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- Joined
- Dec 14, 2012
- Location
- Australia
Authors Note: The initial draft of this was initially composed as post to a roleplay, however on searching for some writing samples the other day, I realised that removed from that context and with some editing, it could make a short-story in its own right. One of the most morally reprehensible characters, in a 'true-to-life' sense, I've written and also the first solo story I've ever penned!
Warning: the below contains graphic violence, sexual and non-sexual and hard non-con.
Please don't comment here, but any are welcome through PM or my journal.
Who They Gonna Believe?
The screams, the pants, moans and words, it was all just white noise to Cole. He couldn't distinguish one sound from another. It was irrelevant. All he cared about was how great it had felt when her nose had splattered against his fist and that, with her eyes blackened and swollen, she was no longer able to peer through him as if he didn't exist. He'd attempted to be courteous downstairs, to chat and flirt, but the bitch had given him the cold shoulder. If she hadn't, they could well have ended up in the very same room with her moaning in ecstasy rather than wincing in pain and dripping blood.
The warm body underneath him was now nothing but a piece of meat to brutalised, fucked and then discarded like a piece of trash. He could hear them alright, the taunts and encouragement to fuck her harder. To punish the slut. For what? Deep inside, he knew the reason. All women who refused to spread their legs for a man deserved it. Weak, useless fucking females, only good for their holes and if they weren't good for that, they might as well be dead. Maybe she'd realise that once he'd finished and before she refused to open them for the next guy. Misogynistic bully didn't even come close to describing Cole Douglas.
That was what been feted as a future NFL star and having every whim and request catered to by teachers, coaches and scouts did to an impressionable young boy. Possibly, if his mother had survived childbirth and provided him with siblings, or his father not been a red-neck who hid his own misogynistic beliefs behind a façade of charm and good humour, things could have been different. A wrecked knee had put paid to any thoughts of a professional career for Cole, but his personality had been ingrained. Always the leader, friends and peers held him in awe, or that's what his narcissism led him to believe. He and his buddies were invincible and Dear Daddy, Sheriff of Eden, would do anything and everything in his power to protect his only child, not to mention his own reputation and political aspirations. Brock Douglas was the Law and his son above it. The apple didn't fall far from the tree.
Cole ripped at her arms as he entered her, his girth spreading her unwilling walls and forcing its way into her cunt. The yells, cheers and hollers increased in volume, and almost drowned out the noise of Cole's balls slapping against her thighs and his grunts of exertion. The fucking was brutal and without mercy. For five minutes, ten, fifteen - there was no clock - he pounded the woman. Cole's fingers moved from her wrists as he kept her arms locked with his torso, and hissed in her ear. "You like it, slut?" Simultaneously, he jerked her head up by the dark, wavy locks and thrust so violently that her entire body lifted in the air. Shards of glass fell from the spider-webbed mirror and landed in her hair, whilst others clattered to the wood and scraped her face when he pushed her head back down. Cole felt a brief struggle, but the girl was no match for his strength and soon went limp. He continued to rape her.
Eventually, it was over. With a groan of pleasure, he inflicted a final insult and shot his seed deep in her pussy. The bucking and writhing of his hips as he came caused his length to ram deeper into her ravaged hole, the muscles of which had been loosened by his vicious assault. Cole remained buried all the way inside her for a few seconds, then withdrew. "Was it good for you?" The mocking comment, issued through ragged breaths, caused his friends to laugh as he pushed himself upright and took hold of an elbow. "I asked you a question." Cole stepped back, dragged her off the dresser as if she weighed no more than a rag-doll and dropped her on the floor.
"Shit. That was harsh." Dave giggled after taking a swig of tequila and looked down at the freshly fucked bitch. The other two joined him, and Cole, with his release having melted away some of his rage, lowered his gaze to appraise her. Then shivered. For the first time in his life, he encountered emotions he'd never experienced before. Fear and regret.
"Fuck."
Chest heaving from his exertions and hair matted with sweat, Cole whispered to himself as he zipped up his jeans and took in her battered body. Covered in bruises and scratches, patches of hair torn from her scalp, nose broken, with blood from it smeared on her face, shattered glass embedded in her skin and eyes blackened and swollen, the woman was a mess. His pupils widened and he glanced back up at his friends, who'd gone silent.
He felt no remorse and the regret wasn't for her or for the acts he'd perpetrated; she'd asked for it; but for the fact that on this occasion, he thought he may have gone too far. The man briefly contemplated disposing of her altogether, slicing her throat, wrapping her in a blanket and dumping her lifeless body in the river, but that was too much. A line even Cole couldn't cross. For what felt an eternity, which was likely mere seconds, the room seemed to spin and he was caught in a dreamlike trance. When his eyes locked on the liquor bottle Mark held in one hand, he came to his senses. "Give me that."
Cole snatched the three-quarter full container from his friend's grasp, then dropped to his knees next to the woman. Had she moved, or spoken? Was she even still conscious? He'd been too distracted to notice. Strong fingers gripped either side of her jaw and squeezed as the other hand jammed the neck of the bottle against her teeth, threatening to break them if she didn't do as directed. "Open your fucking mouth." A light bulb had gone off in his head.
Pour the alcohol down the whore's throat, dump her outside at the bottom of the back stairs, and shatter the liquor bottle next to her face to explain the presence of any glass. It wouldn't be enough to fool a competent forensic examiner, but with a half-plausible cock-and-bull story that his Father, and subservient Deputies, could will themselves to accept possibly true, no matter how improbable, it wouldn't get that far.
"The slut was drunk and came looking for it. Said she liked it rough. We had sex, then she staggered off with a bottle of tequila. Must have taken a wrong turn, fallen down the stairs and face-planted on the concrete. Ask my buddies, they'll tell you the same. Four against one, who you gonna believe?"
Cole smiled as he increased the pressure of his digits, and her mouth opened. "Hate us all you want, bitch. Now, drink."
Four against one, who they gonna believe?
Warning: the below contains graphic violence, sexual and non-sexual and hard non-con.
Please don't comment here, but any are welcome through PM or my journal.
Who They Gonna Believe?
The screams, the pants, moans and words, it was all just white noise to Cole. He couldn't distinguish one sound from another. It was irrelevant. All he cared about was how great it had felt when her nose had splattered against his fist and that, with her eyes blackened and swollen, she was no longer able to peer through him as if he didn't exist. He'd attempted to be courteous downstairs, to chat and flirt, but the bitch had given him the cold shoulder. If she hadn't, they could well have ended up in the very same room with her moaning in ecstasy rather than wincing in pain and dripping blood.
The warm body underneath him was now nothing but a piece of meat to brutalised, fucked and then discarded like a piece of trash. He could hear them alright, the taunts and encouragement to fuck her harder. To punish the slut. For what? Deep inside, he knew the reason. All women who refused to spread their legs for a man deserved it. Weak, useless fucking females, only good for their holes and if they weren't good for that, they might as well be dead. Maybe she'd realise that once he'd finished and before she refused to open them for the next guy. Misogynistic bully didn't even come close to describing Cole Douglas.
That was what been feted as a future NFL star and having every whim and request catered to by teachers, coaches and scouts did to an impressionable young boy. Possibly, if his mother had survived childbirth and provided him with siblings, or his father not been a red-neck who hid his own misogynistic beliefs behind a façade of charm and good humour, things could have been different. A wrecked knee had put paid to any thoughts of a professional career for Cole, but his personality had been ingrained. Always the leader, friends and peers held him in awe, or that's what his narcissism led him to believe. He and his buddies were invincible and Dear Daddy, Sheriff of Eden, would do anything and everything in his power to protect his only child, not to mention his own reputation and political aspirations. Brock Douglas was the Law and his son above it. The apple didn't fall far from the tree.
Cole ripped at her arms as he entered her, his girth spreading her unwilling walls and forcing its way into her cunt. The yells, cheers and hollers increased in volume, and almost drowned out the noise of Cole's balls slapping against her thighs and his grunts of exertion. The fucking was brutal and without mercy. For five minutes, ten, fifteen - there was no clock - he pounded the woman. Cole's fingers moved from her wrists as he kept her arms locked with his torso, and hissed in her ear. "You like it, slut?" Simultaneously, he jerked her head up by the dark, wavy locks and thrust so violently that her entire body lifted in the air. Shards of glass fell from the spider-webbed mirror and landed in her hair, whilst others clattered to the wood and scraped her face when he pushed her head back down. Cole felt a brief struggle, but the girl was no match for his strength and soon went limp. He continued to rape her.
Eventually, it was over. With a groan of pleasure, he inflicted a final insult and shot his seed deep in her pussy. The bucking and writhing of his hips as he came caused his length to ram deeper into her ravaged hole, the muscles of which had been loosened by his vicious assault. Cole remained buried all the way inside her for a few seconds, then withdrew. "Was it good for you?" The mocking comment, issued through ragged breaths, caused his friends to laugh as he pushed himself upright and took hold of an elbow. "I asked you a question." Cole stepped back, dragged her off the dresser as if she weighed no more than a rag-doll and dropped her on the floor.
"Shit. That was harsh." Dave giggled after taking a swig of tequila and looked down at the freshly fucked bitch. The other two joined him, and Cole, with his release having melted away some of his rage, lowered his gaze to appraise her. Then shivered. For the first time in his life, he encountered emotions he'd never experienced before. Fear and regret.
"Fuck."
Chest heaving from his exertions and hair matted with sweat, Cole whispered to himself as he zipped up his jeans and took in her battered body. Covered in bruises and scratches, patches of hair torn from her scalp, nose broken, with blood from it smeared on her face, shattered glass embedded in her skin and eyes blackened and swollen, the woman was a mess. His pupils widened and he glanced back up at his friends, who'd gone silent.
He felt no remorse and the regret wasn't for her or for the acts he'd perpetrated; she'd asked for it; but for the fact that on this occasion, he thought he may have gone too far. The man briefly contemplated disposing of her altogether, slicing her throat, wrapping her in a blanket and dumping her lifeless body in the river, but that was too much. A line even Cole couldn't cross. For what felt an eternity, which was likely mere seconds, the room seemed to spin and he was caught in a dreamlike trance. When his eyes locked on the liquor bottle Mark held in one hand, he came to his senses. "Give me that."
Cole snatched the three-quarter full container from his friend's grasp, then dropped to his knees next to the woman. Had she moved, or spoken? Was she even still conscious? He'd been too distracted to notice. Strong fingers gripped either side of her jaw and squeezed as the other hand jammed the neck of the bottle against her teeth, threatening to break them if she didn't do as directed. "Open your fucking mouth." A light bulb had gone off in his head.
Pour the alcohol down the whore's throat, dump her outside at the bottom of the back stairs, and shatter the liquor bottle next to her face to explain the presence of any glass. It wouldn't be enough to fool a competent forensic examiner, but with a half-plausible cock-and-bull story that his Father, and subservient Deputies, could will themselves to accept possibly true, no matter how improbable, it wouldn't get that far.
"The slut was drunk and came looking for it. Said she liked it rough. We had sex, then she staggered off with a bottle of tequila. Must have taken a wrong turn, fallen down the stairs and face-planted on the concrete. Ask my buddies, they'll tell you the same. Four against one, who you gonna believe?"
Cole smiled as he increased the pressure of his digits, and her mouth opened. "Hate us all you want, bitch. Now, drink."
Four against one, who they gonna believe?