck

and shoulder, where the collarbone disappears, feeling the hot flesh under my lips.

Moving slightly to stand to her left, I brought my left hand under her chin as my right

found the cheek of her ass. She gasped as I squeezed, digging my fingers into her flesh.

Fingers under her jawbone, I lifted, forcing her on tip toes, feeling the hard ass-muscle

tighten in my hand. She was stretching and the ass muscle spasmed under the pressure

of my grip, sending a jolt to my already overwrought cock.

My right hand released. She shifted her weight foot to foot, trying to balance. The

tension is my left arm made it spasm as I continued to force her head in the air. The

middle finger of my hand moved across the furrow at the top of her ass where back and

ass join, to the divide, sliding down to rest on the puckered entrance, testing it.

"Please," she squeaked as my finger moved back and forth, and her ass hole throbbed in

response, tightening to repel penetration, then, relaxing again.

"NO!" She jumped, squealing as I swatted her ass cheek hard, trying to flee but my hand

was in her hair holding her close to me. Her lip quivered as tears again started. As she

rubbed her ass with both hands, she could not take her eyes from mine. Her eyes

begged me to let her go, be gentle, to give her mercy.

I had no mercy to give. This rape, this taking of her, controlled me as I controlled her . . .

without mercy, without humanity, with an animal passion I had never felt.

"Crawl into the bed, Helena."

It did not even sound like me. It was the voice of a lust-filled madman. I watched the

delightful sway of her ass as she crawled toward the bed, relishing her subjugation and

surrender as much as anything sexual I had ever done. As she crawled onto the bed, I

pinned her with a harsh hand on the back of her neck holding her against the mattress.

My free hand dropped between her legs to pull at the dark tuft, caress the curve of her

ass, as she lay, half-on, half-off, the bed with one knee and an extended foot supporting

her weight.

When I released her, she moved again to lie in the center. I watched as she lay face

down, then, rolled over to look at me, her lower body still twisted, vainly seeking

protection from that which was to follow.

As I knee walked beside her, her fists clenched as her arms came in front of her chest.

Her hips turned, bringing her legs up in a defensive fetal position, and those eyes never

left mine. I swatted her again, leaving the print of a palm and fingers in red on the white of

her thigh. Her eyes were cowed now. Slowly, her hands and legs moved, fists still

clenched as they slowly fell to lay by her head, legs straight out on the bed, together and

locked.

"Open your legs so I can fuck you!"

One shake of her head saying 'no'.

I jammed my hard knee between her thighs, relishing the thrill of driving them apart by

brute strength, shifting my weight so my full two hundred pounds were on the fulcrum.

She was strong, determined to resist to the end. I could feel the muscles in her thighs

quiver and strain as they fought to keep me from between them.

I saw a drop of red on her hand where a nail had spilt her own flesh in a clench of

emotional intensity. The sight of the blood exploded a memory from the recesses of my

subconscious.

I was thirteen, with my father and uncle in the heavy brush of far south Texas on a deer

hunt. I had shot my first deer, hitting a doe in the shoulder with a flat shot from about

eighty yards. Ignoring my father's yells to be careful with a loaded rifle, I ran toward the

deer, who was mortally wounded but struggling to flee. I was panting, gasping, as I stood

beside her. She was breathing rapidly and raggedly, her struggling almost over, as she

lay dying at my feet.

"You can't let her suffer, son," Dad said, his hand firm on my shoulder. "We need to put

her out of her misery." He told me how to do it and gave me his hunting knife.

In one swift, brutal stroke, I drove the blade of his hunting knife into the doe's throat,

severing the cartoroid artery. Blood flowed from her neck as the light in her eyes flickered

and died. The doe shuddered violently, releasing air from her wounded lungs in the rattle

of death.

It was those eyes . . . of the doe in the last seconds of her life, just before the

uncomprehendable and overpowering knowledge of imminent death vanished with life

itself . . . I saw in Helena's face at that moment. I felt her resistance end and the muscles

in her legs relax.

A hand on each knee, I pulled her legs up and apart, bending and spreading them,

opening her, rolling her hips up to give me the angle I desired. Her fists relaxed,

revealing the hole in her palm, the blood oozing to form a red slash in mute

acknowledgment of her sacrifice.

Bending her double, I lodged the tip of my cock between the lips of her pussy. In that

instant in which I was poised at her gates, I felt her love juices thick around my cock head

and the bloated fullness of her lower lips. Yet, from the corner of my eye, I saw the blood

in her hand where her nail had penetrated her skin. I seized a wrist in each hand,

trapping her hands by her head, shifting my weight to power my cock into her using my

hands on her trapped wrists for balance.

I saw her doe eyes flicker and change as I drove my cock into her in one, swift, brutal

stroke.

Time stood still as I froze, like a statue, my cock buried in her, my eyes burning into hers.

I could feel her cervix against my cock head. I could feel her heat and slickness around

my shaft, a spasm of her pussy walls around me. I could feel the inside of her thighs

from my rib cage to my crotch, and the front of her calves under my arms. I could hear

her ragged breathing, see the labored rise and fall of her breasts. I could smell her heat,

her fear, her desire.

I could see her eyes: her soft, woman's eyes.

Helena shuddered violently, releasing air in a hushed but unmistakable murmur.

"Please. Don't stop."
E. Z. Riter