Breaking Her

"Don't stop," Detective Harris said when I'd paused for too long.  "Continue."   

"He kept trying, for a while to get the button open, and while he did that he was . . . grinding against me."

"Where was he grinding on you? And what exactly was he grinding against you?" 

I was red with shame.  This retelling was even more embarrassing than the first one, which had been horrible. 

"My . . . butt."   

"Stand up, turn around, and show me where exactly."

My bewildered eyes shot to his.

His eyes were apologetic.  "I know it's embarrassing, but it's for the case.  I need to work through every detail.  Exhaustively.  The more you cooperate, the more likely it is that the D.A. will have a good case against this guy once we catch him."

I was shaking as I stood and turned.  I wished I'd worn something other than short cutoffs, but I hadn't been expecting a detective at my door. 

I pointed to the spot on my butt then quickly sat down. 

He was watching me, studying me so relentlessly that I couldn't look at his eyes. 

"And what did he grind there, right against your asshole?" 

My eyes shot back up to him at that.  My shame and bewilderment working together to nip at my volatile temper. 

What the hell was wrong with this cop?  Was he trying to embarrass me? 

"Answer the question, Scarlett." 

I looked down at my hands.  "His p-p-p-penis." 

He cleared his throat.  "Was it hard?"

"I think so.  Yes." 

"You think so?  Why the uncertainty?  Do you not know what a hard dick feels like?" 

My snapping eyes were meeting his sympathetic ones now.  Hello, temper. 

"I do.  It was hard.  Are we done?" 

"Not at all.  Semi-hard or hard?

"Hard."

"Hard.  Completely hard, not semi-hard, and he was grinding it against your butt, trying to shove it in your asshole through your jeans.  Is that accurate?" 

I nodded, shaking with fury.  With shame.  Fear.  

"Had he pulled his hard dick out of his pants, or was it grinding against you through his pants?

Nausea moved through me, because I'd felt it enough to know the answer to that.  "He'd pulled it out." 

"So it was bare and hard and grinding against you?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm just trying to get every bit of information I can, sweetie.  Details are more important than you think."

"Are we almost done?"

"Almost.  And you were just lying there?  Or were you fighting him?" 

"I was stunned at first.  I think the blow to my head maybe knocked me out for a second or two.  And I was just trying to breathe.  He'd slammed the breath out of me.  But after a while, when I realized what was happening, I started to struggle.

"Did he get the button undone?  On your shorts?" 

"He didn't." 

"How tight were those shorts?  Were they as tight as the ones you're wearing now?" 

I shrugged, hating that he'd pointed something like that out, wishing that my shorts were less tight. 

"Stand up again, sweet girl," he told me, voice careful, gentle. 

I did it, wondering if I could refuse to do this.  Whether they caught the guy or not, this interview was starting to make me feel sick to my stomach.  Something was very off about all of it.

Something was very wrong with this cop.   

He stood up, looming over me.

"Lift up your arms," he ordered softly. 

I did it, trembling. 

The motion brought my shirt up high enough to expose my stomach. 

His eyes were on his hands as he fingered the waistband of my jean shorts.  "So tight.  Not an inch to spare here.  Were your shorts that day as tight as this?" he asked again.   

"Yes," I said through my teeth. 

I wanted to sock him, but I refrained.  I had a healthy fear of police.  Even I had never hit one before.

"Keep going.  What did he do then?" 

"He started pulling at my pants, trying to get them down over my hips with the button still fastened." 

"Did he succeed?" 

"No." 

"Those tight jean shorts of yours might have saved you, you know.  Were you a virgin?" 

I flushed and sat down without asking.   

He moved to stand directly over me, and I regretted the decision.  "Are you a virgin?" he repeated when I'd been quiet too long.   

"I have a boyfriend," I finally gritted out in answer. 

"It's a yes or no question, dear girl.  Have you had sex?" 

"Yes."

"Yes, you've had sex?  Or yes, you're a virgin?" 

"I've had sex.  With my boyfriend."

"How many times?  Just once?  A few times?" 

I blushed and shook my head.  "More than a few times." 

"How many?" 

I shrugged.  "I have no idea. I haven't been counting." 

"Guess for me.  More than a hundred times?" 

I glared at him.  "Probably.  Does it matter?" 

"Yes.  All of this matters.  Guess a number for me, sweet girl.  Approximately how many times have you had sex with your boyfriend?  Vaginal sex."