Attacked in the Girdle

I sat in the restaurant and looked across the tables. There were a few other customers there, including one with an oddly familiar face. She was wearing a blue tent dress, black pumps, horn-rimmed glasses, and a pillbox hat. She wore clothes that your grandmother might have considered fashionable fifty years ago. Yet she was no grandmother. She was, in fact, a teenager, having dinner with her mother, who was similarly dressed.

The young woman stood up and I noticed that her slip showed--but only on one side. It looked like the lacy hem had torn part-way off. I also noticed she was wearing support hose--thick, flesh-colored stockings, with the bands at the top only partly covered by her dress. I could have given her some fashion tips, but I had no desire to do so. She was what she was in part because of me. Perhaps I should explain . . .

It all began a year or so after I had begun wearing girdles, slips and dresses full-time. For reasons that I don't yet fully understand, I have to wear at least a girdle and a petticoat or full slip, though I get a wide choice of clothes to wear over them, including jean skirts, house dresses, and just about everything in between. On this particular day, it was especially warm, so I was wearing just my short girdle, a short full slip, and a minidress.

I was attacked at a park not far from my home. The attacker was a teenager that I had seen around town once or twice. I figured he was into drugs, but I didn't know that he was also into guns. I remember that he told me, "Don't say anything! Don't scream--or I'll kill you."

It took me a while to stop breathing heavily--but I remember his gun being pointed at my face the whole time. I don't think he said anything more; he just forced me to lie down. I watched as he took off his pants, and he knew what he was going to do. He forced my legs apart, and pointed the gun at my throat and cursed me.

But he wasn't able to perform. I could feel his hot breath. I could hear his angry words. He put his gun down on the ground. I tried to reach for it, but he pushed it further away. He came back, but still couldn't force himself into me.

He got up once again, and I wasn't sure what he was doing. But his attention was distracted. I quietly stood up and tried to run away, but he grabbed me and threw me back down on the ground. He grabbed his gun and pointed it at my vagina. He fired.

I didn't have time to think or to scream. I was surprised it didn't hurt. I heard a scream. I've heard that some people in shock will scream and not even realize they're screaming. But I wasn't screaming. He was. Somehow, he had shot himself in the private area. But he was still angry. He pointed his gun at my right breast and fired. Once again, however, he somehow shot himself in the chest.

I was scared, but I knew what I had to do. I got up and started to walk away. I heard the gun fire one more time. I heard him scream afterward.

I ran out to the street and, remembering something I'd learned once, screamed, "Fire! Fire!" People came running, and someone must have called the police, and I said, "He fired a gun at me."

Someone found him in the alley, and they took him in an ambulance to the hospital. "Why'd you yell, 'Fire!'?"

"I dunno." I thought for a moment, then added, "I was afraid you wouldn't come if I said, 'Rape!'"

Somebody mentioned something about his being a drug addict, and that he was probably so high that he couldn't even operate a gun properly, and somehow that was what went into the police report. There were no powder-burn marks on me, but there were on him, and they did some tests that indicated he had a mixture of drugs in him, including pot, alcohol, meth, LSD, you name it.

A few nights later, I had a dream that I should go to the hospital. Visiting hours were over, but I was able to get in without being hassled. I'm not sure how I did it, but I found his room. He was hooked up to a bunch of machines. I heard some people talking down the hall, and went out and took a look at them. They all appeared to be cops. He must already have been under arrest.

The next day, I found a pink panty-girdle in my closet. I never wore panty-girdles. What was this for? That night, I had a dream that I should take the panty-girdle to the hospital. I did, entering the hospital much as I had done before. I went to the room, but this time, no police were present, not even in the hall. I looked under the sheets, and noticed that he still had a few tubes hooked up to his private area. I put the panty-girdle on him, and the tubes vanished. I left.

The next day, I found a bra that was not my size in my dresser. That night, I had another dream, this one about the bra. I took it to the hospital room where my attacker had been, and noticed a young woman, maybe a teenage girl in his bed. I checked the room number to be sure it was correct, then checked to see if the bra looked to be the right size. I put the bra on her, though she didn't wake up.

The day after that, I found a slip in my closet that didn't fit me. I had the feeling I'd be dreaming about it as well, and I did. That evening, after visiting hours were over, I was at the hospital one last time. She was awake this time, and ready to put the slip on. "I'm sorry," was all she said.

"Your mother needs you," I said. I don't know why, but those were the words that came out of my mouth.

And that was the young woman I saw in the restaurant with her mother. I walked over to the two and said, "Hello. Are you new in town?"