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The rapist's next victim (Foxy Lady and CougarGirl)

Foxy Lady

Foxy Lady

Star
Joined
Jan 30, 2014
Location
United Kingdom
It’s strange how women react. The more they fight the less likely they are to go to the police. Take that last woman. I checked her computer while I was waiting for her to come home and you should have seen the sites she was looking at. Bondage, domination, rape fantasies, the lot. She made a real show of putting up a fight, but she was actually enjoying herself. No doubt about that, she was sodden. But it just goes to show how unpredictable women are. I never expected her to report me, but of course she wants to relive her fantasy and now that’s exactly what she’s doing, telling the police over and over again, every tiny detail. Telling her friends too and embroidering it every time. And those details, I actually wondered if someone else had come along and raped her after me, because what they’re saying in the newspapers doesn’t bear much resemblance to what I did. Still, she’s enjoying herself, so why should I worry.

I’m already working on my next victim. She’ll be my eighth. Not that anyone else knows that. The police only know about five. Like I said, women just aren’t predictable. Two never reported me. The third one; I can’t actually remember much about her. And the one before the last, that teacher; I was sure she’d go straight to the station, but she hasn’t. I wonder why.

Time for a change; someone different from the others. They were all attractive, early 30s, well presented. I fancy someone a bit older this time, someone more homely. A stay at home mom. They’re easier to catch than these professional women who are at work all day.
 
I couldn’t believe it. It had been all over the papers, and the TV news was broadcasting warnings and advice for lone women. But you never expect to hear that the victim was someone you know. Not that I know her well; she’s just someone I’ve seen at the school gates. Her daughter is much younger than my son, so they dodn’t mix at all. But all the same. Sandra knows her and she’d confided in Sandra who’s confided in all her friends. Not that I know Sandra that well, but Sandra knows Beth and I know a friend of hers, so naturally word reached me too.

And not just word. But words, lot of them, very explicit. It was all horrible. What that poor woman must have suffered. How could any man do that to her? I made a promise to talk to my son that evening and impress on him the importance of respect for women.

‘Are you OK, Mrs Wilson?’

I was standing there shocked, so shocked I didn’t notice him at first.

‘Are you OK, Mrs Wilson?’ he repeated.

I turned round to find Pete Durham looking at me with a concerned expression on his face.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked again, ‘only you don’t look too good. Is anything wrong?’

I shook my head.

‘No, no, really. I’ve just had some news, that’s all. It’s about this latest rape. The victim was someone I know slightly.’

‘That’s terrible, Mrs Wilson, isn’t it. Look, I’m free for a while, do you need some company, just to make sure you get home safe?’

How thoughtful and how typical of Pete. We walked back to my house, barely saying a word, each lost in our own thoughts.
 
It’s easy to get to know quite a lot about people without much effort. Take my next victim. She’s married to an IT consultant with one son. She doesn’t work, but she’s had plenty of two affairs. I found out about two just by listening to her friends talking. One was with a neighbour when her son was young. He used to play with the neighbour’s boy, and while the children played …. Well you get the idea. That ended when the family moved out of State. Right now, she’s fucking with the manager of the local Pharmacy. Talk is that she gets an under-the-counter supply of Viagra for her old man. Talk is that he needs it, but talk also is that he’s having an affair with his PA. So who knows? You can’t believe everything you hear. It’s important to sift out the accurate information from the gossip. That’s what I’m doing right now.

Having an affair is convenient for me. If she were at home all day, it would be difficult to get access to her house, where I can find out much more about her. But when she sneaks out to meet the manager, that’s my chance to get in and look around. I’ll be making my first visit later today; they always meet on a Wednesday afternoon when it’s quiet at the Pharmacy. The window latches won’t give me any trouble. You’d think people would take more care nowadays, but so many don’t.

Why did I pick her? To be honest, it’s a sort of personal challenge. I mean, just look at her. She’s not exactly a stunner. Maybe she was attractive once, but she doesn’t bother with herself. She keeps clean and tidy, but she’s put on a lot of weight and just tries to cover it up with loose clothing. I’ve tried imagining what she’s like naked, because that’s how I’m going to see her. She must have something to keep her husband and her lovers and, whatever it is, it certainly isn’t looks or dress sense. I wonder if I could fix up a secret cam to get some views of her.
 
It was mid morning when I got the phone call. Someone called Pamela Davidson was ringing from the Municipal Building saying that there were matters she needed to discuss and could I come down later. She wasn’t very specific, but you know what these officials are like. They like to come over all mysterious and don’t give anything away. Would it be convenient to come this afternoon? Well, actually since she asked, no it wasn’t convenient, but she made it clear that this wasn’t negotiable, so I cancelled my appointment for the afternoon and headed down to the Building.

As soon as I set foot inside, a woman approached me and introduced herself as Pamela Davidson. I followed her through the building, past all the main offices and through a locked door. For a moment, I wondered if she was working in consort with the rapist and this was a trap to lure me into some isolated room where he would … Well, I didn’t want to dwell on that. But eventually we found ourselves in a small office where a man was waiting. Pamela didn’t introduce me to him, but told me to take a seat at the table. Then she produced her ID and told me she was a police officer. Then the bottom fell out of my world.

‘Mrs Wilson,’ she told me formally, ‘I am part of the team investigating the rapes that have taken place recently. We have reason to believe that you may, I emphasise that word, you may be the rapist’s next victim.’

What can you say to something like that? I just sat there, staring at her. The man poured some water and passed it to me, for what good that would do. Finally, I said the only word that came into my head: ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Pamela repeated. ‘Do you mean why do we believe that or why did the rapist pick on you? Both very good questions and the answer is the same. Profiling. Our profiler,’ she nodded in the direction of the man beside her, ‘believes that there is a clear indication of the type of person who will be selected as the next victim and you match the profile.’

‘But how,’ I persisted, ‘do you know it will be me?’

‘We don’t,’ she told me. ‘Remember I emphasised that you may be the next victim. You fit the profile, just as others do. But we needed to warn you, as we are warning the others, and to ask you to help us.’

I was having trouble taking this in.

‘But,’ I protested, ‘I’m not like any of the women who’ve been raped.’

Pamela exchanged a meaningful glance with the profiler.

‘That’s right,’ she told me, ‘as far as you know, as far as the public knows. But we have information that we haven’t released. Enough to make us reasonably confident.’

‘So what am I supposed to do?’ I asked helplessly.

‘First, Mrs Wilson, please don’t tell anyone. Not your husband, not your son, not your best friend.’

‘Not even,’ the profiler spoke for the first time, ‘your lover.’

‘And just behave normally,’ Pamela added, as if that were the simplest thing in the world.

‘But,’ the profiler intervened again, ‘let us know if anything happens that is out of the ordinary. Anything at all. However small or insignificant it may seem.’

‘You’ll be given a dedicated phone number,’ Pamela added, ‘and we’re going to keep you under discreet surveillance.’

I walked out of the building and into a nightmare.
 
That was close, too close. She’s not normally back so early. I barely had time to slip out of the window and pull it shut behind me. Still, I learned a lot. I know my way around now, which is important. It’s not a big place, but I need to find my way around in the dark if necessary. And to know which windows open easily and which stick. That’s important for a quick getaway. And where she keeps things that I’ll need. Like her knives and cord to tie her up. Well, conveniently, she has one of those wooden blocks full of knives and cords to tie back the curtains.

I’ve learned a lot about her too. I’ve smelt her perfume and fingered her lingerie. That was an eye opener. She doesn’t have many bras and they’re all functional stuff to give those tits the industrial scale support that she needs. My guess is that she lets them swing free most of the time when she’s relaxing at home. But there was a whole pile of fancy panties, thongs and strings. Best of all, though, was the stash of photos in one of the bedside cabinets. All of her and her husband, playing around. And boy is she different with her clothes off. Not what I expected at all. She’s got big thighs, but they’re strong and not flabby. Her ass is tight and her tummy, well it isn’t exactly washboard, but there are no rolls of fat. It’s strange that I don’t like any of the bits – thighs, tits, stomach, ass – but put together they make her one tough lady, a worthy victim.

And there’s another thing. She doesn’t shave. Her crotch looks like she doesn’t even trim it and there’s a full thatch under both arms as well. My guess is that hubby likes her that way. There are photos of him with his face buried in her arm pit or crotch. Who took them, though, that’s an interesting question? Are they into threesomes; if so, there’s no one else in any of the photos. Her son? Surely not. But I bet he’s found them and enjoys comparing himself with his dad. He’s certainly got a good stand, bigger than mine, but size doesn’t matter. Perhaps they set up a camera on delay somewhere.

I was scouting around for somewhere to hide a cam, but then I heard the door. She’s never back this earlier, so something must have gone wrong with that Pharmacy manager. No worries. I can come back any time I like when she’s out. I may try sneaking in during the night and getting the feel of the place in the dark.
 
I arrived home in a daze. How was I going to carry this off? The stress was going to be unbearable. We all live with the fear of rape, that’s part of being a woman. It’s always there, lurking, waiting to pounce. And which of us hasn’t been raped at some time. I don’t mean the guy who jumps you in the dark and drags you into the bushes. No, I’m talking about the husband who comes home drunk and won’t take no for an answer or the date who plies you with more drink than you can handle and does wait for you to sober up.

But this fear is more immediate, more personal, more real. OK, so they said I was only one of a number of women, but I don’t buy that. That was just a sop to make me feel better about it. I’m sure that they’ve got pretty firm intelligence that the guy is after me.

And I have to bear this on my own. I can’t even tell my husband. But what if he notices something different about me? What am I supposed to say. I can’t even turn to the police. They were very clear about that. I was only to contact them through the number I’d been given. No contact with the police. It’s obvious why. You don’t need to think very hard about it. They can’t be sure that the guy isn’t a policeman. Maybe they even know that he is.

Plus I have to tell them about anything that’s suspicious. How the hell am I supposed to know what is and isn’t suspicious? Take that guy on a bike who I saw in town. Was he just riding around or was he following me. I kept seeing him, but then there were lots of others around. He was just the one who stood out on account of his red t-shirt. If someone was following me, surely he’d make sure not to be conspicuous. Or that window. I was sure I latched it before I left, but it was open when I got back. Did I just forget it or did someone break in. Well if they did, they didn’t take anything as far as I can see. They certainly didn’t tidy the place for me while they were here. I’ll make a start tomorrow and make sure I am more observant about things, what I do, where I leave things, who’s around me when I’m out. Then I’ll know what sort of thing to report.

I’m at a loose end now, having cancelled my appointment with my friend at the Pharmacy. Perhaps my husband and I can gave some fun tonight once our son goes to bed. That’ll take my mind off this problem.
 
There was a faint light showing from her bedroom window when I got there just before midnight, like a bedside lamp. They were probably reading and would soon feel drowsy and put out the light, leaving me free run. I let myself in through the open window of the son’s bedroom. He didn’t notice me; he was snoring loudly. And as soon as I was inside, I knew they weren’t reading. How their son could sleep through that noise, I can’t imagine. Probably he was used to it.

There was no need to creep quietly. I just walked normally to their bedroom door and peeked through the crack. They were on the bed rutting like wild animals. Been at it quite a while by the state of the room. The sheets were all crumpled and there was a pillow in the middle of the floor. She was flat on her back with her ankles pinned up by her ears and he was hammering her like he was in the 100 metre sprint, his balls banging into her ass with each stroke. She was honking and snorting with each thrust and he was grunting and groaning. It sounded like a farm yard.

This was a glorious opportunity for me to move around as I liked. I could have vacuumed the place and they wouldn’t have noticed. But I was transfixed. Gave me a stand too, I don’t mind admitting. So I just stood there imagining what it would be like when I fucked her. Would she resist and fight me, like the first girl had? Or would she be like last bitch? I felt like I was the one who had been raped after that encounter.

It wasn’t long before she came and he followed her soon after. Then they just collapsed and were snoring louder than their son. The whole family was dead to the world, so I took my time making sure I could find my way around in the dark. Then I checked out the bathroom to see if there were any convenient places I might rig up a cam to watch her. There was a high shelf, so I got a chair and borrowed their torch from the kitchen drawer and guess what I found. There was cam there already. Someone was filming them. It wasn’t running, thank goodness, or it would have recorded me.

That got me worried. If there was a cam there, where else might they be and were they running earlier when I paid a visit. I doubted it. my money was on the son, prying on his parents when they were in the shower. I’d put money on there being a cam running in the bedroom right at this minute picking up their nocturnal activities from earlier. I’d check that when the place was empty. But I’d need to be careful not to get myself caught.
 
As soon as my husband and son were safely on their way to work and school, I rang the number I’d been given, praying that Pamela Davidson, the woman police officer, would answer. I just felt that she might understand how I was feeling better than the profiler. Fortunately she answered, almost immediately.

‘Hello, Mrs Wilson, how can I help you?’

‘Does everyone feel like this?’ I blurted out.

‘Feel like what?’ she asked calmly.

‘Like they’re being watched or followed. Or is it just my imagination now that I know someone may be out there stalking me?’

‘The imagination can indeed play tricks on us, but I am also convinced that our subconscious mind can pick up on things that our conscious mind doesn’t register. Like some sixth sense.’ She sounded like a teacher giving a lesson, but then she softened. ‘Look, Mrs Wilson, why not tell me why you’re asking this. Something has made you think about it, hasn’t it.’

I took a deep breath while I decided on where to begin. At the other end of the line, I could hear calm breathing.

‘It’s something my son said,’ I began, ‘at breakfast. He asked his father if he had been in his room last night. He said he wasn’t properly awake but thought there was a man walking through, around midnight.’

‘And what did his father say?’

‘He denied it. Said he hadn’t gone into his room last night at all.’

‘And you believe that?’

‘Do I believe he wasn’t in our son’s room at midnight, sure I do. He couldn’t have been.’

‘How are you so sure?’ She was certainly persistent, pushing me places I didn’t really want to go.

‘Because,’ I answered slowly, ‘I know where he was. We were having … relations.’

I’m no prude, but for some reason when talking with authority figures like doctors I always resort to euphemisms instead of just saying we were having sex.

‘So, you were having sex. Maybe the noise disturbed your son or perhaps it was just a dream.’

How did she know we were noisy? I said nothing. Best not to ask.

‘There’s more, isn’t there,’ she prompted.

‘It’s just that while we were having … sex, I felt like someone was watching me. The door was ajar and I felt like someone was peeping through the crack.’

‘Could it have been your son? I mean children do sometimes watch their parents.’

‘No, no, I’m sure it wasn’t him. It’s like the feeling I get sometimes …’

‘Yes, the feeling you get when?’

Shit, I really didn’t want to go here. I took it at a run.

‘The feeling I get when we’re with another couple and they’re watching us fuck.’

There was an almost imperceptible pause before she said, ‘I see.’

I didn’t respond.

‘And was there anything else you want to tell me?’

Well I might as well mention it. I’d already made a big enough fool of myself.

‘Well, it’s nothing really, but yesterday, when I got back from meeting you, there was a latch open. I was sure it was closed when I went out, but I could have been mistaken.’

Silence. Nothing. Not even that calm breathing.

‘You don’t think,’ I asked, just to find out if she was still there, ‘that someone’s been in, that someone actually came in last night and stood watching me?’

‘I think,’ she replied, ‘that I should arrange for someone to come round and fit some more secure locks. You can easily explain that to your husband. Just tell him that you’re worried about the rapist. He can’t complain, can he?’

‘Thank you,’ I said pathetically. I should have been relieved that I’d be safer, but she had just made me feel more nervous.

‘No problem,’ she replied with an air of bringing the conversation to a close. ‘Just be sure to let me know if you get any more of these feelings.’
 
Damn. The bitch. She’s put locks on the windows. Does that mean she realised someone had been inside? I doubt it, the place isn’t that tidy. But it’s just a minor inconvenience. I need a key and I know just where I can get one. Her son. When he’s playing sport, I can borrow his keys and get one cut. No worries.

***

Getting the key was a piece of cake. No one noticed. And it works perfectly. Fortunately, there’s no chain on the door, but that wouldn’t stop me. I’d just have to adjust my plans.

I wore a balaclava this time, just in case those cams were on, but they weren’t. I found another one in her bedroom, which made me think it was her son secretly filming his parents in the shower or fucking. But then I found another in his room. So who’s filming who and why?

The answer was easy once I got onto her computer. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to hack someone’s password, they just don’t have any imagination. It’s her doing the filming. They broadcast on one of those real live couples channels on the porn sites. There were some recordings to wet people’s appetites. She calls herself Trish and her husband Dave, although that’s not their real names. You can see them in bed or in the shower. And the son’s bedroom cam? Well, my guess is that she’s watching him wank off or maybe they’re broadcasting that on another channel somewhere. Or perhaps, well, no, that would be disgusting, best not to think about that.

I did have one amusing idea. Why not broadcast the rape? That would pull in the viewers. So long as I didn’t leave any clues, of course.

Anyway, that visit was worth while. I feel really comfortable in there now. I even picked up a spare key to those new window locks in case the route to the door is blocked. It’s always good to have a fall-back.
 
That sixth sense, the one Pamela Davidson talked about, well I had it again last night. I felt something as soon as I got back home, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. There was no one there; I checked everywhere and the window locks were all secure. Everything was where I’d left it, and nothing was missing. But there was something, something I just couldn’t put my finger on. Still, I was safe and secure, so I just carried on and the feeling began to fade. Until …

Until I got up in the night to go to the bathroom, which is just across from our bedroom. I felt it again as soon as I walked out of our room, but the place was quiet, apart from my son snoring. It made me feel uneasy, though, uneasy enough to lock the bathroom door. Then, as I opened the door, there was a presence, right in front of me. I hadn’t put the lights on and it was pitch dark, but I was aware of someone standing right in front of me. I put out my hand, touched his chest, his bare chest, and acted instinctively. Up came my knee, right into his balls, one fast, hard thrust to smash his balls before he could get his hands on me.

I heard a groan and a thud as the man hit the floor. I cried out and reached into the bathroom to put on the light. And there he was, rolling on the carpet at my feet, his face pale, his eyes rolling. It was my husband.
 
What a farce. It was all I could do to stop myself laughing.

I’d slipped in just to check around; it’s like my second home now. I might even sleep on the sofa one night just to get the feel of waking up there. Well, it was in the early hours and I had just got myself a drink of water from the kitchen, when I heard noises from the direction of the bedrooms. I thought they might be fucking again and was about to go along for a free show, when I saw her walking across from her bedroom into the bathroom. It was too dark to see anything specific, but she was naked, I was sure of that. Next thing, her husband comes out and he’s naked too. He’s just got to the bathroom door when she comes out. I thought they might set to it right there, because she approaches him and puts her hand on his chest. But then she just knees the poor bastard in the balls.

He groaned and sank to the floor, while my hand went instinctively to my crotch. She puts the light on in the bathroom and there he is in a heap at her feet. She immediately starts apologising and wailing ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was you.’ Then her son comes out and asks what’s going on. He’s naked too. The whole family must sleep in the buff and wander around like that. She tells him his father has ‘hurt himself’ and he asks ‘how’. Meantime, father is rolling on the floor moaning and cursing. Son is just looking down on him asking ‘How, mom, how did he hurt himself?’ She’s down on the floor like a great sow with her ass in the air, those huge tits swinging close to the floor. She looks up at her son and snaps ‘Don’t stand there asking stupid questions, just help me get your father into bed.’ As if he’s going to be in less pain there. But dad doesn’t want help, from either of them. He shrugs her off and crawls on all fours back into the bedroom. When she put the light out, I wandered along to hear what was going on, but all I could pick up were his moans and her cooing apologies.

So all in all an amusing night. But I learnt a lot. She’s jumpy, that’s for sure. She wouldn’t have kneed him like that unless she thought there might be a stranger about. That’s not unusual. Lots of women are nervous with me on patrol, but I bet they’re not knocking their husbands’ balls about like that. And I’ve got my first sight of her in the flesh. She looks much better than on those cam clips I found on her computer. All those bits fit together into a very nice package. Very nice indeed. We’re going to have fun together, I just know that. But I’ll need to keep clear of that knee.
 
I rang Pamela first thing next morning.

‘That sixth sense again?’ she asked as soon as she answered.

I told her. This time her breathing didn’t seem so calm. It was much heavier as I told her what I did to my husband and how much pain he was in.

‘How is he now?’ she asked solicitously.

‘He’s fine,’ I told her, ‘a little sore still, but in full working order – I made sure to check that out before he went to work.’ That had been a relief for both of us.

‘And how did he feel about being humiliated like that in front of his son?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I never thought to ask.’

‘Some men like to present a strong image to their sons. They don’t want to be shown to be weak, especially by being kneed in their precious balls by their wife.’

I hadn’t thought of that.

‘Anyway,’ she pressed on, ‘let’s analyse this sixth sense of yours. You sensed something when you came home. There was no one in the house and nothing missing. Everything was as you had left it. Then you sensed it again when you went to the bathroom. Did you check to see if someone else was there?’

‘Well, no, I didn’t.’ Why would I do that with my husband to attend to? Was she heartless or what?

‘I don’t believe in a sixth sense as some mystical thing, Mrs Wilson,’ she was in her lecture mode again. ‘I think of it as our subconscious brain recognising clues we haven’t registered consciously. If you are sure there was nothing moved or missing and no one there when you got home, that can only mean you smelt something. That would fit with it fading and coming back later.’

‘Do you mean,’ I asked slowly as her reasoning sank in, ‘that he’d been inside and then came back and was actually there watching me from somewhere in the shadows?’

‘That’s what I’m suggesting,’ she answered slowly.

‘But, but,’ I stammered, ‘I was naked. He saw me naked.’

‘That,’ Pamela replied, ‘isn’t the worst, not by a long shot.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. Could there be anything worse?

‘Our profiler says that he is computer literate and will have read your hard drive and browser history. Anything you’ve been doing, he’ll know about. You could change your passwords to something more difficult to hack, but it’s probably too late now,’ she added helpfully.

I sat silently, the phone against my ear, not knowing what to say. There were times when I thought that she might know a lot more about me than she let on.

‘Mrs Wilson? Are you there?’ Pamela’s voice was quiet but urgent. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m here,’ I told her. I wasn’t sure about the OK bit.

‘Let’s be practical. How did he get in? You’re sure those new locks are secure?’

‘Yes, I checked them. They were all locked when I got back and when I went to bed.’

‘And the door?’

‘Well, obviously we lock it.’

‘But is it secure? Does it have a bolt or a chain? Can you deadlock it from inside?’

My silence told her the answer.

‘Look, Mrs Wilson, this is a big ask, I know, but I’ll run it past you.’

‘Go on.’ My voice must have told her I was dreading what she was going to suggest. My sixth sense probably already knew what it would be.

‘I’m pretty sure this is our man. He’s been getting in using the windows, and now somehow he’s picked your lock or even got hold of a key. We could keep him out with some simple measures, but is that a good idea?’

You bet it was a good idea.

‘But then he would attack you somewhere else. Somewhere we don’t know about, which would make it difficult to protect you. This way, we know where the attack will come and can be prepared for it. What do you say? Are you up for it?’

What could I say? I thought about the risk I was running.

‘This isn’t just about you, Mrs Wilson.’ Pamela seemed to have a fully working sixth sense too. ‘It’s about all those other women who’ll be in danger if we don’t catch him.’

What could I say? I had to agree.

‘Good, that’s great, Mrs Wilson. Look, why not come down to the Municipal Building again and we can talk this through. See if there is some way we can set the scene for him. Some way to make conditions right to entice him into an attack.’

Shit.
 
She’s always popping out nowadays, which is all to my benefit. I took the chance to let myself in and have another look around. And do you know the first thing I did when I got in. I stripped off. It just seemed the natural thing to do; the entire family sleep naked and wander around naked, so why not me too, after all I’m almost one of the family. And do you know what, I felt completely comfortable there. More comfortable than I ever had before. Even comfortable enough not to bother with the balaclava; I’m sure those cams are only turned on for the special performances. Speaking of which, I checked her computer and she’s deleted her browser history. I wonder what made her do that. She didn’t bother before.

But I’m getting side tracked. This time I wanted to check her laundry basket. She doesn’t wash that often so I knew it would be easy to find what I was looking for. And there they were on the top, freshly discarded, a pair of red panties. Well, not so much panties, more of a small thong really.

I brought them to my nose and took a long sniff. Perfect, just what I wanted. Pretty fresh considering the rank smell from the rest of the basket. Her cunt smells nice and sweet. Odd the way that women’s cunts all smell different from each other. I rubbed them over my chest and then along my cock, wrapping it around and around so that I was coated in her scent. Some might say this was a bit of a fetish or even one of those rituals like some footballers follow before going out to play. But I don’t see it that way. For me, this is a form of getting acquainted. My cock is going to feel at home when I fuck the bitch and settle right in that sweet cunt as though it belongs there.

It was tempting to take the thong with me, but I thought better of it and tossed it back on the basket. Even someone as chaotic as this woman might notice a pair missing.
 
Am I getting suspicious or is my sixth sense in overdrive?

I went along to the Municipal Building and there was Pamela waiting for me in the lobby. She led me to a different room this time and sat me down to talk me through the scenario as she called it. What it came to was this: she wanted to entice the rapist out and provide him with the ideal opportunity to attack me. I would, of course, be protected and not in any danger. All I needed to do was to find a reason for my husband and son to be away from home. Easier said than done. So off I went to give it some thought.

Except, off I didn’t go. That good old sixth sense told me to wait around the corner for Pamela to leave and then follow her.

This was the way my mind was working. I only had her word that she was a police officer and she had, conveniently, told me not to contact the police myself, only through her and then only via the dedicated number. I didn’t even know the profiler’s name. OK, she’d showed me some ID, but what did a real police ID look like. I had no idea. Perhaps I could ask a police officer to show me a real one. Now that was an idea, at least it would have been if I could remember what hers looked like.

Plus she seemed to know an awful lot about me, or at least she managed to give that impression. She had praised my sixth sense so that she could get out of me what I had found out and she’s managed to set it up so that the windows were locked and could only be opened with a key, trapping me inside, while leaving the door available for the guy to enter.

This was all stacking up. She was in league with the rapist and was setting up his chosen victim, maybe she had even helped choose me. Were that reckoning that with all that stuff on my computer, I wouldn’t want to risk any personal info getting out, so I wouldn’t report him.

And the him: who was the him, the guy, the rapist, her confederate? Well that profiler was lining up nicely.

But, and this was a big but, a very big but, what woman would set up another woman like that? It wasn’t unknown. I’d seen enough real life crime on the TV to know that women were capable of anything if they put their minds to it.

The problem was: who could I trust if not Pamela? Was I really going to have to tackle this on my own without any backup. The only person was my husband. Perhaps I could take him secretly into my confidence. But how would I know our home wasn’t bugged and she and the profiler were listening to everything we said.

Anyway, time for that when I had followed Pamela to her lair. Except that she went straight to the police station. Which didn’t mean I was wrong. She might have suspected I was following her and just walked in to ask for directions. Maybe the profiler was following me and had alerted her.

If only my sixth sense would tell me what was real and what wasn’t.

But when I got back, I didn’t need any sixth sense to know someone had been in my home. I’d deliberately placed a thong on the top, carefully positioned. It was still there and more or less in the same place, but not in the way I had folded it. He’d been in and gone through my washing.

What was I to do? All I could do was ring Pamela. I had to trust someone.
 
This family is incredible. I decided to stay overnight in their spare room. I wanted to get some sleep and then get up in the early hours for some more familiarisation, but sleep was impossible. They are so noisy; it’s surprising that the neighbours don’t complain. Maybe they just enjoy the entertainment. Eventually I had to get up and go to see what was going on. The son was lying on the top of his bed wanking and moaning while he watched some porn on his tablet; watching his parents, I shouldn’t wonder. And his parents were copulating like a honeymoon couple. I took advantage of all the noise to visit the bathroom. If anyone noticed, the son would have thought it was one of his parents and his parents would have thought it was their son. Thank goodness things quietened down later. The son nodded on and the parents began to chat quietly. Well, she began to chat quietly and he began to moan quietly. I couldn’t see what she was up to but my guess is she was giving him a hand job under the bed clothes while she persuaded him to do what she wanted. But what did she want? I heard her mention the weather, the weekend and that their son would enjoy it. Finally, the husband managed to get some words out and I understood. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘just so long as you don’t stop what you’re doing. We can leave after work on Friday.’ There was more moaning and a long sigh before he eventually said, ‘what will you do while we’re away?’

Her answer was a classic. Do you know what she said? I almost burst out laughing when I heard it. ‘This place needs a good clean. With you two out from under my feet, I’ll be able to get it sorted in a couple of days.’

Her husband giggled at that. He knew she had no more intention of cleaning than of writing a novel. No, she had plans to spend time with the manager of the Pharmacy. And that meant I wouldn’t have a chance to catch her on her own.

But genius is the product of improvisation, or something like that. So I came up with a new plan. Since I was there and feeling right at home, I’d just wait for her son to go to school and her husband to get off to work. And then, she’d be home alone for the rest of the day. With me.
 
I decided to trust Pamela. It looked like she really was a police officer and her advice was always sensible. ‘Find a way to get your husband and son out of the house.’ Coming up with a reason was easier said than done. Pack them off camping. The weather was fine and they always enjoyed bonding on their camping trips. My husband had even discovered that he could manage without sex for a whole weekend if he had to. Though I suspected they had wanking competition in the night. Who could last longer or shoot further or get hard again sooner. That sort of thing.

Persuading my husband, well that was the easy part. That special little thing I do with one hand on his cock and a couple of fingers up his ass. That gets him so wound up that he’ll do anything I ask, just so long as I don’t stop. Got him post coital too, which is always a good time.

But that just left one problem. How, I asked Pamela, was the rapist going to find out? Her answer didn’t exactly fill be with confidence. ‘To be honest, Mrs Wilson, I don’t know. But he’s finding out a lot about you, so he’s bound to find out somehow.’

Well if it didn’t happen, I wasn’t going to complain. I knew I’d be safe. No doubt about that. There would be an officer planted inside with me, probably in the spare room. He could get into the block easy enough. It would look like he was visiting one of the other residents. And I’d have a personal alarm with me at all times connected direct to Pamela’s phone. I couldn’t be better protected. But you know what they say about best laid plans and all that.

In a sense, though, I hoped he did find out and come for me on the weekend. The sooner this was over and done with the better.
 
First there was the soft click of the door as her husband left, then the slam as her son left, and finally the sound of the shower. Perfect. She was alone and going to get clean. I don’t like dirty women; they’re a right turn off. The noise of the shower covered any noise I made as I assembled what I needed: some bathrobe cords to tie her up and a pair of dirty panties. I stripped off, put on my mask and walked into the bathroom. The shower cubicle was steamed up; all I could see was a cloud of steam.

I was close enough to reach round and wash her back, but I didn’t. When an arm came out and groped for a towel, I could have handed her one, but I didn’t. When she emerged with a towel draped over her head, I could have helped her rub her body dry with a bath towel, but I didn’t. I just stood behind and watched. In case you’re interested, I’m not hard at this stage. Quite the opposite. I’m tense at this stage, so my cock is shrivelled, like a mushroom, no longer than an inch. It doesn’t bother me; I’ll be fine later.

Yes, I’ll be fine, just as soon as I have her subdued. That’s the key part. After that, it’s just fun and games. My timing was perfect. I grabbed her round her waist while her head was still covered by the towel, spun her round, threw her against that door and then dragged her to her bedroom opposite. Classic: surprise her, disorientate her and subdue her quickly. And, of course, keep well clear of her feet.

I threw her onto the bed, sat astride her hips and grabbed her right wrist. A few flicks and it was tied to the bed by a cord. She’d got the towel off her head and was grabbing at my hair. A back hand slap across her face put a stop to that and her left wrist was soon tied up as well. She was starting to get vocal, so I stuffed the dirty panties into her mouth. I left her feet free for the moment; I enjoy a good fight. And with her struggling beneath me, my cock was stiffening up nicely.

Her phone started pinging. Someone called Pamela wanted her to ring her urgently. I muted the sound and tossed the phone into the corner. Time for the fun to begin.
 
Afterwards, when it was over, looking back, I was able to put events into some sort of order. To give a coherent account of what happened and what I was thinking and feeling. So, under Pamela’s persistent questioning, I could say what he used to tie me up and gag me, although I didn’t actually notice until much later. But at the time …

Funny that I’d played this out with my husband hundreds of times, even on the web cam. He’d jump me, I’d scream and fight back, we’d wrestle on the bed with him trying to avoid my blows. But not this time. this was real and I wasn’t a participant, only someone reacting to events outside my control, an object.

My recollection of the time is just a jumble of confused images. The paralysing terror as he grabbed me. The inability to breathe until he smashed me into the door or wall, knocking the air out of my lungs. Worrying if I’d have a black eye. Trying to shake the towel off my head so I could see. Then that first glimpse of my attacker after he threw me on the bed: big guy, well-muscled, obviously spent a lot of time in the gym, probably wanked off in front of a mirror, the sort of guy I could go for, in different circumstances.

It was when he began to tie me up that I forced myself to do something. I must have realised that it was too late by then to get away, but I had to do something, if only for the sake of my own self-respect. I knew he wouldn’t kill; he hadn’t killed any of his victims so far. So I was looking ahead and knowing I had to live with myself when this was over. So I made an effort, calling out, thrashing about, pulling at his hair, as if any of those would make any difference.

Then with me gagged and trussed up and him pinning me down astride my hips, I saw his cock. I stared at it fascinated, watching as it grew. Stiffening a bit first, then gradually rising, swinging off to his left and then climbing.

And all I could think of was my own panties in my mouth, and the stale taste of my juices and my husband’s cum. Why couldn’t he have used a clean pair?
 
Believe it or not, I’ve not cum since my last rape. Not even wanked off, even watching this woman’s cam clips on her computer. People think that rapists must be sex mad, but it’s not like that at all. I like to keep myself pure for the next victim. Make sure there’s a good load of sperm to impregnate her. I never use a condom. It’s a risk, but I always make sure I pick clean woman, no dirty whores that will infect me with something.

She’s rubbing on my balls as she squirms. She can probably feel how heavy they are. She must know I’m going to flood her. This first fuck won’t last long. Once I feel the tight heat of her cunt, I’ll blow fairly quickly. After that, I’ll last longer, so the sooner his first one is over the better. It’s in her interests too. She’ll know what it’s like and won’t lie there worrying about it so much. All I need to do is to be careful not to catch one of those knees she dropped her husband with.
 
My mind is just a jumble of random thoughts.

No, that’s not right. After what happened later, how am I to know what was in my mind then?

So get it right. as far as I can recall, at the time my mind was just a jumble of random thoughts. I’ve got a confused recollection of confusing thoughts.

‘Is this what rape is like?’ I remember asking myself. But I knew it wasn’t. He hadn’t begun, not really. This was just the prelude. He was just watching. His eyes were fixed on my tits. As I struggled to try to toss him off, they flapped about, the way they excite my husband. And I’m sure his cock was getting stiffer as he watched. I was actually helping him get off.

Should I stop fighting? Then he might not get so aroused. But then I’d be giving in and he’d have won right from the off. And how could I explain to anyone later why I did that? To the police, to my husband, in court if it came to that, or even to myself? No, I couldn’t give in, I had to toss and buck, trying to throw him off, although I knew he’s just get back up.

And at the same time, I’m actually admiring the guy. I mean, he’s a real hunk. Great body. I’d love to dig my teeth into his nipples. They’re as stiff as his cock. Get my hands on his butt as he thrust into me. But this is disgusting. I mustn’t allow myself to fantasise about enjoying him.

Why can’t he get a woman for himself without doing this? Maybe he has one. This is just another side of him. She is protected from it, because he works it out on others, strangers who can’t fight back. How would she feel if she knew that? Or perhaps she does know and he’ll go back and tell her what he did and they’ll get off on it.

Trish? Did I imagine it or did he just call be Trish? How did he know I use that name online? Of course, he’s been in my PC; he’s seen the clips. Shit and shit again. He knows all about me. Everything. Is that why he picked me?

My skin is crawling. Every point where I make contact with him feels like insects gnawing into my flesh. Dirt is sinking into each pore. Will I ever get myself clean after this? His hands are on my tits now, fondling them like a lover would who’s seeing them for the first time, although he must have seen them before online or in my clips.

He’s moving back now. He’s astride my thighs, moving down. He’s going to force himself into me, I know it. But he needs to get a bit lower and that will give me a chance to get my knee up into his balls. I smash his fucking balls if I get half a chance.

If only Pamela knew what was happening. Will she be expecting a call and come round to check I am safe? She’s my only hope. Unless, of course, she sent him, knowing I’d be alone and taken my surprise.

Strange I don’t remember being afraid. But then he hasn’t started yet. I knew that, even then.
 
She wasn’t expecting it. But it was necessary. I had to protect myself at my most vulnerable moment, my only vulnerable moment. I’d seen what she did to her husband, remember, when she mistook him for me and smashed his balls. Not that pain bothers me. I’ve had my balls caught in the struggle a few times and it actually adds to the experience, gives me a chance to show my full power. You should see their eyes widen when they realise my cock is just as hard despite the pain. They know then that there is nothing they can do to stop me. They’ve done their worst and failed.

Actually most women have some sort of built-in reluctance to attack a man’s balls. They always pull back, which just goes to show that deep down they understand the need to respect the superior sex. But this women is different; she’d be prepared to destroy me if she could. I don’t hold that against her, but like I said I’ve got to protect myself.

One blow. That’s all it took. A clenched right fist buried into her solar plexus. While she was gasping and jumping, I had her legs apart and I was safely between them.

I’m between her thighs. They’re spread wide for me. and they need to be, because I am big, huge. The skin on the head of my cock is stretched as far as it could go. I’m at my maximum power, poised to penetrate. But I don’t, not just yet. I savour the moment. Let her see what’s waiting for her. Let her compare me with her husband; she’ll find him wanting. A good two inches shorter. I’m as rigid as a steel girder, so rigid I have to easy my cock down to position it between her lips. She bucks and twists and turns, but that’s good. I just follow her movements, waiting for the right moment, the right moment for me.

I prepare, like an athlete preparing, imaging what it will be like, going through each step to their ultimate victory. Breathing is essential, especially at the beginning. She’s fighting me, this one. I’ll need all my power. A few deep breaths, tighten my buttocks to focus all my strength, and then, as I breath out, one single thrust, deep, long, just one thrust until my balls are banging on her ass.

She’s tight, tightening her muscles to try to keep me out. Just the way I like them – to begin with. Her dry cunt tears at my flesh, I bite my lower lip as I overcome the friction. The soreness enhances the sensation. I hold myself there, towering over her. I need to keep control now. It’s been so long since I fucked and every nerve in my cock is alive and my balls are waiting to burst. But not yet. She has to see that I am in control, of myself and of her.
 
He’s poised, the tip of his cock just nudging between my lips. My husband does this sometimes. Holds himself back in order to savour the moment and to tease me with the pleasure to come. But that isn’t what this guy is doing. He’s waiting for something, but what? Or why? Just to intimidate me? Or maybe out of remorse for what he’s done, in horror at what he’s now contemplating? Is he undecided about whether to continue? No, these are just fantasies, useless hopes.

I have to protest at this violation. Because this is already a violation, touching me like that. With the gag in my mouth, I cannot speak, but my whole body can. It screams against him and how he is treating me. I rock my hips to try to shake him away, but it seems to excite him more. I shake my head, as violently as I can, but his eyes just stare at me out of the holes in his mask.

And then it comes. Pain because he is so big. Pain because I am dry. Pain because I try to resist his penetration to keep him out. Disgust at having his cock inside me, touching the inside of my body, probably already seeping sperm that will work their way towards my womb. Shame that this has happened to me.

He is powerful. Message received. I am at his mercy. Measure understood. He is strong and virile. I can feel him like a metal rod deep inside me. I need to scrub myself clean, inside and outside, everywhere he has touched me. I will never be clean again.

He grabs my breasts and squeezes them hard, as he begins to move out slowly, an inch at a time, how many inches, how much time? It seems like he takes forever, then suddenly in one deep thrust. I feel his balls banging against my buttocks. That means they are hanging how. He is not yet ready to cum.

On the third thrust, I feel it is smoother, easier. My body is beginning to respond. Not me, my body. My body is acting on its own. I am not responding. He is big, he is strong, he is powerful, he is virile, and my body is responding to him. But he disgusts me, revolts me, I want to vomit. I lie there in submission, not prepared to participate.

I am not frightened, I am terrified, petrified, I feel my bladder weakening, but I must not let that happen, I cannot lie here in my own piss. Unless, unless, maybe that would repulse him. Maybe I could shit myself as well. Then he might go away. Even that would not be too high a price to pay. But my body will not allow it.
 
She’s enjoying it. They all do. It just takes some longer than others. But it’s inevitable. How could they not enjoy it? Just looking at my body is a pleasure for them. Young, fit, smooth skin, tanned, muscled, strong, lithe, athletic – all the women down the gym admire me, some of the guys too. I’m so much better than the lumps of flab they have at home. This woman’s husband is a perfect example: middle-aged, out of condition, hairy, pale, carrying a paunch where he could have a six-pack, probably only sees his cock in a mirror. If her hands weren’t tied, she be stroking me, feeling those firm muscles.

And my rod. How could they not like that? All women like size, however much they pretend it isn’t important. That’s just a sop for their inadequate husbands. They love that stretch as I enter and having their cunts filled. They don’t need those exercises to tighten their muscles just so they can feel me.

And later, when they find out how quickly I get hard again and how often I can fuck them. That blows their mind. Once a night, a couple of times a week, that’s all that most of them get once they’re back from honeymoon.

They’re all the better for it afterwards. I follow them around sometimes, just to see how they’re doing. They never recognise me, of course. I sat next to one for an hour on a bus, watched another from the next table in Starbucks. Their lives have been enriched by the experience; I can tell. The ones who complain only do so because of their husbands, so they don’t feel inadequate.

But this one, she’s going to be special, I can feel that. She’s responded so quickly; she’ll be flooding before long. She’s fascinating too. Would you believe that I’m 25 and I’ve never fucked a woman with big tits. They almost put me off, but not this woman. I can’t take my eyes off, the way they wobble and flop them about every time I thrust into her. Thrust, wobble, flop, thrust, wobble, flop. It makes me smile, makes me happy. It’s good to be happy.

I pause and take them in my hands, feeling their weight, testing their firmness with my fingers. Her nipples go hard and I flick them with my thumbs, just to let her know I’ve noticed her response. Her eyes respond; she knows that I know. It’s no good pretending any more.

I start to thrust again. More slowly now, letting her savour that long glide in and that teasing slide out, still holding those tits. Her cunt is wet and hot, she’s no longer trying to buck me off. She wants this to last. That’s OK, we’ve got all day. I really like the feel of these tits. I let go and watch them again, changing the power of my thrusts, watching how they move. Thrust, wobble, flop, wobble. I wonder how it feels having something this heavy hanging off her chest.
 
I can’t speak with these filthy panties in my mouth. All I can do is talk with my eyes and they flash messages at him. You’re disgusting. How dare you do this to me? How dare you maul my breasts like this? Your touch makes my flesh creep. But he carries on. Doesn’t he understand or is it that he just doesn’t care?

I close my eyes and try to blot out the image of him poised over me, leaning forwards, his hands resting on my breasts. I have always been so proud of them, right from the moment they began to grow. As they got bigger and bigger, all the boys got more interested and the girls got more jealous. They’ve always been part of me as a woman, something I was proud of. I got a thrill every time I caught a guy eyeing them up in the street or at a party or on the bus. I enjoy displaying them to my lovers and they love them too, fondling them, caressing them, kissing them, biting at my nipples. He’s ruined all that for me now. I’ll never feel the same about them. I’ll always associate them with his touch.

My cunt feels raw inside where he forced his way in. Thank goodness I’ve lubed up a bit. That’s making it more comfortable. How could he tolerate so much pain forcing himself in dry without even some saliva on his cock? He’s settling into a rhythm now, steadily getting faster. Maybe he’ll cum soon and go away. Will he leave me tied up like this until someone comes and finds me? Please let it not be my son. Please.

Unless, unless he’s planning to stay all day. They didn’t say on the news how many time he raped those other women. Why didn’t I ask Pamela? Surely she should have told me so that I’d know what I was letting myself in for. Why hasn’t she arranged for me to be watched, just in case? Maybe she did and help is on its way right now.

I try to imagine this is my husband fucking me or that kind manager from the Pharmacy who really just wants to lie between my breasts while I hold him. But that is a betrayal of their feelings for me. I’m sullying them just to protect myself. It’s so disgusting that I could even think of pretending that this is just normal.

He’s breathing harder now, harder and faster. I close my eyes and wait for him to finish.
 
My balls have gone. They’re starting to pump my sperm. It’s going to be a big load, but she can take it. She’s got a big cunt. This is probably the first time she’s ever had a guy fill her completely.

I’m so hard, I could lift her off the bed with just by flicking my cock and carry her around hanging from it. This is probably the first time she’s had a guy as tough as me.

It won’t be long now. I’m just making it last, slowing my pace a bit, letting the strain build up so that the explosion will be even more powerful. It’ll hit her like a jet of boiling steam coming out of a geyser. This is probably the first time she’s had a guy as virile as me.

She knows what’s coming. She’s watching my chest, seeing my lungs expand, her eyes fixed on my nipples. If she were free, she’d be clawing at me, biting those erect nipples. This is probably the first time she’s had a guy with a physique like mine.

It’s close now. Those tits are what’s got me going so quickly. Normally I make the women wait longer, tease them, make them think I can’t be bothered, maybe walk off and then, just when they think I’ve gone, back I come and carry on.

The sperm is in my cock now, my nails dig into her tits, those soft, floppy big tits. My hips buck harder.

I’m going to cum.

I’m fucking you, bitch, fuck, fuck, fucking you, fucking you raw, like you’ve never been fucked before.

Fuck you, yes, rock you, yes, trash your cunt, yes, yes, pump myself dry, yes, yes, yes.

I count the jerks as I explode. I’ve got to eight when I pull out and let the rest spray over her belly and tits. Let her see my power. Let her feel the heat of my cum as I rub it into those tits. I sink back onto my heels and wipe my hands on her thighs. Big strong thighs. I’m sure I felt her gripping me as I came. Dirty little bitch didn’t want to waste those sperm. Filthy bitch. They’re all the same when it comes down to it. Dirty, filthy. They don’t deserve someone like me.
 
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