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A little tenderness - about a woman who rapes a ma
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
A Little Tenderness
The campus campanile slowly rang out the last of the twelve hours. From
his cubicle in the library---open twenty four hours---he barely heard it,
but perhaps it made him decide to pack it in for the night. On the other
hand, perhaps it was just a coincidence.
As quietly as he could, he slid his books inside his shoulderbag and got
up to leave. Some other students, stressed out of their wits, looked up
at him, partly from curiosity, partly from relieving their sore eyes;
most of them, though, didn't notice. A pair of eyes, large, grey and
limpid, followed him out of the room and into the elevator.
On the ground floor, the elevator doors opened again. He exited, alone.
An aide reclined in a chair by the entryway, dozing softly. He shrugged,
deciding not to disturb the aide. Behind him and slightly to the right
there was the sound of slippers making their way down the stairwell. He
stepped out; it was a cool pleasant night, and the oppressive stillness
of the tight quarters inside gave way to a fresh mist falling gently on
his face. He breathed in deeply.
There was a bridge over a brook down this path; it was not as well lit
as the paved path rising over the Cricket Hill, but it would take him
half the time. So down he walked to the bridge, his topsiders flapping
quickly under him. The sound of the brook, more of a small river now
that the spring torrents had come, drowned out the sound of his
footsteps, and hers. He felt a hard push in the small of his back.
``Don't even try moving, Lucky,'' said . . . someone behind him, in
a voice which implied that luck, good luck, anyway, was not about to
be involved. For a moment, he was taken aback by the voice---and then
he realized it was female. He stiffened, and his heart pounded; it
felt like it had been pounding now for a while. She pushed him.
``OK, now, keep on walking. Don't turn around.'' He took a hesitant
first step, and the pain in his back abated somewhat. ``Stop at the
end of the bridge.'' He could only assume that she was keeping the
gun (if that was what it was) pointed at him. His stomach wrung
itself.
``All right,'' she said, coming up quickly behind him. ``Now walk
down.'' She indicated the bank. ``CAREFULLY,'' she added. ``I
mean it. You try to run and . . . and, I'll blow your fucking
head off.'' There was a quaver in her voice (he hadn't heard it
before) that suggested she was either not completely sober or not
completely sane. Either way, there was no reason to believe she
wouldn't carry out her threat. He began sliding down the bank to
the rushing water.
``Under the bridge.'' He hesitated. ``NOW!'' she whispered, but
her whisper was a growl. He rushed under the bridge. There was
a narrow terrace under the bridge where the water ran up alongside.
There he turned his head around and chanced a glance at his attacker.
She was small, but not slim, and her hair, illuminated from above and
behind by the lamplight high up on the opposite bank, seemed ablaze.
That same light hid her face, though.
Either he was too deep into the shadow for her to see him look at her,
or she did see him and wasn't concerned at all. In any event, she
simply walked toward him, and as she passed under the lip of the
bridge she too was swallowed up in shadow, and all he could see was
her silhouette.
``Take your pants off,'' she said, in a measured tone. When he didn't
move, she placed the muzzle of her gun at his right kneecap. ``Do
you know what will happen if I pull the trigger?'' He shook his head
slowly, even though he was pretty sure she couldn't see him. ``It'll
take your pants down, for sure, and,'' she said, breaking into a small
smirk (he was sure of that), ``it'll blow your fucking knee right off.
Now, would you kindly take your pants off?'' The hammer cocked itself.
He was surprised how loudly it clicked above the sound of the water.
He took his jeans off, slowly, in order not to provoke her. When he
finished, he stood up again, looking down at her, or actually, at her
gun. He thought about how, if by any chance he came out of this alive,
he would have to describe her and everything, but he couldn't tear his
eyes away from that gun.
That gun was now being inserted into his underpants. ``These too,''
she said, just a tad menacingly. ``I'm going to be raping you,'' she
added, pulling his underpants up fiercely, ``not your goddamn BVD's.''
He moved quickly to take his underpants off. He had fantasized about
being taken by an aggressive woman, but not like this . . . All his
guts came to rest in his throat. Now that he was naked from the waist
down, she seemed to relax, and she ran the barrel of the gun up and
down the length of his penis. It was limp and very small, he suddenly
noticed, much smaller than normal. If he could only keep it that
way . . .
``Well, well, well,'' she said, chuckling slightly. That impossibly
angered him. ``Down,'' she said, pointing at the wet grassy earth
with the gun. He lowered himself, onto his back, never letting his
eyes stray from the gun. She kept the gun on him with one hand, and
with the other hand began taking her own pants off. ``Goddamn
button flies,'' she muttered, but finally got them off all right.
It was queer, but he found himself using body english to try to help
her take them off. She began taking her panties off, then simply
tore them off. She leaned over him.
``Still not hard, eh?'' she asked. ``How would you like me to take
care of that little problem?'' Her mouth hovered over his penis.
``There's a better way.'' She lifted his legs, positioned the end
of the barrel at his anus, and then quickly, pushed it into him.
After the initial shock of pain, he found his penis growing. He
tried to make it stop, to no avail. ``And,'' she added, ``if you
try anything stupid . . .'' She let that thought trail off to the
obvious end. Oh god, oh my fucking god, he thought. She wouldn't
shoot, she wouldn't, because somebody's got to hear that, they've
got to. But in a surprising fit of clarity, he realized he would
still be dead, and he knew she would risk getting caught to make good
her threat.
``What's the matter?'' she asked, solicitously. ``All I want's a
little tenderness, that's all.''
And just that fast, before he had time for another thought, she
engulfed him.
It went quickly, really. She went up and down on him, hard, and his
stomach ached, and the smell of alcohol on her breath was overwhelming.
And her panting. She only broke the silence (silence!) to tell him,
``I don't want any problems later, so don't come, or I'll drill a
hole right through to your fucking head.'' He tried to think of
his physics professor, or the ant nest outside his bedroom, or anything
to distract himself as he rose inexorably to orgasm, but it was one
thing to distract himself while masturbating in the shower, and another,
he was fast discovering, to distract himself when a hundred twenty
pound woman was bouncing up and down on top of him. And just as the
fatal moment approached . . . she reached behind her for his balls,
and squeezed hard. He lurched into her, and stifled moans leaked out
her clamped lips as she came (he thought). He vomited on top of his
chest.
In the haze of pain and nausea that followed, he felt her withdraw,
and his crotch felt wet and cold. Something came out of his anus.
``Goddamn,'' she said, ``take a shit every now and then. You got my
heat all lousy. Maybe you wouldn't mind cleaning it off?'' She
waved the gun over his mouth. ``No, I guess not.'' She settled for
wiping his shirt with it, where the vomit hadn't run off to.
``Later,'' she said, getting up a bit. ``And if anyone asks, this
is for Laura.'' She put her pants on, disregarding her panties,
wherever they were. ``Sorry I have to do this, but I can't have
you following me.'' He wondered who Laura---Something quick, hard,
and heavy met his head. Blessed darkness, real darkness.
When he came to, it was much colder, and he shivered. The vomit had
caked a bit, and choking down the nausea, he managed to get up and
take his shirt off and throw it into the brook. He didn't ever want
to see it again. He shook off as much of the dirt and earth as he
could, then put his underpants and pants back on. They were damp, but
he would have to deal with that. He looked for his shoulderbag.
It was at the edge of the water, and completely soaked. On top of
it were her panties. This time, he couldn't quite choke it back
down. He was careful to let the vomit drop into the running water.
He kicked the underwear into the brook, and picked up the bag. It
felt like it weighed about a half a ton. He held his head in his
other hand, and leaning against the underside of the bridge, he
cried quietly for a minute or two. Then, he ran as fast as he could,
without stopping, until he made it to his apartment.
He fumbled with his keys, and tried to get the right one into the
lock, realized it was upside down, tried again, turned it the wrong
way, then finally got the door open. He went in and slammed it shut.
His roommates were studying for finals. Tomas looked up briefly as
he ran to his bedroom; the other one, Mark, didn't even flinch.
He closed the door to his bedroom, and knelt, and prayed for anything
that came to mind.
Ten minutes later, he still knelt in the darkened room, his knuckles
still in his mouth. His first thought was to sleep it off, but of
course he found he didn't want to try.
wizvixen
(not to be confused with vixen)
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