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I am a
professional rapist. Now I know what most people are thinking, "What
is a professional rapist? That doesn't make any sense." Well,
a professional rapist is just what it sounds like, someone who rapes people for
money. In other words, people pay me to rape women. They have many
different reasons for coming to me: revenge, rage, wanting to break the
victim, or just knowing that that woman they see every day has been violated.
How does it
work? It's simple, really. You leave a quick note at a nym account
I have set up, making sure to tell me who gave you the e-mail address (I only
take referrals) as well as who you are and a number at which I can reach you;
any talk of business and you'll never hear from me. If you check out, I
call you and we discuss the target, the motive, and any special requests you
might have. Depending on the job, I charge anywhere from $2,500 to
$25,000, which is to be wired into an offshore account. As soon as I get
payment, I start researching the target and, usually within a week, the job is
done. I then call you and provide you with all the details you want, if
any.
Now that you know
what I do, I should describe myself a bit. The truth is, I'm a pretty
ordinary guy, of average height, average build, a forgettable face, and can
pass for anywhere between 18 and 35 years of age. I am in very good
shape, and am very skilled at various martial arts grappling styles, which
comes in handy in my job.
The reason I'm
writing this is simply that I'd like to share some of my favorite jobs with
other people. It's not like I can just go ahead and talk to people about
what I do for a living, but, here, on the Internet, there is minimal risk, and
I can share my pleasure with people of like mind.
I should start
with one of my favorite jobs. A man contacted me about his stepdaughter,
a 14 years old (I usually only take jobs where the victims are between 16 and
32, but I made an exception in his case, for the money mostly) beauty whom he
had watched and lusted after since he had married her mother two years
before. He wanted her, wanted her badly, wanted her as his own personal
sex toy; but he knew the risks, knew that a young, middle-class girl with a
bright future wouldn't be easy prey. A raped, broken, humiliated, teen-aged
girl, filled with shame and guilt after cumming for her rapist, on the other
hand, would be much easier to abuse.
I was intrigued,
and the information packet he sent about her, including a picture of a slender,
brown-haired young woman, her eyes sparkling for the camera, her young, nubile
body fresh and clean, soft, smooth pale skin seeming to glow with life, lips a
pale red, turned up in a smile, her small breasts thrusting from a spaghetti
strap t-shirt that hugged her body tightly, her stomach flat, her waist narrow,
her ass showcased in a pair of short, rolled-cuff cargo-shorts, her buttocks
high and firm, her thighs smooth pillars of beautiful flesh, her legs gorgeous,
convinced me.
The job was
simple: rape her, humiliate her, shame her, break her, make her easy prey
for a perverted old man who lusted after her young body.
The set up was
simple too, and didn't require much planning (besides putting together my kit)
for me. On a Saturday, he and his wife were going out, and would be out from
6 p.m. until at least 1 a.m., leaving their lovely daughter, Emily, home alone
to look after herself. That would give me a little under six hours alone
with the sweet young thing.
Come the day, I
was ready, having walked into their neighborhood from about a half-mile away
and hidden myself in their back yard. As soon as I heard my client and
his wife leave, I pulled my ski mask on, hitched up my backpack with my kit in
it, and slipped in the back door that my client had conveniently left open.
Before her parents had turned off of her street, I was looking at Emily's face,
her pretty brown eyes widening in shock, her mouth opening to form a shout,
adrenaline flooding her body as she turned to run.
I was on her in a
flash, one arm around her waist, pulling her off her feet, her back against me
as she kicked and fought, my other hand over her mouth, muffling her screams as
she shouted, her world suddenly turned upside down. My forearm was hot
against her flesh, her t-shirt, clinging to her body, riding up with her
struggles, revealing an expanse of smooth, young, delectable stomach. Her
skirt, a simple white A-line skirt, danced around her struggling thighs as she
tried to kick at me.
I quickly carried
her to the sofa and threw her down, hard, her breath wooshing out of her as she
bounced against the cushions. Before she could even turn over I was
kneeling down, my hand gripping her hair close to her scalp, pulling her head
back, forcing her eyes to focus on the knife I was holding right before her
eyes.
"Shut.
Up."
Her eyes got
wide, fear filling them, and her breath came in short gasps, her entire body
quaking with adrenaline. She stopped struggling, going very still, her
eyes locked on the knife.
"Stand
up."
I guided her up,
turning her so her back was toward me, my fingers tight around her upper arm,
holding her against my body, my other hand holding the knife to her neck (dull
side pressing against her flesh, since I didn't want any accidents).
"Upstairs."
I guided her upstairs
and into her room. It was was important that we be in her room, in the
place where she had always felt the safest, where she could always go to escape
the world. My job wasn't just to rape this beautiful girl, but to fill
her with such shame and self-loathing, to shred any sense of self she had, that
she would be easy prey for her stepfather.
I could feel her
apprehension and her fear grow as I shut the door behind us. I pushed her
down on her bed roughly, sheathing my knife as she quickly turned, perched on
the edge of her bed, her body trembling, her arms across her chest, gripping
her shoulders, her lips quivering.
"Co-operate
and you'll be fine; don't, and you won't," I said, making things clear and
simple.
Her tongue
quickly licked her lips and she began to beg, "Please, please..."
One step, and
before she could react my hand was around her neck and she was on her back on
the bed, her legs hanging off the end, my knee between her thighs, pushing
against her groin. I started to squeeze, terror twisting her face as she
struggled to breath, her hands gripping my wrists in a feeble attempt to
dislodge me, her body slowly writhing in panic.
"Shut the
fuck up," I growled at her, my face inches from her own. "You
will speak when I want you to speak, understand?" I released the
pressure on her neck, and she sucked in a deep breath, a frightened nodding
showing that she had heard, and understood.
I pulled her
further up onto her bed, a simple double with a simple wooden headboard.
She started crying when I lifted her t-shirt over her head, knowing for sure
that she was going to be raped, fear making her compliant. I drunk in her
slender teen-aged body with my eyes as I unhooked her skirt and slid it down
her legs: her narrow shoulders, the skin smooth and flawless; her small
breasts, hidden by a simple bra, rising and falling as she quietly sobbed; her
stomach, flat and firm, her belly button stretched as she lay there; her hips,
widening ever so slightly, a pair of white panties keeping her modest; her
gorgeous thighs, clenched tightly together, just starting to fill out, to gain
those womanly curves, her legs smooth and fresh and beautiful.
Straddling her, I
settled my weight on her stomach, starting down at her as she turned her face
from me, avoiding my eyes. I could feel the trembling in her body, the
shaking as she cried beneath me, tears streaming down her face. I set my
backpack down beside her, opened it, and pulled out a set of soft leather
cuffs. She didn't resist as I bound her arms in front of her and, leaning
forward, making sure to press my body into hers, used a short rope to tie the
cuffs to her headboard, pinning her arms over her head.
I started
massaging her breasts then, over her bra, softly squeezing them, rubbing them,
pulling them gently in circles, my eyes never leaving her face.
"Look at
me."
She sobbed more
loudly, and closed her eyes, her face still turned from me, her cheek pressing
hard into the mattress as if she could escape.
My hands left her
breasts and I wrapped my hands around her head, turning it toward me, my thumbs
finding the spots just beneath her ears, behind her jaw, and I started
pressing. Her eyes snapped open and she screamed, my mouth covering hers,
muffling the sound, my weight pinning her as she thrashed about in pain.
Her lips were soft, her mouth warm, as I forced my mouth against hers, my
thumbs digging into her, keeping her gasping and shouting in pain. I
released her just as quickly as I had grabbed her.
"Cooperate."
She was staring
at me, looking so beautiful, her hair disheveled, her eyes shimmering with
tears, red from crying, her soft pink lips quivering. I went back to
massaging her breasts, holding her eyes with mine, drinking in every bit of
fear and humiliation and degradation that shone from them. I kept it up
for ten minutes, letting the rougher cloth of the bra sensitize her breasts,
before pulling out my knife again. She sucked in her breath, her eyes
leaving mine, and I slapped her side, hard.
"Look at
me."
Her eyes came
back to mine, her breathing quickening in fear. I cut her bra from her,
pulling it from her body, revealing two perfect young breasts, a little smaller
than a B-cup, trembling atop her chest as she started crying again. My
hands closed on those two exquisite mounds of flesh, her nipples small and pink
and hard, kneading them, rubbing them, tweaking and pinching the nipples to
hear her gasp and cry between her sobs, making her keep her eyes on mine even
though I knew her tears fogged her vision.
I got up off of
her, smiling as she turned her head quickly away from me, the long, slow abuse
of her breasts humiliating, a brutal invasion of her control, of her privacy,
over her own body. She pulled her legs up and turned to the side, her
knees against her chest, unknowingly giving me a beautiful view of her back, of
her ass, of her panties stretched thinly over those gorgeous globes of
flesh. I grabbed two single cuffs from my backpack and locked them around
her ankles. A long rope followed, and I tossed it under the bed, bringing
both ends up with me. I tied one end to one of her ankles, and, forcing
her onto her back, dragged one of her ankles over one side of the bed using the
rope and the other ankle over the other side of the bed with my hand. I
pulled until her knees were on either side of the bed, and then I tied her
ankles together, the rope stretching under the bed, her feet halfway to the
floor, her knees bent on each side of the bed, her thighs stretched wide apart.
She was crying
again by the time I finished, her young, almost nude body spread like an
offering on her own bed, in her own room, posters lining the walls, her clothes
tossed on the floor. She was going to be raped, and she knew it and
dreaded and feared it. I stood by the side of the bed, her fearful eyes
on me, and slowly undressed, watching as her horror grew, tears streaming down
her face. When I was naked, I laid my body atop hers, flesh against
flesh, my stomach heavy against her spread groin, her smooth skin and soft
breasts sending wonderful sensations through my body.
I took her head
in my hands and turned face toward mine, and kissed her. Laying on top of
this beautiful, bound, teen-aged girl I raped her mouth with mine, my fingers against
her jaw forcing her teeth to part, her lips to open to my probing tongue.
I tasted the salt of her tears, felt the softness of her lips, the moist warmth
of her mouth. She shook silently beneath me and I felt I could taste her
horror. She sobbed into my mouth as I violated her, and I started to grow
hard.
I had plenty of
time, and slowly ground my body into hers, letting her feel all of me as I
continued to kiss her, forcing so intimate, so personal, a touch on her.
I spent a long time, I don't remember how long, enjoying her like that, every
once in a while pinching her ear or her thigh when I felt her mind
drifting--she had to be focused on me, on what I was doing to her, on what she
would soon be feeling.
When I was ready
to proceed I started trailing my lips and tongue down her lithe, slender body,
taking first one nipple in my mouth, then the other, feeling her tense her body
at the touch. She had stopped crying, and was trying to distance herself,
mentally, from what was happening to her, and I smiled. I reached over,
my lips still hot against her flesh, teasing her shallow belly button, and
pulled out one of my favorite toys. It was a 'personal massager', a
wireless vibrator with two speeds and a bulbous head that vibrated:
simple, easy to carry, and effective.
I felt her body
strain against the bonds as my mouth moved against her inner thigh, just inches
from her pantie-clad pussy, and my vibrator tickled her other side; I loved the
feel of her struggles, and sat up, sliding the vibrating head of the 'massager'
directly against her panties, slowly moving it up and down her covered slit,
from her ass to her belly-button.
Her head was
turned to the side, her eyes closed, her body tensing and relaxing in response
to the assault on her young cunt; it was beautiful to watch. Up and down
the vibrator went, lingering over her pantie-clad clit, pressing in, her young
body starting to squirm under the assault. My hand rested on the top of
her thigh, feeling the soft flesh tremble as her breathing quickened.
There is a myth
out there that it is impossible for a woman to orgasm while being raped.
That's just what it is, a myth. Being assaulted fills a woman with fear,
sends her heart racing, fills her blood with adrenaline, her body primed to
fight or flee. It is easy for her body to trick itself, for any sexual
stimulation to be heightened by the real terror she feels, for her body to
react to it, her cunt to become slick with her juices, her nether lips to swell
with blood. It is a wonderful myth for me, to see the utter humiliation
in a woman's face as she cums for her rapist, her body betraying her, her
self-respect shattering as her thighs shake in pleasure.
Almost all of my
clients want their victims humiliated and broken, and I find forcing them to
cum is one of the best ways to do that. It fills their mind with
self-doubt, makes them believe that it they were raped not just because of bad
luck, or bad decisions, but because of their character. "I came while
being raped," they begin to think, "I must have like it, wanted
it." The humiliation, the shame, is overwhelming; their entire
concept of who they are, their place in the world, changes.
I could see
Emily's face begin to turn red, a damp spot appearing on her panties as I
continued to tease her, tears leaking from her eyes as she tensed against the
sensations the vibrator was sending through her young pussy. I pressed
the vibrator firmly against her clit and slid the soft, wet cloth covering her
slit aside, running my fingers up and down the soft, moist, flesh, winning soft
jerking motions from my victim as she tried to avoid my maddening fingers,
grunting softly as she jerked her hips around.
Her thighs
tensed, her ass-cheeks tightened, lifting her ass a few inches off the bed, and
she sobbed as I slid my middle finger into her tight virgin channel. I
hadn't been sure, but she was so tight that I had trouble pushing my finger
into her, the vibrator still sending waves through her clit. I started slowly
twisting and pumping my finger in her slick cunt, bending it up against her
g-spot, earning mewling sobs from her as she tried to bury her head in the bed,
her face and chest flushing as I teased her closer and closer to orgasm.
She tried to
fight it, I could tell, tensing against my onslaught, breathing deeply,
anything to prevent herself from accepting what was coming. When it hit
she cried out, a sound of despair and humiliation and shame, her stomach
heaving, her thighs trembling, her toes and fingers curling, her cunt clenching
and unclenching around my finger as a wave of pleasure rocked her young
body. When it was done I quickly used my knife to remove her panties
while she sobbed quietly.
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I would like to make
this story a serial, but I only have two stories in my head, that of Emily and
Jennifer. I would appreciate reader suggestions of other requests clients
might make of my professional rapist. I would need a packet of
information: a name of the victim, relationship to the victim, a
description, a reason for the job, and what results are desired.
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