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

”
    The reaction is intense. The boys freeze. The hands pull back. The leader squints
     at me, looking deep in my eyes, as if to see if I am lying. Another one shakes his
     head.
    “ Guappo .” The others nod, pale, ugly faces in the dark of the alley. I shout the word again.
    “I know him. Roscarrick! E un buon amico! ”
    But it’s not working. They are unconvinced. Either they think I am lying or they just
     don’t care. Maybe Roscarrick means nothing. The grins become snarls. Now they come
     at me again—with renewed intent.
    A dirty hand slaps over my mouth once more; another hand is groping, and now I begin
     to succumb. This is it, I think, this is how it happens, this is how you get raped.
     My mind is almost detached. I close my eyes as I sink under the ocean of pain and
     humiliation—
    “Lasciala sola.”
    What?
    The voice is new.
    Leave her alone.
    “Coniglio!”
    Coward .
    Who is this?
    I see a strong fist, flying. One of the youths is physically wrenched away—as though
     he has been plucked up by some deity, by a giant. He is virtually lifted off his feet
     and thrown to the floor. The leader of the gang swivels and yells, but a fist strikes
     him hard; his tattooed face rips left and right as he is punched twice, and again,
     blood squirting everywhere, like scarlet ink.
    I can see a dark, handsome face in the gloom of the alley. Who is this? Not Roscarrick,
     not someone I know. But this man is intervening: he is with friends—young allies—well
     dressed. They are brawling with the youths; one of the junkies is already on the dirty
     cobblestones, groaning, but the others are fighting back. I gather my shredded clothes
     to myself and look for escape. This is horrible. The brawl is intense. Someone is
     going to get knifed.
    And then another voice calls across the cobblestones, masculine, older, arrogant,
     and everyone is silenced.
    “Cazzo! Porco demonio—”
    This is Roscarrick. Unmistakable. His white teeth, his dark face, running toward us. That
     anger in his blue, blue eyes.
    The reaction of the youths is quite astonishing. As soon as they see Marc, their violent
     defiance drops utterly away. They stare at one another, then at Marc—in desperation.
     They look like kids, like terrified toddlers. Marc approaches the leader of the gang.
     And punches him in the face. Just once, but very hard.
    And then he smiles.
    Marc smiles . And the smile is so menacing, so much more frightening than the punch, the youth
     starts to whimper. He is crying, slumping away, his back to a wall, nose copiously
     bleeding. He looks terrified. Terrified of Marc Roscarrick . It is a look I have never seen on a man before: the look of someone who thinks he
     is about to die.
    Why is he so frightened? Who is Marc Roscarrick, that he could so terrify this boy?
    There are too many questions in my mind. I am blinking away my tears of horror, and
     pulling my clothes back into place, yet still watching. The kids are now being dragged
     from the scene, hoisted by their collars like schoolboys being led to their punishment.
     I hear car doors slamming shut; I hear the vivid ripple of expensive tires on old
     cobbles. Then I hear silence.
    Now it is just me and Marc Roscarrick in the alley. He is in a cream linen suit with
     a blue shirt; I am in a tattered dress. Vulnerable and forlorn, yet rescued.
    His gaze is intense: there is anger in the searching blue of his eyes, and compassion.
    “Are you all right? X? I am so sorry. So so sorry.”
    “But . . . but . . .”
    I have already felt myself for injuries. I am all right. Just a few bruises and scratches.
     But my mind is hurting, furious, bewildered. Who is this man who dismisses me one
     day, then rescues me the next?
    I need to know.
    “ How did you know where I was? How? How did . . . ? I don’t understand what is happening .”
    Marc is looking me up and down, but not sexually—more like a doctor, assessing. My
     bare knees are grazed. I look down at