It wasn’t rape it was
perfectly tender the way he
enjoyed her body. Granted
his was the only volition in the room
as he circled and circled, staring, sniffing
and touching here and there in passing.
Oh she was stunning. He took in
her face for much, much longer
than her eyes would have permitted
if they weren’t nailed to the floor like
a slave’s eyes. He sized her up,
climbing slowly down her perfect body
then up again to her eyes which were
still frozen there on the floor like two small
winter deaths. But it wasn’t rape it was
breathtaking the way her breasts
gave themselves up ineluctably to his
tampering hands, her magnificent
nipples much darker and larger than he
had imagined. And when her first tear fell—
the only movement in the room outside
of his movements—he kissed it lovingly away,
and guided her gently, mythically down
to the floor where he fucked her next to her eyes.

Visit Paul Hostovsky’s Web site at