Recently I’ve been thinking about this.

I’m working the closing shift at my job. Most of the lights are off, except what little I need to sweep up and count out. There’s a knock at the front door, where I see someone who was in the shop earlier. I go over and he says he left his glasses by the back when he was flipping through a book, can he please grab them real quick? He was nice enough before, so I agree, waiting by the door to let him back out. While he’s back there I hear a crash, he’s knocked a table over and I hurry over to help. While I’m picking things up, he goes and closes and locks the door, stuffing the key in his pocket. I’m confused, scared, as he edges his way back. His eyes have changed and it dawns on me that it wasn’t an accident.

I grab the broom and try to swing at him, but he’s fast. He grabs it before it hits him, rushes at me and slams me against a wall. His breath is warm and wet on my neck as he bites down, holding my arms tight no matter how much I struggle and I’ve dropped the goddamn broom. I try kicking but he’s grinding so hard into me I can’t get a good angle. He reaches up and grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks down, forcing my head up while he pulls at my tank top, tearing it open. I half-gasp, half-screech, and he smacks me, grabbing my chin. “Shut up,” he growls against my ear. “I can make this hurt a lot more than that.”

My head is spinning. Do I want to take the chance and fight harder? Can I handle it? His hit was more abrupt than painful. I could push my luck.

As I think it over, his right hand mauls my breasts. His other snakes around and down my back, finding its way against the entrance of my pussy. I’m startled at how easily he slides his fingers in, embarrassed I’ve gotten so wet just from a few minutes of tussling. I try harder to push him off, squirming around to get him out of me, beating a fist against his sides. I knew it might piss him off, and I’m right, because before long he’s pulling me off the wall and shoving me facedown to the ground, straddling my thighs. This actually does hurt. I’m more stuck than before.

“You’re a funny girl. You wear these low-cut tops and everything on your little ‘favorite books’ shelf is about fucked up sex.” I’m only half-listening. He’s zip-tying my wrists together and I’m trying to make it difficult, which he doesn’t like. I know this because he punches me in the side, knocking out the breath I’m already struggling to get.

After he’s sufficiently immobilized me, he pulls up my skirt rather gingerly, enjoying the view before tearing off my panties. If I wasn’t crying before, I am now. His cock is thick, teasing itself against my swollen lips, his hands gripping my ass for balance. He pushes himself in, deep, laying flat against me. His hands wrap around my neck as he begins thrusting into me. I mask my moans under gasps for air and desperate crying, hoping he can’t feel me arching my ass against him. Why isn't anyone stopping this? Can't they hear us knocking around? Why does it feel so fucking good?

His breathing gets harder, his rhythm faster, his hands keep tightening. I know I can't stop it but I still thrash where I can, wasting the last of the air in my lungs on attempted screams. But it doesn't matter. I feel the heat of him flooding me with his cum, wetter into my wet. He grunts a few times, his cheek pressed into my back, loosening his grip from my neck and running his hands around my body.