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It was a bright, warm day in April 2003. Sarah had been shopping in the afternoon, and came back to the house. She didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. She unpacked the shopping and went to the bathroom. When came out, she headed into the dining room to get a book.

The second she opened the door she saw three men in masks, standing in the room, facing her. Her first thought was that she was being burgled, and she stood totally still. All three of them were bigger than her, and one of them was distinctly fat. Then the fat man raised an automatic pistol and pointed it at her face.

"Don't kill me," she whispered in terror.

"We're not gonna kill you," said another one. He had a soft voice, and a flat accent that she couldn't place. "Relax."

"You can take whatever you want," she said, "but just go. Please. Please don't hurt me."

"You don't have to get hurt," the man said in a relaxed way. "Just don't scream, don't try to get away and don't try anything funny and this will all be over quickly."

Sarah had no idea what he meant, but as her terrified gaze went from him to the others to the stripped bed, she saw something. Lying on the bed were a pair of handcuffs, a black nylon sleep mask, a tube of lubricating jelly and what she recognised as an anal plug. It was made of some translucent blue rubber, had a spherical tip, and a long narrow shaft in a corkscrew shape. It must have been about six inches long. She stared at these things for a moment.

"Strip," said the man with the gun.

"What do you want to do to me?" she asked in fear, even though the answer was dawning on her.

"We're giving you a message," said the relaxed man.

"Strip," ordered the man with the gun. It was pointing at her head. Sarah felt horribly vulnerable. There was no way she could resist them. She looked at the relaxed man. He nodded his head in an encouraging sort of way.

Sarah's stomach was tight with fear. She leaned over and unlaced one runner, then the other. She stepped out of her runners, then took off her socks and placed them inside the runners. She straightened up again. The men were still standing there, enjoying the sight of her undressing. She took off her glasses and put them on the mantelpiece. She pulled her white t-shirt over her head, exposing her torso. Instinctively, she sucked in her stomach – why was she concerned about vanity now? Her face was burning. She unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down her legs, then, averting her eyes from them, she unclipped her bra and pulled it off, placing an arm across her chest, then pulled down her white panties and stepped out of them. She straightened up, one hand over her chest, the other over her black pubes. She could not look them in the face.

They stood for a moment, savouring the sight of her compact, naked body. She had never before been naked with more than one man. Her whole body was now trembling, in anticipation of the violation they wanted to do to her.

The last man came forward and grabbed her arm. She stumbled slightly and he pulled her to the sofa. The man with the gun kept it pointed at her head. She had given up any hope of being anything other than a defenceless victim. They had spread a bath towel on the sofa. The man pushed her on to the sofa, where she knelt, her hands still trying to cover herself, shivering. This was her nightmare – to be naked and at the mercy of strangers. She knew that whatever they wanted to do to her would be sexual in nature, and prayed that she would be able to bear it.

"Lie down," said the relaxed man. "On your belly." Sarah lowered herself onto her stomach, huddling her arms to her chest. The towel was cool and rough on her naked skin. The third man grabbed her left wrist and pulled it behind her back. She felt the cool metal of handcuffs on it. Then he grabbed her other arm and cuffed that too.

"Please don't do this," she begged them. "Please don't. Please."

The relaxed man came forward and raised her head. Sarah looked up to see that they had placed a mirror on the swivel chair, so that she could see her reflection. Her small, white, nude body was face down on the red sofa, the mounds of her naked bottom rising from the flatness of her back, as if it was inviting them to take it. Her ass was her most prominent feature, from their angle. Sarah's body had hardly changed at all since she was in her teens. She was short, with a v-shaped face, black hair, small breasts and a neat, round, soft behind.

Her face was flushed with shame and her eyes were wide and terrified. Then he slipped the black nylon mask over her head so that it covered her eyes. He let her head fall forward again. Now she was handcuffed, blindfold, naked and totally at their mercy.

She couldn't see anything, only feel the roughness of the towel under her and the air on her skin. She heard faint noises. Then she suddenly felt a cool, sticky, pliable ball, poking between her buttocks.

"Oh no," she begged them, "no, not my arse, not my arse, please, no, not my arse, anywhere, please not there, not my arse..." But the tip of the butt plug was stroking between her cheeks and down over the hot, damp skin of her perineum. A pair of hands spread her legs. She could feel the tip probing deeper, looking for her anus. She kept on begging them not to touch her arse, but one pair of hands was holding her legs and another strong hand was pushing the base of her spine down. She tried to squirm to evade the anal plug, but then she felt it pushing at her sphincter and all of a sudden, it penetrated her anus. "Oh NO!" she gasped. "No, no, please! Not my arse, not there, not my arse, not my arse!" but then it pulled out of her again. This most intimate of violations made her squirm even more.

Whoever was holding the anal plug pushed the tip into her again, then pulled it out, then in, then out, teasing her anus with the sensation. And to her horror, it was working; she was getting moist. They must have enjoyed the sight of this attractive young woman, normally so neat and businesslike, now naked, blindfold, shackled and moaning, being raped on her own dining-room sofa in the middle of the afternoon.

"No, no, no, no, no..." she gasped, but then, the tip went in, and this time she felt the plug screwed up deeper into her rectum. "UNNH!" she moaned, and her hips instinctively jerked, as her anal muscles tried to expel the alien object that was filling them. But a strong hand kept on screwing the plug deeper into her. "Oh Jesus!" she whimpered, "please, no, no, no...unh...unh...unh..." but the plug seemed to keep pressing into her arse forever. Sarah felt inhumanly debased. The fact that she had had anal intercourse with her boyfriend didn't matter. That had been consensual. But she was being raped.

The plug widened as it slid into her, pushing her sphincter wider open. The friction of the towel as it ground against her pubic bone was making her moist. Her nipples were getting hard. She felt her tight, tingling, naked ass cheeks rubbing and clenching against the plug pushing into her anus, and she knew that they were watching this happen. It was the ultimate humiliation, that she could not even stop herself from being aroused, even while she was being violated. Then she felt the wide flange of the base of the plug press into her buttocks. It was all the way in. She moaned, deeply, from the gut.

Then she felt some warm liquid spurting onto her back, and she realised that one of them had been masturbating as he watched them rape her with the anal plug. She sobbed "Why are you doing this? Why..." but it must have made them angry, because the man who had been manipulating the plug began to fuck her with it, violently, in fast, hard strokes.

"Ahh – ahh – ahh – ahh – ahh – oh God – ahhh – ahhh..." She stretched her lithe body, blindly, in a futile attempt to escape. The man's fingernails were digging into her bare buttocks. Her breasts were squashed beneath her, and her clitoris became engorged as the force of the buggery drove her hips into the sofa. She strained every muscle, trying to fight off the sensations that were sweeping through her body.

He must have fucked her with the plug for about two minutes, though it seemed like forever. As suddenly as he'd started, he stopped. A voice said "She's ready." Ready for what? She whimpered as she realised that the plug had been only a preliminary.

It was quickly unscrewed from her, and she whimpered again as the spherical tip slid out of her. Then, without a pause, a man was kneeling astride her legs and mounting her naked hips. "NO!" she protested, "PLEASE! No! PLEASE don't fuck my arse!" But then she felt a thick, engorged penis pushing between her slick, well-lubricated buttocks and pressing against the aching rosebud of her anal muscle. Then his weight shifted on her, his hips moved up on top of hers, he pushed her face into the sofa cushion and she moaned "MNNNNNHH!" as the hot, thick pole of muscle pressed into her sphincter and slithered up into her anus.

This was far worse than the anal plug. His cock was wider, and the intimacy of having another human being inside her was far more humiliating. He drove into her with punishing force, pumping her ass, as she shrieked into the pillow "NOO! NOO! NOO! NOO!" There was nothing sensual about it; it was a vengeful act of violence on his part. He wanted only to hurt and humiliate Sarah, to demonstrate by buggering her that he had total control over her. And it worked.

The sheer physical pressure of his penis inside her made Sarah's body flush with heat, and even as she gave a muffled scream into the sofa cushion, she came, lavishly, the warmth flooding her lower body, spilling out over her labia, soaking into the sofa cushion. Her shame at being so aroused made her sob and she went limp, inert and shaking with the thrusts of his fucking. She felt him come in her, spurting his semen deep into her rectum, and he relaxed for only a second before pulling out. She panted for breath, but then he got off her and she felt another one mount her.

"Oh Jesus, no, please..." Sarah sobbed as he wasted no time about pulling her tight round buttocks apart and penetrating her. He raped her with slow, deep thrusts, easing in and out of her as if he were making sweet love to his girlfriend, instead of raping a helpless, weeping stranger up her arse. This was equally humiliating, a parody of intimacy; he moved his hips and cock as if he expected her to enjoy it. His hands caressed Sarah's nude body, roving over her hips, stroking her shackled arms, touching her torso and breasts beneath her. The other two held her down, and she put up a last token show of resistance, moaning, panting, begging them please to stop, stop this, stop doing this to her, she would do anything they wanted; she squirmed naked in their tight grip. But at last he, too, came, pulling out of her as he did so, making her go "AAH!" in shock and pain. He came on her naked buttocks, the fluid trickling down to the base of her spine and between her legs. Then he got off her.

Sarah lay prone on the sofa, in shock, panting for breath, weak and trembling. Then around the edge of the mask she saw a flash, then several more, and realised that they were photographing her. This had not been just for their pleasure. This had been a punishment for something. But she was too exhausted to speak. She heard them doing their zips up. Then a hand pulled her up so that she sat, blindfold, her arms still cuffed behind her back.

"Get her cleaned up," said a voice. She was dragged to her feet, so weak she was tottering. The blindfold was taken off her. She raised her panting, tear-streaked face to the relaxed man. He was smiling at her.

"It's been real," he said pleasantly. Then Sarah was hauled out of the room and into the bathroom. The man with the gun took the handcuffs off her and turned on the shower. Her wrists were red and scraped raw. She got into the shower and, weeping quietly, washed herself all over. He made sure she washed especially between her buttocks. Then he watched her dry off, and pulled her back into the dining room.

He shoved her onto the sofa again. The towel had gone – presumably they would destroy it, along with all the other evidence except the photographs. Everything that could link them to her rape would be gone. Sarah sat naked on the sofa, hugging her legs to her chest, and looked up at them abjectly. They cuffed her hands behind her back again.

One of the men showed her a Polaroid. There she was, lying bare on the sofa on her belly, her hands behind her back, her eyes covered but otherwise recognisable – her face blurred and contorted but definitely hers, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail, her feet bare, her small breasts squashed flat beneath her. The three men were dressed in black, hooded, one of them clearly pushing the plug up into her arse. Sarah choked back a sob and looked away.

They had encased the key to the handcuffs in a large block of ice. They left this in a baking tin on the floor; it meant that Sarah would not be able to unshackle herself for hours. They cuffed her ankles together too, and flung her on her belly on the sofa. She turned her head, and looked at them over her bare shoulder, weeping silently.

"Don't even think about calling the cops," said the relaxed man. "Or we come back and take you away for a dirty weekend. Have a nice evening."

He turned and left. The others followed. The last one blew a kiss at her and giggled, the other – the man with the gun – said "See you round, dirty girl," then slipped the black mask over her eyes once more.

She listened to them leave the house. She lay, motionless, prone, on the sofa, naked, shackled and blindfold. Anyone who looked in the dining room window would be able to see her, and probably think she was taking part in some private sex game. Sarah wept with self-pity. Before, she had always enjoyed the naughtiness, the dirtiness, of having a man in her ass; now, she would forever associate it with the clinical, emotionless anal rape she had received from the three strangers.

And its very ruthlessness, its total lack of interest in her own pleasure, had actually aroused her more. Sarah's sense of dignity, her pride in herself as an independent woman, had been battered beyond recognition, but as she explored her feelings, she was surprised to find that the shame and fear were melting away, leaving only a sadness and an aching nostalgia for the relative innocent she had been before the attack; the visceral, gut-wrenching thrill of being stripped, tied up and buggered was still with her. It had hurt, but only when they had wanted it to, and they had not physically harmed her in any other way. She had come through; what had been taken from her had not been worth keeping, and now she felt indomitable. Now, at last, she knew that what she had most feared could not destroy her.

After a while, her exhaustion got the better of her and she slept. She woke up in darkness, cold, and for a moment could not remember what had happened, and why she was lying full-length, nude, on her sofa, her arms and legs cuffed, a black mask covering her eyes. Then it all came back to her, and she shivered.

She managed to sit up, and crouched on the floor, feeling around for the key to the handcuffs. She found it in a pool of cold water and unlocked her shackles, then pulled off the blindfold.

The room was dark, the house silent. Sarah stood up on weak legs, and went over to her clothes. She fumbled for her watch and found that it was three in the morning.

She didn't want to get dressed yet. She imagined the men, far away by now; were they thinking of her? She imagined the soft-voiced man, the man she guessed had been the last to rape her, riding her as though they were lovers, looking down at her beneath him, she, abject and sobbing as he buggered her naked on her own sofa; had she ever been as desirable to any man as she was to him, at that moment? Would he carry the memory of her for the rest of his life? It had had all the signs of an organised hit; they had broken into Sarah's home, rendered her helpless, ordered her to strip and then brutally ravaged her. Why? What had she possibly done to invite such abuse? And yet she was sure that the soft-voiced man had enjoyed it, enjoyed reducing her to a screaming, blubbering mess. Not the other man; he had fucked her to humiliate her, as if disgusted by her; presumably he had been gay, and had wished that she were a boy. But apart from her mop of black hair, her petite body meant that Sarah looked from behind very much like a boy. She liked to play football with her male friends; once or twice she had even shared a shower with them, laughing, and none of them had batted an eyelid. She had a brief mental image of herself, soaping herself naked under the stream of water, amid a crowd of naked men, men she knew from work and from the sports club, the tiled room dripping and full of steam; they turned on her, their eyes glazed; ignoring her increasingly panicky protests, they encircled her, grabbed her and dragged her to the floor, and buried her under a pile of their wet, naked bodies, shoving cocks and fingers into her every orifice while she writhed and screamed uselessly...she glimpsed them walking away from her limp, naked body, wet, bruised and covered with their glistening sperm, lying face down on the tiled floor as the water flowed around her...

She shook her head. Time enough for fantasies later.

She was starving. She went into the kitchen and made herself a ham sandwich with lettuce and mustard. She ate it ravenously, washing it down with water, and then made another. She poured herself a glass of wine and padded upstairs, taking her meal with her.

She entered the computer room, and sat down at the desk. She moved the mouse, and the breaking light from the screen illuminated a ghostly reflection of her long, pale body in the darkened window.

The wooden chair was cool under her naked bottom. Sarah clicked on New Document. A blank page stared at her.

What to write?

Something that might tell him how she felt. Something that might lead him back to her, while she slept, maybe; prising open a downstairs window, creeping through the house, slipping open her bedroom door, pulling back the covers, placing a hand over her amazed mouth; his movements would be quiet and efficient as he tied her up, gagged her, blindfolded her; his fingers would rapidly push grease up into Sarah's anus and he would have slipped inside her arse and be buggering her forcefully before she had time to scream into the pillow. And the joy of coming without guilt or shame as he shot his sperm into her rectum, then pulled out of her, loosened her bonds just enough for her to work them off, and then slipped away again. And, sobbing gratefully, she would remove her bonds and her gag and blindfold and sink back into blessed sleep.

Or how he dragged her out of the shower one morning, tied her to a chair, covered her nude body from head to foot in shaving foam and videoed her as he worked his cock up into her ass, only a black O showing where her mouth hung open, and the relief as he came in her and let her crawl back under the spray.

Or how he would take her in a nightclub toilet, making her strip naked in the cubicle before he grabbed her hips and forced himself into her, and she fought to stifle her moans of pain while life went on as usual on the other side of the partition. Then making her dress, and stumble back to her friends, her arse still leaking his cum into her panties; and coming over and pretending to chat her up, smiling blandly at her, while she made small talk and fought to conceal her fury and shame.

She took a bite of sandwich, sipped some wine and began to type: It was a bright, warm day in April 2003. Sarah had been shopping in the afternoon...