The bookstore was nearly empty, and probably about to close.  I was
wandering idly through the stacks near the front of the store, where
the rare and expensive books were kept in locked cases.  First
editions, with crabbed signatures scrawled on the fragile pages.  I
studied them through the glass, wondering why the same stories cost
so much more here than in the paperback umpteenth editions in the back.
I craned my neck, leaning on the lever that would open the case if it
weren't locked.  Unexpectedly, the latch slipped, and my chin bumped
against the glass door.

He was on me in the next second, seeming to tower over me as he shouted.
"What were you doing in here?  It's after 9, we've been closed for ten
minutes!"  He held me by the collar, shoving me back against the other
bookcase.  The back of my head cracked against the shelf and his eyes
bored into me.  "And what's a punk like you doing here with the first
editions anyhow?"  He jiggled the broken latch, then slapped me.  He
patted over my pockets, reached inside my jacket.  "Didn't you have time
to take anything, kid?"  I was too scared to speak.

Not finding any books with that cursory search, he shoved me into a back
room and locked the door behind me.  It was a workroom, full of broken
and half-bound books, with a long, high table of scarred wood running
down the middle of the room.  There was knife on the table, small but
sharp.  I had almost made up my mind to take it and fight him when he
returned.  "OK, punk, the store's empty and the door's locked, so I have
time to look for my merchandise and call the police."  I backed away
from him slightly.  "But I haven't done anything wrong!  Really, sir,
I wasn't going to take anything...I was just looking...I didn't know
the store was closed..."  He stopped me with another slap.  The edge of
the table bit into the small of my back, and I couldn't retreat any more.

He unzipped my jacket.  "I don't believe you.  The police won't believe
you either."  I let him take my jacket, then my sweater.  "They're
cracking down on shoplifters these days.  You should get at least a
few weeks in Juvenille Hall."  His tone was almost casual as he fished
my wallet out of my pocket, looked at my driver's license.  "But you're
a bit too old for Juvie.  That's too bad."  His hand was relaxed,
he knew the back pockets of my jeans were empty.  "A kid like you could
have a rough time in prison, even for a weekend."  I shivered, pressing
back against the table, pleading with him.  "Please, sir, don't turn me
in.  I didn't steal anything.  You know I didn't.  And I never will.
Really.  Please let me go."  I was almost in tears.

"Maybe I will let you go."  My heart leapt.  "But not yet."  He stepped
away from me, opened a closet that seemed full of tools.  "Take off
your jeans and hand them over."  I protested, not very coherently.  He
cut me off impatiently.  "I know you're not hiding books in your 
pockets.  Just do as I say.  You're still getting off easy, you know."
His eyes sparked dangerously in the dim light.  I kicked off my sneakers,
and gave him the jeans.  The eyes raked over me as I blushed and looked
down, noticing a hole in my sock.

He was very fast.  He turned me around, lifting me by a handful of cloth
at the back of my T-shirt, forcing me against the table.  "Grab the other
side of the table!  Hold on with both hands."  I had to stretch across
the table, my toes barely touching the floor, my weight balanced
painfully on the bones of my hips.  His hands were almost gentle as
he pulled down my underpants.  I started to cry.  "Remember, Adrian,
you're getting off easy.  I could still call the police.  In fact, if
you let go of the table, or if you scream, I think I will call the 
police."  He stroked my buttocks lightly.  "And they certainly 
wouldn't believe your account of this little interlude.  Though it
might amuse your cellmates."  A slap, not very hard, but frightening.
"I'm sure they would find other ways of amusing themselves with you."
I was silent, biting my lips and clutching the wood.

I trembled on the edge of the table for a long moment.  I didn't
know what to be afraid of - rape, a beating, maybe even a camera.
My breathing was ragged.  "Please, sir?  What are you going to do
to me?"  He was silent.  I couldn't see him, but didn't dare let
go of the table to look behind me.

Then the cane bit my flesh with a fierce heat.  The blows were fast
and hard, so overwhelmingly painful I could scarcely squirm under
them.  Sasha had caned me before, after erotic spankings that left
me giddy with endorphins.  This was different.  It was punishment,
and a brutal dare not to scream.  I bit back all but a whimpering
moan, tears already soaking into the wood.

My legs flailed helplessly, with no leverage as they dangled from
the edge of the table.  I had lost count of the blows, my whole
bottom was on fire, I must be bleeding already.  He paused a moment.
Was he going to stop?  Taking pity on obvious suffering?  The
cane came down again, striking deep along the curve at the top of
my thighs.  I jerked against the table, biting my lip and tasting
my blood.  He struck the same place, hard.  The shriek tore past
my clenched teeth.

He stopped.  His voice was teasing, almost gentle.  "Too bad about
that scream.  I *did* try to go easy on you."  I heard the rustle of
cloth, through my gasping sobs and the pounding blood in my ears.
His hands were rough, forcing my buttocks apart.  My feet left the
floor entirely.


Sasha has never been able to rape me convincingly.  No matter how
rough the scene, no matter how intense the role-playing - the 
recognition is too strong and the implicit consent is too deep.



 
Adrian