Swiftly, the blade entered, between two ribs. Ah! So cold. She shivered, catching her tongue on a lower tooth, which made her cry out a little.

He spoke: "Quiet."

Struggle! Why the hell wasn’t she struggling? She was dizzy but she tried to pull away from him all the same. Her conscience said she should, but the knife in her ribs objected. She was shaking, making him shake and madden and he made the blade object some more.

And suddenly she was nothing but senses. She could smell sweat form on her own skin. She thought she could taste Stella Artois and Golden Virginia on his breath. She pictured the colours clashing as the blood slipped down her pink satin.

She heard the tip move deeper into her flesh.

She felt navy eyeliner draw a dry stripe on her cheek as a tear fled from the fear in her eye. She cursed her lack of dignity when she realised that her only thought was that she would look a mess on Crimewatch UK.

Why had he picked her; of all people, why her? Did she look like an easy target? What did she look like? Did she look like a slut? And then she realised that if she had worn a bra today, the underwire would be between her and the steel. Was it dirty, this blade? Would she be infected?

Would she die?

No.

She kicked. She thrashed her body about and yelped at the knife. She flung her face towards his, trying to find something she could bite. And then the knife was out of her.

And then the fist was forming around her neck, and her spine was crunching against the butcher’s wall. She whimpered and gave in to the futility of fighting.

She was laughing! Salt was scarring down her face and she was convulsing with nervous hilarity. This angered him, clearly; both fists were now pummelling her face with the rhythm and ferocity of a primeval drummer. They were both rocking, her with the laughter and him with the drum: had anyone seen them, it would have looked as thought they were sharing an emotional ritual.

Emotions? Well her emotions were pretty indefinable right now. She was frightened, of course, but there was also some alien kind of excitement, which seemed to spring naturally from the new kinds of sensations. Excited? God, how could this man excite her? She cooled the burn of guilt with the speculation that excitement was probably no more than an automatic adrenaline reaction of some kind.

The drum missed a beat and the knife slung an electric shock into her belly. That was it: suspense, perhaps, rather than excitement. Feels like she’s right on the brink. She would have passed out from the fear by now if it weren’t for the sensations. If she submitted to the sensations, they could overwhelm her. That might actually be better. But would she ever wake up?

His shoulder was now in her ribs, where the knife had been earlier (but where was it now?), making her lose balance, but pinning her still to the wall. With his hands free, he was ripping her skirt. Fuck. She opened her eyes and felt her breath come faster. Wondered how close her knees were to his crotch. Couldn’t see her own legs. Fuck. More tears and more whimpers. Louder tears. He’s in and scream scream fucking ripping insides.

For all her noise, not once was she able to form the word "No".

The hands are on her upper arms (so where’s the knife?) but for a moment he loses balance and one hand hands on her hip, leaving her an arm free. Her fingernails fling for his eyes but find only his ears when he dodges her aim. He yelps when she pulls at his earring. Fingernails sting his ear and the knife’s in her ribs again, out of nowhere.

The zip of her skirt, on the back of the waist, digs deeper into her spine with each male thrust into the brick wall.

And with each male thrust comes another steel thrust.

As his grunts get louder, her sobs grow weaker. When the time comes for his strongest grunt and loudest thrust, she had the stamina for one long, low wail, and no more.

His penis withdrew slowly, while the knife tickled a slow, deep gash from below her chin to below her collar bone. This time she faints.