Peterson preempted her concerns.
"It's alright. You can have the bed."
Sophie walked over to the bed. It sagged.
"I haven't got any pyjamas. Or a change of underwear-" Sophie began, with tears of frustration beginning to build up in her eyes.
Peterson closed the door slowly behind him. His eyes raked over her while he formulated a response. From her pale, innocent face, her small, almost childlike breasts; her round knees and thin, pale calves. She was probably a virgin. No, she was definitely a virgin. The thought flashed through his mind idly, and left him quickly. No, too young. She noticed the change in his expression, and her lower lip began to tremble, and her voice trailed off.
"We'll sort it out tomorrow. Just sleep in your underwear."
Sophie's eyes widened and she said defensively, "I'm not undressing in front of you."
"Fine then, wear your clothes. I don't particularly care."
Sophie whimpered in frustration and threw herself backwards on the bed. He sat down on a chair beside a desk, and began to go through his papers. Sophie saw her opportunity. Suddenly she jumped off the bed and darted past Peterson, who responded just as fast, jumping from his seat and slinging his arm around her waist, stopping her before she had even reached the door.
"Are you stupid, bitch?" He said, holding her against him, before pushing her to her knees in front of him. Immediately he reached for the gun on his desk and held it against the back of her head.
"You know that I could just kill you now?" He jeered.
"Please," she whispered, "I'm sorry."
Peterson almost felt sorry for her. In a way he was shocked at how violent he had been to her, yet there was something satisfying about it.
"Fine," he muttered, after some time, "Get up. Don't try anything else so stupid."
Sophie stood up slowly, and went to sit down on the bed. Peterson took the key to the door and locked it, smiling triumphantly at her, before going back to his desk. She lowered her eyes sadly and sat in silence for several minutes. He went through his papers meticulously, seemingly checking and double-checking everything several times.
Sophie got up and began to pace about the room, growing bored. Peterson was visibly irritated; it was as if she were deliberately trying to induce this effect. Eventually he snapped and stood up suddenly to confront her.
"Enough! Sit down!" he cried, grabbing her arm. Sophie looked up at him, angrily. She should hate this man; after all he had more or less kidnapped her, yet a remnant of her crush still remained.
She didn't understood why she did what she did. Indeed, in retrospect it was very, very foolish. She kissed him. On the lips.
"Glupaya!" He cried, pushing her away violently, so violently in fact that she fell on the floor.
For an unknown reason, this triggered a violent urge in him that he hadn't experienced in a long while.
"You stupid, stupid girl! What do you think this is, a Jane Austen novel?"
Sophie backed away slowly, crawling backwards across the ground, eventually into a corner. Peterson followed her, anger visible on his face. Eventually she stood up, trapped behind him, like a mouse cornered by a cat.
Peterson lifted his hand as if to strike her and Sophie raised her hand to defend herself. He seized her hand violently, and turned her with force so that she faced the wall.
"Why did you kiss me?" He asked, his tone mocking, "What are you trying to do?" He paused for a second. "What do you want me to do?"
Sophie felt tears building up behind her eyelids. She had never felt so vulnerable, so humiliated in all her life.
"American whore." He muttered.
"Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"S-stop saying those things. Don't-"
Peterson pushed her wrist against her back violently, and said acidly, "Don't what?" He then turned her to face him, but Sophie refused to let her eyes meet his.
"Do you want me to kiss you?" Sarcasm dripped from each word. Sophie cowered, trying to hide her face with her hand.
Peterson wrenched her hand away from her face, and lowering his face to her pushed his lips aggressively against hers. She tried to pull away, but he took hold of her hair and refused to let go.
Sophie could feel her heart beginning to beat faster. She felt sick, almost dizzy. She could feel his hand releasing her wrist and sliding up her back. The hair on her arms stood on end. There was something gentle about the way he touched her, yet at the same time forceful and insistent. She didn't really understand how she felt in this position; it was too alien for her.
Sophie became aware that there was something hard pushing against her thigh. She began to squirm in discomfort, and it was only when she remembered a high school biology lesson that she realized what it was. Mortified, she blushed deeply.
His throat emitted a deep, guttural sound, and all his uncertainty melted away. He wanted to take her; he needed the release. Her age didn't matter now. He threw the gun away and slid his hands up her skirt. She gasped as his hot, clammy hands touched her cold flesh.
"Please." She whispered.
He started. He had never thought about whether he would be able to rape someone; but he had never thought that he would be so affected by her plea. Yet his erection was straining against his trousers…
He pulled his hands away, and took several steps back. Sophie immediately cast her gaze back to him. The look on her face was disappointed, and Peterson realized it straight away. Sophie stood up and turned away from him, burying her face in her hands. He walked to her quickly and wrapped his arms around her waist, and turned her to face him. Her lip trembled with fear, but also excitement.
"Do you want this?"
Sophie looked up at him, her eyes wide, and nodded.
He tightened his grip around her waist and lifted her straight off the ground, only to throw her on the bed. She sat up, but Peterson seized her neck and jumping on the bed pushed her flat against the sheets. She shuddered as she felt his hands pulling down her underwear. He fumbled with his trousers, and eventually managed to pull them down to his knees. He didn't kiss her, but lying on top of her looked into her eyes deeply. His look was lustful, but also harsh; almost aggressive. Sophie trembled with fear and desire. He wrenched her legs apart and she wrapped them around his waist, her skirt falling back to her thighs. His erection was straining painfully now. Sophie could feel it against her, and shuddered with anticipation.
Peterson smirked, and leaning in close to her ear, whispered, "Are you wet for me, you little American bitch?"
"I don't understand." She whispered in response.
He smirked, "No, of course you don't."
Before she could answer, he threw his hips against hers. Sophie yelped, unprepared for the penetration. She felt a wave of pain as her hymen broke, but Peterson didn't take notice.
His thrusts were irregular and violent. Sophie didn't feel any pleasure; it was uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. Peterson's gaze seemed to bore into her; Sophie met his eyes reluctantly and looked away quickly.
"Please," she whimpered, "you're hurting me."
Peterson stopped at once. He looked at her with wrath, and pulled out, kneeling up on the bed. Sophie doubled up, and shook violently, crying. She didn't know why she was so upset – perhaps that she had lost her virginity in such circumstances.
Peterson sighed, turned back to her, and saw a stream of blood dribbling across her thigh, and immediately shuffled up to her, turning her from her side to face him.
"Now, now, why are you crying?"
"I-it hurts, please…"
He slid his hand down her side and around her waist, uncharacteristically gentle. There was a lot of blood; much more than he expected. He realized that she was in serious pain.
"Shsh, it's not that bad, stop crying." Sophie tried to turn away from him, but he turned her body fully, and held her body against him. She held her fists in front of her face, and sobbed violently. Peterson held her in her arms, and eventually they finally fell asleep together.
When Sophie woke up the next day, Peterson was already dressed and sitting at the desk, working. She sat up, and he turned to her suddenly, and then back to his work.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, with his back still turned.
"Fine." She replied, getting out of the bed. They got dressed and left the motel, in silence.