After the Fight

Mason sat slouching in the armchair, dumb animal eyes staring out insensible onto the TV screen before him. On the screen there was a sitcom and within the sitcom, there was a mandatory blonde waitress with what he'd judged to be proportionate breasts. She was standing, hand on hips berating customers, acerbic lines from a cartoonish parody of pain; the laugh-track met with silence from the room beyond. Neither Dominic nor Mason had spoken to each other properly for the best part of 20 minutes, just chasing around sporadic bits of small talk. Having done with the boxing, there’s been little else to say – a slow winding down to the tempo of late night TV.

Upstairs, there was Jennifer or Jenny or Jen. She had gotten herself out of the way as soon as Mason arrived, detesting the man for his vulgarities, his violent relationships and a misogyny that not only seemed to plague his manner, but seemed to manifest in the very flesh that pulsed from his swollen body. Mean-faced, fat bodied, often loud, he’d slapped her ass once and was reprimanded by Dom – sort of – though since then, she’d kept out of his way. She didn’t know why her husband had remained friends with him – or maybe she did. He was a little scared of him, but felt sorry for him too – the instability of his economic life, his endless relationships that always seemed to begin and end in violence with women every bit as derelict as himself. Dominic and him had been friends since school, and though Dominic had done ok, found himself economically adaptable, due to any number of character defects, Mason never had. She hated him. As a result, Jen had taken herself to her bedroom, tidied a few things away and settled herself down on her bed with a book she’d been waiting to find time to finish for ages.

Downstairs again, Dominic had just returned to the room after receiving a phone call. He’d taken it in the hall. Mason was looking at him with the air of a question traced somewhere in his dull, flaccid face. “My mother’s having another of her episodes”, Dom was saying to him as he was putting on his jacket and pocketing his phone. “I’m gonna have to go.”

Mason said nothing, watching Dominic as he moved to the coffee table, scooping up his keys. He turned back to Mason – “You finish your beer and let yourself out. I’ll probably be gone till morning”. Mason said nothing. He just watched Dominic leave. Dominic didn’t call up to let Jenny know – he figured she’d likely be asleep now. 'There had to be a better way of seeing this guy,' he thought, letting himself out into the cold night.

Mason turned back to the TV. The blonde with the proportionate breasts had been substituted for a brunette with what he judged to be disproportionately larger breasts and a blouse. She was in some kind of an office setting, though Mason barely noticed, taking another sip of his drink as he contemplated the woman upstairs. He’d always wanted to fuck her and this was his chance. It was inconceivable to him too that he should submit to any objection. That really wasn’t how things worked for him. Mason had no space inside himself for the internal life of others. If he did, he would not have been Mason. So it was that he found himself raising his languid form from the chair he was sat and making his way out into the hallway.

Jenny had not fully closed the bedroom door, but had just pushed it too. Relaxed in her own home, she enjoyed the sense of freedom the opening gave her. The opening was just enough for Mason to look in at her lay on her side, looking down at her book, her dirty-blonde hair tied up, though it had previously been down at her shoulders. Though he could only see the upper half of her body, by the red blouse he could conclude that she hadn’t changed since his arrival. Below, she would be wearing a black pencil skirt and being lain on the bed, she would likely be barefoot.

She was facing him, wearing reading glasses – he’d never seen her in glasses – though as yet, she hadn’t noticed him. Too engrossed in her book. However, the longer he stood looking, the more his presence seemed to saturate the environment with its psychic aura. As his thoughts became more intense, Jennifer, bit by bit, began to feel that something wasn’t right. It was when he took a drink that she looked up, double taking as she caught sight of him in the narrow crack between the door and its frame. She started, pulling herself upright immediately and bringing her hand to her chest with a slight gasp, then “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!”

Mason was pushing open the door and stepping into the room as Jenny rotated her legs from the bed to hang them over the side, looking at him, the initial shock subsiding and transforming into the question of why he was here at all. She looked at him quizzically as he stood in the room, imposing, silent, taking another drink from his can. “Can I help you with something? The toilet’s just down the hall on the left?”

Mason shook his head, turning and was now closing the bedroom door behind him. Jenny stood, her feelings increasingly uneasy. Something about this just wasn’t right and closing the door? … What the fuck? … He’d turned to look at her again, his can still in his hand and she’d asked, almost reactively “Where’s Dominic? He’ll be getting bored,” trying to gain any insight into what was happening here.

Mason’s eyes swept the room. The bed was central, against a side wall; the door he’d entered through was in the corner on the far side of the bed; Jenny was standing on the same side of the bed as Mason, having quite naturally gotten off that side, though she was still near to the head of the bed and behind her there was a wardrobe. Mason was now placing his can down on a dresser, which was just to the side of the door, lining the narrow corridor of floor that would lead him to Jennifer.

“He had to go out,” Mason said without emotion as the can touched down on the surface of the dresser. He raised his gaze to meet Jen’s. “Something about his mother.”

This was odd and Jennifer stalled. Her mind was split down two roads - that of what was happening with Dominic's mother and that of what was happening here. Her eyes scattered for a moment left and right, though she didn’t know why. Maybe she was looking for some assistance in a situation that as yet she hadn’t defined. “Do you want me to call you a cab or something?” she replied, instinctively taking a step backwards, though again being completely incapable of knowing if that was necessary.

Mason shook his head, “Not yet,” then took a step forward, matching her step back and maintaining the distance. Sinister again. Was she making too much of this? Her mind raced. Her voice rose a little in pitch as she replied “Look, you can’t just come in here and shut the door on us” – stumbling through the unfamiliar, her words coming faster than she could think about them, “You’re freaking me out”, regretting her words as soon as she’d uttered them, embarrassed, confused.

He swept his eyes over her, seemingly completely unmoved – her bare feet on the shagged carpet, the calves that led to the hem of the pencil skirt which began just below her knees, the red blouse that hung loose around her breasts, then her face, free of her tied back hair, pronouncing bewildered hazel eyes from behind the lenses of the reading glasses. “I always wanted to rape you”, he said “and tonight's looking like a good night for it.” His voice was calm and even – it’s not like this kind of thing was new to him.

Jennifer was stunned and her heart suddenly exploded in her chest. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Had she even heard it right? She stepped back on auto-pilot. “You need to get out of my house right now Mason,” a tremor in her voice, unable to keep her tone’s composure. “You go now, I won’t say a word about this”, pointing at the door, her left foot moving back again.

Mason shook his head again. “I’ve been wanting to do this for months,” he replied with an unexplainable bitterness, “You think I'm just gonna walk out now?”. He stepped forward in slow steps, one at a time. She stepped back, eyes moving left and right, trying to find anything that might help her. A lamp over the other side of the bed on the bed-side table, her cell-phone by her purse on top of the dresser by which Mason was now standing, the house-phone downstairs in the hallway. Her heart was beating as wildly as her eyes were searching or her mind thinking. Mason’s eyes were alight with the full impression of what he intended to do to her. “JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” she yelled in desperation, again pointing at the door, backing into the wardrobe doors with a start that somewhat broke the forceful impact of her cry.

Mason remained unperturbed. She was cornered. The wardrobe behind her, the bed to the right of her, and to her left, the wall containing the door and against which was the dresser with her phone and Mason’s can. He spoke to her in a slow and even tone “You yell like that again you bitch, and I’m gonna start hittin’ you. I mean it – you ain’t the kinda girl that can handle me hittin’ you.”

The words struck her deep and she knew he meant it. Hell, she knew he’d done this shit before. He was a violent man, both with men and with women. She, on the other hand, was utterly terrified of violence. Her hand sagged a little, still weakly aimed in the direction of the door. Every cell in her body was screaming at her to run, but where to? She was dizzy, faint. The very thought of this guy touching her, being inside her, just filled her with a horror so totalizing that just imagining it was unbearable. “Please”, she said, her voice cracking on the brink of tears “I can give you money”. She was terrified. It was pathetic to offer, but she couldn't think of another thing to do.

Mason closed the gap. He almost laughed in her face when she offered money. Like he gave two shits about money. “I don’t want your fuckin’ money”, he growled in a low voice that trembled with the anticipation of what was about to happen. "We're gonna get on that bed, and I'm gonna fuck you I'm gonna fuck you and you're gon' keep your slut mouth shut while I do it. You got that?" He stood now less than a meter away. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and the warm energy that emanated from his clothing.

Her head spun and she could say nothing as he gripped one of her arms just above the elbow, another hand gripped her hair, a fat hand there in the very root dragging her with suddenness in the direction of the bed. She squealed with the tug of the hair and he told her again to shut her fuckin' mouth, now dragging her down onto the mattress. She’d begun to cry just before he grabbed her – her crying marked a helplessness that was the catalyst for him grabbing her. By the time her back hit the mattress and he was crawling on top of her, dragging her up the bed she was full-on sobbing “Please, please don’t. I'm your friend's wife. He's good to you.” Trying anything she could, just trying to get him to think clearly and stop.

The pleas fell on deaf ears, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as he dragged her up the mattress so that her body lay the full extent of the bed, his body on top of hers. In the commotion, her book had fallen to the floor, falling inside downward, creasing the pages. Mason had a hand on her breast and was roughly mauling her as, animalistic, his fleshy lips were sucking at her neck and licking at her face. He could taste her foundation, her blusher, her tears. She was squirming, turning her head to the side. She saw the lamp, but she daren’t hit him – he’d fucking kill her. His hand was hurting her breast as he squeezed it and she was squirming, telling him he was hurting her, telling him not to hurt her.

He mauled her for some time – what felt like some time. Minute after minute ticking by, his knees forcing between her legs, his other hand forcing the skirt up her thighs. Her underwear was black panties and lace. His hand mauled there too whilst she sobbed and said it over and over “Please stop! I can't do this!” Her sobbing was loud and out of control, but it wouldn’t be loud enough to attract any outside attention. She was just too terrified of him to try and scream meaningfully for help, and she couldn't guarantee anyone would hear her anyway. Her immediate neighbour was out for the evening and the street outside was normally pretty quiet, especially at this time of night.

He ripped her blouse to expose a black, matching lace bra. Breasts he’d envisioned countless times were now brought into view, his mouth moving down to suck at them. Below, his fingers were forcing up past her panties, into her body, clumsy and with no thought for what she might be feeling. What she was feeling was utter revulsion; revulsion and nausea. Her whole body just wanted to expel these forces, these swollen fingers that felt so large in their unwantedness and seem to crawl outside of themselves, into and out of her nerve-endings, over her arms, over her legs, up and down her spine, an electricity that should have been pleasure, but teemed instead like spiders around her nervous system. She had struggled throughout, but it achieved nothing. She wriggled, squirmed, pushed at his hands, but he just persisted, effortlessly, moving her as he wanted her, penetrating her as he wanted to, her strength being no match for his own overweight, drunken bulk.

She was hyperventilating now and any pleas or words had become coughed out hic-ups, broken protestations and the gagging need for air. Mason raised himself from her, removed his fingers from her and began to tug the waistband of her underwear down her legs. “P… Plea… St… S…” Her ripped blouse, a bra-strap hanging limp down one of her arms, both breasts forced out from the bra-cups that contained them – proportionate breasts - remembering how he'd characterised the TV waitress, he smiled.

He was unbuttoning his jeans now, eager to get inside her. Almost delirious, she’d raised a hand to try and prevent him, but he’d slapped her – a hard crack across her face that knocked her head sideways. Her pussy, he concluded, was ordinarily shaven, though today she appeared to have a couple of days growth that for whatever reason she hadn’t bothered with. He mentioned this as he laid himself down on her, her eyes having closed tightly in shame and the desire to make whatever she could of this situation disappear. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her, in her own home, in her marital bed, by a close friend of her husband’s.

She could feel the penis now being forced into her. It filled her – or it felt like it did. She hardly felt herself ready for this, though her body had still taken care of a lot of the mechanics for her. She felt sick and raised her arms only to have them pinned by the wrists to the mattress by a pair of stronger arms. “Whose hands?” she thought, hiding in the blackness of her tight-shut eyes. She tried to imagine it as other men, she tried to imagine it in other places, she tried to imagine nothing was happening at all, but the nausea grew and the electric insects crawled and the wet mouth continued to suck and lick and grunt and gasp. Back and forth, she felt it. The swollen cock going in and out, the bed rocking to the rhythm beneath her.

He went on for what felt like ages. Normally, he'd have finished quickly, but he was drunk and even in the violence of rape, the sensations felt numbed to him. Still though, it was probably no more than about 25 minutes, but on and on it went. Gradually the thrusts became harder and faster and the hands, when they mauled her breasts, became more bruising. He’d call her names, but she’d stopped responding. He’d call her a bitch, a slut, the kind of woman that dresses to encourage this kind of thing. She barely heard it though, dreaming herself away, unhinged in her own hysterical revulsion. She tried counting the thrusts in her head, which by now were coming faster and faster. “Seventy three, seventy four, seventy five.” In the speed and in the force of his touch, she could feel he was reaching his climax and then it came.

The first wave was the biggest. Clearly it had the greatest effect on him too – all action immediately halted as he moaned several short, broken, ecstatic moans. In the next thrust was a smaller deposit, though the orgasm again put pain to his motions, halting him in order to let another great wave of pleasure subside. The last few thrusts came one after the other, each depositing less than the last, the orgasm dying and his body finally collapsing on hers exhausted. She continued to sob beneath him, the electricity in her own nerve endings gradually quieting, feeling his cock growing softer inside her. She felt awkward. What now? She said nothing, she could think of nothing to say.

At last, after the longest time, he began to raise himself. He looked down – her breasts were bruised, her neck and shoulders were badly love-bitten, her face turning purple where he’d hit her. There was no way he was going to get away with this he was thinking and he redid his jeans. Her eyes were still shut tight and her body trembling all over. “You look a mess” he said, almost sympathetically, pulling himself from between her legs and dismounting the bed. She said nothing. “He’ll be home soon”, he spoke again, but nothing. “Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.” – she just lay there, eyes shut in the position he’d left her in. He took his can, exited through the bedroom door and then made his way out into the darkness.

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