Raw(4)
Author: Belle Aurora

This is a big man. A man I could never take on by myself. Knowing this, I cry harder.

I cringe in disgust when his warm wet tongue licks the side of my face, very slowly. “Oh, shush. You’ll like it. I promise.”

I won’t like shit, you twisted f**k!

He demands, “Close your eyes.”

I don’t listen. I’m being defiant. My eyes remain open.

Then he pushes a blade into my side. Deep. I feel the tip pierce my skin, and I whimper into his dirty hand. “Close your f**king eyes, bitch.”

My body quaking, I shut my eyes and feel his free hand try to tug my pants down. The belt stops that from happening and he barks, “Undo the belt and the pants. Now.”

My shaking hands work slowly, buying time, but I can only do it so long before my hair is tugged, hard. I cry out in pain. The blade disappears a moment before he wraps his forearm around my neck, hand clutching the knife tight, and he moves the blade to rest under my ear. Somehow, in my trembling state, I manage to undo the belt and buttons. He turns me around to press my cheek into the cold bricks on the side of the building, the blade now resting by the side of my throat. Yanking my pants down, he reaches forward then down, and instinctively, I snap my legs shut. His fingers work their way into the juncture between my thighs and he rubs my mound through my panties, making me cry out loudly. His erection presses into my ass cheek, and I cringe so hard my body shudders.

I’m disgusted. This is disgusting.

Tightening his arm around my neck, he hisses, “Shut your mouth and don’t make a f**king sound.” His smell all around me, crying as hard as I am, I gag.

His hand leaves my most intimate place, comes up under my shirt, and squeezes my breast.

My heart weeps with every revolting touch. He fondles my body as he likes, as if I were a toy and not human at all. Sliding his hand down my ribs, he rests it on my hip a moment before he utters, “Oh, man. You’re a pretty one.” He then slips his hand down the back of my panties, squeezes my ass cheeks hard, and my body jerks with every loud, muffled sob.

I’ve never been violated. But I work with people who have. And now I know that every single time I said the words I understand to one of my kids, I didn’t.

Not even close.

I can almost feel my heart shatter.

Suddenly, I’m pulled back harshly. I land on the hard concrete with a dull thud and watch the scene before me in alarm.

My large attacker gets his face slammed into the bricks at the side of the building by an equally tall man.

The black hoodie.

It’s him.

He holds onto my attacker’s neck and throws his head down while he brings up his knee.

Thunk, thump.

He does this again and again. My gut revolts at the level of ferocity before me. Eventually, I hear soft pings hit the ground and realize my attacker has lost some teeth.

Oh God.

The man in the hoodie continues his wordless assault. He throws my attacker on the ground and kicks him in the ribs as if he were kicking a football. He does this a few more times before his eyes catch me.

Breathing heavily, he stops and comes towards me.

Petrified, I watch him come towards me through blurry eyes. He’s almost at my feet when I whisper shakily, “Please, stop. Don’t come any closer.”

My elbows throb; the skin on them surely gone. I try to scramble backwards and cry out in pain.

That’s when he does something I’ve been wishing for forever.

He lowers the hood.

Chapter Two

“Not gonna hurt you.”

Oh God. That voice. It’s just how it sounds in my dreams.

Smooth with a little huskiness. Then, something registers with me. “You’re American.”

Not missing a beat, he says, “So are you.” The tone of his voice conveys boredom.

Looking up at him, I still can’t see his face in the dark, but I hear a zipper come down and I whimper out loud.

Choking through tears, I beg, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please.”

Not saying a word, he comes towards me. Trembling, I shut my eyes tight and plead on a whisper, “Please. Please. Don’t.”

His strong arms come under mine and he lifts me to a standing position. He pulls something warm over my shoulders, and its then that I realize the zipper I heard was actually his jacket, not his pants.

I’m so relieved that I slump forward into him.

Burying my face into his chest, he wraps his arm around me while I sob noisily. His body bends and he reaches down. My pants come up my legs and he holds them in place, clearly too torn to zip up.

Leaving my attacker where he is, I secretly hope he’s dead. From the shuddering gasping noises he makes, I’m not so lucky.

The man holds me to him, walking me up to my unit. He takes his time with me, being extremely patient as I try to get my shaking legs up the steps to the second floor.

Once we reach my unit and he opens the door, it doesn’t hit me until we’re inside that he knows where I live.

So why don’t you feel like you’re in danger?

Because I’m not. I just know it.

I’m sure of it.

He closes the door behind us, flips on the light switch, and walks me down the short hall to my room. That’s when I see his skin.

Decorated. Like one massive piece of art.

No longer crying, I ask through shuddering breaths, “Have you been here before?”

But he doesn’t answer me.

Walking me to my bed, he sits me down, then walks out my bedroom door. Not thirty seconds pass when I hear the shower start, then he’s back in my room.

He doesn’t even look at me, just goes through my drawers, pulling out items of clothing for me.

So while I have a moment, I take him in.

If I saw this man on the street, the way he’s dressed right now, I would put my head down and walk the other way. And pray to God that he doesn’t see me do that, because a man looking like this while being pissed off is surely not a good thing.

He is gorgeous, though. Just not in a conventional way.

He’s tall, a little over six feet, with a muscular body and olive skin. His dark brown hair is shaved close to the scalp at the sides, but long on the top. He wears dark blue jeans that encase his long and powerful legs, a white tee that covers his broad chest and shoulders, and he’s rocking white sneakers and a thick black leather belt. But it’s what’s under the tee that draws me in.

Tattoos line his arms and neck. He has a small 13 tattooed on his right cheekbone.

The backs of his hands are beautiful. There’s no other word for it. On the back of the left hand is an intricate, black-shaded rose with a smoky grey outline; the right hand has a grey-shaded skull with smoke lacing through it. It looks so lifelike, I shiver.