I’m not the kind of gal to hype up a man, okay?

I just… know better than to do that. Like any other self-consciously feminist woman, I’ve been disappointed by men too often for it to be otherwise. Too many women I know have been disappointed in turn.

So, no. I would never hype up a man, especially not after a simple first date.

All the same, I have to admit, as far as first dates go, this could have hardly gone any better. We had an excellent dinner, during which Gabriel has been charming and incredibly kind. He has actual hobbies – amazing – but was as good at listening to mine as he was at talking about his. He made every appearance of being in equal parts intelligent and emotionally in tune.

And after dinner, we went to a bookstore together, one that stays open late into the evening, and I went on a book-buying frenzy because I’d been planning to go there for ages and always postponing… and he just paid for all my books.

Hardcovers, too! Hardcovers in this economy is just crazy.

So, I guess it’s easy to understand my disposition when he offered to escort me home, and I accepted, and when he asked if he could join me upstairs for a nightcap, and I accepted.

So easy to understand.

It’s what follows that’s difficult to understand.

What’s difficult about it? It’s not the fact that I open the door and smile at him and welcome him to my humble abode. That’s just a logical consequence of the premise.

It’s not even the fact that, as he steps through the threshold, something in his demeanour appears to instantly change. As if he’s crossed some kind of invisible line that allows him to drop the act and put down the mask.

A lot of men are like that a lot of the time. Not unlike vampires who need to be invited in. Once they’ve put up enough of a performance, they feel entitled to anything. They’ve inserted their metaphorical coin into the sex machine and now they expect the machine to cough up a snack for them to devour.

Sure, it would be sad if Gabriel was that kind of man. But it wouldn’t be hard to understand, now, would it?

Here’s when things get a little tricky, though.

Even by the standards of vampire-men, it’s a little shocking and extreme for him to slap me the moment my front door closes.

I stare at him, silenced by outrage and shock as much as the stinging humiliation of the slap. My keys are still in my trembling hands. I haven’t even taken off my boots (no shoes inside my house, thank you very much) or my coat, and tears are already welling in my eyes, which is something I hate, because I detest that vulnerability, especially before a man. No prey should ever show weakness before a predator… ever…

But that’s merely the beginning of the strangeness. With utter nonchalance, Gabriel shows me the hand he’s just slapped me with, and snakes it down his pants, and with that very same cursed hand, he unceremoniously pulls out his cock.

I stare at it with what I can only describe as dissociation.

This can’t be happening. Ain’t no way that this is real. No way he’s pulling the rug on me this hard and going from perfect charming date to cold-hearted rapist in the blink of an eye. No way!

But that’s not the hardest part to understand.

His mouth forms three words.

“Suck it, slut.”

And I don’t chase him out the front door for this, or kick him in the shins, or punch him in the dick, or pull out my phone to #metoo his sorry ass. Instead, I find myself kneeling.

The mundane horrors of everyday life are already enough to shatter a person’s mind. To saddle you with trauma for the rest of your days.

But this?

This is when panic sets in. I begin to thrash and convulse, almost like I’m having a shaking fit, as I desperately rebel against my own muscles, willing them to stand back up and do something. Instead, they bend before an invisible force, and my knees fold beneath me in slavish tribute and acceptance of another’s victory, and I find myself staring up at my date, this kind and generous and charming guy with a glimmer in his eyes and his dick in his hand –

I’m hyperventilating, saying no no no no no over and over, desperately shaking my head, both to deny consent and to put my lips out of harm’s way, out of his cock’s way, because it’s inching closer and closer and this can’t be happening and I don’t understand it and oh god he’s putting it in, it’s past my lips, my lips are blooming like a flower to welcome in the tip of his cock, giving way, right of passage to the stronger, the victor, the superior, I can taste him on my tongue, I’m slurping it around the head and drinking in the scent of him, submitting to his power, because it’s all I can –

Remember.

A blink, and we’re sitting at the restaurant.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I stare around in disbelief. This is from before. He’s amiably eating his food and telling me about the latest book he’s read, something about revolutionaries fighting for justice in the jungle. No hint that he’s noticed my utter, petrified shock. A mere moment ago he was

Raping me dominating me forcing me to suck his cock

And now he’s sitting at table, eating and laughing easily as he repeats the tale he told me during our first date…

No. Not repeating.

Because this is from before.

The waiter is the same. Our orders are the same. Our outfits are the same. I take a quick glance at my smartphone to confirm that, yes, date and time are the same. Have I just… imagined the rape? Did I just have such a fucking vivid intrusive thought that I briefly mistook it for reality? Is that even a thing?

But no. It can’t be.

It can’t be, because when we first had this conversation, I was nodding along and responding to his questions, and I’m not doing any of that now, but he just keeps going as if he’s on a script.

“—and what about you, Alicia? Have you read anything from this author yourself?”

Before, I answered him. This time, I just stare at him in abject terror, frozen like a deer before headlights. He’s staring at me in contemplation, but it’s not me he’s seeing. At least not now. He’s seeing the me from before.

“Fascinating,” he says with a nod, the same way he did before, even if this time, I’ve stayed silent.

I… I don’t…

Am I mad? Is he mad? Why can’t I understand or make sense of what is happening? Why can’t I just –

Remember.

My head glides up and down on Gabriel’s cock. It’s a bobbing motion, which is fitting, because it’s like saying yes to cock, surrendering to its will. Cock is muzzling me like I’m a dog that needs debarking. Cock is mastering me, and Gabriel is master of his cock, so what does that make him to me?

I don’t consent. I don’t consent. He must have done something to me, though, because my body is severed from my will, and responding to his, and consenting, and submitting.

To exist as a woman, unfortunately, means to possess this unique vulnerability, to be exposed to this kind of prevarication. Every time a woman loses a high stakes contest to a man, her fate is preordained. There is exactly one fate shared by every woman who’s ever been at the mercy of a man.

There’s no doubt I’m at his mercy. After all, my muscles are obeying him over my own objections.

And there’s no doubt that he’s defeated me, in some capacity, or else I could at least retain the ability to move my own body.

Even by that horribly sexist standard, though, my predicament is more unique and crueller than most. It’s not just that I’m submitting to my rape. It’s the fact that I’m cursed with a specific limitation, because no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to –

Remember.

Before the rape, there was the walk home. Before the walk home, there was the bookstore. Before the bookstore, there was the discussion of books at the dinner table. And, still at the dinner table, but before the food arrived and we started talking books, we were talking about…

“Kinks,” I say, though it isn’t really me saying it. It’s past me. I hear the words being played back to Gabriel, even if I’m not speaking them myself. In a tone of voice that’s all too eloquent for discussing such intimate topics with a near stranger on a first date, I’m telling Gabriel that,

“You know, I think in some way, this kink to be like… overpowered, reduced… forced into sexual servitude such that your very personhood succumbs to erosion… it’s a labour-avoidant, perhaps even self-avoidant fantasy. It is so hard to imagine a version of me that is free of the responsibilities of adulthood, the grind of everyday life, of work… it seems so impossible that I could exist like that, that I have to come up with this fantasy of self-annihilation and destruction to justify existing as… I suppose, a pet. Sorry, I’m rambling. Does any of that make sense to you?”

Past Gabriel looks at past me, not seeing present me, in my confusion and horror, and nods thoughtfully instead. “Yes,” he says, “I think I see it.”

Of course he sees it. The bastard. That’s why he’ll end up –

Raping my face, as I stare up at him with desperately wide eyes, full of tears and fear and longing, wordlessly begging for mercy.

Gluk gluk gluk –

Wordlessly. That’s important. Women have fought for centuries, tooth and nail, to have a say in anything, to be able to speak up, and here I am, plugged by rapist dick and submitting to that imposition of silence.

No, not even silence, because I’m drooling and whimpering and gagging like some dumb farm animal, just the amputation of speech. Taking words away, and all their power.

I can’t speak. I can’t verbalise my intellect or contribute to this interaction in any way other than to take rapist cock like some submissive little bitch. Bobbing my thoughts away. My cunt is on fire, complicit in my own rape, and why not? My muscles are already obeying Gabriel’s will instead of mine anyway, why should my sex be any different?

Why should I be any different? Of course I must submit.

But I shouldn’t have to.

But I must.

But I shouldn’t have to.

But I must –

Remember.

Before the conversation about kinks, there was the time spent browsing the menu. And before the menu, a waiter showed us to our table. And before the table, there was the walk to the restaurant. And before the walk –

We met outside a subway stop. In a hurry to be punctual, I had skipped going to the bathroom at home, but I didn’t feel like waiting until we got to the restaurant, so I excused myself and used the station’s restroom. Gabriel waited patiently outside.

Didn’t he?

A reflection in the mirror. Eyes, shining like twin and distant suns. Words half-spoken in a lilting cadence. A dream within a dream.

Or a fucking nightmare…

I’m no longer bobbing. Gabriel’s hands are hooked around my head, enveloping it. He’s impaling me on cock with the same casual triumphalism a conqueror would use to stick his flag in a vanquished opponent’s land. He’s sinking in all the way to the hilt, cutting off my air supply, affirming wordlessly that cock matters more than oxygen when women’s bodies are concerned.

The gagging noises I’m emitting are so small. A pitiful thing. The whimper of a creature that’s not fully human, and was never meant to be. The archetypal sound of female defeat in the shadow of male power.

When at last he pulls back, letting me breathe in sputtering coughs, I find myself uttering three words. Much like he uttered three words to me.

The content of the words surprises even me.

“Is… this… now?”

I expect him to be confused. This is a nonsensical question. Most people have no trouble whatsoever telling the difference between past and present, reality and illusion. At the very least, it should take him a beat to try and process my words and understand what the fuck I mean with that question.

Instead, it’s like he hasn’t even heard it. I’ve barely managed to catch my breath that in goes his cock again, filling my mouth and shutting me up.

Gluk gluk gluk –

What a monster he must be. So focused on my own rape that he doesn’t even pause when presented with a crazy question. And I’ve fallen right into his clutches.

It’s my fucking fault.

Yes, I suppose I’m victim-blaming myself. It’s my fault, for going on a date with some fucking misogynist.

It doesn’t feel like my fault, though, not really. Which is good, I suppose, since he’s the one raping me. But… that’s not… it doesn’t… it doesn’t fit. Not all the way. But why? If only I could…

Remember.

Gabriel followed me into the bathroom.

Of course he must have. Where else could he have so thoroughly fucked up my mind? He must have done something to me in here.

Eyes words whispers distant suns rape submit

The door closes behind me, and I don’t turn around to face him. I simply watch his reflection in the mirror as he steps closer to me.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Is everything okay, Alicia?”

I stare into the mirror.

He stares into the mirror.

And then… I begin to talk.

No. There’s no way. This doesn’t make sense. It can’t be the case, surely. It’s impossible to explain, or to understand.

Gluk gluk gluk –

Remember –

My eyes shone in the mirror, like two fierce and distant suns. I asked Gabriel to follow me into the women’s bathroom. I sent him a text after I was inside, asking if he could quickly come in. Of course he assumed something was wrong, that maybe I needed help.

And something was wrong. Just not in the way he thought.

He barely had time to pause and process the weirdness of what was happening, because my eyes shone like fierce and distant suns in the mirror, and he couldn’t help but look, and once he looked, he couldn’t help but listen to my lilting voice as I half-spoke words that pulled him into a dream within a dream within a nightmare.

Just as I can’t help but suck him off right now.

Just as I can’t help but –

Remember.

As I hypnotised Gabriel, I explained, oh so kindly, that it was so hard to imagine a version of me that is free of the responsibilities of adulthood and the grind of everyday life. It was so difficult, that I had to seek comfort into some fantasy of sexual thralldom to a misogynistic conqueror to look for escape from a miserable life.

And, I also told him, it would not be fair if I simply hypnotised him to dominate the fuck out of me. Because then it would just be some game. I could stop him any time. I could simply hypnotise him again and put an end to this any time I felt uncomfortable.

For the feelings to be real, the stakes have to be real, too.

Which is why, after I had thoroughly reprogrammed his core drives towards me, I stared deep into the mirror, into the fierce and distant suns, and started speaking words softly to myself.

Sealing the escape route behind me, to make sure that I could never rethink my decision and retrace my steps.

Defanging and declawing my own hypnotic power such that it could no longer even be mustered, unless it was with his explicit consent.

Such that I could never be free of his new power over me. Not even if I wanted to.

Gluk gluk gluk –

Remember –

My head is weeping tears, and the head of his cock is weeping precum. It really is my fault, I suppose. A girl so fucked in the head that I couldn’t be content to play at master and slave. I had to go ahead and make a rapist. And then I tossed the key to unmaking it into the bottom of the metaphorical ocean, ensuring that I would be his victim for as long as he had any sexual use for me.

As my new Master finally drives his cock down my throat to the hilt once more, and begins to quiver and groan and the first ropes of his cum hit the back of my throat, marking me as his property, I tell myself that in some way, though, it is his fault too, for being so careless.

After all…

He’s gone on a date with a misogynist.

THE END