LITTLE LEAGUE
by Maggie McGee
April, 2000
A shorter, lighter piece than my previous posting, even though the subject
is rape (!). But, you know, gotta try everything.
Write me with encouragement or discouragement. maggiemc@citynet.net
Little League
I always knew he would find me one day. We had been e-mailing anonymously
for several months, both using fictitious names and fictitious histories.
Neither one of us had been careful about our anonymity, and we had dropped
many hints about who we really were. The correspondence---in fact, the cyber
relationship---had become considerably intense, intense enough to be
addictive and potentially dangerous. Somehow, in the secret recesses of
my mind, I knew he would find me eventually. As it turned out, it was I who
found him.
I had a week's assignment in DC, working with the public relations people at
the Department of Energy. As the creative director of a small Midwest publishing
firm specializing in educational materials---textbooks, films, posters,
activity workbooks, it was my job to meet with sponsoring clients to get
their message into the schools. We had a major contract with the DOE. I had
already spent two long exhausting days gathering references, hammering out
format, meeting with people endlessly. The third day was a short day, and I
was able to return to my motel room by early afternoon. I was beat and
needed a change of pace.
Though it was certainly lurking in the back of my mind all along, I suddenly
remembered that Mike, my anonymous cyber lover, had casually mentioned at
one point that he lived in Park, Maryland, just east of the
District. I didn't have an address; I didn't even have a last name. For all
I knew, his real name could have been Joe or Pete or Jack. It would be fun,
though, and a challenge, to try to find that proverbial "needle in a
haystack." And definitely a change of pace.
What did I know about him? Not much, really. I knew he was a mechanical
engineer who worked for some beltway company. Not much of a lead; there were
probably eight trillion of those. I knew he was possibly 40-something---he
had sent me his picture. That was no help, either. He said he jogged as a
regular routine. But later, he said he lied about that. Besides, I could
hardly stake out all the jogging paths in all the parks in town, hoping a
stranger who looked familiar would jog by. Thinking about parks in town
triggered another memory. At one point, he had mentioned he coached a Little
League team. Not much to go on, but enough. I was a professional researcher;
I knew how to find answers.
I made a few phone calls, got a list of all the Little League teams in
College Park, Maryland; found out that two of the coaches were named Mike
Something; and from the schedules learned that one of those two teams was
having a practice game that afternoon. It was worth a try; and, what the
heck, it would be an adventure.
I quickly showered, scrubbing off all the make-up I usually wore to business
appointments. I shampooed my hair in the shower, and toweled it dry, very
glad that it was short enough to style with my fingers. I put on jeans and a
bulky, baggy turtleneck, feeling a comfort and a freedom with the soft
lamb's wool against my skin. I had pitched the confining bra into a corner
when I came back to the motel. I put on wool socks and sneakers and a
baseball cap. No doubt I could pass easily for a Little League mom.
I found the park without too much trouble. The game was just getting
underway. The bleachers were about half full---mostly moms, a few dads. I
climbed to the row third from the top where I had a good view of the field
and the players' benches. One of the coaches was tall, skinny, and very
young---and female. An easy elimination. The other coach had his back to the
bleachers and was giving two or three kids some instructions. He turned, and
I caught my breath. This was a face I recognized. Jackpot!
I sat and watched the whole game, not able to concentrate on what was
happening on the field, debating with myself what to do when the game was
over. It started to get dark and the lights were turned on. It was getting
chilly, and little brothers and sisters were whining to go home. I was glad
I had put on the wool sweater. Our team lost, but only by one run, not too
bad; and one by one, moms and dads and kids piled into cars and drove away.
I didn't move; just stayed sitting absolutely still up there on the
bleachers, in the shadows beyond the reach of the lights. I watched as Mike
gathered up the equipment and stowed it in his car. He never glanced toward
the bleachers. I knew I would miss my opportunity but I couldn't move.
Finally, he went to a switchbox, unlocked it, pulled a lever, and the lights
on the field went out. It was now very dark in that corner of the park. I
heard him open the door of his car, start the motor, and drive off.
I blew it. Here was this great guy I had been writing to; I could have simply
walked up to him and said, "Hi. I'm Maggie." And I blew it.
I started to stand up, then sat back down, discovering I was stiff from
sitting so long. I yawned and rubbed and stretched my arms and shook my legs
a little. It had gotten cold after the sun went down, and I was shivering.
It was then I thought I felt the bleachers shake a little, the way they do
when someone is climbing them; but decided it was nerves and my own
shivering from the cold. It was time to get out of there, that was certain.
At exactly the moment I started to rise from that spot third row from the
top, I suddenly felt the pressure of fingers on my throat and a hand
covering my mouth. A rasping, gutteral whisper said in my ear from behind me,
"Don't move; and don't. . . scream."
"Oh, my god."
This was that most horrible of moments, the one most women think about, but
think it will never happen to them.
"I'm going to be raped."
All the things we've been cautioned to remember rushed through my head.
Yell. Make a lot of noise. No, don't make noise; be friendly; talk to him.
Kick him in the balls and run. Faint, and lie prone. Before I could move my
hands to tear at his fingers on my throat, he wrapped his powerful legs
around my sides from the bench above me and pinned my arms to my sides.
I was powerless. I was in a strange town; I had told no one where I was
going; it was dark; and I was nearly catatonic with terror. Why had I taken
this risk? Why hadn't I gone down to Mike when I had the chance?
"Oh, Mike," I thought, "You will never know I was here. And you will read in
tomorrow's paper about this red-headed woman, whose real name you don't
recognize, who was raped---maybe even killed---in your own Little League
ballpark."
The raspy voice whispered, "I'm going to take my left hand away from your
mouth, but the fingers of my right hand are still on your throat, so don't
. . . scream."
But I did, for only a second. The pressure on my larynx was painful
and the sound was choked back.
"That's better," the voice whispered.
He traced the outline of my lips with his index finger. I could feel his
breath on the back of my neck. I felt something move against the bare skin
of my back where my sweater had worked up. I realized it was his cock, hard
and pulsating, pushing against me. The finger kept moving around and around
my mouth, and now it was slowly working its way between my lips, between my
teeth, against my tongue. I bit it, hard. I gagged from the warning
chokehold he gave me, and released his finger.
"Don't try that again," I was ordered, in that same deep, terrifying
whisper. "Now be a good girl, and suck nicely."
He put his finger back into my mouth. . .and I sucked. My saliva was
running down my chin and down his hand. He pulled the wet finger loose and
reached around and under my sweater with it and found my left nipple. The
finger, drenched with my own saliva, started circling. . .and circling
. . .and circling the nipple. There seemed to be no hurry. Over and over
and over again.
I was thinking, "This is not rape; it's torture."
He switched hands: the left hand going to my throat, the index finger of the
right hand working its way into my mouth, ordering me again to suck it. That
finger, then, found my right nipple and circled it. . .and circled it. .
and circled it. I started to shudder in my loins and I could feel the wetness
between my legs begin.
"Fear," I thought, "Oh god, I'm in my pants." But I knew I wasn't.
Without warning, teeth grazed the base of my neck at the hairline, and then
bit down. At the same exact moment, the hand on my twisted the nipple
and pinched it hard, pulling it away from my body with terrible strength. I
gasped, but could not scream.
The voice whispered, "Now you're learning."
I thought, "He's taking his own sweet time with this." I imagined myself
shouting at the top of my lungs, "For god's sake, fuck me, rape me, kill me.
Get it over with!"
But that same quiet gutteral whisper simply said, "I'm going to release your
arms and I want you to bend over, take off your shoes, then slide your jeans
and your off. Don't do anything foolish. You know you can't get
away."
This is it, I thought. When I took my off, they were wet with my
juices. I tried to turn my head to look back to see my assailant, but he
grabbed my hair and held my face forward.
"I'm so cold," I said, shivering.
"You'll be hot soon enough," the voice whispered against my ear.
He put a folded blanket down on the wooden bench, the narrow bleacher seat
three rows down from the top.
"We don't want you getting splinters in that beautiful bare ass."
He sounded like he was laughing. I couldn't believe it.
"Now do exactly what I tell you to do. . .exactly. . .and don't. . .scream."
He ordered me to get on my hands and knees, sideways, for god's sake, on
that narrow bleacher bench. He was still behind me. I had yet to see his
face.
"Now put your face and your chest down on your hands. Raise your ass as high
in the air as it will go."
He's going to fuck me in the ass. Jesus.
"Please," I said, not even knowing where the thought came from, "If you
aren't going to kill me, would you---could you---use some protection. I
don't want to die of AIDS."
There was a sputter of laughter. Pretty damn cruel, I thought, to laugh.
"You're not going to die of anything," the voice whispered.
With my ass waving in the breeze, and everything I owned in full view, he
slid his fingers into my wetness and began to play with me. Slowly.
Thoroughly. I started to moan. He seemed to like that. I could feel the lips
of my vulva pulled open---wide. The fingers stroked and stroked and stroked
for what seemed like forever as my excitement mounted, and then the fingers
plunged, suddenly and hard, deep into my vagina. The electricity began at my
toes. My thighs were spasming. My body was shaking, and my vaginal walls
closed tightly around his fingers. Then I felt his mouth closing over my
clitoris. No gentle tongueing, not he; still in the midst of my first
orgasm, his mouth pulled and pulled at my clit, creating a vacuum, not
stopping, while I climaxed over and over again. At the same time, his
fingers were stroking in and out, in and out, then in and rubbing and
rubbing my G spot. The thumb of the other hand probed at my sphincter,
gradually increasing its pressure. I couldn't breathe.
I in air and sobbed, "Please. No more. No more."
"Tough, sweetie," the rough voice said, "I'm gonna keep you cumming 'til you
pass out."
I was exhausted. The tears were flowing. It seemed almost as if passing out
was a sweet way to end this.
Then I heard it. A car door slamming and footsteps coming closer. It
suddenly occurred to me that in all this time no cars had come by. Where
were the cops? Where had the park patrol been? I was too exhausted to
scream. The voice beside me said, in surprisingly tender words,
"Here, sit up, wrap the blanket around you. You're still shaking. Put your
head on my shoulder."
He put his arm around me gently and pulled me close to him. The light from a
flashlight splayed over the bleachers and up toward where we were sitting. I
saw the reflection of a badge and the arm of what looked like a uniform.
Finally, here were the police and I couldn't do a thing about it.
"What's going on here?" the policeman said, his voice tough.
The light hit the face of the next to me, and the policeman laughed.
"Well, I'll be damned. Mike, what the hell are you doing still out here,
man? Sorry I barged in, but I saw your car parked down the road a ways with
no one in it and thought there might be trouble."
He shifted the beam of the flashlight to my face, which had the look on it
that means only one thing in the life of a woman, total and complete sexual
satisfaction.
"Sorry, lady," he said. "Uh, go back to what you were doing. See ya, Mike."
And he was gone.
"Mike?" I whispered, totally incredulous.
"Yes, Maggie?" the voice, now Mike's voice, said, laughing just a little.
"You knew? You knew all the time and you tortured me? How did you know? You
never looked in my direction."
I was crying again---from anger, from excitement, from relief, from spent
passion.
"I saw this little redhead in the baseball cap as soon as she climbed up on
the bleachers. I saw out of the corner of my eye that she wasn't watching
the game at all. Her eyes were on me the whole time. She didn't leave when
everyone else did. There was one other car still in the parking lot with
mine. You forgot you told me what kind of a car you drive. I told you I
would find you eventually."
He kissed me. I kissed him back---a forgiving kiss. As he gathered up my
clothes and wrapped the blanket firmly around me, he said,
"Poor baby. I think we need to get you into a nice, warm bed."
I couldn't think of a better idea.
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