Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime now. He wanted
to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely thought to ask her for
money, but now other thoughts were crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother
wouldn't have approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought'a be a crime. Even with the
raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure. She would be sleek
and sexy underneath. He wondered if she shaved her cunt. A lot of women did;
he knew from all the porno filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be
one of those women. She didn't look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he'd had. He'd always fantasized
fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply into the pasty
mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the inside of his thick, hairy
thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting her camera
back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery handymen, but then
she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating from him, his scruffy beard and
filthy clothes, and she realized, with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
"Oh, you startled me," Marie said, self-consciously raising her hand to her
throat, trying not to show her disgust at his rotten-toothed grin.
"Takin' some pictures are you," he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her body. His
gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud, and it made her feel
vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a -- she tried to push the thought from her mind.
"Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class." She tried to smile.
If you're friendly with people, they won't want to -- to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or . . . . She remembered what her girlfriend, Carrie,
had once told her: there isn't a man in the world who wouldn't rape a woman
given the opportunity and knowing he could get away with it.
"Class?" his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
"Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there."
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she had placed
them.
"It was muddy; I didn't want to ruin them," she offered lamely, feeling
more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
"You're a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something like you.
Only you're better lookin'."
"Well, thank you," Marie replied. "A woman always likes to get a
compliment. And now I guess I'd better get going," she smiled, trying to inject
a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her mouth twitched slightly.
She avoided looking into his eyes.
"What's your hurry?" Logan asked, placing his hand on her upper arm and
rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don't make an issue out of it. You don't
want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you would if he were
one of you students.
"I really have to go."
His grip on her arm tightened.
"So if you don't mind"
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she could just focus
her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning, spinning, like a circus
merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw banging her back into the hard
granite of a tombstone. Instantly, his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat.
The top snapped open. A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
"Fucking whore!" he screamed. "Fucking, goddamned whore!"
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her head and off.
He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black, turtle-neck
sweater and a short, gray skirt.
"Take'm off, bitch."
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen almost to
her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the upper region of her
thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes slowly focusing. A thin trickle of
blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She pulled it up and
over her head. He took it from her and tossed it aside. She wasn't wearing a
bra. She didn't need to. Her breasts were firm and round with pink nipples and
areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant and put it in
his pocket. "The rings, too, bitch, and the watch." He was going to strip her
of everything.
"OK, take the skirt off."
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her thighs,
letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it. She bent down and
picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look, she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn't wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from her breasts,
down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with long-nailed fingers reached
inside the waistband and scrolled the panties down. She stepped out of them
and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
