Barkers Mill, West Richmond, Virginia
Darcy Hilton was a very pretty eighteen year-old blue-eyed redhead; she stood five-feet-seven in her stocking feet, and had a figure to match her stunning looks. As a favour, Darcy agreed to baby-sit for a friend of her father’s, a guy named Paul. Paul was one of the members of the country club her father hardly ever goes to anymore. Paul had gone on a blind date, telling Darcy he’d be back no later than mid-night.
Looking in the mirror at the band-aid over her left eye, Darcy saw a reflected view of the clock on the lounge wall; it read, 10:45 pm, turning to see it the right way round, it was actually 1:15 am, and she wasn’t the least bit happy about that. In her book, mid-night meant mid-night. She’d agreed to sit his son, Christopher, for only four hours, it was over five hours now.
If Christopher had been a good little boy she wouldn’t half have minded Paul’s late return, but for her, he’d been a nasty little brat. Paul put him to bed before he went out, telling Darcy he always sleeps through. But as soon as he’d left the house to go on his date, the little shit was out of bed causing mayhem.
After putting him back for the fifth time she lost her temper, smacking him lightly on his leg, and that’s when the car struck. It was only small, but a chunk of metal thrown by a chubby seven year-old boy can do some damage. It hit the bone of her left eye-socket right beside the temple, the pain was excruciating and Darcy cried out covering the eye. When the initial pain subsided she removed the hand to see her fingers stained with blood.
When Christopher saw this, he began to cry, saying how sorry he was, and pleading with her not to tell his father. She agreed on the condition he goes straight to sleep. He pouted and crossed his arms in protest, but accepted her terms. And when he asked for his bedroom door to be left open as it usually was, she refused, using it as a mild form of punishment.
The injury she’d suffered bothered her little; it was the blood staining her new blouse that upset her more. She picked up the phone and called her father for the second time that night. During the last call, he’d suggested she give it another half hour.
That half hour was up.
‘Hi, honey. I take it Paul still isn’t home yet?’
‘That’s why I’m calling you again. Do you think you could ring him for me? He left his number but I’d rather you spoke to him.’
‘Okay, I’ll ring him now; see what the hold up is.’
She was about to reply when she heard a trash-can go over in the yard, a second later she heard a car pull onto the drive. ‘Hold on, I think that’s him now.’ The front door opened and closed again. ‘Yes, it’s him; I’ll be home in about half an hour.’
‘Drive carefully, sweetheart,’ he said, and hung up.
Bouncing off both door posts, Paul stumbled into the lounge like an oversized pinball. How the hell he’d managed to find his way home, let alone drive there, was beyond Darcy’s comprehension. Without acknowledging her in any way, he dropped his overweight drunken body on an old leather sofa, which creaked and moaned under his mass.
She didn’t want to speak to him, but felt he needed to know of his brat-of-a-son’s behaviour. And rather than tell him direct, she hoped he’d ask once they got talking. So she said the first thing that sprung to mind.
‘How’d your blind date go, Paul?’
Paul rubbed his pink, boozed-up face with both hands and let out his breath through floppy lips, producing a horse-like sound. ‘Fucking shite,’ he said, pulling a Marlboro from its pack and lighting it. ‘She wouldn’t even give me a blow-job, selfish cow.’ He blew out a thin stream of smoke followed by two smoke-rings, and then began coughing as the last of the fumes left his lungs.
She’d made a mistake, a big one, and she knew it. Why the hell didn’t she just put her coat on and leave? She didn’t have to talk to the slob; she could’ve told her dad about the boy, he’d have mentioned it to him. All she had to say was goodnight, and then go. Simple really. She stepped passed him to retrieve her coat from one of the dining room chairs.
Paul took another pull on his cigarette before placing it in a large crystal ashtray on the floor. ‘Bet choo’ve never said no to a blow-job have you, Darcy?’ he said, attempting to undo his belt. ‘Bet choo’d love to suck my cock, eh!’
She tried to pass him again, this time to get out of the house, but she was too slow. He grabbed for her arm pulling her to the floor and sat on her lower legs. His weight felt tremendous, almost crushing her shin-bones as his huge buttocks moulded themselves around her. She lashed out with both fists, hitting him in the face and chest, but no matter how hard she fought, he just seemed to ignore it.
‘Get-off-me. You fucking creep!’ she shouted.
The huge fat-fuck was pulling at the button on her jeans; the tremendous physical power in his arms easily overpowering her. If she screamed she’d wake Christopher, he wouldn’t dare carry on doing this if his son came down. Taking a deep breath, she started her cry for help; she was only half way through when her face exploded from the weight of his loaf-sized fist.
‘Quiet, Bitch, if you relax a little, perhaps I won’t hurt you so much.’
She struggled in a frantic bid to shake him off but his weight was far too much for her to unseat. ‘Stop it, stop it, you fuck,’ she shouted again, this earning her yet another punch, this one to the stomach.
In a blinding flash of pain the breath was forced from her lungs and her ability to breathe instantly evaporated, as did her ability to fight back. She was about to be brutally raped, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
She felt the waist of her jeans slacken; she felt his nails take off a layer of skin as he pulled them down past her thighs. Moreover, she felt powerless to do anything about it. But she had to, she had to find the strength to stop this, she couldn’t’ just let it happen.
Pooling together what little determination she had left, she began to regain the capability to breathe. Once more she started striking out, hitting his face, his chest, anything she could reach a fist to. She felt a warming on her stomach; it was blood, his blood. She looked to see his nose running like a tap, but it didn’t seem to slow him down any.
Her panties became his next obstacle, but he wasn’t trying to pull them down. She felt the thin edge of the material cutting into her as he tried ripping them off, if they didn’t give soon she felt an artery would. Then there was a tearing sound as a cold sensation surrounded her crotch, he’d succeeded.
A fat, sweaty hand, that felt as big a boxing glove, forced its way between her legs, whilst his other pressed down on her chest like an anvil. Once more her breathing became stifled. She wondered why Christopher hadn’t heard the commotion, why he hadn’t woke up and come downstairs? And then she remembered closing his door to punish him. And this was no doubt some sick poetic justice for that. Did the little bastard have an efgigy of her in his room?
Darcy was continuing to strike out when she felt one of his sausage-like fingers slip inside her, the shock of the intrusion causing her to momentarily stop what she was doing and grip his imposing wrist with both hands.
‘That’s it baby,’ he slobbered, ‘loosen up a little!’
