Selena didn't turn her head toward the sound. She looked at her feet and her bare legs with the dry piss against them. She looked at the cold concrete in front of her.
The bolt slid in the lock and the man opened the cage door and walked in. He stood a few feet away from Selena and pulled down his pants, stepping out of them with rehearsed precision.
Oh no, she thought. This is how it happens.
She froze her breath, willing herself to pass out, but she couldn't close her eyes.
He was wearing jockey shorts. He pulled them off. He had an erection that was like the rest of him: thick. To Selena, it looked like it could hurt. An obscene phallus that was part cock, part steel pipe.
The man went up to her. He rubbed himself up and down her bare legs, holding his cock in his hand. He put it between her thighs, tapping it against her underwear. In a soft voice, he said, “Playtime, sweetie. You be good and I just might keep you around a while.”
She turned her face away and tried to put her conscious mind somewhere else, as if it was an entity you could hide in a shoebox and tuck away up on a high shelf. If you go out of your mind, he can't break you, she thought.
She saw herself in her own house, lying in her own bed, next to her husband Raymond on a Saturday morning reading the paper.
The man pushed against her and then he was tearing his way inside. She cried out in agony.