GRINGA by Eve Rabi

everything including my spirit.
                  I finish my food and decide to pass on their advice. I continue my sulking in silence.  
                  The urge to escape from this suffocating place even for a couple of hours persists.
                  By the end of the evening, I acquiesce - I will resort to feminine wiles to get what I want from Diablo. Maybe I’ll try being a little friendly, instead of corpse-like?
              Usually, I try to be anything but sexy and alluring, in the hopes that he finds me a boring fuck and pisses off and just leaves me alone. What would happen if I suddenly turned coquettish and alluring and even sexy? I knew how to be all those things. Hell, I was brought up with Paris , remember? She was the queen of coquett ish.
                  I really don’t want to have to resort to that because w ell, he’s revolting , period. How I long f or the day when I pass my amuse- by date and he moves on to some other g ringa , l ike Austin did. 
                       I also notice something else - each time I talk or interact with him, I ’m less scared of him and he becomes more humane to me. Consumed by my desire to see my family and escape this suffocating place for a while , I get proactive.
                       When he enters my room that night, I’m sitting at my dressing table, brushing my hair. His eyes are wide with surprise and he quickly glances back at the door. Looks like he’s considering backtracking . T oo confrontational for him , t oo much light , I think . Wow! I can’t believe his reaction.
                  I put down the hair brush and stand in front of him. We know why he’s here, so I get straight to the point. Slowly, I unzip my skirt and let it drop to my ankles. He stares as I kick them aside.
                       I’m not looking at directly at him, but from the corner of my eye I see his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, I slowly lift up my top and draw it over my head and fling it behind me , another Paris move.
                      He stares mesmerised by the sight of me in just my panties and bra. He’s never seen me this way before.
                  ‘I want to see my family,’ I say, slowly unhooking my bra and freeing my breasts.
                      He continues swallowing, his eyes popping out of his skull and I nurse a tiny bit of hope.
                       ‘I want my clothes, my books, my iPod ...’ I’m looking directly at him now.
                       He stands transfixed, his eyes glued to my breasts but I’m still scared he’s going to say no.
                       ‘Diablo?’ This is the first time I say his name.
                       His eyes fly to mine.
                      ‘Is that a yes? Si ... ?’
                  ‘ Si.’
    Bingo! ‘Tomorrow. I wanna see them tomorrow morning, okay?
    Si! Si! ’ he snarls and lunges at me.
    I allow myself a smirk. It wasn’t that hard to get him to say yes. Then what happens next, wipes the smi rk of my face.
                       He spins me around, rips off my panties and fucks me in the ass. I scream so loud, he has to force my face into a pillow to shut me up. Never in my life have I experienced such intense and searing pain and I want to die.
                  I can’t stop screaming with the pain and the shame. I feel humiliated, degraded, sullied and all the fight in me instantly dissipates.
                  Finally, I’m crying – sobbing, l ike most rape victims do because no matter what I call it or how I play around with words, I have been raped. Repeatedly.
                  When he’s done, he stands up and looks at me lying in foetal position,