Cigarette Breath
by Ray Van Horn, Jr.

  Jeanna cries mutely, not daring to unleash even the slightest audible whisper. She is petrified and vulnerable as hot tears scald her cheeks down to her sunken pillow. Though she has no concrete proof, she imagines that the penalty for making noise is harsh, indeed. As if anything could possibly be worse than this. God, the humiliating pain...

  Her dark world has plummeted into an even deeper netherworld of black fugue. Where she cannot see what is being done to her, Jeanna's other senses are sharp, even as she blenches horribly in dismay.

  There is the relentless, agonizing torture of her wracked and stolen body; her punished bare arms and legs are stretched beyond their capacity. Ligaments and tendons are pulverized, hamstrings and quadriceps shredded. Her wrists and ankles are numb from the nerve-cutting wire her attacker has ensnared her with. Judging by the cold, thin and smooth metallic texture of the gnashing wires, Jeanna guesses that the brute has used clothes hangers to entrap her. She isn't positive, but she thinks the wire has gouged deep enough into her skin to draw blood. If she somehow manages to survive this ordeal, she will need to undergo hours of physical therapy, not to mention, mental.

  Her heart rips asunder with searing, unpredictable fear. Her boiling sanguinary fluid, coupled with confused adrenaline, courses through the outraged circuitry comprising the remaining shreds of her fleeting humanity. There is a nasty, bitter, coppery taste souring in her mouth. All of this is moot, however, in comparison to the violent, grating, splitting sensation she feels down there.

  In the dementia of her sullen terror, Jeanna desperately wonders why humans crave this sordid act so much. She has never experienced it prior to this forced penetration, so all she has to base her bewildered and terrified judgment on is subjugation, domination and violation. In the future--if there is a future for Jeanna--there will be no convincing her of the amorous pleasure principle that is the explicitly wonderful side to sex.

  Her enslaver is powerfully strong; he'd conquered her easily, with little resistance on her part. Then again, it is difficult to fight back against what you cannot see.

  He'd smashed through her apartment door, the loud thunk and splintery crackling of the deceivingly impenetrable entrance jolting Jeanna from what had been a pleasant afternoon nap. Her fortress had yielded to the angry, driven whims of the callous, obscenely aroused invader. She could hear his rushed, heavy stomping into her bedroom.

  Jeanna had barely the time to shriek when she felt the sting of his meaty knuckles belt across her mouth. Had she been able to see the blow coming, she might have avoided his brutal swipe. Already, her stinging and clotting lower lip had swollen by the time she could hear the monster rummaging around in her closet.

  At first, she'd thought he was here to rob what little possessions a young blind woman living in a cheap two room apartment in the city could potentially own, which amounted to a booty attractive maybe to a street junkie or homeless wino.

  He moved quietly then, so quiet that Jeanna allowed herself to believe the false delusion that he had vanished. Her naivete was exploited as two outrageously strong hands seized her, stripped her of her clothes as if they were made of construction paper, and forced her into an excruciating spread-eagle posture on the bed. Like the fortress she stupidly imagined her apartment to be, so too had her virginity fallen plunder to the lascivious barbarian. He broke through the last gate protecting her sanctity, defiling her treasured femininity like a greedy archeologist stealing artifacts from a sacred, ancient shrine.

  Who was this letch breaking her apart like a powermad, frivolous gynecologist? Where did he come from? Was he some cretin stalker off the street, labeling her as an easy target? Worse, was actually he one of the tenants in the building? She knew of at least three single men in the building, each of whom, at one time or another, complimented her on a sightly beauty that she could not verify for herself. Could it be one of them? Merciful God, who?

  The rapist works her over forcefully, but ceding not so much as a random grunt to leak his identity. There were no telltale characteristics--save for his muscular brawn--to give to the police. That was, if she would live to tell them, much less summon the courage to report the attack. How could she possibly do it, though? How could she depend on herself to deliver an accurate description to the authorities? What kind of witness does a blind woman make?

  Not a very credible one, Jeanna admits in defeat. Of all the times Jeanna wished for the gift of sight during her nineteen years on the earth, now was the most imperative. With each decadent stroke from her anonymous assaulter, Jeanna plunges deeper into irreversible despondency.

  His staying power would be noteworthy if Jeanna had been a consenting participant. However, each minute he drags it out is hateful, unrelenting sadism. The beast gnaws her left breast with hungry, perverted teeth. For poor Jeanna, it is the last indignity she can endure. She wails out like a dying animal, begging him to finish, knowing this is exactly what he has truly sought from her--her ultimate, overpowered degradation. Her innocence forever tainted, she so badly wants to begin the healing process, though she knows in the back of her seeped mind that it will be a long, hurtful journey.

  "Shhh..." is all she hears, almost a betrayal of her attacker's voice, but it is not enough. He is far too clever to allot her even the most minute trace of his selfhood. A glob of the predator's saliva hardens on her breast, and she feels his body stiffen, as if he'd suddenly convulsed and died in midstroke. No such luck for Jeanna.

  As the fiend mercifully climaxes, filling her reluctantly battered insides with his awful, steaming, venomous semen, Jeanna can smell the foul residue of menthol stringed tobacco on his panting, pleasured breath.

© 1999 Ray Van Horn, Jr.

Ray Van Horn's publication credits include fiction at Anotherealm, Cyber Age Adventures,Antipodean SF, Mocha Memoirs and Dark Lords of the Sith. he also writes hockey articles for Hockey Nut and Hockey Voice. Also, his humor essays are at It's All Happening at the Zoo.

October 1999 HofP