STOP!

If you are not comfortable with the issue of 'rape' or of homosexuality, or have the idea that life has lovely, fluffy endings, please back up and direct yourself to the nearest fluffy bunny happy go lucky story

The following is a story that I found in my school papers and is simply titled "Rape". I almost always write with my Sethe - he's very dear to me, but man, he gets into a lot of situations... You should expect to hear from him more - because I don't think I'll ever get tired with writing for him. Please give feedback, even flames are nice - I love roasting marshmallows.

'Do you feel that?'

Sharp brown eyes sharpened into a state of fear as the finger violated into his most sensitive area.

'Stop' he choked, the pressure against the other man allowed him no chance to move, no chance to run. The finger only went further. Sethe craned his sweaty face back to glimpse at the man, to plead, but to his horror, he saw the man smiling and it growing wider with every gasp, with any indication of pain. There was no way out. He couldn't stop this, something he realized, quickly. Dread filled into the pit of his stomach with this knowledge of what was happening. Every muscle tensed up, resisting this perversion, but it only got worse.

"Be a good boy and it won't hurt."

No, he didn't want this. He had never wanted this.

The legs held around his waist, now opened, giving his only chance. He stood and kicked his bare feet against the hard wooden floor.

A vise-like grip on his wrist yanked him. He pulled against it, not caring of snapping his wrist. Hell, if he had to chew his hand off he would right then. He screamed as loud as his lungs would allow but they were only tightened. Only squeaked hoarsely. He couldn't breathe. White hot tears fell countlessly onto the floor as he prayed.

A knee slammed into his back, his arm yanked backward. He fell down, down onto the cold wood, painfully.

"Sethe," he was laughing, "I said be good."

He tried to push against and away from the floor. His back arched, snapping under the weight of the man's body. Why was someone so thin so damn strong? He cried, not yet ready to give up the useful fight, but even then he could feel himself being uncovered. His shirt lifted and stopped at his elbows, hanging uselessly. His pants and all else under slipped down.

He screamed again between his bitten lips, knowing what was coming but nothing could stop the man. Absolutely nothing.

Without a warning, something entered him, far and deep. Sethe clenched his fist into the fabric of his sleeve, biting down so hard he tasted blood, gasping at the sudden release as it all left.

It only came again. Tricking him so completely horribly that this was no where close to ending.

Blood and salty tears stained his shirt. "Stop," he whispered, reaching his hand out for something, for some support. His hand enclosed onto the table's leg, that one in his apartment that held nothing but a picture frame, a gift. Tight, hot pain in his abdomen, hurt, hurt, hurt.

All he could hear was the man's heavy breathing as he sent himself hard enough to split him in half. Wet... it was all... wet... was he bleeding or...

His fist clenched harder into the wood's sharp edge, cutting into his palm. He gasped, screamed, cried... but no one came. No one was going to come save him.

"Beautiful," the man whispered, heavily, into his ear, as he adjusted himself and came in harder at a different angle sending fresh waves of pain.

Is that all I am?

His own arousal was pressed down hard into the wood, weeping, spilling over and over, whether he wanted it or not. He was rocked over and over, down and down. If only... if only he could disappear into the wood…

"Bastard!" he spat out, blood stained his lips and coughed down into polished wood.

Just when he thought he was going to die, he felt it all withdraw, felt the weight lifting.

Am I... dying? God, please, am I?

Sethe raised his head, and glared up the figure. The man was grinning, and taking his coat from off the chair. The door closed.

Sethe screamed, silently, withdrawing within, screaming over and over until his voice wouldn't make a sound.

The pain retreated to a dull roar. He sat up, bruised, an empty shell, having no idea how long had passed or of any thoughts that made sense. He discarded the sticky clothes around him. He didn't need them. They had failed their purpose of covering him.

Slowly, he stood, every bit of him ached for sleep.

Dirty.

He felt dirty.

More important than anything, he wanted it to go away, this... dirt. He walked, ignoring the sickness built in his stomach, the painful tightening of his muscles. The dirt... if he could just let it all roll down the drain, let it all be forgotten.

His fist came on the knob and pushed it open with the little strength he owned. The tiles for some reason he noticed were cold, so cold, but clean... they had been cleaned only earlier... when... when he said he was going to come...

Dirty

He stumbled to the tub, and shakingly twisted the knob. Water fell. Hot. Boiling hot. He swung it impatiently, just missing warm and moving to cold. Ice. His legs swung down into the tub. Why the hell would he deserve the comfortable warmth?

Water fell onto his bruised legs, onto his sore muscles. Feverishly, he wiped, scrubbing into his skin. The blood left and the salt and the semen even. But the dirt remained.

The invisible dirt would always be there.

Rape

That was what happened. That was the word for it. He whispered it out loud to hear it. It cut hard. Deep. He whimpered and hugged onto the spout of the bath, ice cold water numbing every bit of his skin. He turned the knob helplessly, and lay still.

He could fight no longer. He curled into the small cramped tub, squeezed his eyes and prayed for an escape. If there was a God, or anything at all could hear him… He prayed for escape