I have successfully raped a dozen women in my time. By “successful”, I mean, I have yet to be caught by the authorities. Which is a good thing because being caught would mean the big house, and I would not want to go there because I have it on good authority that the life expectancy of sexual predators in prison is quite short. For this reason I am very careful in carrying out my “hobby”. Being quite intelligent has been a big plus for me. One day I might get caught. Or, I might “retire” before then. We’ll see.
My tastes are varied and the only thing these dozen ladies have had in common is that there were all hot, in one way or another. Some were blondes, some brunettes, and then was an unbeatable redhead once. The girls raged in age from 18 (I am not a pedophile) to late thirties. They also have tended to range in size, and I thought it would be interesting to relate my experiences with the smallest of my victims. At a later date I can provide an account of what it was like with the largest of them. Sort of “book end” stories, if you will.
I normally am not that attracted to smaller women, but I do take things on a case-by-case basis, and if a girl has what it takes to make my head swivel as she passes, then I don’t care if she could fit in a match box. The girl I am going to tell you about almost could have fit in a match box. Her driver’s license listed her at 5’1” and 95 pounds. Well, that would have to be a pretty big match box, but you get my point. And no, she wasn’t in the sixth grade, as her size would have suggested. Like I said, I’m not a pervert. (Well, not that kind of a pervert.) According to her driver’s license she was 24. I was intrigued by her when I spotted her flagging a taxi late one summer night in front of a night club. It was dark but the bright lights in front of the club gave me a good look at her as she climbed all by herself into the back seat of the cab. She was quite pretty and her body was perfect in all ways—with all the bells and whistles you could want—just on a small scale was all. What made me fixate on her as a victim worth stalking was the tight fitting, mini-skirted summer dress that showed off all of her petite but shapely assets in marvelous detail. They say a woman shouldn’t be blamed for getting raped due to the way she dresses, but let’s face it, if this little honey had been wearing baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants she most certainly would not have ended up with a pint of my bodily fluids in and around her pussy. The shortness of the skirt showed off a tantalizing expanse of short but well-turned legs, especially as the skirt hiked up as she was getting into the taxi. The dress was tight around the hips and equally so at the bodice, showcasing a compact but tantalizing body which lacked nothing when it came to serving as catnip for this horny feline. I had been cruising in my rape-mobile—a windowless utility van complete with mattress and restraining devices—scouting for victims when she hit my radar with an impact. I followed the taxi.
As I say, I am always very careful in the pursuit of my avocation, and this means that I usually plan my attacks quite carefully. I often stalk a victim for days before striking at just the right time. But there are times when opportunities present themselves all of a sudden, and if one is to maximize his enjoyment, he must be prepared to act upon those opportunities. I wondered, as I followed the tail lights of the taxi, if this might be one of those occasions. I would not rush forward in blind lust. I am too smart for that. I would see how things played out, keeping my senses at all times on high alert so as to recognize any potential danger signs and abort and retreat if necessary. These instincts were in the full on position as I watched the taxi stop before an apartment building on a quiet, tree-lined street. I parked by a curb as the young woman got out of the cab, into the warm, summer night air. I stepped out of my van as the taxi drove off. The young woman stood for a moment in front of the ground floor doors to the apartment building. Were there surveillance cameras at the door? Most probably. In this day and age, surveillance cameras have become my bane. If the young woman were to walk immediately up to the door of the apartment building, she would be safe, as I could not have risked detection from a possible camera or, much worse, a doorman on duty. Safe for tonight, maybe. I would ger her eventually. She paused and glanced in both directions down the darkened, late night sidewalk. She would not have seen me even though I was only some twenty yards away, as I was wearing black and standing behind a tree. No other soul was in sight at this hour. My prey then stepped to the side of the apartment building and entered a narrow, pitch dark walkway that lead to the rear of the building. The sound of her high heel shoes on the concrete walk reverberated off the red bricks of the building as she walked beside it. My opportunity had come! It was now or never. I quickly caught up to her from behind, my running shoes landing so noiselessly on the concrete that she did not hear. The way my heart was pounding, I wondered that she might hear that before my hand was over her mouth. But she did not hear, and with a suddenness that prevented her from screaming, I shoved her up against the brick wall of the building and replaced my hand over her mouth with a gag that muffled her startled yelps once she was able to vocally register acknowledgement that she was being attacked.
I was prepared for any physical defiance that the young woman might mount. I was not going to assume that she was weak just because she was small. I always assume that my victims might be black belts in some form of martial arts, and am prepared to apply any force necessary to subdue them if they react in any way that indicates they know something about fighting an attacker. Sometimes, if the situation is right, I enjoy letting a woman try to fight. I can get off on toying with her, letting her believe she has a fighting chance before I lower the boom and treat her to my inimitable version the “fate worse than death”. (Someday I might attack the wrong woman—like maybe a Rhonda Rousey—and get my ass kicked.)
But tonight this dark, narrow walkway in a strange neighborhood was no place to allow for funny stuff, so I continued pressing the young woman’s body into the brick wall, rendering her immobile. The adrenaline in my system was pumping madly, as it always does at this stage of the game. And this little honey was no MMA dynamo. There was only feeble, ineffectual squirming on her part as I pressed my weight against her, smashing her into the brick wall. No sign of competent resistance. Once I was satisfied that the gag was secure in her mouth, a hood went over the young woman’s head—a head that barely came to my armpits despite the fact that she was wearing high heels. Gurgling sounds emanated from behind her gag and she squirmed desperately as she heard the duct tape being ripped from the roll that I had taken from my pocket. I yanked her arms behind her back and swiftly bound her wrists behind her as she twisted defiantly but ineffectually against my strength.
I now lifted my prey and threw her over my shoulder, her hooded head at my back, her small but shapely legs kicking furiously in front of me. Despite the darkness I could tell than the min-skirt of her dress had hiked up to her crotch. I reached down and retrieved her purse which had fallen to the sidewalk.
I peeked out from the side walkway before stepping onto the main sidewalk. No one was anywhere to be seen. Carrying my victim over my shoulder like a sack of struggling potatoes, I quickly made it to my van, where I threw open the rear cargo door. Not so gently I allowed the body of the young woman to fall into the van, onto the mattress. I was on top of her in an instant. Her hands were already duct taped behind her, but a pair of handcuffs now encircled her arm just above the elbow. This handcuff was connected to a chain that was connected to a frame post on the side of the vehicle. As the young woman kicked her legs in protest and shrieked incoherently into the gag and hood that covered her head, a second pair of cuffs, these anchored to a frame post on the other side of the van, were applied in the same manner to her other arm. She was now on her back on the mattress, rendered immobile by the two pairs of handcuffs that encircled her biceps. She was going nowhere.
I got into the driver’s seat and slowly drove off, with muffled sounds of protest coming from the rear of the van. I found sounds such as these to be extremely stimulating. They made my penis swell and harden. All of my victims—the ones I had to gag, that is—made sounds such as these. (Some of my victims were taken in isolated locations where they could scream to their heart’s content, which I also always enjoyed and encouraged.) I always thought that if these women only knew how much their sounds excited me—be they whimpers or screams—they might choose to remain as quiet as they could.
As I headed to a road leading out of town, I drove with an extreme caution that would have made my Driver’s Ed teacher proud. I always make sure that every headlight and taillight and turn signal on the van is in proper working condition so as not to draw the unwanted attention of a bored cop. I could not afford being stopped by a police officer who might decide to search the van and discover a bound and gagged woman in the back. Stopped at one traffic light on this night, a squad car pulled up beside me. The officer looked over at me. I nodded to him politely and then stared straight ahead through my windshield, desperately wishing the light to turn green. The little bitch in the back was making as much noise as she could through her gag and hood. I was afraid it might be too much noise.
At last I was in the country and proceeded to drive about fifteen miles to a secluded place that I had reconnoitered several weeks before. It was a place where I knew my girl and I would not be disturbed. I parked in the secluded clearing and killed the engine. I sat there in what seemed at first to be total quiet. There was no longer any sound coming from the back of the van. I imagined that the girl was quiet now because she was listening desperately for a clue as to what was happening. Let her stew for a while, I thought to myself. Eventually, the sound of crickets filled the air and grew louder and louder. I think they had shut up when the van’s headlights disturbed their evening, but now where back at their endless, nightlong song.
I turned on the dome light in the back of the van and looked back at my prey as she lay on her back on the mattress, her hooded head toward me. Her arms were pinned beneath her, with her elbows pulled outward by the handcuffs that secured her to the body frames on either side of her. She legs—bare to her crotch by the way her mini-skirt had hiked up—stirred languidly. Her high heel shoes still adorned her feet I did hear sounds coming from her now that I listened intently. They were sobbing sounds. She was crying softly.
I now rifled through her purse, which I had tossed onto the passenger’s seat beside me. I found her driver’s license in a wallet. I like to know a little something about my victims before I rape them. This girl’s name was Sandra McPherson. 5’1’’, as I already indicated. Brown hair. Green eyes. Doing the math—subtracting her birth year from the current year—I knew she was 24.
I was ready for Sandra. I wondered if her friends called her Sandy as I crawled into the back of the van and positioned myself at her feet. I could tell her body tensed up as she know sensed she was not alone on the mattress. When I touched her ankle, she cried out into the gag and hood and kicked her feet in protest. I roughly spread her legs and moved between them on my knees. She mumbled a squealing sound into her gag. I could already see her panties at the hemline of her hiked up mini-skirt and roughly pushed the tight fitting skirt higher up on her, over the swell of her hips, until her lacy panties where exposed in their entirety. I could understand the word “no” coming from her throat as I did this, despite the fact that her voice was greatly muffled by the gag and hood. I felt my penis grow stiff and restless inside my pants at the sound of her moans. I tore off my pants in haste and freed my staff to now loom heavy, laden with blood, over the prone figure of the young woman I had abducted off a late night walkway. The girl, who could not see me for the hood but who obviously heard the zipper of my pants and the rustle of my clothes as I took them off, flailed at me with her legs to absolutely no avail whatsoever, except to excite me even further with the sight of her high heel shoes kicked blindly in the air. I now grasped her panties by the sides of their waist band and pulled them down, and was treated to the vision of a well shaved pussy. The petite young woman’s body writhed in objection to this, but her thrashing legs did not slow me from pulling her panties completely down her short, shapely legs and past her high heel shoes, at which point I tossed them into a dark corner of the van.
I kneeled between her now bared legs. Her petite body, naked now from the waist down, was a wonder in miniature. She was the size of a child, but as I said before had all the bells of whistles of the hot, curvaceous, fully mature adult female that she was. I lifted one of her legs upward toward a a third pair of handcuffs that were hanging attached to the inside roof of the van. The cuffs went around the girl’s ankle. When I released her leg, it remained suspended in the air, hanging from the overhead cuff. It a moment her other leg was lifted against her protest and attached in the same fashion to a fourth handcuff. The result of this was that now my little woman was completely immobilized, her legs lifted and parted. She looked as if she were in a gynecologist’s chair, her feet in the stirrups, ready for an exam. And I was going to play her doctor!
I inserted a finger into her pussy. The young woman squirmed in desperation as I shoved my digit to the hilt and reamed her, feeling with my fingertip the soft, warm, moist walls of her vagina. My, she was tight! I sent a second finger into her, and it was as if that was all the space she had for me. Her body twisted before me. Mumbled protests could be heard from behind the gag. Her hooded head flopped from side to side on the mattress on the floor of the van. She was able to squirm a little, but the four binding cuffs that secured her four limbs did not permit her any real movement. Her chest heaved with her panicked breathing—the tight-fitting upper part of her dress that encased her big girl breasts seemed to be stretched to the limit. The buttons there seemed as if they might pop. I wondered if she was having difficulty breathing.
“Sandra”. I called her name. With two fingers inside her tight cunt I could sense her body stiffen. The fact that I used her name affected her. “Sandra,” I said again, my voice soft. “I would like to fuck you. Is that okay with you?”
I could hear the gasp emanate from the petite young woman. After a few moments, when it appeared evident that my question was not going to receive a response, I asked it again. This time the girl shook her head vigorously in the negative.
“Sandra…can I call you Sandy? Do you want me to kill you?”
The young woman’s petite body jerked and strained with all her might against her four bindings—plus the duct tape that bound her wrists behind her back. I grabbed her by the neck and held her head still. “Do you want me to kill you, Sandra?” My voice was soft, gentle. I might have been asking her if she wanted another piece of Valentine chocolate. Slowly, meekly, with my fingers around her neck—and the fingers of my other hand deep inside her cunt—the young woman’s head shook in negative response to my question. “Well, then, you have to agree to let me fuck you.” My voice was raspier now. “Do you?”
Sandra whimpered, but then her hooded head timidly nodded in the affirmative. “Is that a yes?” I asked, my voice sterner yet. She didn’t respond. “Was it?” I demanded, shaking her head. Sniffling and sobbing, her head nodded again, this time with definitely more emphasis. “Good girl,” I said. “Smart, too.”
I withdrew my hand from her neck and the fingers of my other hand from her tight pussy. Sandra’s legs remained where only they could, raised in the air by the cuffs that held her ankles. The high heel shoes on her feet bobbed beside my head as I sat between them. Her head flopped back and forth on the mattress. I reached for the K-Y Jelly. I told you this van was a rape-mobile—a very well equipped one. This girl’s vagina was so small and so tight from fear that I knew she would require a good amount of lubrication. My penis is so big that many much bigger girls often blanch when seeing it. This girl—her head still shrouded by the hood—would not be seeing it—not yet, anyway—but she sure as hell was going to be feeling it, and very likely would feel like it was tearing her in two!
I guided the head of my greased cock to between the lips of her vagina and pressed it into her. The girl cried out sharply into her gag and shook her hooded head violently to and fro. She was bound in such a manner that her head was the only part of her body that she move to a significant degree. She was totally incapable to move in any way that could deny me taking possession of her sexually.
Normally, I like to be watching the expression on the faces of the women I rape at the moment I penetrate them, but I was liking this scenario, certain that being blindfolded was more terrorizing for my petite young victim than if she were able to see. The head of my cock parted the unwilling lips of her vagina, but when I attempted to push into her, I thought my cock was going to bend into a v-shape. She was extremely tight, and my cock was simply way too big for her.
But I was patient. I would press against her, and then pull back, then press in again, and back. Numerous times. Eventually, one of my inward presses resulted in a full inch of my cock getting into her. The young woman gasped into her gag, and then began coughing, as the thickness of my penis expanded the walls of her vagina. Once getting that first inch into her, the second two came easier. She was stretched by now. At that point, I paused to feel the intense and gratifying sensation playing upon those three inches of my cock as spasms caused by my victim’s coughing reverberated throughout her body. Quickly it became apparent that she was choking, and though I enjoyed the fact that the choking was creating ripples that gripped my cock in a rousing manner, I knew I had to remove the gag before she croaked on me. I lifted the hood as far as her nose and tore the gag from her mouth, leaving the hood covering her eyes. She gasped for air once her mouth was freed. There had been such a buildup of snot in her nose from her fucking crying that it had become hard for her to breathe, and I now watched appreciatively the way her chest heaved up and down as she took in copious amounts of precious oxygen. For me seeing her breasts rise and fall like that while encased in the tight fitting summer dress was like a cat watching a mouse move. I was going to have to have a look at those breasts in the flesh, but first things first. I thrust into her hard. She yelped in pain. I think the tip of my cock had hit her uterus, but I swear to god I still had several inches more I could have given her had she only been a bigger girl!
I then began fucking the bitch in earnest. With each outward cycle I could feel the lips of her outmatched pussy clinging and gripping to the thickness of my cock. Each inward thrust caused the girl to emit a grunt that sounded not unlike many of those bitch tennis players when they hit the fucking ball. Talk about a fantasy of mine: fucking one of those bitches on the ground at the baseline of a clay court, the bitch getting dirt all over her fucking hot ass as I pound her.
Back to reality, I was going to say that another thing I like to do when raping a bitch is to whisper shit in her ear while I’m banging her, but this chick was so short that, as I lay over her, with our genitals intimately connected, her head came only to my chest. So, after a numerous quantity of good, in-and-out fuck strokes, I couldn’t whisper as I wanted. I had to speak to her out load. “Go ahead, Sandy, you can scream now,” I rasped. “Come on, sweetie, scream for help. Go for it! The gag’s out of you pretty little mouth now!”
And a pretty mouth it was, and it was agape at the fucking she was receiving. I could see it now, with the hood pushed up just far enough and her head pulled back, exposing her entire neck to the sky. But little Sandra was definitely past any sort of screaming by now. She had resigned. Submitted. Surrendered to her fate. And now she lay there passively in her bindings as I continued fucking her, praying, I would imagine, for her only remaining objective at this point: that of coming out of this situation intact. She should have thanked the hell out of me for using lubricant, which allowed her to peace out while I had my way with her. So, there were no screams now that the gag was out of her mouth—only the softest of grunts came from her throat with each forceful fuck thrust she received. I studied her gaping mouth as I worked on her. I wanted to spit into her mouth, but could not reach far enough down to do so for the same reason I could not whisper in her ear: she was simply too short!
It was extremely warm inside my rape-mobile on this summer night, and both our bodies were perspiring profusely as we fucked. Actually, is it “we fucked” when only one of the parties is in agreement with the act? I guess it was more like “I fucked”. I was the fuck-er. Sandra was the fuck-ee. The hot little honey who had dared go out on the town at night dressed in what she had on was now paying the price for her lack of discretion in the back of my rape-mobile. I wondered later why she had left the night club alone. Had she fought with a boyfriend? Or been with a girlfriend who got picked up by some guy? I never asked her.
Now, I would like to brag and tell you that I had mammoth staying power here and rode this little whore for a long time. But, if you knew me (and no one really knows me), you would know I’m no bullshiter. Well, except when I threaten a woman with death if she does not submit to me demands. That’s bullshit. I wouldn’t kill a fly. But the threat often works. Especially after assault, when I impress upon them reasons why they should not go to the police. In any event, I can only tell you that in no time at all this tiny bitch with a perfect body milked me as if her tight little cunt were the well-practiced fingers of a Swiss cowherd’s daughter. In a very short time I was helpless in staving off ejaculation. I didn’t fight it the crescendo as it came over me. Why fight it? I knew there would be a Round Two with this girl, so I embraced the moment and let Round One come to an end with exploding testicles that sent a prodigious amount of my semen deep into the vagina of this 5’1”, ninety-five pound piece of fine ass. Her sobs renewed as she felt me cumming inside her. After my shouts and cries and curses at ejaculation, I collapsed on top of tiny Sandra, and we both lay there motionless for a very long time, our bodies glistening with sweat on this warm summer night, listening to the sound of the crickets going wild outside the van.
Ten minutes must have passed.
Sandra, with my weight heavy atop her, scrounged up the courage to speak. Her natural voice, I am sure, was quite high pitched, and her present state of terror probably added an octave. Her whispered voice was that of a ten year’s. “Can you let me go now? Please….”
I stirred. My penis was still inside her. Her cunt was so small that even a shrunken cock seemed to pose no risk of slipping out. “You’ve gotten what you wanted,” she continued, her tone that of a beggar. The hood still covered her eyes. The last thing she had seen was the dark walkway where she had been abducted, what, maybe two hours ago? “I won’t tell anyone,” she continued. “Honest. Just let me go and I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
Another minute went by as I continued lying heavily on top of her, pushing her bound arms that were tied behind her back into the mattress on the floor of the van. “You’re hurting me,” she whined, her body squirming beneath my weight. I almost laughed. I had just fucked the shit out of her and now she was hurting?
Slowly I lifted myself off her, my cock slipping from her pussy as I did so. Saying nothing, one- by- one I unlocked the handcuffs that held her ankles in the air, and one-by-one here short but nicely shaped legs flopped heavily to the mattress. High heel shoes and all. I looked down upon her. Her hands were still duct taped together behind her, and hand cuffs still secured each bicep to posts on either side of the van’s interior. Her tight fitting summer dress was hiked up high above her waist where I had pushed it. The top part of the dress, which had a buttoned front, had remained untouched. Deciding to do something about that, I reached for the buttons. Sandra stiffened when she felt this. “I’m not through with you, Sandra honey. The naughty man wants to see your tits.” I paused. “Do I have your permission?”
“Fuck you!” she cried. The f-bomb sounded funny coming from a voice that could have belonged to a twelve-year-old. “Why are you doing this to me…?” Her question trailed off into tears.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I chuckled, and proceeded to unbutton the front of her dress. She squirmed on the mattress, sobbing softly as my fingers worked their way from button to button. With the last one undone, I laid the front of the dress open, revealing a dainty bra that contained a pair of tits that were small but in good proportion to the rest of her body. I wanted to pull the dress totally off her. To do that I had to either rip it off her or undo the handcuffs that held her biceps so I could pull it down her body. I didn’t want to destroy the dress. I wanted her to keep it after I was through with her as a souvenir of the fun we had, although I supposed she would never wear the thing again, and instead burn it the first chance she had.
The hand cuffs came off. Now only the duct tape on her wrists behind her back secured her. I paused at this point and reached for my Lone Ranger mask. Once it was in place over my face, I reached for the hood still covering the top half of the young woman’s head and pushed it upward, allowing her to see for the first time. The dome light in the van was not bright, but she had become so accustomed to the dark that it made her wince. Slowly her eyes focused and found my face as I hovered over her. She gasped at now seeing for the first time the man who was raping her. The Lone Ranger mask was obviously intimidating. She was definitely very beautiful. Well, not so much at the moment, with her eyes swollen from crying, her nose clogged with snot, and her eyes filled with fear. But she was still quite pretty.
“Hello, Sandra,” I said. “Now, let’s see what you look like, shall we?” With that I grasped her opened dress by the shoulders and pulled in down her body. She cried out in protest. With the four handcuffs no longer binding her, she now had more room to wiggle against this latest assault, and did so, but to no avail, as the dress was being pulled off her. In a matter of seconds, my 5’1”, ninety-five pound little woman, her wrists taped behind her back, wore only a pair of high heels and a skimpy, white bra that covered only the lower portion of her twin mounds. I quickly rolled her over onto her stomach to get to the bra strap. Bras are often something I usually rip to shreds in getting them off my victims, but not this time. Her bra was going to be another thing I was going to let her keep to reuse. If she would ever want to. Her long discarded panties were going to be my souvenir of this fine evening.
I fumbled with the bra clasp—another reason why I generally just rip the damn things off—until finally undoing it and laying the straps out, extended over the mattress. I sat up on my haunches. “Sandra, sweetie. Are you going to be a good girl if I untie your wrists?” She did not respond. I repeated my question, and then I could she her head nod meekly. It was as if she were in a state of stupor. “You can try to fight me when you have your hands free if you want, but I’ll beat the shit out of you if you try. Do you understand?” Again she nodded. It was almost imperceptible, but it was a nod of agreement.
The girl cried out in pain as the duct tape was ripped from her skin. Once freed, her arms flopped to the sides of her face down body.
“Okay, Sandra, roll over for me please.” When she did not comply, I repeated the command in a threatening voice. Slowly, lifting her now freed arms to above her head, the petite young woman, realizing what was good for her, rolled to her side. Her bra remained on the mattress. She hesitated there until I ordered her to keep rolling. I wanted her on her back. Nervously, she complied. I noticed her eyes were shut as she did so. She made no attempt to cover her breasts as some women would instinctively do in a situation such as this. I appreciated that.
And there she was: Sandra McPherson, beneath the soft dome light of my van, as gloriously naked—save for the high heels—as the day she was born, all 5’1”, ninety-five pounds of her. And she had my sperm inside her! If she happened to be in a fertile period of the month, with an egg in place, it may already have been visited by one of my boys!
“You got my cock all dirty, Sandra. I want you to lick it clean for me.” I sat back against the closed back door of the van. My cock was a limp memory of its former self. The tiny and very naked young lady stirred languidly on the mattress, making no indication that she heard what I said. I reached and grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head to my crotch. She yelped in pain as I did this. “Sandra, sweetie, you said you were going to be a good girl if I untied you. Now, good girls do as they’re fucking told! Now, lick my cock, you little bitch!”
The young woman cried out in anguish as I pressed her face against my cock. “And be gentle, baby, or I’ll pull your teeth out one-by-one, do you hear me?” She didn’t respond. I didn’t need a response. Holding her head by the hair with one hand, I pressed my flaccid cock to her lips. “Open your mouth, honey.” When she did not comply, I shook her head roughly and again pressed my tool to her lips. This time her lips parted ever so slightly. “Let me see your tongue!” After receiving another rough head shaking, the girl’s tongue darted from between her lips and touched my cock before retreating back into her mouth. It was not unlike the quick tongue movement of a reptile. “Come on, sweetie, that’s not what I mean! Lick it!”
Again the tongue darted out from between barely parted lips. The tip of her tongue lingered for a moment this time on the skin of my soft cock, but once again receded. I pulled her head up by the hair and made her look into my eyes. They must have looked ominous, surrounded as they were by the Lone Ranger mask. “If you don’t lick my, little lady, and lick it good, I am going to break your nose, do you capiche?”
Crying, she nodded vigorously. I took my hand out of her hair, leaving her free to act on her own. After hesitating for only a moment, she dipped her head into my lap. Her head blocked my view, but I quickly felt the delicate stroke of her soft tongue on my manhood. A tongue that no longer darted back into her mouth like a snake. Instead, I felt the tongue explore a good length of my wilted genital, moving back and forth over it, tentatively, to be sure, but staying there, not stopping.
“That’s a good girl, Sandy. Give me more though. Come on, sweetie.” Complying, her tongue strokes began to cover a larger expanse of my penis—a penis that I could feel responding to the attention it was now receiving. Her lick strokes seemed to become less tentative. “Good girl. Come on, lick your pussy juice off me, Sandy. You made me fuck you by wearing that dress you had on, so you’ve got to clean me now!”
My cock was now semi-hard. I reached for the base of it and lifted it up, and since the young women’s mouth was partially open as she licked it, the head of the cock more or less just seemed to naturally find its way between those lips. She may have flinched slightly when this happened but nevertheless continued her tongue action without missing a stroke, and before either of us may have been fully aware of the fact, my cock was entirely inside her mouth and it was growing. The young woman’s licking action now morphed into a sucking action and my cock became more and more stiff inside her mouth. Her recently freed hands had been dangling in the air as if she did not know what to do with them. She now allowed them to come to rest on my hips. I thrust my pelvis forward sending my ever more rigid phallus into her throat. This caused her to choke momentarily but she rebounded by sucking on it even harder. By now it was once again at full hard. I watched in amazement as the girl’s head bobbed up and down in my lap. She had even taken the base of my cock in her hands and she sucked on the head. She was either digging this, I thought, or else giving the acting performance of a lifetime in the belief that that was her best chance of surviving at the hands of her rapist. Either way, it was extremely erotic. I leaned back against the door of the van and let her work. She had done this before, the little bitch! She knew what she was doing! It was almost as if she had had, shall we say, “professional training”? And once again I was amazed at how quickly I was going to cum. I grasped her by the sides of her head and pulled my cock out of her mouth, a mouth which remained wide open and which received the first squirt of my wad as I came. A second squirt landed higher, striking her between the eyes. There was no third spirt. My testicles were empty from this second ejaculation in a half hour.
Sandra looked me in the eyes as my sperm ran down her face. A good portion of the first spurt now oozed from between lips that she had closed and ran down her chin. Her tongue came out licked up as much of it as the tongue could reach. I could not read the expression in her eyes. I think they were telling me, “There, you bastard, are you satisfied now!?” But I wasn’t sure.
Ten minutes later I was still leaning back against the door of the van. Spent. Satiated. After servicing me, Sandra had withdrawn to the opposite end on the van, against the driver’s seat, as far away from me as she could get. Still completely naked, save for the high heels that continued to adorn her small feet, she sat with her back against the back of the driver’s seat, her knees up and together, her arms wrapped around her calves, her hands locked together. She just sat there. Silent. Motionless. Have you ever seen a piranha in an aquarium being fed a live goldfish? I have. Sometimes the piranha is content taking just a bite out of the goldfish initially, with the intention of finishing his meal later. The bite out of the goldfish has not killed the goldfish, but has wounded it in such a way that in cannot really move. It just sits there, alive in the same tank as the piranha. As you’re watching, it’s as if the piranha and the goldfish are ignoring each other during this period until the piranha decides when it’s time to finish business. This is what Sandra reminded me of as she sat there, motionless in the quiet van, with only the sound of the crickets outside. A wounded goldfish. Waiting defenselessly for the piranha to make the next move. She was smart to have made no attempt of escaping the van while I lay spent and weak. She surely knew she could not have gotten out and away before I would have stopped her. And she certainly must have known that that would have made me very mad and that there would have been consequences. Besides, even if she did escape my clutches, she was stark naked and in the middle of nowhere, for god’s sake! So the goldfish sat there. Waiting. Praying, too, if she were religious.
At long last I roused myself. It was nearly daybreak. I searched the van for my clothes. In my haste to undress I had not exactly folded my clothes and put them in a neat pile. Sandra watched me carefully as I dressed. When I was done, I tossed her dress to her. The bra, too. Both garments were intact. I told her to put them on. Nervously, she did as told, and then tensed up as I moved toward her with a pair of handcuffs. I told her to relax. I just needed her to remain out of sight in the back of the van while I drove her home. I cuffed her to one of the frame posts, then jumped in the driver’s seat, took off my Lone Ranger mask, started the engine, and pulled away.
We were back in town and three blocks from where I abducted her. I pulled into an alley and parked. The first light of day was beginning to illuminate the sky. At the end of the alley I saw a man walking a dog. I cursed myself for being so late. I was certain the dog walker had not noticed the van, but I should have had her back here before dawn. Too late to worry about that now. I threw the hood to her in the back and told her to pull it over her head. I got out and went around to the back of the van and opened the door. She was sitting forlornly on the mattress, a wrist handcuffed to the frame, the hood over her head as I had instructed. I climbed in and moved toward her. I released her handcuffs. I grasped her arms and pulled them behind her back. As I applied duct tape to her wrists, I told her that it was an easy bondage that she would be able to wiggle her hands free from without too much difficulty. It should her only long enough to give me time to drive away. She could then remove the hood from her head and walk home, having never seen my face or the outside of my van.
I told her she could go to the police if she wanted, who would send her to a hospital for them to do a rape kit on her, something that would put my DNA into a data bank. But I also told her something else. I told her that I had seen the picture in her wallet of a beautiful young girl who was obviously her sister, as there was a strong family resemblance. I told her that I would be checking the police blotter for the next two weeks, and that if I saw that she did go to the police on this, I would track down her pretty young sister and when I did, I would not been nearly as gentle with her. Sandra hissed three words to me in a whispered tone from beneath the hood: “You fucking bastard!”
That’s about the most accurate thing anyone has ever called me.