Page 6 of Delivered to the Devil

Barely daring to breathe, I lie completely still. The only motion is my stomach muscles that contract when the fingers graze a sensitive spot. They keep exploring my body with startling patience, as if curious to discover every curve and line. I become acutely sensitive, tingling all over while shivers shoot through me in all directions.

At some point, I even start trusting the digits as they show no signs of the untamed violence I expected.

When the hands have explored every little nook and cranny of my stomach, thighs, legs, and arms—even my palms—they find their way back to my chest to knead my breasts. Slowly and carefully. I squirm as I fight the urge to give in to the tempting sensations. The massive man, who still has a hand on my chest, presses down in response, and when I writhe more, he pushesharder, forcing me to give up the struggle again as the weight constricts my lungs.

The fingers move down to caress the sides of my mound, slipping between my thighs, just barely grazing my folds. I whimper and squeeze my thighs together, trying to deny the fingers entrance. But that’s not their intention. They don't even try to push inside. They just continue the light stroking that I could easily mistake for a lover’s touch.

But that’s not what this is. I know that. The fabric in my mouth and the ropes around my neck constantly remind me what this is. But my body doesn’t care. My breathing deepens and heat pools between my legs as the fingers keep touching. I hold my breath, hoping it will help me control the heat rising in me, but it’s no use. Instead of concealing my reactions, I end up sucking in abrupt gulps of air through my nose when the air in my lungs grows scarce.

A chuckle sounds above me—probably from the man exploring my body—and a single finger slides up through my lips. Shame burns white-hot within me when he drags it down my thigh, leaving a trail of moisture in its wake.

Tears leak from my eyes, and I shake my head. How can this happen? I truly thought my depraved urges remained within the bounds of consent—fake, negotiated violations with men that I had chosen. Not in my wildest dreams did I think my body would respond like this to a real violation. I wish the man would fuck me brutally instead of toying with my body, stirring this reaction in me.

Shame constricts my chest, and sobs stutter in my throat, making me cough as I almost choke on the fabric in my mouth.

“Enough for today,” the man exploring my body says and abruptly removes his hands. I don’t know if he says it to me or the men, but as he leaves the room, the two men holding me down start to untie the ropes.

The man at my feet keeps up the cold brutality, but the one beside my head proceeds with an almost tender touch. He takes his time untying my wrists and the rope around my neck, gently lifting my head and placing my hands at my sides as he goes.

He pulls up the pillowcase, just enough to remove the gag, and proceeds with a strange carefulness as he removes the tape in increments, as if trying to reduce the pain. The irony throbs in my knee as I remember how he caused that pain earlier.

All the fight seems to have drained from me, leaving only paralyzation. Even as my limbs are free, I just lie there, letting the massive man pull the pillowcase back down over my mouth and tuck the comforter around my naked body, like he’s putting a child back to bed after a nightmare. I don’t even move a muscle as the men leave and I hear the finality of the front door clicking shut, leaving a quietness as eerie as the nightmare I just endured.

I can’t seem to break out of the shock, and I have no idea how long I lie there before I finally pull my hands out from the comforter to remove the pillowcase. Then another long stretch of time passes while I stare unmoving into the darkness.

CHAPTER 3

“Isolation Years”

by Opeth

Rebecca

The pale shades of the early morning light infiltrate the darkness, leaving the room in murky shades of gray when I finally break free from the paralysis. I still haven’t moved a finger except to remove the pillowcase after the intruders left. I haven’t even turned my head to check the clock.

Pushing up to sit on the edge of the bed, I place my feet flat on the cool floor and fumble for the switch on the nightstand. The lamp flickers on, and I blink against the soft light like it’s a wall full of fluorescents.

As I scan the room, I find no signs of someone having been here. For a moment, I think it was all a figment of my imagination. Maybe I’m going crazy. Maybe it was an unusually lifelike dream.

But then I gaze down at my body, and the evidence is everywhere on me. Rope marks on my ankles and wrists, an angry bruise that throbs on my right knee, and burn marks scattered across my hips and thighs from when they ripped my clothes off. My eyes flicker between my ankles and wrists, and I notice how different the rope marks are. My ankles itch from the sloppy red marks, while elegant, twisted patterns adorn mywrists with marks that might as well have been the result of a night with a skilled rigger at a BDSM club.

Shuddering at the thought, I dart up from the bed to rid myself of it and pull on an oversized T-shirt.I’m not sick for liking those things,I remind myself as I often do. But this time, the words do little to appease me as I remember how wet I was when those long fingers slid between my folds.

My stomach churns at the thought, and I try to convince myself it was just a defense mechanism. Getting wet can be a way for the body to protect itself. But deep down, I know that’s not what this is.

I make my way to the hall and come to an abrupt stop when I find the most disturbing evidence of all. The door chain hangs in two vertical lines. Cut in the middle. Mocking me for thinking such a brittle thing could ever protect me.

With shaky hands, I grab the two pieces of chain and stare at them. Then I open the door, and shivers burst through my body when I see the scratches around the lock.

I’m not insane. Someone didbreak in and assault me.

With my head frozen in numbness, I move back into the main room. Not knowing what to do with myself, I stop in the middle of the room and stare straight ahead without seeing anything. Once again, time drags on in a frozen stillness until thoughts begin to filter back in.

What now? What is the normal thing to do in this kind of situation? Go to the hospital? Call a friend? Reach out to family?

I don’t have any injuries that need medical attention, and a vaginal swab is pointless since I haven’t been raped. My family and friends are over six-hundred miles away, and even if they were here, it wouldn’t make a difference. They’d all say it was my own fault for being so perverted, knowing the things I’m into.

Maybe my big sister would lend a little support?

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