Screaming. His wife screaming, doubled over the kitchen table, her pants pushed down, with the giant looming behind her. nnThe slapping sounds, the slurps coming from her body's lubrication as it took the rapist's cock deep into her vagina. nnAnd his own whimpering. The goddamn whimpering was what haunted him the most. Over and over again, little plaintive cries for help. They were the testament to his weakness, and ultimately they would be the thing which woke him from this nightmare night after night.nnDavis Stockton woke to the familiar darkness of his bedroom. His skin crawled and his stomach churned as he struggled to free himself of the nightmare. It had been pursuing him for two weeks now, every night since it had happened.nnHe looked to his left, where his wife lay, her own eyes staring wide open at the window. She did that pretty often now. Just lay awake all night long, staring out the window, her eyes silent and her body tensed. A wave of guilt washed over Davis and replaced his own fear. nnHe didn't bother talking to her, comforting her, or encouraging her. He had tried that before and she had rewarded him with a vicious critique of his masculinity. Davis couldn't talk to her after that. She was right and he knew it. He knew that he could have nothing to say until he could somehow prove himself capable of changing what had happened. nnBut he had no idea how.