The Edge of Consent

"The more experience and insight I obtain into human nature, the more convinced do I become that the greater portion of a man is purely animal."
- Henry Morton Stanley

"Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac."
- Henry Kissinger

* * *

Marina sighed as she entered her apartment and tossed her bag on the couch. She looked at her watch, dangling loose on her slender wrist. Another "two-hour" photoshoot that had somehow stretched into five hours. The pay, naturally, had not stretched along with it. The sun had set and it was almost completely dark already. She kicked off her shoes, splashed some cold water on her face, put a frozen dinner into the microwave, and sank down onto the couch next to her bag. She put her head in her hands and asked herself the same question she had asked a hundred times before. What was she doing here?

Marina was nineteen years old and had grown up in a small town in northern California. All throughout middle school and high school, she had heard the praise about how she was smart, how she was athletic, how she was attractive, how she was guaranteed to be successful in life. Her parents had pushed her in their controlling, live-vicariously-through-your-kid way, informing her that Dad had graduated from Berkeley, Mom had graduated from Berkeley, and dammit, she was going to graduate from Berkeley too.

But Marina was also stubborn. The harder her parents pushed, the harder she pushed back. She had done some modeling in high school after classes and on the weekends. Made pretty good money doing it, too. She had taken the bus to San Francisco until she had earned enough to buy a used car. Eventually, she had made enough to trade in her used car for a brand-new one. Nothing fancy, just a Toyota Corolla, but there she was, with a brand-new car that she had purchased with help from no one else, before she had graduated from high school. How many of her classmates could say that?

So when she had realized that her parents had the next four years, and perhaps more, of her life all planned out for her, it was time to take action. She had defiantly stuck her (small) chest out and informed them that she wasn't going to Berkeley, she wasn't going to any college, but instead was going to L.A. to have a career as a model. She was different from all those other girls who ended up either running home to daddy or having to resort to making a living on her back or on her knees and calling a different man daddy. Right? After all, she already had a proven track record of success. So, ignoring her mother's wailing and her father's gnashing of teeth, as soon as she had finished high school, she had loaded up her Corolla with her belongings and headed south to L.A.

Now, she was one year older, one year wiser, and about thirty years more cynical. Her tiny studio apartment cost $925 per month. (Electricity not included). She had left all her friends behind, but she'd made new friends here. Sort of. If you could call shallow drug addicts and lazy moochers friends. And of course there was no shortage of guys hitting on her, so there was plenty of empty, meaningless sex available if that was her thing. Which it wasn't, but she did it anyway. She had sexual needs, and no other kind appeared to be available.

The microwave beeped. She took out her cardboard-flavored chicken breast with mashed potatoes and peas and sat back on the couch to eat, digging the day's mail out of her bag at the same time. The electric bill. Had it been a month already? She sighed even before she opened it, knowing that her liberal use of the air conditioner during last month's several heat waves would mean some unattractive numbers.

"Nothing I can't handle," said Marina out loud. She looked at the bill, then reached over for the binder where she kept the records of all her income and expenses and crunched some numbers in her head. She would have a positive cash flow - just barely - this month. At least things were better than when she had first arrived. She had been losing money month after month, dipping deeper and deeper into her savings, until she had discovered that topless modeling paid a lot more than modeling with the twins covered up. Her small, firm, perfectly round 32B's with sharp, pointy pink nipples were always a hit.

She stood up, took off her pants, and looked at her reflection in the mirror, wearing only white panties and a white T-shirt. With her elegant and high-cheekboned face, full and pouty lips, pale skin, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and deep blue eyes, her face was at least in demand in the world of modeling. Her body, too. She had always been naturally slim, and she could maintain her model-thin, 5'6", 103-pound figure, with her 23-inch waist and 33-inch hips, through careful eating and frequent exercise. Her slender thighs had a little bit of visible muscle tone, and her stomach was firm and flat. The outline of her perky little braless tits and erect nipples was visible underneath her top. She didn't even have to pop any pills or puke up her meals like some of the other girls did. She finished her peas, making sure to eat exactly three-fourths of the chicken breast and only half of the mashed potatoes, and tossed the remnants in the trash.

She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels. "What am I doing here?" she said again, this time out loud. This wasn't the life she had imagined. As much as she hated to admit it, she probably would be happier right now if she was in a dorm room at Berkeley, partying with real friends. Her life here was work and emptiness. Even when she went to parties, she didn't have fun. But she wasn't going back. She could just see her parents, triumphant and self-righteous smirks on their faces, saying, over and over again, "We told you so."

She found the channel with the Dodger game and half-watched, half continued thinking about her situation. She would get her big break that would propel her out of this rut sometime. She had to. Sure, she was too short to be a runway model, but there were lots of other kinds...

Sometime during the sixth inning, she fell asleep on the couch.

Marina was awakened by a scraping sound. Sitting up, she heard voices. The game was over and the sports talking heads were yammering on and on. She clicked the TV off, tilted her head, and listened again.

The scraping came once more. It seemed to be coming from above. She looked upward, towards the skylight, and was horrified to see a large, black-clad figure dropping down from the opening. The intruder, showing impressive agility for his size, executed a double salto in midair to soften his fall and landed perfectly on his booted feet.

Her heart pounding, adrenaline flowing through her, panic flowing through her brain, Marina managed to focus on a single thought: Her gun! The .45 pistol, a gift from her uncle, was in the drawer next to her bed. Racing across the room, she dove onto the bed and reached into the drawer.

The uninvited guest was already moving. He threw his powerful body into a cartwheel followed by a series of fast back handsprings directly at her. By the time she had taken out the weapon, chambered a round, and removed the safety, he was on her. A large hand grabbed her right arm and twisted it painfully. The gun fell to the floor.

Marina tried attacking with her knee, intending to drive it into his groin. He was far too quick for her, however, and swiftly turned away. Her knee bounced harmlessly into the side of his thigh.

"Feisty, huh?" he whispered in a rough voice. "I like that. I like the knee strike myself." With that, he rammed his knee into her midsection. She doubled over in pain, gasping. He kicked her in the head with his big black boot and she crumpled to the floor.

Semi-conscious, Marina was vaguely aware of the intruder picking up the gun, removing the magazine, ejecting the round in the chamber, and throwing them away. He stood over her as the rest of her senses slowly returned. She began opening her mouth.

"No," he whispered in the same rough voice. "No screaming. Nothing that will wake the neighbors." He raised his leg. "It'd be a damn shame if a delicate little throat like yours got stomped on. Now do we have an understanding?"

Marina nodded, trembling with anger and fear.

"Get up, strip, and lie on the bed," he ordered.

She stood up slowly, still in pain. She removed her white T-shirt, exposing the 32B's that stood proudly on her chest. Her nipples were erect. She hesitated as she reached for her panties. "Please, can't we..." she began.

He was on her again in a flash, slamming her against the wall. A muscular forearm pressed against her throat, cutting off her air. "I thought we had an understanding. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. You have a choice. Do exactly as I say, without question and without hesitation, and live through this. Or don't. Now will there be any more misunderstandings?" He continued choking her until she felt like she was going to pass out, then suddenly released the pressure slightly, allowing her to breathe and talk, though she still couldn't move.

"No more misunderstandings," she said in a small voice.

"Good." He stepped back, finally freeing her, and pointed at her underwear. She slowly pulled down her panties, exposing her pink pussy lips crowned by a small landing strip of dark brown pubic hair. She looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

"Look at me," he whispered.

She forced herself to obey, looking into his eyes. Strangely, his face betrayed no emotion at all. He simply pointed to the bed. She found herself moving towards it, not even remembering making a conscious decision to do so. She lay on the bed on her back. For the first time, he smiled.

The intruder stood in the glow from the lamp next to the couch, giving Marina her first good look at him. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet. His semi-longish black hair and strong jawline gave him a naturally dominant look. Then he began taking off his clothes. He started with his black jacket, revealing that he had on nothing underneath. His chest was heavily muscled and his arms looked massive and powerful. His abs had a well-defined six-pack, and his deeply tanned skin contrasted sharply with Marina's pale, petite figure. He then took off his boots and pants. Apparently, he had gone commando, as his large erection quickly sprang free. Now nude except for his black leather gloves, he advanced towards the bed.

Marina's mind was flooded with confused and conflicting emotions. She was still fearful, and she was still angry. Yet there was a part of her that seemed to be saying that everything would be all right if she gave this man what he wanted. In addition, a dampness was beginning to grow in her pussy. How could she actually feel attraction towards this man, this rapist? She was ashamed of it, but the attraction wasn't going away. There was just something about him, his natural dominance, the way he had so easily defeated all her attempted attacks seemingly without effort. She had met many macho, obnoxious guys who loved trying to prove how tough they were. She had always simply rolled her eyes at them. But this man was different. His power and control just seemed so...real.

He joined her on the bed. His massive cock looked even bigger close up. It had to be at least eight inches, probably eight and a half. Longer than anyone she'd had before. His dark brown eyes looked into her frightened blue ones. She sat up slowly.

"You want this, don't you," he whispered.

The defiance that was still in her found its way to the surface. "No!"

He laughed. "We'll see."

Marina hung her head in shame, realizing he could somehow sense her thoughts. She had always considered herself a strong, independent woman. She had always been proud of being financially self-sufficient at a young age and making it on her own in a new city. She had always despised women who tolerated abuse. How could she be turning into what she had always hated?

He reached for her chin, tilting her head back upwards. "Shhh." He placed his other hand on her chest, his large hand covering both of her petite breasts, and pressed her body back down.

Then, without further ado, he mounted her, penetrating her with his huge, steel-hard cock. Her wetness and her previous sexual experience reduced the pain somewhat, though it still hurt. He fucked her dominantly and hard, letting her feel his muscular bulk on top of her. He was easily more than twice her weight.

Marina began to wriggle and struggle. Though fit, she was far too small to have any chance against his strength. He suddenly hit her, backhanding her across the face. She stopped squirming.

As he began fucking her harder and faster, something changed in Marina's mind. She no longer felt the need to stop him. Rather, she wanted to show him that she could take this. She wanted to show that despite her slender frame and delicate looks, she could handle the rough sex. She knew that many of her fellow models, similar in size to her, wouldn't be able to handle a fuck this rough from a man this big. But she was different. She wasn't like those weak girls...

She began moving in rhythm with him. Looking up, she could see him smirking. He increased his pace, really pounding her, and backhanded her face a few more times. It was a struggle to keep up, but she didn't falter, and the blows to her face only increased her determination. Finally, he came hard, shooting a massive load of semen deep into her. Simultaneously, she had an equally powerful orgasm, shrieking as the pain turned to pleasure, her whole body shuddering. He slid out of her, cum dripping everywhere, and lay down next to her.

"Well, I guess I don't need to ask if it was good for you too," he laughed. Marina turned away. Her mind was still dazed and confused. She remembered all the public service announcements and Tumblr postings. "If you have an orgasm during a sexual assault, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You have no control over..." She repeated the words over and over in her head.

"You did very well. Most girls your size can't take a pounding like that." At that, she felt pride rise up inside her, then more hesitation. Why did she have anything to be proud about? She'd surrendered to him. But, on the other hand, was surrender really such a bad thing...

"This doesn't change who you are, Marina," he said.

At that, she whirled around. "You know my name?"

"I know a lot about you. Do you think I did this on a whim? Do you think I chose you at random? I've been following your modeling career for a while. You work on your own, without the help of an agency. You find your own gigs and negotiate your own rates. You're smart, strong, and determined, and in this city of sharks, girls with thicker portfolios and thicker wallets have crashed and burned. But you've not only stayed afloat, you've managed to avoid getting bitten."

"Until YOU bit me," said Marina.

He chuckled. "True."

"Then WHY?" she demanded.

"You have to be strong, every moment of every day. Everyone from producers to photographers to other models wants to take advantage of you. You have to constantly be on your guard, constantly be the responsible one, constantly make good decisions, because a single bad one could destroy your career. It's tiring, and you want a break from all that. You want someone else to take control, to take the lead, to give you a break from all that responsibility and decision-making."

Marina turned away again.

"Come on, admit it. It's true, isn't it."

She turned back slowly. "Yes," she said in a quiet voice.

He simply lay there, expression unchanging.

"What, no 'I told you so'?" she asked.

"No. I figure you hate that sort of thing."

"Oh, now you're all respectful? Did you ever think that I also hate being fucked without consent?"

"Ah, but do you really hate it? That's the real question."

Marina couldn't honestly say she had a definite answer to that. Finally she said, "So what now?"

He sat up, smirking, and pointed to his re-growing erection. "I'll let you off easy. Just a hand job this time."

"Gee, thanks," said Marina sarcastically.

He looked at her with his piercing stare. She gulped, hoping the conversation hadn't distracted her mind too much and made her overstep the bounds of good sense in a still-dangerous situation.

"You've got spunk, kid. I admire that, I really do. But never forget that there's a fine line between having spunk and being a brat. And never forget how dangerous I can be. That's what you like about me, after all."

She nodded.

"Good. Now get to business."

She grabbed his raging erection. It was huge, as big as her slender forearm. She clenched her fist around it and began moving it in a rhythmic up and down motion.

He grinned. "You have a lot of experience with this, don't you."

She shrugged. "Yes."

"I can tell. For such a skinny chick, you've got quite a grip." He held his forearm next to hers, his massive, heavily muscled one with its dark brown tan in sharp contrast to her thin, pale one. She couldn't help feeling attraction again. She had always liked guys with big, powerful arms. A distant memory of a high school boyfriend floated through her mind. She had felt so safe when he was holding her...

"Find something you like, Marina?"

The slender model said nothing.

"I could make you answer, but I won't. We both know what the answer is, anyway. I like yours too." He reached for her free arm and touched her slim wrist. She was still wearing her watch. "That's a man's watch. Little big for you, isn't it?"

Marina shrugged again. "I like the look." She was still jerking his rock-hard cock. Somehow, he was able to hold a normal conversation with her while she was doing it. Most guys lost their dignity completely when she gave them hand jobs and turned into blubbering, squealing fools. She should hate this dark and mysterious man for what he was doing to her, but instead she felt intrigued.

"Ooh, baby. Gonna cum." He suddenly grabbed her wrist and aimed his penis in a different direction. A second later, several waves of cum shot out from his huge rod, spraying the white jizz all over her small breasts. Laughing, he got up, heading towards his clothes.

"You're a sick miserable bastard," said Marina, half angry and half joking.

"Guilty as charged." He began getting dressed. She sat there, her little titties drenched with his cum.

Fully clothed, he headed for the door. "I could call the cops as soon as you leave," she said.

"You could." He shrugged. "Somehow, I don't think you will. A girl like you has certain needs that other men can't fulfill. I'll be back. Sometime."

"I could shoot you the next time you break in here."

"You could. Somehow, I don't think you'll be doing that either."

An hour ago, Marina would have been certain that she would have shot him. Now, she found herself thinking that he might be speaking the truth. What was happening to her?

"Goodbye, Marina," he said simply, closing the door behind him.

She got up, went to the small space that called itself a kitchen, and wiped herself off with some paper towels. Then she got dressed.

Was she a different woman now? Or was she not? Did she hate the man who had done this? Or did she need him? She didn't know the answers to any of those questions. What she did know was that she needed some wine. She took out a bottle that she had bought with a fake ID and poured herself a glass.

THE END