Breaking Her

"Two hundred." 

He looked strange, like I'd riled him. 

I started shaking harder, wondering if I could get past him and out the door, or if he'd stop me. 

"Two hundred?" he breathed.  "Are you messing with me?" 

"Like I said, I haven't been counting, but I'd guess closer to two hundred than one hundred."  My tone was defiant to hide the fact that he was terrifying me.   

"With his dick in you?  Two hundred times?" 

I barely nodded.   

"So your boyfriend puts his dick in your pussy pretty much every spare moment of the day?  What else do you do?  Does he fuck you in the ass?" 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I whispered at my lap.

"Did this other guy, the one that attacked you, put it in your ass?" 

"He didn't," I said through my teeth.

"Did he penetrate you anywhere?"

I was blinking hard, trying not to cry.  I was so angry, and ashamed, and confused.  I felt so helpless that I didn't know how to react.  This wasn't right.  None of this was right.  

"I t-t-told you, he c-c-couldn't get my jeans off."   

"So the jeans stayed on.  What happened then?" 

"He -k-k-kept . . . g-g-grinding against me.

"His bare dick against your asshole, but over your jeans." 

I nodded, glaring at him.  "There." I paused.  "And against my thigh.

"Where on your thigh?  Get up and show me?" 

I shook my head, tears pouring down my face.  "N-n-n-no.  P-p-p-p-please.  I don't want to, sir, please."

"Dear girl, if you want to catch this guy, you're going to have to do your part."  His voice hardened.  "Stand up now, or I'll assume you aren't serious about catching him.  Did you know we've been studying a string of serial rapes over the past decade?  A violent man attacking women in the woods across three cities.  And a few women have even disappeared.  Did you know that?"

I'd heard about one attack locally but it'd been years ago, and several more attacks, but not here, in other towns, if close ones.  I'd never heard a word about the disappearances, though.

On trembling legs, I stood. 

"Show me where on your thigh.  Was it more toward the back?  Turn around and show me."

I turned, and bent, and touched the very vulnerable spot where my groin met my thigh, deep up into my shorts.

He was a very large man with a badge and a gun.  I was out of my depth.  Helpless.  Completely.  And the way he was acting was not right. 

"So he got it up that high?  Damn, he was close.  A few more moves and he'd have had it in." 

I might've been in shock, but I went a little numb after that, my mind got a little hazy.  Distant. 

"But you're saying, even though he got it right there, one quick shove away from your pussy, he still couldn't figure it out, still didn't penetrate you?" 

I shook my head, chin to my chest, eyes pointed down, tears falling silently.  Not tears of sadness.  Tears of terror. 

Because I felt terrorized.   

"What next?"   

"He was grabbing my chest, hard, hurting me." 

"Your breasts, you mean?" 

"Yes." 

"He bruised you up good, I heard.  He really did a number on you.  How are they healing up?  I bet they're sensitive.  Big breasts like yours usually are."

I felt exposed, mortified.  

I couldn't stop trembling.  The tears wouldn't stop leaking out of my eyes, and my hands went up instinctively, covering my breasts.   

"They still hurt?"   

"I guess," I said.  They hurt like hell.  I still couldn't put on a bra.

"You know, sweet girl, it's impossible for a busty girl like you to go around without a bra without it showing.  They must hurt.  How tender are they?" 

"T-t-tender."   

"Okay, so he was grabbing your big, soft tits and grinding his hard, bare dick against your asshole, over your jeans, and down lower, against your thigh, right into your shorts, just a quick prayer from that tight little pussy.  It's still tight, right?  Even after letting your boyfriend put it in there two hundred times?"

"D-d-d-d-do you have to say it all like that?  C-c-c-could you please try to be a little more p-p-p-p-professional?" 

He didn't answer, and though his eyes were still kind on mine, I was quickly learning not to trust them. 

"I was screaming by then, and struggling, trying to fight him, but it was hard, being on my stomach like that."

"Was he saying anything to you?  Was his mouth still at your ear?" 

"Yes.  He was saying all sorts of horrible things into my ear.  H-h-he called me names, a c-c-c-cunt, a wh-wh-whore, a b-b-bitch, a s-s-slut, and told me to take my jeans off or he'd k-k-kill me." 

"Did he have a weapon?" 

"I never saw one."

"Did he say how he'd kill you?"

"No." 

"Did you take off your jeans for him?" 

"No.  I kept struggling until, um, he was done.  And then he got up and ran away." 

"Do you know what made him leave?" 

"He was done, I think."