She tells me that she needs to watch herself, that she has a bad habit of pushing boundaries, especially when she’s been drinking.
I smile. I tell her how her self-awareness is reassuring, how safe she makes me feel.
I keep topping off her glass.
There’s a hint of concern in her expression, just a subtle tightening at the corners of her eyes, but she keeps sipping.
As the evening goes on, she loosens up. She takes the bottle and starts pouring for both of us. She laughs at my jokes, lets her hand linger on my wrist.
I tell her I think I’ve had enough, and she continues to laugh that pretty, cruel laugh of hers, pouring me another drink. Her hand slides up my skirt, and I squirm, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable, unable to ignore everyone else’s eyes on me.
I reach for my glass of water and drunkenly fumble, spilling it over the table and soaking my own dress. I try to apologize. The words trip all over each other, incoherent. There’s pity in her laugh while she pats me dry with a napkin and uses the opportunity to fondle me.
She brings the liquor to my mouth and tips the glass back, forcing me to finish my drink. I make a mess, but I mostly swallow it.
The scene blurs. I’m leaning on her while she walks me out, promising to take care of me, apologizing to someone for my behavior.
We go somewhere else. I don’t know where—it’s unfamiliar. We’re alone, with hungry hands tugging at my dress, baring my chest, squeezing my body.
I try to tell her that I’m not ready for this right now, but she shoves her fingers in my mouth to shut me up. The pungent tang on my tongue suggests where they’ve been, and some reflex deep down inside compels me to close my mouth and suck on the intruding digits.
She grunts in a way that sounds appreciative, and the motion of her free hand, its tugging at my dress, becomes more urgent.
I hear a seam pop. I hear fabric rip. I don’t know what exactly I’m hearing, but when she flops on top of me I feel her skin against mine, sweating and sticky.
Teeth clamp down on my nipple. I scream and squirm and struggle, and I can’t escape. The hand in my mouth slips out. It drops to my neck. She hisses something in frustration that I can’t parse.
Pressure on my throat. My field of vision narrows. I stop thrashing.
God, she could kill me right now, and none of my friends know where I am.
I go limp, and the pressure eases. It doesn’t take all that long for her to finish with me, all things considered, before she flops to the side, apparently satisfied.
In the morning I take inventory of my bruises. My dress is ruined, but it’s better than being naked.
My date looks at me with dawning horror, her eyes fixed on the aggrieved ring around my neck. She groans something that might be “not again,” panic visibly rising inside her. I tap on my phone while she stares fearfully.
“I can’t believe you raped me,” I say, quietly and with apparent sincerity. “I trusted you.”
She apologizes, tells me about her history of losing control, insists she didn’t mean to hurt me, that that’s not the “real” her—all the lies a person like her needs to tell herself to believe that she isn’t a monster—and buried within them is the confession I need to collar her.
I stop my phone’s recording app, upload it safely, and play it back for her.
“I own you now,” I say with a sweet smile. “Do you understand?”
She doesn’t. Not right away. For now she’s confused by my response.
She’ll learn. I’ll make sure she comes to know the precise dimensions of my control over her. And I will strip away her illusions about herself until she no longer needs the liquor to flourish into the monster she truly is.
I touch one of the bruises blooming around my wrist, pressing down enough to draw out and savor the pain of it.
This will be so much fun.