Free TheRapist by J. Levy Page A

puce, his eyes bulging and his fat nose was dripping with  sweat. He was a pig.
    ‘Uuuugh, more, more,’ he grunted through yellow teeth. He shoved out his thick, coated tongue, reaching for her ear and jammed his tongue inside it like a thick, spongy arrow.
    The room was dingy. Dank. Stale. Threadbare curtains hung limply across the window, but the red lights along the street glowed through. Impervious.
    ‘Uugh, let me shove it in, more, more…’
    Devon flipped out from beneath him and before he knew what had happened had turned him face down and was astride him. She quickly pulled a chopstick from her updo and shoved it up his arse. He yelped, squealing like the stuck pig he was. She jammed it in further, as far as it would go. He was whimpering, pleading. Just how she liked it.
    She leaned in very close, so he could feel her breath in his hairy ear.
    ‘Never stick your tongue in a lady’s ear,’ she whispered so quietly that she could barely be heard. ‘We hate it. It feels disgusting. Your breath is disgusting. Your saliva is disgusting. Your snorting is disgusting.’ With every other word she twi sted the chopstick inside him until h e began to go limp , contorted with the pain of twisted pleasure .
    She yanked out the stick in a flash, brown and putrid, using it to spear a disheartened prawn that was hanging over the edge of a square plastic carton on the bedside table. He gaped at her, eyes wide, fearful, confused. Then she shoved the chopstick in his mouth.
    Cramming the cash into her purse and sweeping away to the door she turned back and with a razor-like gleam in her eyes snarled, ‘Eat shit.’
     
    *
     
    Back at the Berkeley. Devon laid down on the ceramic floor of the bath, lifted her legs to the ceiling and let the hot water wash away the night. She didn’t know how long she was there, upside down with her legs wide open, it just had to be long enough to flush away the stench. Her face remained still, stoic, as tears mingled with water. Salt with soap. Sweetened tears. She rubbed furiously between her legs with the little bar of hotel soap, rubbing and rubbing, digging her fingers into it until it became a squidgy mass.
    Her mind was a maze. Entangled and entwined. Intertwined. Mangled. Unravelling a little more each day. She couldn’t go on like this anymore, trying to avenge her past by demoralizing disgusting men. She knew she was reaching the end and that freedom was, at last, within her grasp.
    She pulled herself out of the tub, wrapping two huge bath towels around her tired body and shattered mind, dragging them across the floor as she dragged her body to the bed. She climbed under the duvet, wrapping herself further into her feathery cocoon and escaped. To sleep. To a place where she would be safe. For a while at least. From herself.
     
    In her dreams she was a child again. Running across a field brimming with buttercups and daisies, the grass kissed by the spring. There was laughter. Sunshine and fine, blue birds in the sky. A football on the glossy grass. Glorious trees to climb. Sandwiches made with pappy white bread, tangy salt and vinegar crisps, crispy sausage rolls and sweet Jammie Dodgers, all tucked away in a red gingham-lined, wicker hamper. There was Mother. And Dad. And little brother Joe. Little sister Patsy with her favourite doll that she had named Diana Dors, because of her white blonde, luxurious hair. Devon loved that doll of Patsy’s. It was the best toy in the house. In the world. Better than anything else. Mother spread a blue and yellow checked blanket on the grass and they all sat down to feast upon their picnic. Bees buzzed around them and they laughed and squealed as they swatted them away. The sandwiches were delicious. Mother always made tasty sandwiches with thin ham and buttery lettuce and real thick yellow butter. A perfect day. Then, suddenly, an awareness of discomfort, of prickles on the neck. The day had a dent in it. A wedge. A feeling had finally