Page 4 of Pride

Thanks, you fucking asshole.

A sinking feeling filled me. There was no doubt I stepped into the wrong bar at the wrong time. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and managed to swallow a wad of dry apprehension.

“Excuse me.” I tried to step between them.

The one on my right grabbed my arm. “Where are you goin’? Thought you was broke down? You ain’t got anywhere to be. Hell, let’s party.”

I tried to pull away. “Let me go.”

His grip tightened. “She’s a fighter.” He chuckled a dry laugh. “A feisty little bitch.”

“Let me go.” Nervously, my eyes darted around the bar. Everyone appeared to be willing to join in on the abuse except for Pete, who sat at the bar with his head hung low.

“Call the police,” I shouted, hoping Pete would be sympathetic enough to challenge the drunken fools to let me go.

“Police?” He chuckled and spun halfway around on his barstool. “Fer what? To break up the party?”

Hands came from everywhere. One grabbed my arm. Another tugged at my shirt. Someone squeezed my boob. I screamed and twisted my body, hoping to free myself from their grasp, but it only made matters worse. Everyone seemed to be touching me at the same time. Then, someone slapped my face.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” One of them said. “One more scream out of you, and I’ll cut ya.”

The next thing I knew, I was being dragged by my hair toward a booth in the corner of the bar by one of them while the remaining men did nothing to help me. In fact, they shouted to cheer him on. The apprehension I thought I’d swallowed turned to fear, and I choked on it.

Drunken shouts of blowjobs, dick sucking and I bet she’s got a sweet little pussy gave warning to what was next. In my 26 years on earth I had been in the presence of thousands of drunken military men, walked home alone while drunk, woke up in strange places, and had gone on a few dates with some pretty questionable guys – but I’d never felt like I would be a victim of rape.

At 5’-6” and 130 pounds, I offered little resistance against the man who was fighting to unbutton my shorts. Nonetheless, I voiced a hoarse objection until someone smothered my mouth with their hand.

My shorts were ripped down my thighs. Someone began to tug at my panties. I bit into the hand that covered my mouth and made an effort to scream.

“Heeelp!”

My plea got tangled in my fear, and came out dry and unintelligible. The darkness that surrounded me had nothing to do with the fact the bar was poorly lit. The pit of my stomach began to ache, and I felt like I might not make it out of there alive.

I’d never been religious, but I started to pray, nonetheless. A sliver of light from the front door brightened the otherwise dark bar. Pressed into the seat of the booth with hands groping me from all directions, I couldn’t see the door or who was either coming or going, but I swallowed hard and then shouted for help nonetheless.

“Help! They’re raping me!”

“Shut the fuck up,” one of them hissed.

A hand slapped my face.

I dragged my tongue along my front teeth and tasted blood.

You son-of-a-bitch.

“Best bet is for you to just turn around and leave,” I heard one of them say.

“Yeah, you and that bitch hair,” someone else warned.

The unmistakable sound of boot heels against the wooden floor grew closer.

“You deaf, motherfucker?” one of the men asked.

I felt like a weight was lifted from me.

“Hey motherfucker,” the man on top of me shouted. “What the fuck…”

He, too, was pulled off me. Free from everyone’s grasp, I sat up and looked around. The darkness was gone, and had been replaced by a sliver of light from the door that was somehow propped open slightly.