I knew he'd come back for me. Tonight. Tomorrow. In a week, or a month. I had felt his eyes on me when I bent my head to sign for the parcel he'd delivered. It was no more than that; a sense of being appraised and an intuition that what he'd seen had triggered some animal impulse in him that he would not resist. My attraction for him or any other man wasn't obvious. I'm over 50 and look my age. I wasn't wearing make up and I had my pinned hair up untidily with a clasp. I had on a baggy old sweater and jeans. I wouldn't have thought, on the face of it, that I could have appeared less sexy to a well-groomed young man in his mid-20s. Perhaps it was my bare feet that did it for him. I've always loved my feet which are small and shapely. I paint my toenails a bright blood red. They could be a young girl's feet. Whatever it was, I knew already when I closed the door behind him that this young man would come and rape me. I felt no fear or panic. In fact, I didn't feel anything out of the ordinary. It was if it were something that was to happen to another person. Thinking about it over coffee in the kitchen, I realised that there'd been something else in the encounter. Although he was polite, at no time had he smiled. Nor had I smiled at him. It was if we, two strangers, had met as instinctive adversaries, taking each other's measure. It occurred to me that maybe in some unconscious way I had been complicit provoking his desire though I didn't know how, still less why. I divorced my husband eight years ago and have had only occasional lovers since. I masturbate sometimes but sex is not something I think about a lot. Now I did start to think about it and my options. I could undress meekly or fight and have him rip my clothes off. He could force himself on me or I could let him do what he wanted. Either way, I couldn't stop him. He would handle my naked breasts, thrust his penis into my cunt. I imagined his hands exploring me, taking without asking, his male odour in my nostrils, his naked skin against mine, his weight on me. For some reason, I remembered the first time I was naked with a boy. We were both 16 and cousins. I only let him look but it was intensely pleasurable for me to show myself that way and the sensation was entirely different from being nude with a lover. It was if I were an onlooker. I wondered if it would be like this being nude for the rapist – my rapist for he is mine. If he is to posssess me, he will also enter into my possession. How odd it is to think the words coldly and without emotion. I've admitted to occasional masturbation. Now I must admit that I masturbate while thinking about being raped, my rape. He's a stranger met only once before but I feel an intimacy between us. It's as if I want him to come. I do want him to come. I want him to fuck me but I also want it to be rape. I will not oppose him but I will not let him think in any way that I am giving myself to him. I am ready. It remains only for the act to happen.