He gets a wire frame and wedges it in my mouth. I try to shake my head. He moves a catch at the side, the frame spreads my mouth wider. I can't stop it. He laughs behind the blank white mask as I groan. I shake my head in protest. He shakes his head, more slowly. He's got some sort of short wide belt. It's a collar as deep as my neck is long. He fastens it in place. It holds my head rigid. He tells me I must learn acceptance. I don't believe him. I won't believe him. He takes off his trousers, hangs them neatly over the back of the chair. He's going to rape me but he wants to make sure his trousers don't get creased. He takes me on the floor. He pushes his hand against my crotch. I try to pull away and he laughs. He tears at my knickers, they are sodden with my own fluid and the cum of those that have been before. I feel him push his soft fingers into my cunt. He pulls at the hair that is there. One more rape. No different to the others apart from in the trivial, miniscule details of. "Can you just remember it, or do you need to go get a piece of paper to write it down?"She imagined him telling her the number, and her repeating it by rote, under her breath, as she went inside and found something to write it down on. Then her imagination added John, pacing, worried, jumping right on her, saying things like, "Where the hell have you been? I was worried sick! I almost called the police!" If he did that, she'd forget the number.And she didn't want to forget the number."Be right back," she said.She started into a trot automatically, and then slowed as her injury barked at her. At a more sedate pace, she walked across the flagstones that led to the front door, and went inside.John wasn't pacing. He wasn't agitated.He was sitting in his chair, watching the tube, drinking his third beer."I'm home," she called out."'kay," he responded, not looking her way.She got the pen and pad they used to make a grocery list on and took it outside. She handed it to him without comment.He.
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