RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie Bogle, as the
windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she wanted
to have pictures of John Blackthorne's grave site to show her students on
Monday. That was when she was going to introduce them to the poetry of that
obscure, eighteenth century American poet. She felt her introduction would be
more interesting to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled. Her
boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked her to set the
day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just when everything was coming
into bloom. When all was fresh and new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The most
attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett High. What her
students would call a knockout. She usually wore her straw-colored hair pulled
back into a bun to give herself a more mature, sophisticated look. Without
makeup, she could have easily passed as one of her students. The face was
sensitive and intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery, she hummed
along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and waved cheerily to the
guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today, she
thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and monuments, streaked
with centuries of lichen, were depressing to look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite trysting
place for lovers. But in the middle of November there weren't likely to be
many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She remembered reading
about it, once, in the Sunday supplement. There were trees of all kinds, but
mostly oaks and maples. The newer section of the cemetery was on the other
side, where there were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate
the dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic and
neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and Corinthian columns
competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering angels to form a virtual maze
around her as she drove deeper down one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the location of
the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many of the lane signs were so
badly faded with age that she couldn't read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when, suddenly, she
recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones throw of the site, at
least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after picking
up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs, with snarling gargoyles
on their corners, was an old, red brick path that descended down a terraced
slope. Towering oaks shrouded it, their bare branches dripping clear, crystal
drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the path cautiously,
for the bricks were slippery from being worn smooth over the ages. She
regretted having worn her high-heeled sandals instead of her joggers, but then
it hadn't been raining when she'd left the house. At least she'd had enough
sense to put on her gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn't a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes were
watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An unpleasant
thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday she, too, would be lying
under her own press of earth. It was a horrible thought. She tried to think of
something more pleasant, like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom ïf the
surroundings settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray tombs, where
he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an occasional, sparing, sip of
Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he thought dolefully, for he didn't have
anymore money. Flat broke, busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street and hustle
for money. It was too much work. And he wasn't as young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat, coarsely haired
belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray T-shirt. Once when he
was younger, his belly had been rock hard, but that had been a lotta years ago.
Too much booze and too much junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble of wiry
beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit here in the goddamned
cemetery for the rest of his life if . . . if only he had enough whiskey to keep
a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn't going to happen in the real world. In the real fucking
world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle, and most of the time
you didn't get jack shit for it. Fuck it all anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the homeless
who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they weren't bumming from
strangers on the streets or eating out of filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn't be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light out of
the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she was lost.
The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no resemblance to the neat,
precise layout of the cemetery map. If the map could be counted on at all, then
Blackthorne's grave had to be somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet.
She would just have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most of the
ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and stepped between a row of
tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish up between her toes as she moved to her
left. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences with spear
points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or coffin-shaped sepulchers
presided around by a host of simpering angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids.
To Marie, the smiles seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among
them cautiously in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over one
shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the still, misty
air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without realizing it,
she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross made of white marble.
Climbing vines had been carved into its surface. On the base she saw the name,
Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some of the
words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory . . .
breathless before new seasons,
new joys . . . before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the inscription
had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the words had been penned by
Blackthorne. That was the most likely assumption, she guessed. But, if so,
why did he think he would be going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne
hadn't been an evil man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs. She took
several shots from different angles using various settings, in case some didn't
turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn't notice the stocky
man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
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.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His cock
was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle dribbled from the
corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny pricks the
sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist, slurping sounds. He
gazed over her shoulders and down her arched back to where her rounded buttocks
curved out resting on the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen
even more.
He'd made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he'd carried in his
hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more. He had gotten her drunk,
she knew, so she couldn't run away. But at least the alcohol had softened the
horror of what was happening to her. Some at least.
"OK, that's enough," he said. "Get on your back."
"Please--"
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip, squeezing
her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a fraction of an inch
from her eye. If she moved her head even slightly, he would blind her in that
eye. It was paradoxical. He was hurting her so she would want to struggle, to
resist. Yet, with the knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
"Please, I'll be good," she gasped quickly, before he could tighten his
grip again. "I'll do whatever you want. Please don't hurt me."
"Well, that's a little better now." He watched her lie down on her back in
the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body and slid from her jiggling
breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart. He stared
fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were tight and smooth.
She was staring at his cock.
"Nice isn't it?" He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin back
over the swollen purple head. "I once killed a woman with it," he said
laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have heard her scream. Now
that I think about it, she might not have been a woman after all."
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from expressing
the full disgust she felt for him.
"Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I'm really cooking, like right now.
"Put your hand around it," he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one and a
half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
"Course no man's dick can compete with the fucking babies you worthless
cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it's gonna hurt, bitch.
I could've been a real porn star if I'd wanted. Donkey Logan, har, har." He
spit out his wad of chewing tobacco on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey
bottle out of the mud and made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits
himself.
"Some women say I get mean when I'm drunk. But you don't think I'm mean,
do you?"
Marie shook her head.
"That's good cause I can tell you're a woman who likes to fuck."
Marie nodded obediently.
That's good cause I want us to get along real good." He moved the tips of
his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt, stopping to roll her clit
between his thumb and forefinger.
"I'll bet that feels good doesn't it?"
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered something
else Carrie had told her: it's impossible to rape a woman, because her body
will always betray her and become aroused even against her will, and despite how
much revulsion she might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just
once.
Marie couldn't accept this, wouldn't accept this. She fought against the
pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not cum! She would not give
this hairy, smirking, male ape the satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself above her.
The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of her cunt. Drops of water
dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The slap of
his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol cracks in the quiet
afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the crack of her
ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way between her
teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of chewing tobacco. She could
feel the thick length of his cock entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips forward.
Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her wet, warm tightness.
"Oh, that's good," he sighed. "That's really tight."
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills through her. "If
you don't cum, I'll kill you!"
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would do no good.
She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She heard him
gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping furiously. His fists clenched in
her hair, pulling and yanking. She ignored the pain. If she was going to live,
she had to cum. Nothing else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one goal: to
cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and --
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cumed with Brad. Harder than
she had ever cumed in her whole life. She felt Logan's cock swell and jerk
spasmodically, swelling in her belly. Hot gushes of cum spurted into her,
filling her. Cum oozed out of her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot
and sticky. He kept filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a
bull for several short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she did, she
knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he cut with
his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was involved in a car wreck over three states away.
Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the police found on him was a
camera with negatives of a gravesite and of a naked woman in various erotic
poses. On the last frames of the roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms
to the beam, her waist, thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round,
and staring at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in
a cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said he knew
nothing about them, that he'd been on a drunk for several weeks since being laid
off from his last job. The police held him for forty-eight hours then let him
go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle's former students was surfing
porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude pictures. He downloaded
every one, and notified some of his former school chums, so they could get
copies, for all of them had wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END
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