400 Days of Oppression

XI

Mistress Delia drove me to the hospital in her Escalade. My head and jaw hurt from where that asshole had punched me and the coppery, meaty taste of his blood and flesh lay thick on my tongue.

“Don’t worry about anything. I told the police what happened. Both of those assholes are being charged with attempted rape. Sorry, I didn’t get there sooner. Nothing like this has happened at the farm before,” Mistress Delia said. She was dressed conservatively in jeans and a sweatshirt that hid all her sensuality and made her look like just another fat chick. I felt bad for her and curiously protective of her, even in my own damaged state. I didn’t want people thinking my Mistress was anything less than the beautiful woman I knew her to be.

“They want you to have a rape kit performed.”

“But-but, I wasn’t raped.”

“You said, you blacked out for a second and when you woke up, one of them was holding you down and the other one had his penis out. You may have been out longer than you realize. Something may have happened. The police have your clothes to test for semen.”

I looked down at myself and only then realized that I was wearing different clothing. I had on a simple, white sundress. It was only then that I realized how much time had passed since Kenyatta and I began this game. It had been autumn when he took me to the slave auction and now spring was in full bloom. I had barely noticed the passing of the seasons, trapped in my own private hell.

“They are going to ask you about the winery, what you were doing out there alone. Plowing a field dressed in a leather corset. They’re going to try to turn this into some kinky sex thing. What are you going to tell them?”

“I’ll tell them I was helping you out with some farming. I was dressed like that because I was on private property and I can dress any way I damn well please and how I dress shouldn’t have shit to do with why these two assholes tried to rape me!”

Mistress nodded.

We pulled up to the hospital’s Emergency Room entrance and a police officer opened my door. They had followed us to the hospital. Apparently Mistress Delia had insisted on driving me herself and wouldn’t let them put me in an ambulance. I could only assume she’d wanted to ensure I wouldn’t say anything to jeopardize her business while I was out of her sight. I preferred to believe she’d done it out of concern for me.

As I stepped from Mistress’s big SUV into a waiting wheelchair, she whispered to me.

“Uh, do you want me to call Kenyatta?”

It was an odd question. Of course I wanted Kenyatta to know I was in the hospital. I wanted him to come and hold me in his powerful arms, let me cry on his strong shoulders. I wanted him to punish those two assholes. The beating Constance and her goons had given them wasn’t enough. I wanted to see them humbled. I wanted my man to show them what a real man was. But something about the way she asked it made me pause. Would Kenyatta be angry at me for what happened? Would the experiment be over and what would that mean? Would he still marry me or not? I had no idea, no answers.

“Uh, um. Maybe we should wait a while.”

Mistress nodded as an ER nurse led me away with the police officer at my side.

I felt numb, physically and emotionally as the nurse swabbed my mouth, vagina, and anus for DNA samples and inspected each orifice for bruising. My cuts and bruises were treated then photographed by a victim’s advocate from the police department. Eventually I was led to my room to recover.

Before I was allowed to rest, I was interviewed by a police detective from the SFPD sex crimes unit along with the victim’s advocate, a plump and pleasant Latino woman in her late twenties.

“Are you feeling okay to talk?” the woman said.

I nodded.

“My name is Eileen Gonzalez and this is Detective Watkins from Sex Crimes. We have a few questions for you and then we’ll leave you alone and let you get some rest. You’ve been through a lot today. Would you tell us what happened?”

“I was helping Misstre—Miss Delia plow the field for her new grape vines when two of her other guests rode up on horseback and started teasing me and asking me to have sex with them.”

I saw the detective exchange a look with Eileen that was thick with judgment. He knew what kind of place Mistress Delia ran and had already decided that I’d been asking to be raped. It was all my fault. He probably thought the two assholes I’d bitten were the real victims.

“What kind of things did they say?” Detective Watkins said. The detective was a middle-aged, fireplug-shaped black man with thick muscular arms and shoulders, a big belly, and a growing bald spot in the center of his close-cropped, salt and pepper hair. His face had no wrinkles, but the lines around his mouth and those in his forehead were etched deep from years of worry.

“They said that I fucked up the field, that it looked like shit and I should give them both blowjobs to make up for the shitty job I’d done working the plow. It was my first time working a plow and I didn’t make the rows straight. I tried, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay,” Eileen said. “Then what happened?”

“I told them to go fuck themselves and then they attacked me. They started groping my breasts and then they tried to rip my clothes off. When I fought back, they punched me. The white guy knocked me down with a punch. I think I went out for a little bit.”

“Went out? You mean you were knocked unconscious?” the detective said.

“Yes.”

“When did he expose himself to you?”

“What? Oh, I was waking up after he knocked me out and he was standing above me, pulling his cock out of his pants.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I screamed rape, but that Arab bastard put his hand over my mouth. So I bit him. I bit his hand.”

“What happened then?”

“Then I looked back at the white guy and he had his cock completely out of his pants and was coming at me with it, so I grabbed it and tried to rip it off. Then he started punching me again, so I bit him. I tried to bite his nuts off.”

“You did,” the detective answered without looking up from his notepad where he was scribbling down my account of the assault.

“What?”

“The guy’s nuts, you bit them completely off. You almost tore his dick off. He’s gonna need reconstructive surgery. I doubt he’ll ever work right down there again.”

“Fuck that piece of shit. I hope he has to piss out his asshole,” I hissed, my years of education slipping away and my white trash origins reemerging.

Eileen, the victim’s advocate, nodded. Not in agreement but in understanding. I wasn’t sure whether she was patronizing me or not.

“Why were you wearing this to plow a field?” the detective said, holding up an oversized Ziploc bag with the leather corset and short shorts I’d been wearing.

I smirked and shook my head.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask. You know what kind of place it is. People go there to live out their sexual fantasies.”

The detective nodded then locked eyes with me.

“And wasn’t that just what these two guys were doing? Weren’t they just playing out their fantasies?”

I scowled and shook my head.

“No. There are rules. Everything has to be consensual. That policy is strictly enforced. We all sign a contract. You can’t just grab whoever you want and rape them just because they’re wearing a sexy outfit. That’s bullshit!”

The detective nodded again.

“And what exactly was your fantasy?”

I opened my mouth to speak then reconsidered. The truth wasn’t likely to help my case. It was more likely to further alienate the detective from me, convince him that I was a lunatic.

“It’s personal.”

The advocate sighed.

“We are only asking because, if you pursue charges against these two, and I think you should, they’re going to ask you all of this.”

“My fantasy wasn’t to be raped in the dirt by two yuppies, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Eileen blushed.

“I—no—that’s not what I meant.”

“What she means is that something like wanting to be part of a gang bang or even certain types of rough sex, might help them make the case that they were led on.”

“Led on? Like I wanted to be beaten up?”

“Where did you get the welts on your back? Some of those scars look pretty old.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that because I like to get whipped, I might like to get punched too? Maybe I was asking for it? Fuck you, detective! Get the fuck out of here!”

“We have to ask.”

That was all the detective said as he closed his notebook and stood.

“Get out! Both of you!”

Eileen smiled and placed her business card beside me on the nightstand.

“Call me if you need to talk.”

I snatched her card off the table, ripped it in half, and threw it at her. Then the phone rang. I snatched it up, hoping it was Kenyatta, ready to pour out my misery to him and have him make it all better with a few soothing words. For him to say he was on his way to rescue me, take me home. Love me. But it wasn’t him. It was an angry spiteful voice, the voice of the man who’d tried to fuck me against my will.

“You’d better tell them it wasn’t rape, bitch! You hear me? Do you know how much I’m worth? How much my family’s worth? I’ve got the best goddamn lawyers in the city and what the fuck have you got? You were at a fucking fetish farm! The jury is going to say you were asking for it because you were. You know you were, you fucking slut! You wanted it. Why the fuck else were you there? What did you expect? They’ll all call you a whore! Whores deserve to get raped. That’s what they’ll say.”

I don’t know why it took me so long to hang up the phone. My hand was shaking when I did and tears were streaming down my face. I should have told the police about the call. I should have had him rearrested, his bail revoked, but I just felt so exhausted and ashamed. Very ashamed. What the fuck was I doing there? Why had Kenyatta sent me there? Why was I doing any of this? I was thinking about what the asshole on the phone said. “They’ll all call you a whore. Whores deserve to get raped.” I was thinking about the trial ahead. And all I wanted to do was sleep. Where was Kenyatta? Where was my protector? I closed my eyes, and cried until the dreams faded to black.