'I saw you coming,' he said. 'I came through the back way from the barn.'
'Oh,' Pamela said, her attention on making her collection. 'Well, don't do that. At least make some noise so I know you're there.' She was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was standing very close behind her. Without warning, he put his hands on her waist. Was that what happened? Yes, that's how it was.
'Come on, Miss Prissy Pants. Let's go into the barn for a bit.'
Afraid now, she pulled free of him, continuing with her task, hoping he would simply give up and leave. 'Don't touch me like that, Albert! I mean it! Go and do . . . whatever it is that you do. The men are all sitting down having breakfast. Why don't you go join them?'
'I'll join them all right,' he said, and picked her up by the waist, making her cry out in alarm. 'I'll join them after we have a little romp in the hay.'
Unceremoniously, he hoisted her onto his shoulder, causing her to drop the eggs- she watched them, one by one, as they fell- perfect, pristine ovoids one instant, scattered spilth and ruin the next. Terrified now, her mouth dry, she realized that he was going to rape her unless she did something. But he was horribly strong; there was nothing she could do to break his grasp. And for some reason found that she couldn't scream for help; somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt as though she somehow deserved what was happening to her.
He carried her into the barn and flung her onto her back on a fresh pile of straw, his gloating, totally self-involved mien chilling; it was all she could do not to throw up from fear.
'You've no idea how I've been waiting for this, you uppity little slut. Think you're too good for the likes of me, eh? Don't want to get a little dirt on all that starched linen?' He was on her now, having undone his belt and pulled his pants to his knees, before forcing his hands up her dress, grabbing her undergarments. At that moment, sheer terror accomplished what no amount of calm reason or calculated thought could. She pulled away from him just enough to begin kicking. Somehow she found herself away from him, her hand touching something smooth and hard. It was the handle of a long, three-tined pitchfork. She picked it up, got to her feet, and squared off with him.
Laughing as he pulled up his pants, still approaching, he said, 'What you going to do with that Miss Prissy Pants? Poke me with it? Think a little city bitch like you can take me?'