Read The Story of X: An Erotic Tale for Free Online

Dirty
     jeans, yellow faces, bloodshot eyes, entirely bad news. They just want some euro to
     score. Right?
    But I have so little money, and I have worked so hard for it. I want to fight them.
    “I don’t have any money! Leave me alone.”
    “Vacca,” one says with a sneer; he is the tallest and skinniest. “Vacca Americana!”
    American cow.
    Fuck them! I get ready to run past them—screaming, screaming for my life—just barge
     through them. That’s what I must do. Just run and thrust my way into the main drag
     of the Spanish Quarters, where the fishmongers stand in their gumboots, hosing silver
     scales and fish blood down the dark cobbles, like sequins in red surf.
    Then one of the junkies pulls a knife. It is long and evil and it glitters in the
     hard southern sun that slants down from the strip of slummy sky.
    He smiles.
    Too late I realize this is much worse than a mugging.

 
    C HAPTER F IVE
    H ELL. I F Ifight back they might kill me, they might not even mean to do it—but that knife. It
     glitters, malevolent and long.
    The first lean guy, with a bad and raw tattoo on his neck like a case of shingles,
     moves toward me. He is cornering me; like I am just another rat in a Neapolitan alley.
    The knife is phallic and stiff. I glance up at the helpless sky, then down the merciless
     darkness of the alley beyond the boys. No. There is no hope there. Or here. Or anywhere.
     I am on my own.
    Maybe I can beg my way out of this, utilize what pitiful Italian I possess. Staring
     at the leader of the gang, I implore him.
    “ Per l’amore del cielo ”—for the love of God, I beg you—“ ti prego di tutto cuore .” He laughs and his laugh is like some horrible, diseased cackle.
    “Ah, bellezza, bellezza .” He turns to his grinning accomplices, then turns back to me, “Fucking sexy. Sì? Sexy girl.”
    It is maybe the only English he knows.
    Fucking sexy girl.
    My fear rages. And my fury. He is two meters away: two seconds from touching me, and
     groping me. I am pressed flat to the damp old wall behind. A wall so dark and sheltered
     and cold it feels like it has never been warmed by the sun. The sun has never reached
     this deep into the slums—nor into the minds of these men. One of the other youths
     grins and says, “ Divertiamoci . . .”
    The word is something like play . It seems they are going to play with me, and I know what this really means.
    I feel the first grubby hands on my arms, tugging at my dress, trying to rip it away.
     The dress is casually and gleefully torn from my shoulder, exposing my bra. A second
     hand feels for my breasts, lifts at my bra strap, and then the strap is severed with
     a knife.
    I swear at them, crouching and covering myself. Swearing again.
    But the boys just laugh. They are all around me; it feels like there are dozens of
     them, hands everywhere, feeling my hair, touching my arms, trying to pull my fists
     away.
    “Stop!”
    I start to kick and to flail; I don’t care if I am outnumbered and cornered, to hell with them . I am not going to let them touch me. Not going to let them play with me.
    Now I am writhing in their grasp, wrenching myself free—but they are simply too many—four
     lanky and grinning Italian youths. I sense I could probably take one of these junkie
     bastards—knee him in the groin, knock him to the ground—but four? It is too much.
     I am drowning under their hands as they pull at the fabric, feel for my thighs—
    “No, stop! Stop! Please stop! Please! ”
    They just laugh, and their laughter echoes down the empty lane, down the alley with
     the shuttered windows and the crumbling walls. A cold hand claps over my mouth, silencing
     my words. I wonder somehow if I should pray. I haven’t prayed in years; maybe now
     is the time. But then I have an idea. One last chance? Biting the hand that covers
     my mouth, so it is whipped away, I yell, as loudly as possible: “I know Marcus Roscarrick . He is my friend. Lui è mio amico!