The Trojan Horse
by Laurel
(c) Copyright 1995.  All Rights Reserved.  No permission to reproduce.
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	"We learn geology the morning after the earthquake."
				Emerson, The Conduct of Life, 1860

			 *  *  *

My rape fantasies terrify me.  They always have.  Despite their
very powerful pull on my libido, I know I flirt with darkness
when I open myself to them.  Still, they are there.  Demanding.
Unrelenting in their appeal.  For most of my life I could neither
shut them out, nor share them with another living soul.

I remember the first time I saw the movie _The Accused_.  There
was that scene in the bar where Jodi Foster was spread eagled
on the pin ball machine and men were hooting at her, raping her, 
doing violence unto her character's innermost core.  Upon
leaving the theatre I'd been nauseated.  Like the other 
women who had accompanied me to the show, I was angered, and 
revolted.  And I took my revolted self home, and found myself
masturbating in bed to the memory of that very scene.  So I 
turned the anger inward.  What kind of person gets excited by
something so completely vile?  After all, I'd seen this dark side 
of humanity myself. . . up close.  I hadn't needed a movie to 
teach me about true violation.

And with such shame, I locked this little secret away . . . 
even as it haunted me.  Until I met Rage.  

When I first confessed this secret to him, I handed him more power over
me than he or I could have realized at the time.  Giving
a secret to anyone bonds you to them, but this secret
was about me on the inside.  And Rage accepted it, liked
it even.  How could I feel guilty about having rape fantasies
when this wonderful loving man saw nothing wrong with it?
He forgave in me what I had been unable to forgive in myself,
and I naively dismissed the fear of the uneasy alliance
between thoughts of rape and sexual arousal.

It gave Rage enormous power, as I've said.  It was with this
knowledge that he truly conquered me.  Down in that basement, 
living my fantasy out with me, living it with me in a safe 
way.  Driving away my demons and proving to me in the
most raw of ways how deep his love for me was.  By 
showing me his own darker sides, I only loved him more.  
And now the secret was not just shared, it was lived.  I
had nothing more to fear. . .so I thought.

	*       *       *

Roleplaying is not the standard fare for Rage and I.  He is
my master, I am his slave.  That is usually more than enough
to fulfill our sexual/emotional power issue needs.  Occasionally,
however, we do roleplay.  We have a variety of roles we 
enjoy including: owner/doggie, owner/kitty, daddy/little girl, and 
rapist/rapee (this does not include all the roles I make up
for Rage in my head when I'm in need of inspiration, like,
Latin American General, drunken frat boy, pimp, etc).  

The other night, Rage and I were sitting on the couch kissing.
We had been kissing all night, trying to see how long we could
last just doing that.  It had started out so innocently.  We'd
been out for the evening, and every time he would pass me, I charged him
a toll: a kiss.  Eventually, the kisses got longer and more needy. 
By the time we went home, we were determined to sit and kiss until
I got that dizzy swooning feeling.  And so we ended up on the
couch, necking like two teenagers, each kiss melting into the
next like chocolate syrup.

Without warning, Rage's kisses began to harden.  His hands 
mischeviously wound up under my shirt.  Taking the cue, I pushed 
his hands away and pouted about not having given him permission to 
touch me there.  I knew then that the scene could go in only two 
directions.  Either my master would grin down at me, tell me he didn't 
need my permission, and ravage me, or a role-playing scene would ensue.

As Rage's touches became more vigorous I guessed that it
was going to be the latter.  I started getting into role
even more, envisioning that I was in the backseat of the
car with a pushy adolescent who was taking liberties with me.
As a good little catholic girl, I have plenty of memories
to draw upon.  So I began to fight him.  Rage slipped into
role as well, pushing my legs apart and easing himself
between them, his breath hot on my face.

"You're a drunk little sorority whore aren't you?" he asked.
The game had now officially begun.  I protested, I pushed
at him.  All the while, I grew aroused.  Rage spat filthy
words at me, called me names, and insisted on making me 
admit that I wanted it.  He grinned down at me in that
way. . . the knowing way. . . the determined way. 

Usually, I cannot withstand such exquisite torture, and give
in very early on in the game.  This time, however, I wanted
the pleasure to last.  I refused him over and over 
again.  I bit his tongue, I tried to knee him, I told him
to go to hell.  I even managed to prompt him to slap me
across the face.  Slapping is serious edge play for my
master and I, but this was not my master and I.  This was a
scene, and I took it as such.  The anger of the character
I was playing boiled high.  Still, I was terribly excited.

Eventually, Rage led me by the cunt into the bedroom.
I was thrown down and made to beg to be fucked.  I hate begging
normally, but will do it if need be.  In the scene, however,
I resisted and resisted.  My struggles became more genuine
by the moment -- even as I asked for it.  It was all spinning into 
high intensity.  I remember ending up on my stomach with Rage 
dribbling embarassing little streams of Astro-glide down my ass 
crack.  He'd threatened to hurt me if I struggled anymore, and I 
believed him.  I'd already tested him and still felt the sting. 
I was still.

Soon I felt his cockhead pressing at the entrance to my ass.  I
groaned.  I love anal sex.  It's nasty, it's violating, it 
seemed like the perfect choice for a rape.  Rage pushed 
forward, careful to pause a moment so as not to hurt me.  I
felt myself clench around his cock several times, trying to
accomodate it in me.  Assfucking gives me a pinioned feeling.  
I could feel the lusty growls rising from
my throat.  Rage issued a steady stream of raunchy comments
behind me about how he was sure I had been assfucked many
times before given how I was wiggling and moaning.  I begged
to touch myself.  He said yes.  With much panting, and 
embarassment I reached underneath myself to rub my clit.  God
I felt like a slut.  

Climaxing during anal sex makes me scream.  I don't know why.
It hardly took me a minute of touching before I came.  My head
was a fuzzy mess.  This scene was more "real" than any other
we'd ever done.  It was extremely exciting.  Rage really *did*
look like a terrifying stranger to me.  He has a way of
hardening his eyes in these role-playing scenes in a way that raises 
goosebumps on me.  I have to take the leap of faith that the master 
I know and love is still behind the eyes of the rapist.  I came hard, 
and my knees buckled slightly under me.

Rage lowered down on me, but did not stop pumping inside me.
After I cum, my anus contracts quite painfully on anything that
is in it's grip.  Our usual plan for anal sex is for Rage to
cum first or close to when I do, so that I do not get the 
tearing pain that occurs after I've climaxed.  I realized, with
great discomfort, that Rage intended to continue his ramming.

The pain was extraordinary, though I judged, not enough to be
causing damage.  I hated it.  I mean I really hated it.  I
begged Rage to stop, but he didn't.  I squirmed, I wriggled
to avoid the piercing of my ass but I really *was* pinioned.
Instead of making me hot, I was beginning to panic.  I had
never felt this way before.  

Oh, there have been many times that Rage has been doing something
to me that I have hated.  Many times where I thought I couldn't
bear even another second.  But I have never felt the icy
panic that suddenly rushed through me.  I struggled to say
something to him, to communicate, but nothing came out but
the grunting of the pain.    

It happened all at once.  I had no time to anticipate it or
stop it.  There, underneath my master, in pain, my mind
focused on another bedroom in another part of my life.  The
feeling of violation that had just made me orgasm was suddenly
a direct parallel to a time long ago.  A time when no hadn't
meant no.  A time when there was no safeword, no escape hatch,
no negotiation, no consent.  A time when I'd been sodomized while 
my attacker spraigned my wrist to restrain me.  A time when I'd 
been too terrified to scream -- too shocked at the fact that a
stranger I didn't know and didn't want was taking from me something
I valued.  A time when I had been too young to understand that 
being drunken stupidity was not a crime punishable by rape.

Rage knew nothing of this transformation in me, as he was rutting 
above me.  How could he?  I let out a few grunting cries, but I was 
incoherent.  For a brief moment, I thought to safeword.  Even in the 
torrent of panic, I managed to *think* safeword.  I don't think I could 
have spoken any other words, but this one was forming on my tongue. I
wrestled my safeword back.  No. . .no. . . I wasn't being damaged
was I?  I found myself deeply vulnerable to suggestion.  Safeword?  
Submission meant that I would not safeword.  I tried to 
remember all the arguments in the haze of my pain.  It was
impossible.  I only knew that I frequently took things from
Rage that I hated without complaint.  Things that I hated,
perhaps more than this.  It would be wrong to safeword.
Wrong. . .wrong. . .bad. . .unworthy. . . submit. . .submit.  I
struggled with myself inside.  My submission was too strong.
I said nothing. . . I lay there being penetrated again and
again while flashbacks whirred in my head.

And then there was silence.

My begging stopped, my squirming stopped, my noises stopped.
All I heard in the world was the slapping noises of Rage
against my very sore and spasming bottom -- and his breathing.
But that wasn't the breathing of my master.  That was the
breathing of a rapist.  A rapist with cold, hardened eyes.
Eyes like the man in my dorm room years ago.  Eyes like a
shark.

In a manner of moments, everything had gone wrong.  I had
transformed from struggling to please my master to 
someone trying to survive.  I lay very still and the 
blackest violence seeped into my heart.  Like the men trapped inside 
the belly of the ancient horse, I would wait, wait for my moment.
He thought he was getting a gift of submission, instead
he would get treachery. I would endure, I would not give him 
the satisfaction of hearing my cries.  And when I got up from 
this bed, I would hurt him with the full fury of my pain.  I could
see nothing but anger.

I snapped in a way I had never thought possible.  All other 
feelings and agreements aside, I couldn't distinguish this man
from my rapist.  I wanted to hurt him.  Hurt him.  Hurt him.
I would hurt him.  I would make him pay for this.

And suddenly the agony stopped.  Rage did not orgasm, but pulled
out of me gently and lay by me.  I looked at him astonished, 
trying to grasp ahold of one mood and cling to it.  Perhaps
he had merely been too tired to continue.  Perhaps my 
corpse like bearing had been unexciting.  Perhaps he sensed
the treachery, or perhaps he knew something was wrong.

I looked at his eyes, and they were changed.  Gentle eyes.
My master's eyes.  He scooped my reluctant form into his
arms and began to coo love at me.  I was in turmoil.  
Inside I was bitter, confused, hateful.  And yet, reality
was all coming back to me.  I was starting to sort out
the truth from the fiction.  Rage was not my rapist, not
even the rapist he pretended to be.  Rage had been 
playing a game with me.  A game we both enjoyed.  I
struggled through his caresses awkwardly.

Finally I stumbled over the words, trying to explain to him
what had just happened.  I was having trouble coming out of role.
I was having trouble putting away what had just happened.
I asked him not to touch me.  I moved away from him on the
bed.  I asked for time alone to sort everything.  Rage stayed
and talked to me some more, and then gave me a few moments
to compose myself.  To think.

We talked about it afterwards.  Rage thought I should have
safeworded.  I should have.  I think.  I had encountered
a paradox.  Trying to pretend struggle against a pretend
rapist, and trying to truly submit to my master at the same
time had proved difficult.  In my quest to be the perfect
submissive, I'd cheated myself.  Rage had been cheated of
information.  I'd been cheated of something very precious.
The precious unblemished view of what it is we do.

I saw darkness in a scene with Rage, for the first time.
I saw just the edge of non-consent, and it was an ugly
place to be.  Falling off the edge is instructive, if nothing
else.  I'm still sorting through all that happened.  I didn't know 
that *could* happen to me.  I am lucky, no, blessed, to have a partner
who helps me through this, and all other things.