Chapter 2 - Rachel the Rapist

As I approached the car I couldn’t detect movement from inside. The front door flung open just as I passed the rear driver side door. In one fluid motion she stepped out of the vehicle with a police issue .38 caliber pointed directly at my face. I knew this woman, but from where. I use the term woman loosely; she was a chick from my past. I was sure of it. One of the dozens I had as a single guy. Many chicks born in the sixties didn't want marriage or a guy to count on for anything, but they wanted a fuck once in a while. She was typical. Bleached blonde, the short mini-skirt her seduction, and the best tits money could buy her weapon in the world of high tech business.

"Rachel?" I guessed luckily.
"Randall," she replied matter of factly.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"I have no freakin' idea, why don't you tell me?" I replied puzzled. I hadn't seen Rach in four years.
"Shut up," she replied. "I always hated the way you whined. You’re a fuckin' wimp. I should have known better than to have a bean counter as a fuck buddy. Over there!" she commanded, pointing the gun towards the beach.

I walked around her door and in front of the Lexus. I soon felt the barrel in the spine of my back. I always knew Rach was a control freak. She was really into tying me to the bed post with pillow cases. I never cared for that and eventually we stopped screwing around.

She was steering me off the road and down the steep sand dune to the beach. The moon finally broke through the clouds. It illuminated the ocean, which happened to be calm, in fact the air was still and stale on this hot morning in July. When we could no longer see the lights from the abandoned cars above on the highway she said "stop here and turn around."
I faced her and she the sea. She placed the tip of the gun against my forehead and said, “drop your pants Randy."

I unfastened my belt and unzipped the hundred dollar jeans du jour. They fell to the sand, my eyes never leaving hers. This had to be the most outrageous booty call of my life. I wasn't sure whether to be excited or pissed. I took excited; there was plenty of time to be pissed. At one point I felt like I was being raped, but only 15 year old boys get raped, either by a member of the clergy, a teacher, or that weird uncle. Men don't get raped, but this did not feel consensual.

"The boxers too," she demanded. I dropped my boxers aware of the gun pointed at my forehead the entire time. I was not the least bit excited as she dropped to her knees in one well rehearsed motion, the .38 following her down and rested on my abdomen. Her mouth took my limp manhood and she began to work hard at it with the gun ever present, pressed against me.

I wondered if I got aroused at all, would this still be rape. Or does the mere uncontrolled stiffened reaction to her persistent lips constitute consent to the act. So be it, because the reflex took over. I did not enjoy it if that was any consolation. My mind wandered away, wondering if she would shoot me when I was done. Should I delay the release or submit. I tried to resist, but she tried harder, the competitive bitch that she was. My early morning delivery moved directly down her throat before I could stop it. Here it was the climax, would I pay with a bullet to my gut?

She stood, moving the gun up under my chin. She looked into my eyes and stared through my soul. I was not sure how long she would stare before she pulled the trigger to blow off the top of my head. What happened next was totally unexpected. She removed the gun from under my chin, allowing my volatile thought that I was now out of danger to take over. A sense of relief overcame me. I was safe. I was raped and my car damaged -- true. But I realized I would live to tell. Maybe the police, maybe my attorney, or both. But that would come later. Right now my elation of life controlled my mind. I began to smile sheepishly, wondering if this was just a bad joke she thought she was pulling on me.

Rachel’s stare was maintained. I don’t think she blinked. Then came the bomb. She took my hand, placed the gun in it and said "shove it in my mouth like it’s your cock and pull the trigger."
"What?" I yelled.

Before I knew it her left hand cradled mine. Her fingers wrapped around mine which were clenching the gun. My body began to quiver. I noticed a previously missed detail when her hand was raised. She had a rock on her ring finger. Two, maybe three karats. This was getting even more bizarre.

"Pull the fuckin' trigger," she commanded.

My eyes returned to hers, her stare fixed. Her green eyes pools of determined desire. Like no other desire I had seen in anyone's eyes before. They were almost begging me to send her to the next world. This is how she wanted to go? Giving a blow job to a man? One who is not her husband? One who she had not seen in years? Then have him blow her head off with a gun? This was a bad dream. I kept waiting to wake up - but I didn’t.

I felt my right arm in motion, my left stricken with paralysis. My eyes stayed with hers as she pulled my hand with both of hers, the barrel penetrating her lips, and before I could protest, before my left hand could move to stop the insanity, her French manicured thumb slipped between my fingers and squeezed the trigger. Her hands immediately released my hand. My eyes did not leave hers as she took the express lane to whatever meets us after this life.

Her eyes remained opened and changed from desire to void. I had not noticed that the back of her scull flew off to the surf. The gore to be breakfast for the gulls if they got to it before the shallow tide immersed it to become chum for the pompano that were splashing along the shore. The juxtaposition of her beauty falling back against the sand, the remnants of her brain squishing out the sides like a Sloppy Joe from a bun was more than I could bear. "No," I howled, impotent as I felt from not stopping the madness. "Nooooo!"