16. [Bonus Chapter 1: Stockholm Syndrome]
"Would you rather I had been abusing you back then?"
Lawrence's truck had been parked at a repair shop in the suburbs of New York. We went in in our red Super Snake convertible and came out in our dusty old truck, heading onto the highway towards Las Vegas. Lawrence had given the supercar to the repair shop owner, an old friend of his, a former mob boss. He would help us stage a perfect death.
The next day, we read about our deaths in the *New York Times*. Celebrity author Warner Essack and his boyfriend went for a drive in a torrential downpour, were speeding, and veered off a highway bridge, plunging into the rushing river. I wonder where that former mob boss got two bodies that looked so much like us. As for the car that fell into the water, it certainly wasn't Lawrence's $100,000 limited-edition supercar; he probably had a way of faking it. Anyway, besides calling us crazy, the newspapers and news reports didn't offer much criticism, at least not enough to attract the police's attention.
Critics wrote of Warner Essack, “Death propelled his art to new heights, much like Vincent van Gogh.” His devoted readers spontaneously held a funeral for both of us. It must be said, watching your own funeral live on a TV in a roadside restaurant was quite an interesting experience.
We were back to our old way of life. After arriving in Las Vegas, Lawrence took me to the brothel where he grew up. Drug use and domestic violence were very common in that neighborhood, especially among the "sadistic queens." She gave birth to Lawrence in the brothel when she was sixteen, and the first thing she said to him was, "Get this filthy thing off me." When he was three, she "accidentally" threw him out of the window.
To avoid following in his mother's footsteps, Lawrence worked tirelessly to get into university. His school was better than mine, and the tuition was more expensive, so he worked several jobs simultaneously, becoming a jack-of-all-trades: car repair, moving, butchering, driving—he could do it all. There's a saying, isn't there? Society is the best university. But he hated that nomadic life, so after graduating, he became a writer. Later, he grew tired of the peaceful, boring life and chose to return to his nomadic existence.
Lawrence refused to forgive his mother, who had retired from crime and was enjoying her later years in seclusion. He didn't believe repentance could cleanse sins, because once the damage was done, it was irreversible. He never excused himself, so even in the books he wrote based on himself, the protagonist was destined for purgatory. Fortunately, I'll jump down with him.
Coincidentally, the orphanage where I grew up wasn't far from that brothel, in a nearby town, only a two-hour drive away. Fate is truly wondrous. I told Lawrence, and so we drove to the orphanage. I had intended to take Lawrence to see the teachers who had "cared" for me, but when we arrived, we found it deserted. We asked the local residents and learned that the orphanage had moved long ago. The small building was in ruins, desolate and dilapidated, like a haunted house. I was too frightened by the eerie atmosphere to go in, but Lawrence was intrigued. It was hard to say whether he genuinely liked scary places or simply enjoyed seeing me trembling with fear. I had barely taken a step back when he scooped me up, hoisted me onto his shoulder like livestock to be slaughtered, and, ignoring my tears and struggles, forcibly dragged me into the ghostly little building.
The three-story building was pitch black, with only the moss at the base of the walls emitting a faint, phosphorescent glow. It truly felt like walking through a cemetery. Lawrence would occasionally step on debris, the sound like breaking bones, sending shivers down my spine every time I heard it. Lawrence wasn't there to comfort me; he was busy pinching my buttocks, like a perverted kidnapper groping a hostage. I dared not speak out, increasingly convinced that he had brought me in to sexually harass me. Whenever I felt afraid, his lust would surge.
Suddenly, I heard a rustling sound, which startled me so much that goosebumps covered my body. My legs kicked involuntarily, as if I were frantically running away on the ground. But I forgot I was still on Lawrence's back, and I kicked his abs. It was really solid; it felt like kicking an iron plate. Lawrence slapped my buttocks hard, the flesh shaking. I immediately sobbed in pain, my face flushed red with shame, and I dared not move again. He hit me so hard; those two buttocks were definitely as red as my face.
We listened intently to what the noise was. I vaguely heard panting and moaning, and immediately understood what it was, my face turning even redder. That's how it is in small towns; young couples like to have sex in abandoned buildings, partly to test their courage and seek thrills, and partly to keep their affair secret. Small towns are close-knit communities; if you go to a hotel, the news spreads quickly. I just didn't expect them to even target an orphanage; it's a bit perverted. The thought of perversion made me instinctively look at Lawrence. He's a complete pervert. I couldn't see his expression in that position, but I knew he was smiling, and the way he pinched my buttocks was becoming increasingly erotic. My body went limp, and my breathing became rapid.
“Ray,” Lawrence said in a low voice, “what was your room number when you were a child?”
I had a very bad feeling. My brain was trying to save my life, but my body instinctively obeyed the kidnapper, "...303".
Lawrence carried me to the room, kicked the door open with a loud bang. The billowing dust choked me, making me cough. Lawrence slammed me onto the bed; I gasped, my back hitting the wood without any cushioning, the pain making me feel like I was going to vomit blood. He was still so rough. I leaned against the headboard, panting, looking at him. Lawrence was so tall; my perspective was so low, like a victim looking at a rapist, my eyes filled with pitiful vulnerability. Lawrence's laughter grew more excited, and he became erect with astonishing speed. He pushed me down onto the bed, tearing my clothes to shreds in a few swift movements.
There were people doing it next door too, and I could hear a man and a woman's voices: "So good, Charlie, you're amazing..." "Oh, Emily, you're so tight inside..." Their voices grew louder and louder, making me blush and increasingly reluctant to have sex here. Lawrence's competitive spirit was ignited, and he chuckled as he whispered in my ear, "Ray, do you think I'm more powerful or that 'Charlie'?"
“It must be you…” I simply couldn’t imagine how incredibly resilient a sex partner would have if someone were better than Lawrence. Lawrence wasn’t satisfied with that answer; he continued, “We need a standard of judgment, right?”
I had a feeling that disaster was about to strike. Lawrence leaned against me, revealing a wicked and lewd smile. "You'd better scream louder than his girlfriend..." He whispered in my ear, his breath filled with the hot scent of hormones, but a chill ran down my spine because he said, "...If you can't out-scream her, I'll kill both of them next door."
How could I possibly out-scream that woman? She had no idea she was being targeted by a serial killer; her moans were more wanton than a prostitute's. I had no idea what they were up to. I shook my head desperately, tears streaming down my face, but Lawrence completely ignored my feeble resistance. Without a word, he shoved his fingers into my mouth, violently swirling them around my tongue, as if he were fucking my mouth. I could barely breathe. The sticky, wet sounds echoed in the small room, sounding even more erotic than kissing. The thought that Lawrence was going to violate me on my childhood bed made me instantly hard.
Lawrence, having finished fingering my mouth, used his saliva as lubrication to penetrate my lower body. We had done it in the truck during the day, and my vaginal opening was still soft. Lawrence's fingers moved in and out rapidly, making shameful squelching sounds. I bit my lip hard, afraid to scream, terrified that someone would see my legs wide open, my face flushed with lust. Lawrence viciously reminded me again, "Don't hold back. Do you want them to die?"
I felt like Jesus Christ, the savior of the suffering, but while He sacrificed himself by being crucified, I was offering myself to the tiger. Yet I couldn't truly ignore them, so I forced a groan through my throat, but compared to that woman, it was as faint as a mosquito's buzz. I could never scream like that while fully conscious. But Lawrence clearly wasn't going to let me stay conscious. He didn't like to fully penetrate me; he preferred the dry, friction of flesh against flesh, enjoying watching me sweat profusely beneath him as he slowly opened me up, letting his genitals develop my body into a wanton state. If my body hadn't been unable to take it, Lawrence would have raped me day and night—that was his favorite form of sex. Could I expect a lion to lick me before mounting me?
Lawrence spread my legs and thrust in halfway. Compared to my fingers, his penis was far too thick. I arched my back, sobbing, but Lawrence pressed me down hard, continuing to penetrate relentlessly. Lawrence kept watching me, his deep blue eyes filled with predatory lust, beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks, down his sharp jawline, and into his sexy neck. He deliberately made the iron bed frame creak, thrusting his lower body rapidly, his waist and abdomen flexing into well-defined muscles, exuding a primal and wild lust. Sometimes I really felt like I was having sex with a lion. My thighs spasmed, my toes curled, and my whole body was tingling with an electric shock of pleasure. Lawrence then became even more ferocious in his penetration of my prostate. I was being driven mad by the intense pleasure; every time he hit there, my whole body convulsed, my fingers digging into the rough bed frame, making a grating, piercing sound. The sex was so intense that the room was filled with the sounds of flesh entwining and heavy breathing. I must have screamed out loud, because I heard people across the room talking about us: "Emily, is that a man's voice?"
“It seems so… Oh, Charlie, don’t stop! One more time…”
The men all seemed to think similarly, "No problem, baby, drown out his voice!"
"I'm saving your lives! You lust-driven idiots!" I was absolutely furious. Lawrence looked at me mockingly, "What are you going to do, Ray? They don't appreciate your efforts." I struggled to get him to slow down; my pubic bone felt like it was about to break. But Lawrence suddenly flipped me over while we were still connected, that thick, monstrous thing churning inside me, as if trying to pierce my stomach. I finally managed to kneel on the bed, and as I swayed my hips, I accidentally pushed that thing out an inch. Lawrence immediately grabbed my waist and thrust back hard, almost shoving me in the throat. I felt like a small boat in a storm, tossed up and down by ecstasy and tearing pain. Lawrence bit my nape; it must have bled. I reached out for help, but Lawrence forcibly held my hand down, his fingers interlocking, and then I was swept into a new storm of lust.
“Tell me, Ray…did they abuse you here?”
I nodded, tears welling in my eyes. The movement was negligible compared to the swaying I felt as he thrust into me, but Lawrence still noticed. He continued, "Would you rather I had been abusing you back then?"
My body remembers that pain, the brutal beatings with sticks and canes, being dragged by the hair and plunged into ice water, being locked in a room for three days without food. Later, the will to survive taught me to treat endurance as enjoyment, to find pleasure in pain. Lawrence was roughly pulling at my swollen nipples, fiercely kneading my erect penis, and brutally pounding my aching anus, yet I still experienced multiple orgasms, lying prostrate beneath him, moaning incessantly. Lawrence's violation was like painting on the canvas of my memory, forcibly covering up all traces of others with his colors, so that my body could only remember his ravaging, my inner self could only become the shape of his genitals, my heart could only beat wildly for him, my throat could only scream his name, my flesh and blood were only used to satisfy his bloodthirsty lust, and from then on, my soul had only one addiction: "Lawrence." He was the only sadist I ever truly loved.
Yes, I wish he had killed his mother then, and then come to me and make me his.
This is not rape. This is consensual sex.
A note from the author:
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