Just a story I found off the internet a long... long time ago. This was actually one of my favourites. ~_^
It would be a dark, and stormy night, I fucking hate cliche's. To judge from the "Hard Boiled" genre, and the film noir it spawned, you'd think the sun never shone on this dreary sodden world. Maybe I should move out of the Bay area, it sure wasn't helping.
Ironicly, it suited my mood. I'd been looking for this guy for months. Too bad he didn't have a set period, or hunting ground. Two more where gone since I picked up on him, was I the only one who saw a pattern?
A lot of girls where found downtown, young women who where apparently not virgins, addicted to heroin, and starved to death. "Just another runnaway junkie," they all thought, but I knew better. Noone else seemed to notice that the girls all dissapeared about three, or four weeks before they where found. Though there was no set pattern, another allways went missing a couple months later, only to be found downtown again, in a dark alley, track marks, and apparent sexual activity, starved to death.
Once was an occurance, twice coincidence, three times a pattern. I'd found fourteen examples stretching back over three years. I could only reach one conclusion, a serial rapist. Without anything to connect them, the police had apparently missed the pattern. That ment I had him to myself.
He picked them up in the middle class suburbs, Milpidas, San Rafael, Pleasent Hill, Castro Valley, I had a large area to search. He hadn't done Alameda in a while, so I figured he'd get around to it eventually.
"I'm sorry," A man steps out of the wall of falling water, his hand out, "My car broke down back there, do you have fifty cents for a phone call?" He didn't look like a serial killer, they never do. If they did, the cops would go "Hey look, a serial killer!" and pick them up.
Ok, he's got the raincoat, but judging by the weather, it's not that distinctive. In fact, little about him was. Early thirties, middle height, a little stocky with a bit of a gut. He could've been a father, uncle, or boss at some clerical job. Nobody in particular.
Correction, he looked exactly like a serial killer. If anything, that's what they look like. Just your average guy. If anything, they come off a bit too average. Like this one.
My hand goes back from the knife clipped to the front pocket to a knotted string hanging out the back one. It's the drawstring of my change purse, about $2.00 of nickels with assorted coins in a tough leather pouch. A practiced tap across the temple, and he'd hit the curb like a stack of Chronicles. It was actually my fastest weapon.
Instead, I get it out, and find that there are, in fact a couple quarters in there. I let it hang from the pommel knot while I drop them into his outstretched hand. He closes it, with a wet metallic grating sound.
I twist my head back to watch as I turn to walk off. He gets the Face-Tits-Ass shot that's made more effective by my wet clothes, and his hand goes into a coat pocket. I start hyperventilating as I retreat, filling my body with oxygen for the fight ahead.
The white noise of the rain covers his approach, but there's a street lamp behind us. Enough light gets through the downpour to see his shadow comming, and I brace myself. The first thing I see is the rag going over my face, and I barely have time to hold my breath.
Of course, there was no evidence of Ether, or Chloroform in the news. By the time his victims had starved, it was long out of their systems. Hell, any sufficiently powerfull solvent would do, you could get toluine by the gallon at any paint, or hardware store.
He'd obviously done this before, his free arm trapped one of mine, and he kept himself out to the side so the other wouldn't reach. I drew the dagger from the small of my back, on impulse, but it wouldn't do me much good. I could concievably slash his arm, but I didn't like hacking around that close to my face, and neck. One would kill me, and the other was my best weapon.
Instead, I held out untill I estimated I should be passing out, then started to swoon. I roll the dagger between my sleeve, and skirt to get rid of prints, and let myself fall limp. Unfortunately, he puts me on my back with the solvent soaked rag under my nose. I couldn't dare breathe as he goes about processing me.
My lungs are near bursting, and I start to see stars, so I take a cautious breath. Thank god, the puddle under me diluted it enough that I didn't get much of a dose. Finally, he has me bound, and gagged to his satisfaction, lifts me up. I wonder idylly if he always stikes in the rain. It'd obscure him nicely, and wash a way a lot of evidence. Besides, it happens enough around here. I'd have to check the weather on the news stories when I have a chance.
I could kick myself for dropping my back knife. I had others to cut free with, but not within reach. Soon enough, we approach a white minivan parked on the shoulder. Just in case I need it, I commit the liscence plate to memory.
More urban chamoflage, this guy had it down. Seeing one of the breeder boxes in neighborhoods like this was expected. As the hatch lifts, I see that the light doesn't come on. He'd taken the bulb out, no need to shed any light on his activities.
The rear seat isn't removed, in fact, it's rolloed all the way back in it's track, and reclined so it rests against the door when it closes. He drives off with the music up so he can't hear my struggles. From kinetic cues, I figure he does the speed limit.
I'm supposed to be too bleary to know where we're going, but I know the tubes when I hear them. Likewise, the Oakland Bay bridge has a distinctive sound of metal mesh under the tires. He exits early, so it must be Treasure Island. Never been there, hated the book, but I figure it gives him nice access to the whole area. I wonder if he's got a boat?
I knew I could attract him eventually. I was no virgin, but he couldn't tell that. I figured he just picked them up off the streets, any girl out that late would be easilly assumed a runaway.
Far from it, I'd been raped seventeen times. I'd also killed more men than he'd done women. The pretty little girl thing was a ruse, bait for my prey. All of them where rapist, and I killed them all.
Contrary to popular belief, rape isn't easy. He has to hold me down, himself up, at least partially undress us both, and enter me all with me presumably struggling. It'd be nearly impossible without some sort of controll. Sure, this guy used drugs, but that was hardly neccisary. Most just relied on fear.
I can't help but put some of the blame on the victims. Sure, they don't do the actually raping, and guys need to fucking controll themselves, but a lot less girls would find themselves sexually assaulted if they'd not just lie back and take it. The damned "Don't hurt me" complex is drilled into our heads from birth, though.
I'm over it. I'm not particullarly lady like, though I can act it. I carry knives, and I use them to kill. This guy was good, but he'd fuck up eventually. They always did. If not, I die, I figure I got a pretty good score by now. Not this one though, in the weeks it'll take me to starve to death, he'll make his mistake, and pay for it with his life.
Finally, we're there. He pulls into a garage, by the sound of the automatic opener, and backs in. I act scared, and struggle as expected when he come to take me, but I don't make too much effort. He takes me into a back room, directly behind the van, and closes the door.
I fly across the room to land on a bare matress in the corner. He's strong, I'll give him that. He didn't seem to have any trouble with my 147lbs. I manage to sit up by the time he's done locking the door.
He doesn't waste any time, I know he's been saving up. His type uses girls untill they're dessicated husks, the n cools off a while on the memories. Eventually, the need comes back. It overcomes them, untill they can no longer contain it. He was an addict, a junkie of abuse, and death. I was his fix.
The first thing to go is my soaked tee shirt. Next is the punch knife in it's neck sheate underneath. The ball-chain is designed to snap with a good jerk so I can't be strangled by it. It also snaps him out of it some.
"What's this?" his voice has changed. No longer the needy stranded motorist, here was the voice of a sexual predator. So far, noone had heard it and lived. I couldn't afford fear, and doubt now, they could be lethal. On the other hand, so could overconfidence. He had killed almost fifteen young women, I was ment to round it off.
I didn't reply, so he cut my gag off with it, "It's a fucking knife," I uses my 'Duh!' voice.
"Didn't save you," he muses, and I have to admitt he's right. Next, he carefully cuts away my jean skirt. It wasn't neccisary, but effectively kept me from struggling too much. I don't need another cut now, gave up on that long ago. "Neither did this," he snaps out my pocket knife, inspects the serrated concave edge. "Or this," he holds up my dagger. Now, I'm real happy I wiped my prints before I dropped it, only his are on it.
I was mesmerized by my blades, hadn't noticed him getting his own tool out. He presses it dry against me, forces it in with a jerk. I don't scream, barely even grunt. With my experience, I got fucking callouses. He seems dissapointed by my lack of reaction.
"Fucking slut," he calls me, I just stare into his eyes, "Couldn't keep your fucking virginity, you deserve this you easy fucking cunt." Again, I fail to react. It ain't nothing I've never heard before. I used to eroticise the pain, and fear of rape, get off on it. I was a pretty fucked up kid, but then, I grew the fuck up. I was jaded now, unimpressed by the male half of the specie.
I was just waiting him out, now. He, of course didn't use a rubber. With his plan to starve me, it wouldn't do him any good. With his prefferance for young ones, virgins, he obviously didn't worry about disease. Maybe I should, but later, right now, it's all about him. Patience would win this fight.
He doesn't last long, too pent up after his celibate break. He bottoms out, starts grunting in time as his nuts twitch. I don't feel it, but I know he's filling me with his seed. It occurs to me that he has a dry fetish. The starvation, rape, he must be disgusted by bodilly fluids. I'd be willing to bet he wouldn't cut me.
Finally, he's done. I do feel him withdraw his wilted member, and get an involuntary shudder. He walks off to the bathroom, and I manage to get up. Damn, he's back too quick, got a syringe in one hand, and a length of sergical tubing in the other. "No!" he actually hesitates at my shout. Jesus, he's scared of me!
I'd won the first round simply by being so bored with it. Big deal, rape. It was a big deal to him, and I basicly refused to be raped. As much as I hate that old saw about it being controll, and not sex, I had to admit there was something to that. Sex was definitely at least half the motive, though.
I circled around, wondered how I would be able to fight him with my hands behind my back. I could get cuffs around my hips, but wrist to wrist, it was too tight. I still wasn't about to let him shoot me full of that shit without one.
It was over all too quick. I couldn't even block, so he just punched me, and my head exploded like a bottle rocket. I crumpled to the cold concrete, and lay stunned long enough for him to shoot me up.
Now I've done drugs, but so far had been able to avoid some of the worst ones. None of them prepaired me for this. As the tourniquette came free, it washed though my body like a tsunami of synthetic wellbeing. I couldn't help but relax, it was almost sexually seductive.
He gently picks me up, and lays me on the bed then, I just close my eyes, and feel for a while. Sounds come to the bathroom, and he returns with some kind of spray can. I can feel the foam on my crotch, and it's a nice cool sensation in my condition. Even the rasp of the safety razor isn't unpleasent. Just about everything feels just fine.
He's extremely carefull, I knew he had an aversion. The papers didn't say anything about shaving, but I'm not surprised. It makes them look younger to him, more pure. We aren't people to him, no blood, nop feelings, just anatomicly correct love dolls for his enjoyment. He uses the narcotic to make us nice, and complian, he just couldn't wait the first time.
That was part of the problem, the police never mentioned rape in the stories. It was just sex to them, because the one real rape was already healed. After that, they where nice, and pliable. I hadn't even realized this aspect untill I could experience it. I know now that I'm completely relaxed, inside, and out.
Finally, he's done, and he wipes me off with a warm, damp cloth. That feels nice too, but not as nice as the water drying off my smoothe pubis. It's a lovely breeze. "Fucking cunt," he mutters, "Tried to kill me." I look down to see he's got my dagger again. "Let's see how you like it!"
I gasp in fear as I feel it enter me. Despite my assumptions, there was enough doubt for me to believe it. It's not a sharp pain, though, more of an abrasive sensation. It comes to me dully, through the drug haze. He's fucking me with the handle.
I regret getting the one with the checkered grip. Though nice for fighting, it rubs me raw inside. I haven't felt pain like this in a long time. It's strange, how sexual it can be, pain. Even through the dulling drug, I can feel myself responding. "You like that?" he notices, "My you're a dirty little bitch." Even the verbal abuse turns me on now. I hated him, loathed him with a burning passion that arouses me. I don't know, maybe I'm wired wrong.
I idylly wonder how he manages to fuck me with the dull end. THe blade's double edged, so he has to be carefull with it. Just a jerk of my hips...
"Aghhhhh!" He grips his hand in front of him, blood seeping from between his fingers. "You bitch!" his voice has changed again. Now, he sounds hurt, betrayed. I remember the first time, cutting myself free with my self mutilation razor, slashing the bastard, holding him between my legs so he couldn't get away..."
His crys stop as I grab him, pull him into me. The look of pain is frozen on his face. I grunt in pain as well, the jerk of the handle in me, the hilt bangign inot my erection. He falls over, and out of practice, I easilly eskimo roll on top. theat's when he starts screaming again.
I'm screaming too, as I fuck him to death. My weapon fucks back into me, ripping my insides, bashing my clitorus, knocking on my cervix. It's agony, horrible sexy extatic pain, and I feel it build into me. The rush washes over me, more powerfull even than the drug. I arch, like a drawn bow, and scream in excruciating extacy, and orgasmic agony. By the time I'm done, so is he. No more struggling, no more screams.
I'm drenched, and so is he. It's hard to see all the stab wounds through the blood. I runs down my belly, and thighs, but fails to lubricate the gri pon my dagger. I can feel the bruise of the hilt on my pelvis, and I don't know if my clit will ever be the same, but I was alive. That evil sick fuck lost, and paid with his life.