There's "Rape" and There's R{ap}e

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Fantasy meets the real world.
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(I originally wrote this story 5 years ago and had it rejected then, and again more recently, because of depictions of violence. Fair enough -- their site, their rules. Since I'm stubborn, and I felt that the whole point of the story was that the "rape" that we so enjoy in our stroke fantasies is completely different from rape in the real world, which is an act of anger and violence expressed through sex, I refused to change it until now. But I've kept thinking about this story, mainly because I like the most of the characters and felt that they deserved to be introduced to a larger audience. I also value the feedback, which can't be found elsewhere, that I get from this site. So, I've finally decided to re-submit the story with the depictions of the violent acts excised. I have not removed the later descriptions of the effects of those acts, as they are central to making the point of the story. If you feel that they were better left in, you can use your imagination, with which I expect Literotica readers are unusually well-equipped, to fill in the { ---- } excisions.)

*

My name is Jasmine Pierce. I'm 36, an attorney, a serious poker player, and I write erotic stories when I have the time and the urge. I have time for these other things because I'm a very smart and successful attorney. I figured out early where the money was and I focused on the more exciting of these alternatives, defense work for major medical malpractice carriers. It's really not all that amazing that people will pay very well to avoid the loss of millions of dollars. I've now got 3 other attorneys into my office to do a lot of the drudge work, which lets me get away a lot more when we're not prepping for or actually in a trial.

I also have time for these things because I haven't cluttered up my life with a husband and kids. Shit, I don't even have a dog, and I can't stand cats. If I'm horny, sometimes I'll ask a guy out; and if I still want to fuck him after drinks and dinner, I'll take him to a skin flick at the local XXX Bijou to warm him up. If he's fun in bed and not serious afterward, I'll add him to my list of guys to call when I feel like a quickie and I don't have time to go through the whole drinks-to-bed routine. If he's not fun or he does try to get serious, I drop him as gently as he'll let me, or as hard as he makes me, whichever it takes to get the job done.

Of course, I'm built like a brick shithouse and have the face of a Raphael Madonna. Yeah, right, in my dreams. Actually, I have the remains of a nice body that has been subjected to over a dozen years of aging largely in front of desks and computers. And, dammit, cellulite happens. Six feet of height, the tensions of trial work, avoiding desserts except on vacation and the realization that I have to live and work in a looks-based society has kept me from going completely to hell. Still, I miss having the body that I occupied when I was a girl's varsity basketball player in high school. The face isn't bad, though. It may be a long way short of the Renaissance ideal, but it's a damn sight nicer than the current Madonna's, in my humble opinion.

I try to block out time every January to go to Tunica for at least a week. Their annual series of tournaments has been a great event ever since they got it going. There are tons of players every year, a lot of them very good; more of them average to awful. So, it's a place where I can blow off a little steam and make a little money. That's a little money; nothing like what I bill per hour. Not even close. But I have been playing on other people's money for years now, so I see it as a kind of therapy where the therapists are paying me for my time. Not a bad deal, if you think about it.

This year between the early tournaments and the side games I was doing okay for my first 3 days, so on day 4 I played in a $2000 buy-in No-Limit Hold-em tournament. There were over 150 players, so first place paid over $75,000. I've never made it to first place, but I don't need to. I'm more than happy if I make it to the final table, which is where you need to be to make decent money. Maybe that accounts for me never making it to first place; I don't know. But the fact is that I'm an attorney who plays poker more for fun and stress relief than to be a pro, so I'm happy not having to obsess about beating everyone in sight in order to feel good.

About half way through this tournament I had the chip lead at my table; probably enough to put me in the top 10 of the remaining players at that point. In this situation, if the poker gods are being nice to me, they'll let me make a button play that is a complete long-shot, but that is likely to bust another player (or two if the gods are really kind) when it works.

A lot of players like to play an Ace with a small card, 5 or lower, especially if it is suited. These are great for taking down hands like AK when the board pairs both the Ace and their baby kicker. They are even better when the board cards fill out the wheel, the A-5 straight, and better still when the board provides the cards for the nut flush. Because they are not particularly strong hands pre-flop, most people will try to see the flop with them as cheaply as possible.

This is ideal for me because the hand that I use for this trap is much weaker than anyone else's, either a 65 of a 64, and when I want to come in on the button with it I want to do so with a raise, not a call. Not a big raise, because the odds are strong that I'll have to dump the hand after the flop. But, still, a raise to make it look much stronger than it is.

Well, long story short, the gods were being nice to me at this point. Not only did they deliver a 64 to me when I was on the button, at the same time they gave a couple of players with chip stacks about half as big as mine cards good enough to call with but not to raise. On top of this, one of those guys was the most obnoxious player that I'd met at this year's tournaments. He was a big, meaty, loud guy who thought not only that he was God's gift to poker, but that women shouldn't play. He had sucked out on me on the first day that we played, taking down my KK with a JT when the board held an AKQ.

As I got up to leave after that beat I gave him the customary "Nice hand." After all, you want dumb-fucks like that to keep playing that way, so you can get the money back later.

His response was way over the line, though. Something along the lines of "Ya shoulda stayed in the kitchen, girlie, instead of coming out here with us real poker players."

He'd been consistently rude and antagonistic whenever he'd seen me since then, which made me especially happy that the fates delivered me not only my favorite trap scenario, but also this rude bastard as a potential victim.

Anyway, the player under the gun called the $600 big blind, and the big rude guy called. Everyone else up to me folded and I made it $1500, which drove out the small blind and got a call from the big blind. The fellow who had limped in first folded, and the dickhead called, and added "I guess you just won't learn, girlie".

The flop came 953, rainbow, which gave me an open-ended straight draw. Both of the players in front of me checked, so I made it $3000 to go, trying to look like an overpair. That got rid of the big blind, leaving only my day-one suck out artist. He thought a minute then called.

The turn card was a deuce, again unsuited, which made my straight and eliminated any possibility of a flush draw. Mr. Rude Bastard spent some time appearing to think about what to do, then checked again. At this point I had the nuts and I didn't put him on a set. I figuring he'd have check-raised me if he'd hit a set on the flop, and he'd have folded a pair of deuces when 3 overcards came on the flop and I acted like I could beat a pair of nines.

Since I felt I was holding the nuts and didn't face a flush or a strong full-house draw, I didn't want to drive him off. I just made another $3000 bet, which should have been enough to take the pot down if he had nothing, and enough to keep him in if he was on a long-odds draw. Grinning from ear to ear, he almost beat me into the pot with the rest of his stack, which was a pretty clear signal to me that he'd been holding the best hand I could have hoped for, an Ace four. I immediately called and the dealer had us turn over our cards. Just as I'd hoped, he was holding the Ace four, which made him a straight to the 5.

"Son of a bitch," Mr. Rude Bastard said when he saw that he was drawing dead to a 6, for a tie. And when the river card turned out to be a Jack, he lost it.

"You fucking cunt," he almost shouted. "What sort of idiot raises on a 64?"

"Sir, watch your language unless you want to be eighty-sixed" the dealer told him.

"Fuck you sonny," he said, "and fuck you too, girlie."

"Floor!" the dealer called.

"Forget it sonny. I'm outta here," said Mr. Rude Bastard as he turned and stomped off.

The floor person had not appeared in response to my dealer's first call, so while pushing me the pot he asked if I wanted him to call again.

"No, thanks. Just let it go," I said, not wanting to hold up the game. I'd had my revenge, and it was sweet. But now there was a tournament to try to win and, besides, the jerk was gone.

Several of the other players at the table complimented me on my play of that hand, and a couple even thanked me for getting rid of the jerk. We continued to play until our table was broken up to fill holes at other tables as more players busted out.

As it happened, I did make the final table that day. But, as usual, I didn't make it to the top, being taken out when my pre-flop pair of Jacks lost to an 87 of hearts and the board produced a heart flush. Hey, that's poker. I was happy with my 6th place money of over eight grand. I'd played well, I'd gotten lucky at the right times, especially against Mr. Rude Bastard, and I'd made some money. Life was good.

By this time it was early evening. I was planning to re-invest my eight grand toward a seat in the $10,000-entry main event, the one where the winner would become an instant millionaire, the next day. I decided to go back to my room, order some room service and write a little erotica to help me clear my head.

I had told Jeremy, one of my occasional playmates, about my erotic story writing. (I'd told him that I could write a better script than the one in the skin flick we'd just seen, and he told me to prove it, which I did by showing him some of my stories.) He had recently asked me to write a rape-fantasy story for him.

I'm not really into rape-fantasy stories. Nearly all of them are completely fantastic, totally missing the point about rape being an acting out of anger, hostility, the need to hurt and dominate that just happens to involve sex. As a woman, I always found them degrading when they had the victim turning on to the act.

But Jeremy was as close as I was going to find to the one in the older-guy's pickup line where he claims a 9-inch tongue and the ability to breathe through his ears. And, unlike the guy in that line, there was absolutely nothing wrong with his dick, either. Beyond that, he'd never asked me for anything before, he hadn't gotten pissed off when I made it clear that I was the one who was to do the calling, and he was always happy to come over when I called him for a quickie.

"What the hell," I thought, "don't be such a hard-ass. You can do this for him." I'd been thinking about his story off and on since he put in his request, which would make it easier to write than one about something else. So after a long hot shower I slipped my naked body into the big fluffy terrycloth robe that the hotel provided, got some wine out of the mini-fridge, and settled down to write:

* * *

Story for Jeremy

Sally Jordan gave herself an appreciative look in the full-length mirror in her bathroom. At 24 she had a wonderful body: 115 pounds spread over a 5'6" frame with a near-perfect 36- (thanks in no small part to her nice D-cup breasts) 24-36 set of curves. She had one of those perfect heart-shaped faces with large eyes and the pouty lips that had become all the rage, nicely framed by shoulder-length light blonde hair.

It was Thursday night and she was thinking about trawling a couple of her favorite singles' bars, getting a head start on lining up some weekend entertainment. She'd broken up with her previous boyfriend of 6 months a week ago, and she was getting more than a little horny. In fact, just thinking about tonight's prospects was making her nipples perk up and causing a nice warm feeling below her neatly trimmed bush.

"I think I'll look for an older guy tonight. Jeremy...

["Hi Jeremy," I thought. "Since it's your story you might as well have a cameo role."]

"... was sweet and he could fuck like a pile driver. But most of the young guys I've fucked are more into fucking me than pleasing me," she thought. "Someone more appreciative and anxious to spoil me rotten might be a nice change."

She went into the closet and pulled out an old Catholic school skirt that she had gotten from one of her roommates at college and had since shortened. In her experience, this schoolgirl look was a real come-on for middle aged guys. After putting on a low-cut push-up bra and a tight white blouse (top 3 buttons undone to show plenty of cleavage, of course), she slipped on a red thong and the skirt. Next she put on her makeup; very little tonight in keeping with the wholesome schoolgirl look. Once more she appraised herself in the full-length mirror and liked what she saw.

"God, but I look like a pedophile's wet dream," she said to herself as she added an old lightweight letter jacket to complete the ensemble.

She collected her purse from the table by the front door, checking to make sure that she had her driver's license ("I'm sure to get carded in this get-up," she thought), car keys and condoms. Then, as an afterthought before heading out, she took off the thong and put it in a pocket of her jacket. Jeremy had turned her on to going outside without any underwear right after they had started going together. It was pretty sexy for her as long as it wasn't too cold outside.

When Sally got to the Bearded Clam, her favorite singles' meat market, she found Nick on duty at the door, so she didn't have any trouble with her underage look. Nick was a former boyfriend. Big, strong as an ox, but a cuddly Teddy Bear in bed. Most notably Nick had introduced her to the joys of anal sex, using all the patience and tenderness that he could until eventually she could take his big 9-incher in one firm push without any pain. In fact, thanks to Nick, Sally had now come to crave having cock up her ass as much as she'd loved straight fucking and sucking when she'd met him.

"Well," Sally thought as she pressed into the crowd at the bar, "if I haven't found anything better by 2am, I can always come back and collect Nick."

In spite of all her preparations and natural beauty, to say that Sally made a big splash at the Bearded Clam would have been a gross overstatement. In fact, it appeared that a lot of young women had decided to shop early for the weekend. There was so much young, beautiful girl flesh on display, and so few middle-aged guys, that she was thinking she'd made a mistake going there at all.

"I'm already here," she thought, "so I might as well have a drink and give it a chance before moving on."

On her way to the bar she did attract the attention of a couple of guys, but they were too close to her age; not what she had come here for. She brushed them off politely and found an empty stool, determined to hold out for her middle-aged sugar-daddy-to-be.

About halfway through her drink Sally felt a hand grab her left ass cheek. She turned around to find a big, meaty guy standing way too close to her.

["Welcome to my story, Mr. Rude Bastard," I said to myself as I stopped to pour some more wine. "You may be a total loss as a human being and a poker player, but you'll make a great sick villain by the time I'm done with you."]

"Hi girlie," he said in a loud voice. "Does your mommy know you're hanging out with the big boys now."

His condescending attitude, on top of his groping hand, really pissed Sally off, so she didn't cut him any slack. "Look, asshole, whoever I'm hanging out with it isn't you, so you can get your hand off my ass right now."

"Aw, sorry 'bout that, girlie," he said, trying but failing to look contrite. "I just figured that since you were dressed up in that fuck-me costume you might appreciate the attentions of a real man. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean. And I might even appreciate the attentions or a real man. But I guess that leaves you out. So, go find someone else to hustle and leave me alone or I'll ask Nick to heave your sorry ass into the parking lot."

"Okay, girlie, if that's the way you want to be, I'm outta here. Parrrdon meeee for having tried to bring some sizzle into your pathetic little life."

The encounter with the loudmouthed pig put the finishing touches on Sally's patience with the Bearded Clam. She decided to head off to the Peg 'n Hole, where the crowd was usually a little smaller but also a little older on average. "Might as well try quality vs. quantity," she thought.

When she got there the doorman/bouncer was someone she didn't know, so she not only had to go through the carding routine, but she had to call on Douglas, the bartender, to vouch for her as a regular who wasn't trying to sneak in on a fake ID. Once she got through that hassle and ditched her jacket in the coatroom, she headed for the bar and found an empty stool. This time she made a point of swishing her skirt up as she settled her bare ass down on the barstool, just in case anyone was paying attention.

As luck would have it, there weren't a lot of single guys at the bar yet. Most of the Pegs already had their own Holes with them, and Sally didn't feel like getting into a catfight to steal one of them away.

"Wonder where all the guys are," she thought as she sipped her drink. "Are there some fucking playoffs on TV tonight?"

Sally was just starting on her third drink when the door opened and in walked the loud, rude guy from the Bearded Clam. She was sure that he spotted her when he came in, but he seemed to have gotten the message before, since he went down to the other end of the bar to get his drink. Sally returned her attention to her own drink, and so was surprised when she felt a hip press up against her, and this same obnoxious guy plopped down two drinks on the bar next to her.

"Hi again girlie. I asked the bartender what you were drinking and I brought you one. You were awful nasty to me at that other place, but I decided to be a nice guy and give you a second chance."

"Jesus Christ," said Sally, trying to move away from his pressing hip. "You can't be real. If you think I gave you a hard time at the other place, wait until I get you thrown out of this one. Now get the fuck away from me or I'll get that bouncer over there to do it to you."

"Shit girlie, what game you think you're playing? You come out dressed like a little horny highschool whore. You cruise from bar to bar flashing your tits all over the place in that tight blouse, wearing a little schoolgirl dress that barely covers your ass. And then when a real man has the balls to come up and ask for some of what you're offering you act like a little cock tease and tell him to get lost. That sort of thing can get you hurt, you know?"

"Like I said before, asshole, whether I'm cruising for a real man or not doesn't matter in your case, because if you're a real man the Pope is a Lutheran. Now I hate to hurt your feelings like that, but you're the one who keeps pushing, and I'm going to push back until I can get you to go away."