Nyla squirmed against the hard porcelain surface of the washer as it jiggled violently beneath her. She was aware of the rapists threat to American women as they were constantly covered, analyzed and their courtroom dramas were detailed in the news. John Walsh recently was interviewed on Larry King and warned women of the rapist’s lair, his car, a van or a storage shed where he would rape and kill his victim in the comfort of his own space. She was startled that over 850 priests had been charged with pedophile attacks, far more than the rest of society. The reports had never felt as close as the man with his groin thrust against her plump ass. She never took threats of violence or rape seriously until two minutes ago, when she felt his coarse hand on her soft neck and the slimy scent of his drunken breath assailing her nostrils.
Her face was throbbing from the pistol whipping. Her ankles were bruised and bleeding from boot kicks to spread her shapely legs apart. She heard him fumbling in his pants for his cock. Terrified she could sense that he was stroking it and his frustration that he couldn’t release her and play with her ass. It made him mad and he shouted, “Fuckin’ bitch,” and drove the butt of his automatic against her lower back. Her knees buckled with the pain and slammed against the shaking washer. He continually called her a “bitch” and “no good”, but his words rarely formed coherent sentences. She didn’t recognize the voice. Then she felt the head of his cock pierce the softness of her ass. She jerked. She wasn’t a virgin and had been fucked, even in the ass, but as the head of his joint pushed into the crack she tensed. Every muscle tightened in a natural reaction to the unwanted onslaught.
She thought for a moment that what he was attempting to do was natural, a man fucking a woman, and yet she was fighting with all she had. She wanted the touch of another woman and that wasn’t generally accepted as a natural act. Her confusion with society didn’t expel her desire to run from the intruder. His cock slid deeper in her crack to her lips that were bone dry. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he murmured in a low anxious voice trying to force his throbbing cock inside her. He spat on her ass several times and rubbed the head of his cock in the warm spittle and began to thrust it between her lips.
Her eyes filled with tears as she realized that she might have little choice but to succumb to his power and pray that he didn’t kill her, although statistics generally support murder over freeing victims.
Marko took his rounds around the perimeter of the Cantina in the slippery, fog coated darkness picking up trash and looking through the landscaped bushes for drunks, lovers or homeless who wandered the streets of San Pedro looking for spare change or a place to crash. He noticed the empty van in the parking lot under the Harbor Boulevard street lights and was aware that it could belong to someone other than a Cantina customer. Marko wandered past the patio to where the Cantina over looked the underside of the massive Vincent Thomas Expansion Bridge. He wandered to the edge of the dock and looked at the water and the incoming mist of fog that hid what the harbor contained in a blanket of dark, looming wet mist. He thought about fishing for a while, but shortly it would be too cold and wet.
Nyla twisted her ass knowing full well that it could mean that she would raise the ire of her assailant and she might be killed instantly. She couldn’t help it. Her fight came naturally, ardently and without concern. “I’ll kill you, cunt,” The voice was a harsh whisper like the hiss of a rattle snake. The weapon suddenly left the arch of her lower back and she sensed that he had cocked an arm was going to strike her again. “You fucking…” he hissed.
His left arm with the heavy automatic clinched in his calloused hand swung above his head. His face was white and freckled, but a bomb of red anger. His head was scattered with light red hair, but generally balled. The thin wisps of shabby strains stuck out from his head, as if electrical wires reaching for some connection. Unable to grow strong facial hair his puffy haunting appearance and pot belly was obvious shackles to normal relationships. His animosity towards his looks and upbringing drove him into a wild uncontrollable rage. Her head rattled against the washer as he lifted the .45 into a full round house from behind his head.
His snake like breathy words hissed then halted like someone unplugging an air compressor. A whoosh of air drained from the tank, then another sound followed like an abrupt gargle and the crack of something small like twigs. “Arrrrg,” the attacker’s last attempted to groan, was stifled. The hard cock fell away without entering Nyla and she heard his weapon fall to the floor. There was another sound that she couldn’t figure out, then it dawned on her. It was the same sound the wire ties made as they cinched her wrists. She began to stand, but felt a hand on her back gently nudging her against the washer again, but then a soft caress lowered her skirt. Unknowingly, still shaking from her adrenaline surge, she obeyed and didn’t move.
In the darkness of the restaurant storeroom things were happening fast, but she didn’t know what. She stood against the vibrating washer awash with lost emotion. She heard the stockroom door open and before it closed another sound like something large splashing in the sea water across the driveway in the harbor. The door closed with a comfortable thud and she stood alone in silence for a long moment. She expected to hear something more, be relieved of her bound, something, but for long seconds she stood suddenly alone. She was stunned and relieved, yet full of questions. She shook and pulled at her bindings, then heard footsteps outside and the large iron door pulled open from the outside. She sensed someone was standing in the doorway assessing the dark galley. “Nyla?” Marko said.
She stomped one foot against the wooden grating in front of the washer. Marko turned and poked his head carefully into the storeroom.
He moved closer in his soft leather fighting shoes that he always wore around the Cantina. He could be agile on his feet at a moments notice. He spotted her panties torn and lying at her feet and approached her quietly. He quickly cut the wire ties from her wrists and turned her toward him. He worked painfully, but quietly removing the duck tape from her tender face. Her appearance was swollen with pain and her eyes puffy with tears and fear. She looked at him in desperation. “I heard something splash in the channel?” Marko asked anxiously.
“A man,” Nyla huffed and gasped for her words, “A man attacked me. That might have been him. I don’t know. Someone…” Marko turned and dashed back out the door that was lined by an alley for trucks to deliver goods then just a few feet empty asphalt before the wooden pillars of the docks bordering the West Bank of the channel. He looked over the edge but didn’t see anything, then a shoe floating in the water. He stepped back inside.
“Are you alright?” Marko said.
“I suppose,” Nyla said unsure of herself or anything she said.
“Did he..?” Marko asked. “Do I need to call the cops?”
“No,” Nyla said in her confused state, “I don’t know.” Marko saw in her watering eyes that she was going to collapse. He guided her back into the bar.
“Where’s Bandit?” Nyla asked.
“I’m not sure,” Marko said, “he was out of town on business. I’ll take you up to his apartment and you can take a bath. I’ll stay down here and make sure the coast is clear. Call me if you need anything?”
He carried her up the stairs and opened the door for her. She stumbled but found her footing and made it directly to the bathroom where the water was running. There were candles lit on the counter and the edge of the tub. A tall delicate glass held a White Russian made with her favorite, Absolute, rested on the sink, ice still clinking against the sides. He couldn’t be far away.
