His birthday was two months after mine. Obviously, he wanted the same sort of event I had been graced with for my birthday. So, he booked a hotel and a restaurant and planned a great time.
We had a three-course meal in relative civility. We drank wine, we chatted, we watched the people around us, but there was an undercurrent of something else. At the end of the meal, an older woman dressed as a fortune-teller wandered around the tables, selling roses. She approached our table, and Ollie looked at me with a grin. He lifted a rose from her basket, paid her for it, and smiled at me sweetly.
I watched as he rose from his seat and walked to the bar, where our waiter for the evening had been standing. He gave him the biggest flash of his charming grin and presented him with the rose as he paid our bill. At first, I wasn’t sure if I was seeing things. My eyes watched what happened, but my brain tried to reason it all out.
I had got it all wrong. Maybe he was a friend; someone he already knew. Maybe he was related to one of Ollie’s friends. Their brother maybe? He couldn’t possibly be hitting on someone else while he was out with me, could he? The painful truth was, of course he could. Nothing was beyond the realm of reason where Oliver was concerned anymore.
After that, the whole tone of the evening soured. We left the restaurant and wandered back through the streets of London, heading for the hotel. When we got into the lift, he started talking about all the things he wanted to do to me that night. My heart and stomach sank like lead, and my skin began to crawl. I hadn’t been prepared for just how bad things could or would possibly become. He talked in explicit, vulgar detail about every last thing he expected of me. After all, it was his birthday. He was sick of me being a ‘frigid little bitch,’ and that he had so much to catch up on. I tried to fight the urge to run. I didn’t want to go to the hotel room anymore, but I had absolutely no idea of how to get out of it.
We walked along the corridor that led to our room. Every single cell in my body screamed for me to turn around and flee. I wanted to, but my legs just kept moving towards the door, trapped by fear and unable to do anything other than aimlessly and sickeningly walk towards whatever fate had in store.
The second that hotel room door closed, I was trapped in hell. My brain started firing off suggestions of how to get out. Part of me wanted to scream and shout and have other guests complain. Anything to fight him and get away. Part of me thought about just lying there, getting it over and done with, and then make my move to escape him.
I thought of everything Amy and I had talked about. What I should do, how I should escape, what I needed to remember to be aware of. Self-preservation was at the top of my list of concerns, so when he kissed me, I let him. I didn’t participate in what he was doing; I didn’t want to. I shut myself off from what was happening. I just got on with responding to him in a way I thought he would tolerate. For the first thirty minutes or so, the very fact that I was letting him get on with it seemed to be enough.
When we got to the bed, he kissed me, groped me, rubbed himself against me, and I just let him. I did enough to be a participant, but not enough to show I was willing. When he undid the buttons of my shirt and put his face against my chest, I flinched. It was only for a brief second, but it was enough to change the course of the rest of the evening. In an instant, Ollie changed. It was like my moment of hesitance had awoken the monster that had, for the most part, been dormant inside him. Hatred glowed from his eyes every time I looked into them. My stomach dropped to my feet the first time I caught his look.
He had seen what I was truly feeling by being this close and intimate with him, and the anger at my rejection was in every movement he made. My lack of participation was no longer good enough. Everything within me was frozen in fear. Dread pulsed through my veins and I tried my hardest not to shudder when his fingers touched my bare skin. A sinister sneer crept across his features. Suddenly, my distress seemed to please him more than my lack of involvement pissed him off. He got rougher. My shirt was yanked off, and he started to paw at my chest, twisting my nipples harshly and kneading my flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He stripped off his own shirt and went for my boxers, practically ripping them from my body. He jumped up from the bed, and his jeans and boxers disappeared in seconds. He slapped my thighs, then it was my arms, then it was my face. Suddenly, slaps weren’t enough. He slapped my face so hard I thought my eye was going to pop out of my head from the force. Then he flipped me onto my front and grabbed my wrists; I knew what was coming. Only this time, I knew that I didn’t want it. I wasn’t going to just lie there and take it. I bucked and tried to throw him off enough to get away, or at least turn around to fight him better. The more I fought him, the more the sick son of a bitch got turned on. The more I could feel his heavy erection bobbing against my ass. He continued to hit me and tried to keep me pinned to the bed, forcing himself between my legs, trying to get his worthless little prick inside me.
I felt him push against my ass, and I started to fight back with everything I had. I wormed and squirmed, trying to close my legs. His fingers dug into my wrists with the sheer force he had to apply to be able to keep a hold of me. Again, his cock found its target. I took a deep breath in and bucked my ass against him, managing to get enough distance between me and the mattress that I was able to turn on my side. From there, I was only just able to get myself free. I sprinted for the bathroom, knowing it was the only place I could go completely naked, hoping it would buy me the time to do whatever I needed to and end this horrible night before anything else happened.