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Raping Helena


The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for adults in
locations in which it is legal. If it is illegal in your location, DO NOT
read. This is a copyrighted work. Reposting or any other use strictly
prohibited without the express, written permission of the copyright holder,
except may by posted as part of a review or posted to free-access,
non-commercial archive sights.

Copyright 1998 by E. Z. Riter.

Email address:

Please! Give me comments.

I wrote a story entitled "Winning Denver". Celeste's review (see
Celestial Reviews 277 April 22, 1998) was disappointing but very fair.
This is a rewrite of that story. The character is now from the capitol of
Montana rather than Colorado. The verb has been changed for reasons which
shall be obvious when you read the story.


Las Vegas is America's adult amusement park. I try to spend two or
three weeks a year there to gamble and enjoy the other festivities. I am
never a big winner or loser unless you consider $20,000 a trip big. At
thirty-seven, I was in my fifteenth year of Vegas trips, and over the
years, I was actually ahead by more than a hundred thousand.

I always stay at the same place and gamble there much of the time. As a
regular, I get the freebies they offer to generate repeat business, such as
lunches, drinks or tickets to the shows. Each trip I find a nice girl to
share my bed a few times, which is part of the Vegas appeal. No street
walkers. Call girls. Pretty and clean.

On the first night of a two-week stay, I gambled until five in the
morning. When I called it a night, I was seventy thousand ahead, which
made for sweet dreams someone rudely interrupted by knocking at my door.
As I stumbled to answer, the clock read ten thirty. It was Walt Simpson,
the assistant security chief, who I had gotten to know over the years. A
hard-nosed SOB with some old Mafia ties, he did a fine job for the casino,
handling all the tough problems while his pretty boy boss looked good for
the Gaming Commission.

"Having a good trip, Dan?" he asked as I let him in.

"So far, Walt. What the hell do you want at this hour?"

"Planning on utilizing any of the females this time?"

"Like always. Got anybody special in mind?"

"Yeah. I do. You know this is top secret, Dan." That was Walt's code
for telling me if I mouthed this off, my legs got broken.

"Well, let me hear."

Walt told me an appealing story, a story I had heard other times but
always believed to be an urban myth. A young couple on their honeymoon got
caught up in the gambling and were down a total of $26,000 to three
different casinos. Both husband and wife had gambled, but the wife dropped
ten grand at the crap tables in another casino. That particular casino
still had mob ties and was not a good place to leave a bad marker. Walt
agreed to handle the collection for all three places. Whether the couple
knew it or not, they were better off with Walt than with his counterparts.

"The woman has agreed to work it off, so to speak."

I studied his face but found nothing there. The term poker face was
invented for Walt and guys like him.

Suddenly, my cock came to attention. Walt, who never missed anything,
relaxed enough to let a twinkle come in his eye when he saw. The idea
really intrigued me. But, why? Was it the rape since she was being
leveraged into doing it? Her age and innocence? Was it fucking someone
else's bride on their honeymoon, or, just fucking another man's wife while
he watched?

I guess Walt knew I was thinking hard because he waited patiently as
thoughts, I must admit, sexy, even obscene, thoughts, bounced around in my
head. Whatever the reason, I agreed to meet them. Walt waited as I
quickly dressed. As we walked down the hall toward his office, I made up
my mind. "Walt, I will do it, if she is attractive." He did not change
expressions when he said, "She is a little small and lean for my taste, but
she is attractive."

Subject to meeting her, I agreed to the deal. I would get the woman for
the thirteen days remaining in my vacation on a twenty-four hour, no
questions asked, all orders followed happily basis. They got the bad guys off their back. Walt and his friends got their money, $26,000 to be taken
from the bank I had on deposit with the casino's cashier.

Her name was Helena, which she explained was because she was born there,
the love child of hippie parents. She was twenty-one. His name was Toby.
Scared to death since Walt and his boys had more than a few long talks with
them, they knew they were in very deep trouble with very bad people. She
had been crying, but now was deathly still and quiet except for a few
involuntary, intermittent shakes. Toby was catatonic. As Walt sat back
studying the unhappily married couple, I addressed her.

"Talk to me. Tell me whether you understand what is going on here."

Since I had arrived, she had not yet looked directly at me. Still
looking at me only obliquely, her eyes flitted between her husband and me,
lighting but a second on either of us, continually moving in her

"He asked you a question," Toby said. I caught a glimpse of sexual
desire reflected in his voice which surprised me. I wondered if anyone
else caught it. When I glanced at Walt, I knew he had heard Toby the way I

"I will be a whore. I..."

Her voice cracked and she began to sob, tiny, little gasps released
under great pressure as she fought to maintain her composure. She was so
pathetic, at first I wanted to comfort her, but I did not. It was neither
the time nor place for comfort. Had it been, it was Toby's responsibility
and he made no move toward her.

But, that is not the reason I abstained from comforting her. I was
enjoying her turmoil, her slide into the depths of despair. I realized my
own deep desire which drove me to participate in this game was her
unwilling sexual submission . . . her rape. My cock was hard as a rock
and my heart was pounding at the thought.

Eventually, she took a long, deep breath, and slowly it let it out.
Still, she had not looked at me. As if relating a tale of death in her
family, she spoke in a dark monotone.

"I know what I have to do and I will do it. I will be a bride on her
honeymoon, being happy about having wild sex, doing anything the man tells
me to do, except the man will not be my husband." Her voice would break the
heart of a statue, but it was so erotic, I thought I would be spilt open.

"Anything else?"

"No pain. They promised me no pain if I cooperated."

"Listen," Walt said, seizing our attention. Mesmerized by him, we
listened in quiet horror as Walt related a story of a woman who tried to
negotiate her way out of having sex with the man who paid for her losses.
At the instruction of the casino bosses, she was brutally gang raped by
seven men. Walt was making it perfectly clear to Helena cooperation with
me was much better than the alternative, and making me understand I was to
complete my part in this drama.

I was watching Toby and Helena as Walt spoke. Toby acted sexually
aroused and I wondered what the hell was going on. At the end of Walt's
tale, Helena, for a second, looked at me directly for the first time. It
was the expression a prisoner gives the hangman, or, was it something more?

"Well?" Walt asked. There was a long silence.

"I can do this," Helena said very softly as if trying to convince
herself rather than communicate to us. I hoped she could do it because the
fantasy of her being with me under these circumstances was quickly growing
in me. When she reached the point where she looked at me openly, I knew
she was ready for the next step.

"Helena? Do we have a deal?"

"Yes. We have a deal," she whispered.

Toby was a study in conflict. His eyes were wide, scared, but not
angry. I saw lust in them, and apprehension. Was Toby getting off at
seeing his wife in this predicament?

"Toby, I suggest you leave Vegas. Go back home. We will send your wife to you when we are finished with her." Walt's voice left little room for
discussion, but Toby jumped to answer.

"No. I want to see . . . " He froze, sweat breaking out on his face.
She saw in his face what we all saw. We all were beginning to understand
why he let her gamble, why he did not protect her as he should have . . .
as he promised to do as he stood by her on the altar just a few days ago.
Consciously or subconsciously, it really makes no difference, he had set
her up for a fall.

She knew now what had happened. She started to weave as if she might
faint, but fell into a straight chair. We all waited as her ravaged mind
pieced together the puzzle of her life as it existed at this moment. "Go
away, Toby. Go home. I will call you when they are through with me. We
can talk then."

"Helena, I want . . . " Walt stood, waving his arm to cut off Toby.
"You heard her. The lady has decided."

She accompanied me to my room, then put away her few clothes the bellman
brought in her luggage. She looked exhausted. When I suggested she take a
nap, she mumbled a thanks and fell on the bed, asleep before I left the

The ball game was in progress on the television. I was sitting in my
boxers and T-shirt, reading the newspaper, sipping a chardonnay, as I kept
abreast of the televised action. Some ironic broadcasting god caused a
public service announcement for Gamblers Anonymous to be playing on the tv as the door to the bedroom opened.

She looked dreadful in a beautiful, helpless, sensual way, which, while
seeming to be a contradiction, accurately describes her appearance. I
could not understand but only empathize with the feelings of betrayal and
abandonment she must have felt when she realized her husband maneuvered her
into this situation. I could sympathize with her feelings of helplessness
and humiliation at what lay ahead. But, that empathy did not deter me from
my part in this play. It made me want the play to continue. I deeply
desired what was going to happen, without regard for the consequences to

She watched me now, her down-turned eyes slipping up to mine from under
long lashes, then darting away again. Slowly, she walked to the middle of
the room, about four paces from me.

"Where is Toby?"

"Gone. On a plane to the coast."

"May I sit down?"

I patted the couch by me. She moved as if every muscle and bone in her
body ached before sitting primly, legs together, hands folded in her lap,
eyes always averted from me.

"What is going to happen?"

"You know that. Don't pretend you do not understand."

"Please, don't do it to me," she begged, unable even to look at me,
turning to give me a three-quarter view of her face which was angled down.
But, her eyes flashed up at me once.

"You heard Walt. You will cooperate! Do I need to call him? Do you
want seven men to fuck you instead of just one?"

She never responded. She never moved. She was a lump, devoid of
emotion, dead inside. It was I who spoke next.

"Go take a shower, change clothes. Wear something casual. I am
ordering in room service. Would you like to eat?" She nodded imperceptibly
as she fought to stand. She struggled to walk to the bedroom. Soon, I
heard the shower. A suicide attempt by her crossed my mind, but somehow I
knew she was too tough for that. Still, I wondered if I was correctly
reading all the signals she was sending me.

By the time the food arrived, she had showered and was sitting on the
couch in a pretty blouse and a skirt which came to about three inches above
her knee. Dinner was a strange affair. Conversation attempts fell flat.
We both ate a reasonable meal, however, with a bottle of wine to wash it
down. The tension, so thick you could not cut it with the steak knives
room service delivered, never eased.

After dinner, she excused herself for a few minutes. When she returned,
she sat on the opposite side of the room in a straight chair by the desk. I
sipped my wine, ostensibly watching the last of the ball game, but really
watching her from the corner of my eye.

Helena again sat on the edge of the seat, back straight, hands folded
primly, knees together, a picture of demure womanhood. She never looked my
way unless she thought I was not watching her. Then, I would catch her
staring at me with an expression I had trouble reading because of the way I
was watching her. When the game was over, I clicked off the tube, sat down
my drink, and sat on the edge of the couch, facing her.

"Stand up and let me see you, Helena."

Helena's head popped up to stare at me, her eyes big and frightened.
She turned a scarlet red and shook her head 'no'. My immutable stare told
her to proceed. She stood, a tear coming to her eye as she began
unbuttoning her blouse.

There is something very erotic about forcing a woman sexually, about
taking her to or beyond her limits. She seemed unaware her hesitation, and
the slow, rhythmic pace of her undressing increased its erotic impact, as
did the begging in her eyes.

My mind flashed to Gina, a wild Italian I had dated before she hooked a
doctor. Gina loved sex and was a master at building tension, of making
foreplay itself so special and unique, intercourse was almost
anticlimactic. Gina knew how to make a man force her: how to maneuver him
into making her surrender to him, take her against her apparent will. She
would surrender with elan. The eroticism that dance with her generated
fueled dreams for a lifetime. Now, Helena was generating that kind of
heat, all be it without intent and with consequences, real or imagined, if
she did not comply.

Had she looked away, or looked angry or disgusted, the spell would have
been broken. But, her eyes continually transmitted their message of
humbling and involuntary submission which the rhythm of her hands
reinforced. It was a slow, desperate dance by one building desire in

Clad now only in a bra and panties, with her hips turned so her leg
blocked my frontal view and her arms covered her breasts modestly, she
finally verbalized what her eyes and body had been saying: "Please, don't
make me . . . "

I said nothing. I had no compunction about making her, forcing her to
submit to my demands, to bear my weight when I was ready. It was the
incredible, exquisite tension she was building I wished to continue for as
long as possible. My cock had never been that hard. I wanted her to
continue at her own pace, the pace which was driving me to unprecedented
levels of desire.

I could see her back straighten as a hand slipped behind her to release
her bra. The bra fell loose, but not away, trapped against her breasts by
her arm. She looked away and closed her eyes. Slowly, with one hand, she
began to slip the panties off her hips and down her legs. She looked like
"September Morn," her side to me, body curled to hide her nudity,
protecting herself as best she could with only her hands and arms, panties trapped around one trim ankle like a white flag of surrender.

Did she realize how delicious she looked? How helpless, how feminine,
with her ass and legs so perfectly posed to arouse the animal in a man?
Did she realize she was driving me wild with desire?

Again, I neither moved nor spoke, letting her work her way through it,
giving her time to adjust. When she finally looked at me again, she stared
openly, as if looking away was more than she could bear. Looking into her
big, doe eyes, I was stunned and excited by her expression. It was sexual
desire and a pleading for tenderness, more than a reflection of
humiliation. It was need as well as embarrassment. Or, was I mistaken, my
own desire clouding my vision? It made no difference. I was driven on.

"Move your hands away and let me see you."

She sobbed audibly and quivered. Tears, absent except for one lone tear
since we first began, rolled silently down her face. Her hands clenched,
knuckles white, muscles in her arms corded, as she fought to do what she
knew she must. She turned, like a steel bar being slowly torqued to
straightness, until she faced me, legs together, arms rigid by her side,
eyes clenched shut, her face a grimace.

Who knows what in a woman appeal to a man? What one man sees as sexual
and physical perfection, another finds only vaguely attractive.T Helena hit
me right on target.

"You are magnificent."

It was muted, said very unintentionally, just an honest comment slipping
out when not expected. She looked very surprised, even pleased, I had said
it, as a slow blush crawled up from her belly to cover her face, a red glow
to emphasize her sad, passive eyes.

I waited until her hands fell open by her side and the tension lines in
her face slackened. I walked to her slowly, watching her eyes widen,
tensions return as she stared unblinking, fear evident in her frozen face.
With the tip of a finger under her chin, I guided her head upwards and held
it there as I softly kissed her lips. Her lips were cool and clammy,
evidence of her mental state. Once again, she was rigid as she waited to
be taken. But, did her eyes have a hint of something?

Part of me, specifically the part sticking out like a tree desperate to
be planted, wanted to take her that instant. But, the larger part wished
to continue the slow torture she had begun. I slowly walked around her,
dragging my left hand across her cool skin as I did. I could feel her
flesh moving under my fingertips.

I stopped in front, leaning into her, letting my hard cock brush her
pubis through the protective layer of the boxer's cotton cloth, as I kissed
her again, feeling her lips part slightly. I half-expected her to flee.
She stood rooted in place.

Now, I wished to bring my desire to fever pitch. All my movements were
slow, obvious, visible to her, so her reactions would reflect in her face
for me to see. I brought both hands up in her line of vision and lowered
them again to cup her breasts. She twitched as if jolted by electricity,
as my hands closed on her high, firm breasts and my thumbs found her
nipples. Anguish ruled her eyes, her lips curled in terror, but her body,
except for small tremors not controllable by her, was still, letting me do
as I wished.

Did I misread again, or did desire flicker for an instant? Why were her
nipples so hot and hard in my hand, like the nipples of women who wanted my
hands there, not like a woman being raped?

I continued to enjoy her body with my hands, enjoy her emotions with my
eyes, as I touched her, all of her, slowly, decadently. I leaned to kiss
the tender cusp between neck and shoulder, where the collarbone disappears,
feeling the hot flesh under my lips. Moving slightly to stand to her left,
I brought my left hand under her chin as my right found the cheek of her
ass. She gasped as I squeezed, digging my fingers into her flesh. Fingers
under her jawbone, I lifted, forcing her on tip toes, feeling the hard
ass-muscle tighten in my hand. She was stretching and the ass muscle
spasmed under the pressure of my grip, sending a jolt to my already
overwrought cock.

My right hand released. She shifted her weight foot to foot, trying to
balance. The tension is my left arm made it spasm as I continued to force
her head in the air. The middle finger of my hand moved across the furrow
at the top of her ass where back and ass join, to the divide, sliding down
to rest on the puckered entrance, testing it.

"Please," she squeaked as my finger moved back and forth, and her ass
hole throbbed in response, tightening to repel penetration, then, relaxing

"NO!" She jumped, squealing as I swatted her ass cheek hard, trying to
flee but my hand was in her hair holding her close to me. Her lip quivered
as tears again started. As she rubbed her ass with both hands, she could
not take her eyes from mine. Her eyes begged me to let her go, be gentle,
to give her mercy.

I had no mercy to give. This rape, this taking of her, controlled me as
I controlled her . . . without mercy, without humanity, with an animal passion I had never felt.

"Crawl into the bed, Helena."

It did not even sound like me. It was the voice of a lust-filled
madman. I watched the delightful sway of her ass as she crawled toward the
bed, relishing her subjugation and surrender as much as anything sexual I
had ever done. As she crawled onto the bed, I pinned her with a harsh hand
on the back of her neck holding her against the mattress. My free hand
dropped between her legs to pull at the dark tuft, caress the curve of her
ass, as she lay, half-on, half-off, the bed with one knee and an extended
foot supporting her weight.

When I released her, she moved again to lie in the center. I watched as
she lay face down, then, rolled over to look at me, her lower body still
twisted, vainly seeking protection from that which was to follow.

As I knee walked beside her, her fists clenched as her arms came in
front of her chest. Her hips turned, bringing her legs up in a defensive
fetal position, and those eyes never left mine. I swatted her again,
leaving the print of a palm and fingers in red on the white of her thigh.
Her eyes were cowed now. Slowly, her hands and legs moved, fists still
clenched as they slowly fell to lay by her head, legs straight out on the
bed, together and locked.

"Open your legs so I can fuck you!"

One shake of her head saying 'no'.

I jammed my hard knee between her thighs, relishing the thrill of
driving them apart by brute strength, shifting my weight so my full two
hundred pounds were on the fulcrum. She was strong, determined to resist
to the end. I could feel the muscles in her thighs quiver and strain as
they fought to keep me from between them.

I saw a drop of red on her hand where a nail had spilt her own flesh in
a clench of emotional intensity. The sight of the blood exploded a memory
from the recesses of my subconscious.

I was thirteen, with my father and uncle in the heavy brush of far south
Texas on a deer hunt. I had shot my first deer, hitting a doe in the
shoulder with a flat shot from about eighty yards. Ignoring my father's
yells to be careful with a loaded rifle, I ran toward the deer, who was
mortally wounded but struggling to flee. I was panting, gasping, as I
stood beside her. She was breathing rapidly and raggedly, her struggling
almost over, as she lay dying at my feet.

"You can't let her suffer, son," Dad said, his hand firm on my shoulder.
"We need to put her out of her misery." He told me how to do it and gave me
his hunting knife.

In one swift, brutal stroke, I drove the blade of his hunting knife into
the doe's throat, severing the cartoroid artery. Blood flowed from her
neck as the light in her eyes flickered and died. The doe shuddered
violently, releasing air from her wounded lungs in the rattle of death.

It was those eyes . . . of the doe in the last seconds of her life,
just before the uncomprehendable and overpowering knowledge of imminent
death vanished with life itself . . . I saw in Helena's face at that
moment. I felt her resistance end and the muscles in her legs relax.

A hand on each knee, I pulled her legs up and apart, bending and
spreading them, opening her, rolling her hips up to give me the angle I
desired. Her fists relaxed, revealing the hole in her palm, the blood
oozing to form a red slash in mute acknowledgment of her sacrifice.

Bending her double, I lodged the tip of my cock between the lips of her
pussy. In that instant in which I was poised at her gates, I felt her love
juices thick around my cock head and the bloated fullness of her lower
lips. Yet, from the corner of my eye, I saw the blood in her hand where her
nail had penetrated her skin. I seized a wrist in each hand, trapping her
hands by her head, shifting my weight to power my cock into her using my
hands on her trapped wrists for balance.

I saw her doe eyes flicker and change as I drove my cock into her in
one, swift, brutal stroke.

Time stood still as I froze, like a statue, my cock buried in her, my
eyes burning into hers. I could feel her cervix against my cock head. I
could feel her heat and slickness around my shaft, a spasm of her pussy walls around me. I could feel the inside of her thighs from my rib cage to
my crotch, and the front of her calves under my arms. I could hear her
ragged breathing, see the labored rise and fall of her breasts. I could
smell her heat, her fear, her desire.

I could see her eyes: her soft, woman's eyes.

Helena shuddered violently, releasing air in a hushed but unmistakable

"Please. Don't stop."


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