Sarah closed the door to her apartment, kicking off her sodden shoes, what a shity day, stupid customers complaining all day, then missing the bus and having to walk home in the pouring rain. Sarah couldn't wait to get into the shower. She left a trail of soggy clothing behind her, as she stripped off, walking to the bathroom. She stepped into the hot spray, giving a contented sigh, as the water cascaded over her lithe young body, not hearing the jemmy levering open her apartment door.
to be continued by? . . . . . . .
prey4me
02-23-2006, 01:08 PM
Sarah let the water pour over her for a few minutes, then started her shampoo. The product was a special splurge for her: kind of expensive, but very rich, and oh, so fragrant! She began to feel refreshed and rejuvenated. Five minutes ago, the world had seemed so dirty and everything in it so intrusive. But her dispositon began to change as she soaped her slender body.
Hours and days and pounds of worry streamed off her peaches and cream skin, eddied in the basin, and disappeared in the small whirlpool at her feet. Her solitary evening ahead, previously promising nothing but loneliness, now had an aura of comfort, hours of refuge from the slings and arrows of a perfectly crappy day.
The sound of the water masqued the sound of her jewlery being dumped into a bag. Nor did she hear her desk drawers opening and closing, as her checkbook, credit cards and other things were confiscated. Even when Sarahshut off the water, she was oblivious to her mp3 player, her laptop, and her cameras being dropped into the sack.
Sarah felt peaceful and safe as she reached for a soft towel and applied it to her curves. There was such steam in the bathroom, she pushed the door open, allowing fresh air--and eyes--full entry. The towel's mission accomplished, it fell into a pile on the tiles. She took another towel, vigorously drying her hair, then wrapping it up in the towel, turban-style.
She decided to have a nice, comfortable, even, elegant evening alone. Hanging on a doorhook was a sleep shift, a generously cut gown of light, breezy, flowing satin. It was had ribbon shoulder straps, was walz length, and of a poweder blue: it always made her feel dainty and feminine. Sarah took hold of the hem, pulled it over her turbaned hair, and it floated down upon her buffed body, catching the air.
She was still slightly damp, and the delicate garment clung to her, hugging her every curve. The sleep shift stuck to her beautiful breasts, and her nipples, responding to the fresh chill, perked against the tissue-thin material.
Sarah pulled the towel off her head, and took out a coarse comb to straighten out her locks. As she raised her arms, her breasts rose and fell. Eyes were watching her from a rear angle, paying special attention to her reflection in the mirror, where the movements of those magnificent tits were clearly displayed.
The first tangles cleared, she took a bristle brush and began to smooth out her soft, fragrant hair.
Her breasts continued to rise and fall. The light blue satin, more relaxed with her body dry now, fell across her tits in soft, generous folds.
Down the hall, two beady eyes watched this carefully.
prey4me
02-28-2006, 10:16 PM
Sarah stood in the bathroom doorway, frozen--there was someone in the hall's darkness. She didn't know whom, but she knew she wasn't alone. The only movement for an excrusiatingly long split-moment was her heart's pounding, fueled by shock and dread.
"Don't move. Don't scream. Don't do anything stupid, lady," a raspy voice commanded. Then came words that chilled her adrenelin-pumped brain to the quick: "I have a gun. With a silencer!" He moved into the light, providing visual confirmation: extended forward, pointing slightly upwards, was a revolver--a large, black thing--with a round cyllindar extending some five inches beyond the tip of the barrel.
Sarah gripped the door frame, steadying herself. Unsophisticated in the ways of crime, her instincts correctly informed her that this was in a very, very dangerous situation. This isn't CSI somehow flashed across her thoughts.
He stepped fully into the light, and poked the tip of the weapon against her chest, just above the rolled satin neckline of her light blue nightie. "This is a .45 cal, lady. It can blow a hole in you and its exit would be about the size of a grapefruit. And nobody will hear a thing!"
The two stood there, frozen. "Are you going to... behave, lady?"
They stood there, both looking down. Her eyes were fixed on the weapon, positioned at the top of her modest cleavage. His eyes were looking at her cleavage, studying the valley between her firm, medium-sized breasts--the proud, forthright mounds of a trim young woman whose body had not yet been stressed and worn by childbearing.
A young wife's body! Sarah was in her mid-twenties, successful, worked out, and was finally settled into the comfortable rythms of matrimony.
"Well?" he demanded?
She looked up. He was a bit over six feet, large-framed, bald, with a big earring.
"Well?!?
"Take what you want...I've got some money...my credit cards...I've some nice jewlery...just take it...take it...I won't do anything, I promise!"
"I already have," he informed her, with a kind of a deep chuckle. "But I'm not done ripping off this place, it seems!"
He relaxed the pressure of the gun's tip on her chest, and it slid down a couple of inches, right between her tits! It pulled the tissue-thin satin down and in, stretching it slightly across the forms of her tits, delineating her nipples. Sarah gasped, and stepped backwards, but he spun to her side, pushing her back against the bathroom door. "I said don't move!" he barked, gripping her right upper arm tightly.
The young housewife's brown eyes widened. She managed to nod, "yes," With the silencer's cylindar, he flipped her shoulder-length brown hair backwards over her shoulders, and the gun returned to her chest. He traced a wide circle around her right tit, then pushed the muzzle against the nipple, digging it in painfully.
Sarah winced. Then he started encircling her other mound. The gun occasionally caught a fold of blue silk, pulling it this way or that, stretching it against her curves, then falling free. Sarah stood as still as a Greek statue--and her form, at the perfect juncture of youth and maturity, clad in sweeps of silk, was as noble and poetic as any museum piece.
The gun migrated south, poking into her tiny little belly button. "No...no....please...just..." Words eluded her. The first tears began to trickle out of her large eyes, down her high cheekbones. "I...I...have money...."
Money was not the issue. This was apparent as the tip of the black weapon moved to the bottom of her belly. It hooked some blue silk, and began to carry it upwards, higher, inch by inch, raising the thin nightgown, higher....
prey4me
03-02-2006, 09:24 PM
(Thanks for the positive feedback, ffmet!)
The hulking man was a lot older than her, and powerfully built. His shaved, polished head was, well, absolutely phallic. He was dressed in work clothes: a flannel plaid shirt, well-worn jeans, brown boots. The gun raised her thin night shift higher, and the hem had just reached her crotch; Sarah twisted a bit--and the gathered folds fell off the gun tip, fluttering down. The intruder gripped her wrist, wrenching it high, around her shoulder blades. Then he put the gun up her cranium.
He pushed himself against Sarah. Everything about him was hard. ""I just got out of stir, baby. I'm a three-time loser. I've got nothing to lose by wasting you, if you know what I mean?"
She nodded yes. "Now listen! I haven't had any pussy since, well, a long time. And I'm due!" He burrowed his face into her fragrant, freshly shampooed brown hair. "You're going to be as nice to me as..." He paused, and sighed. "...as nice as you look.
"And feel. I've got life-time felonies on me, baby. Anything sends me back for life. It could be shoplifting a stick of gum. Or ripping off this nice little pad. Murder. Or rape."
Again, he paused, and the silencer dug into the lovely housewife's temple.
"This state doesn't have a death penalty. I get life whether I take your pocket change, or... you!"
He let go of her arm, and she dropped it to her side, sore. The free hand started stroking her waist, then the side of her hip. Then he slid it to her right ass cheek, squeezing between the door and her firm derriere.
"What's your name, girl?"
"Sarah," she whispered.
"Princess!" he chortled.
The beautiful brunette uttered a little gasp. "Sarah" did, indeed, derive from the Hebrew for "princess." She had always been somebody's "princess"--her daddy's, various boyfriends', a couple of lovers'. And her husband's. Always loved, cared for, honored, put on a pedestal. Her assailant obviously had some education.
And now she was alone in her condo, with a psychopath's gun pressed to her head, as his hand continued to wander, stroke, and grope her ass cheeks, then her waist again, then her athletically flat tummy. She was frozen as it moved upwards, and he cupped her left breast. His palm cradled her firm boob, and the silk was soft and seductive on his fingertips. Then he was squeezing it, harder--OOoooo!!--and his thumb found the center of her nipple, and he dug it in.
"OOOWWWwwwwww!"
"Oh, did I hurt you? You know, I haven't had my hands on a woman in a long, long time! Guess my seduction techniques are a little rusty. Now, kiss me!" he growled.
Abruptly his lips were on hers. They were slightly parted, and he pressed in on her hard, hard--mashing hers, covering her mouth with his. Both their lips were wet, and he was sliding his all over hers, a warm slithering sensation. Pretty Princess Sarah was squeezed between the bathroom door and the muscular, middle-aged man: her ass, shoulder blades, and head all pinned against the wood.
Her hands were turned backwards, flat against the door while he continued to devour her mouth. She closed her big brown eyes, trying desperately to think of something --anything!!--else. His breath was sour. Then she felt his tongue slide in, finding hers, pressing against it, encircling it. She knew she should "respond"--but she just couldn't!
It seemed like minutes passed before he broke the foul assault on her mouth; she felt so violated! Thousands of thoughts shot across her adrenlin-laced mind. Okay-I'm-going-to-be-raped-I-can-handle-this-I-have-to-survive-this-I-WILL-survive-this-lots-of-women-survive-rape-Richard-will-stand-by-me-I'll-do-what-ever-he-wants-Be-strong-girl-You're-a-real-princess-you-can-survive-rape-oh-god-I'm-going-to-be-raped-raped-raped-oh-no-not-that!!
In panic and dread, she collapsed onto the tile floor, her trapeze gown puffing out, then draping over her curled-up form.
A brown boot slammed into her abdomen. "OOooorrmph!" she gasped, and twice more the steel toe hit her, on her hip, then her thigh.
"Get up, bitch!" he barked, grabbing her hair and pulling her up to her knees. "UP!" Sarah staggered to her feet, and big tears began to trickle down her patrician cheeks. "Nooo...please, NOOO!" But in an instant, she was back on her feet, and he was marching her down the hall to her bedroom, and with a shove, she went sprawling face-forward onto the big four-poster bed, her marriage bed, across the cheery floral bedspread, beneath the matching floral canopy.
"Bitch...bitch!" he muttered as he rotated her onto her back. Sarah's nightgown was twisted about her torso, clinging and displaying her exquisite form. Her breasts pushed upwards against the silk, and her genuine hour-glass dimensions were quite....distinct. The man straddled her, and rained down several slaps on her cheeks, temples, and ears. Whack! Slap! Whap!
Whap! Wham! In a brief moment, she was crying and begging, promising him anything, everything, whatever, however, just...PLEASE, PLEASE, no more, NO!! and he finally ceased.
"Don't move!" he uttered. Sarah lay there, reduced to sobs and whimpers. He stepped to her dresser, knowedgably opened a drawer, and took out a set of fishnet tights.
"Sexy bitch, aren't you!" he chuckled, as he powerfully ripped the two legs apart, right up to the waistband. "Your husband like you to dress as a hooker?" he teased. "You're quite the slut, huh?" Then Sarah was on her stomach, with her wrists pulled to the small of her back, criss-crossed, and tied.
He rolled her onto her back again, He pulled the gun back out of his cargo pocket.
He pointed it at her face, right between her soft brown eyes. "I could kill you right now, cunt!" he chuckled. "But you know I'm not going to do that...yet, anyway. You know I'm not going to miss this chance to get laid, to fuck a dreamboat like you, right, cunt?"
Crying, she nodded, "yes."
The tip of the black silencer traveled down to her mouth. "Open."
She did. The thick extension went in. "Suck it, Sarah, suck it!" She closed her mouth around it, and, well, sucked it, moving her head up and down, drawing a vacuum in, tasting the cold steel, the gun oil, its cold, violent texture.
"You know what you're doing there, Princess," he observed, pulling it out, and letting it travel, down to her tits. The tip again encircled each upright boob, the side of the instrument rubbing across her nipple-tips.
They're sticking up! she noticed. How can--I'm not liking this--he's dangerous--my nipples--it must be the cold-- but there was no evading the fact that her nipples were sticking out to their maximum!
Then the gun went down to her abdomen, and he used the barrel tip to flip up her silken nightie, fold by fold by fold.
Her pussy was now, at last, exposed to the rapist. Her love hair was slightly lighter than her mane, and subtle elements of red peaked out in her Brasilian-bikini-trimmed bush. The lovely housewife remained immobile, as she felt the instrument of power and death poke against her most intimate, delicate area, brushing through her love nest, sliding up and down her pussy lips.
Not a word was said, as the silencer's tip pushed her outer labia slightly to the side, exposing her womanly pink. They were both breathing heavily. Up and down, this way and that, the gun played against her cunt lips.
She looked at his stern, expressionless face as he gazed at woman-flesh he had not seen in years...years! He's a psychopath! she thought. He's not capable of feeling anything for me, anything at all! Except...his lust...his evil lust...
The man pressed her knees outwards slightly, and she dutifully opened her legs.
Then--then--she felt the cold barrel enter her! It slid into her intimate canal, cold, hard, impersonal, merciless. Even beneath the folds of blue silk piled atop her waist, her heavy breathing betrayed her fear, her dread, her violation.
She felt it slide in and out, in and out, slowly. Is his finger on the trigger? she suddenly wondered. I can't see his hand! What if he gets...careless..makes a mistake?
And then the barrel of the .45's silencer hit home--pushing, digging against her cervix. He wriggled it a little. It was uncomfortable, but not too painful...she had never felt so scared--or violated--ever!!
He let go of the pistol's grip. It stayed upright on its butt, with some eight inches of barrel and silencer, inserted into the housewife-princess's pussy.
He stood up leaving the gun stuck in her vagina.
She watched him reach for his top button. He opened his flannel shirt, pulling the shirt-tails out. dropping it to the floor. His stained t-shirt went over his head, and landed next to the shirt. Damn, he's built! she couldn't help notice. He sat down, and unlaced the heavy brown boots; each one landed on the carpet with a thud. Crew socks followed.
Flat on her back, hands tied at the small of her back, Sarah helplessly looked up at him, looking back at her, at the .45 revolver, stuck up her snatch.
When he stood up, the cargo jeans and his shorts fell to his ankles, and he stepped out.
He was naked now. He was muscular, with broad shoulders, genuine six-pack abs, and utterly massive thighs and legs. He had done a lot of work-outs in prison! His penis was, well, definitely above...average. He was half-erect, it was sticking out, parallel to the floor.
It was also thick. Very thick. To the frightened young housewife, looked as thick as an ear of corn!
"By the way, Sarah, the way I figure it, you know, I'm old enough to be your father?"
The man stepped to the edge of the bed, and looked down at his bound prey.
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