The Convict's Revenge I don't know exactly what awakened me, but I slowly realized there was a man standing over me, holding a knife at my breast. He didn't say anything, he just stared down at me. I tried to gather my wits, and not panic. The idea of being the victim of a break-in wasn't as traumatic to me as it would be to most people, because I had been an Assistant District Attorney for about six years. Crime, or the aftermath, anyway, was my profession, my daily environment. "What is it, what do you want?" I asked, surprised at the even tone of my voice. He just continued to look at me. "If it's money, you can have whatever I have here, but it's not much. I can give you some jewelry, a diamond ring, and some miscellaneous things. You can have my credit cards, too." Still, no response from the man. I looked back at him. He seemed faintly familiar to me, the more that I saw him. He was an African-American, in his mid 30s, I would have guessed. He was over six feet in height, and seemed to have a thick type physique. He still hadn't said a word. His silence was making it increasingly difficult for me to maintain a calm exterior, and not show the fluttering panic I felt inside. "You can have the keys to my car, too." No answer, and I began to shake, hating that he could see my fear. "Please, don't hurt me, I'll...cooperate, what is it you want?" Finally he spoke, in a very soft voice, so soft that I had to strain to hear him. "Ms. Amber Keating, you don't remember me, apparently." He paused. I looked at him, trying to recall where I might have known him from. I didn't want to think of it as a possibility, but my mind began thinking back to felons I had prosecuted earlier in my career. And as I looked at him, studying his impassive face, I finally remembered him. "James Anderson," I said quietly. It didn't make sense, but I felt somewhat calmer, at knowing who he was. He smiled. I had convicted him of rape, the rape of a young woman named Melissa Roberts. In reality, I was reasonably certain that he had raped at least six other women. The descriptions of their assailant had all been remarkably consistent, as had been the rapist's MO. He had managed to quietly break in to their apartments or houses, and had threatened them at knife point. He had tied them down to their beds, and had then taken an unusually long time in committing the assault. All of the victims had been even more reluctant than the typical rape victim, as far as being willing to describe the details of the attack. But one of the women had grudgingly said that the rapist had acted more like a would-be lover, than the usual violent sexual predator. Frustratingly, only Melissa had been both willing to identify Anderson, and to also testify against him. One out of seven victims was an unusually low percentage of victims willing to seek their legal revenge. That unwillingness, along with their extreme reluctance to reveal the details of the attacks, had made me wonder about what had been done to these women. But I never doubted that it was rape, and I never doubted that I had the perpetrator. And with Melissa's determined and courageous testimony, I secured a conviction. Anderson had been sentenced to ten to fifteen years. It was a little over five years since he had started his prison term. James Anderson now stood over me, holding a motionless knife to me. "You're going to do what I want, one way or the other. If you don't do it willingly, I'm going to hurt you. I'll put a very serious hurt on you, and enjoy doing it. Or you can just cooperate, and not get hurt. Your choice." I looked up at him, trembling inside. From my years as a prosecutor, I knew that there was no single "correct" response to a would-be assailant. It always depended on the circumstances. If you were near other people, and even if you weren't, as long as the assailant wasn't armed, you could and should resist. But if no one else was around, or if the criminal had a weapon, it was usually better to cooperate. There was no guarantee of safety, but the odds were sure better than hopelessly resisting a determined and armed thug. James Anderson was determined and armed. "All right," I replied. "Close your eyes. Put your hands underneath you." I did as he ordered. I felt his hands wrapping something about my eyes and forehead. I was quickly blindfolded. "Sit up, and take that nightie thing off." I was wearing a knee-length t-shirt. I sat up, and took it off. He took it out of my hands. I was excruciatingly aware that he was now looking at my bare breasts. I expected him to touch me, but he only had more instructions for me. "Lay down. Put your arms up to the corners of the bed." Again, I did as he ordered. I felt him fasten some soft material to my right wrist, and he then fastened it to the headboard. He then did the same with the other. I was now blindfolded, and helplessly tied down to the bed. I had no doubt about what would be happening next, at least in general. How ironic, I thought: I had always wondered what he had really done to his rape victims, and now I was about to find out for myself. Whatever he did, though, he could only do it to my body, not to my inner core, not to who I really was. I thought about that, I knew I would need to hold on to my image of myself. I was one of the most successful Assistant District Attorneys' in the city of Los Angeles. I competed with men, and it was a competition, in every sense of the word, every day. And I beat them, consistently. I was a dominating force in the court room, against male opponents, and I was equally dominant among my male colleagues, with better conviction rates than anyone else. James Anderson was in control of my physical self, but he wouldn't be able to conquer my real self. I repeated that to myself, as a mantra of protection. Then, after a lengthy silence, he spoke. "You know why those other women were never willing to go to court against me, Amber? You must have wondered about, that didn't you?" "Yes," I replied, my voice tight from trying not to let my fear show. "Well, I'll tell you why. Because they liked it. Oh, yeah, I know, that's what all rapists say, isn't it? Well, it's really true with those women. I made sure they enjoyed it. You want to know why? Because any fool can physically beat up a woman, and fuck her against her will. What gives me a kick, though, what makes my big black dick hard, is to force a woman to like it, to beg for my dick. And every one of those sluts did, Amber. I'll tell you something else: I made every one of them get juicy wet between their legs. Then I told them if they wanted my cock inside them, they needed to ask for it. And everyone of those fucking whores did, even that cunt Melissa. Just like you're going to, Amber." I knew that for my own safety, I needed to avoid antagonizing him. I knew it, but I couldn't help myself. "There's no fucking way, you asshole. You can do whatever you want to my body, I can't stop that, but you're crazy if you think I'm going to like it." There was a moment of complete silence, and then I heard him laughing softly. "OK, whatever you say." I felt his hand on left breast. He gently squeezed it, and rolled it back and forth on my chest, under his hand. He put his fingers on my nipple. He laughed again, as we both felt my nipple harden, and stand out. "See, Amber, a woman's body betrays her. You think you can't possibly want me to touch you, or to fuck you. But you feel this pretty pink nipple, it's telling us both that it likes having my fingers touch it." I tried to focus my mind somewhere off in the distance, as he continued to play with my tit, going back and forth between my nipple, and rolling my breast around under his large hand. I tried to focus on something else, but I couldn't see, and I was tied down, and it turned out that I couldn't think of anything but how I was nude and helpless, and at this man's mercy. I also knew, because of all his victims being white, that he had to take some special pleasure in dominating and abusing white women, that it added some special spice to his pleasure. And, sickeningly, I felt an awful thrill at the image I had in my mind: a bound white woman, tied down in front of him, available for whatever he wanted to do, for as long as he wanted to do it. I had always taken the upper hand in dealing with men on a personal and sexual basis, as well as in the professional arena. I dictated the terms of relationships, and allowed very few men to ever get really physically intimate with me. I didn't like the loss of control in giving my body to men, so the ex-lovers of Amber Keating were a very exclusive club. But the black man touching me now, he could take whatever liberties he wanted. He continued to enjoy using my breast, for many more minutes. Then, while still playing with my breast, I felt his mouth on my other nipple. He licked the very tip of it with his tongue, and then he used his tongue to circle the nipple. It also stiffened immediately, and now both nipples were erect and hard, one under his fingers and the other under his mouth. And then I groaned involuntarily, and to my shame and humiliation, I arched my chest, as he put his teeth on my nipple, and gently but inexorably, pulled it out as far as it would go. He released it, and then pulled on it with his teeth again, and again I groaned and arched my chest. I couldn't help it. I didn't want to help it, I loved the feel of his teeth, and his hands and his fingers. I wanted him to keep doing it. All of the sensations I was feeling were somehow more intense because I couldn't see, and my entire focus was on the physical sensation of touch, his touch. He continued to use his fingers on one breast, and his mouth on the other. I heard him laughing whenever he heard my groans, and whenever I arched my chest, in order to meet his mouth and fingers. I heard it, but, shamelessly, it didn't stop me. Then, after a few minutes, he pulled away from me. For one terrible moment, I felt intense disappointment that he had finally stopped. But he had only gone around to the other side of the bed, to switch the tits he was using his hand and mouth on. His mouth was now on the nipple he had had been fingering, and his fingers were now teasing the nipple his mouth had been on. And he began again. With seemingly infinite patience, he worked my tits, teased them as they had never been teased before. Every other man who had been granted the pleasure of touching them had done so either to get themselves turned on, or to turn me on so they could get inside my pants. But Anderson touched them apparently for the sole purpose of arousing me, showing no inclination at all in getting between my legs. And he was succeeding. I don't think I've ever been so sexually aroused as I was, by those almost painfully intense waves of pleasure coming at me from my breasts. I was groaning, and arching my chest forward, and panting. My mind kept picturing the image of me laying in front of him, completely vulnerable to him, the same woman who had sent him to prison for years of his life. Now he was doing whatever he wanted to that woman, debasing and degrading her, making her body respond to his lewd and sadistic touches. And they were sadistic, despite the pleasure they were causing. They were sadistic, because of the pleasure they were causing, because this man knew that the last thing in the world I wanted was to be responding to him. And he was now apparently ready to accelerate the process of my degradation. He stopped what he was doing, and began circling both areolas with his index fingers, causing them to immediately pebble. The sensation of his fingertips grazing the pebbled texture, lightly gliding over all the individual bumps was intense and overpowering. I realized I was moaning constantly now, twisting my torso from side to side, frantically trying to...well, I don't know even now whether I was trying to get away from the torturous pleasure he was causing, or whether I was trying to generate more friction between my nipples and his fingers. Again, he kept doing it, leisurely, patiently, content to do it over and over and over... I think I was no longer in command of my rational faculties. I was nothing but a body, a collection of sensory receptors, responding to this man's insidious skill at manipulating a woman's body. No more than a half an hour could have passed, and I realized that when the time came, it could very well be a struggle not to ask him to fuck me. But I wasn't ready to give in yet, despite the obvious pleasure - obvious to him as well as to me - he was causing me. He might have sensed my continuing will to resist ultimate surrender, because he changed tactics. He got up from the bed. In a moment, I felt his hands on my right foot, lifting it off the bed. Then I felt his mouth on my foot. He took my big toe, and put it completely in his mouth. He began sucking on it, and licking all the way around it with his tongue. I felt his tongue probing to get underneath my toenail. It felt perverted to me, but the perversion of it excited me. He gradually did the same thing with each of the other toes, one by one. He would take each one in his mouth, suck on it and then lick it. When he finally seemed done with my right foot, he demonstrated his meticulous patience again. "Spread your toes apart, Amber." I felt a twisted sense of excitement, as I spread the toes of my foot apart. He began licking between them, up and down the sides of the toes, and then the spot at the bottom, between them. He went on and on. I couldn't have imagined that such a disgusting act could be as erotic as this was. I know I was moaning again, constantly. Then he repeated the entire process with my left foot, toe by toe, finally having me spread them as well. It seemed to go on forever, just like everything he did to my body. He finally stopped. I heard him moving around. I felt his hands around my face, as he removed the blindfold. He had taken his clothes off, all of them. He was naked. I couldn't help looking at him. He had obviously worked out on weight equipment in prison. I was right about his thick build, but it was all muscle. He hadn't buffed up to one of those extreme physiques, the kind that don't even look human. But his muscles were clearly defined, in his arms, shoulders and legs. His pectorals were pronounced, and stood out above a lean abdomen. He was a good looking man. I looked down at his groin. His thick, long cock was semi-erect. It was huge. The knob at the end of it was especially pronounced. It was wet at the end. He had quite apparently been enjoying his use of me. I ignored the sudden and intense desire to want to touch his organ. In different circumstances, this was a man to whom most women would be sexually attracted. I had never been with a black man, and was surprised that even the color of his skin was sensually and sexually exciting. He got on the bed, and balanced himself carefully over my face. "You want a better look, Amber? Here your go." He squatted down over my face. He squeezed his knob gently, and I gasped as a thick drop of pre-cum oozed out of his slit, and dropped to my cheek. I looked up at him, getting a very close up view of his genitals. His balls were very dark, seemingly darker than the rest of his body. They were hairy and wrinkled. His cock was frighteningly large, looking at it this closely. I saw it pulsating, bobbing up and down on its' own. Anderson must have been turned on by exposing himself to me this way. "Look at it all, babe," he said. He then moved forward slightly, and spread his cheeks. His anus was also darker than the rest of him. I stared in fascination at a man's asshole for the first time in my life. It looked tightly closed, and there was something sexy and forbidden about the wrinkled, creased texture of it. I felt myself begin to lubricate, as I thought of this black man squatting over me, with the hole he shits out of, directly over my face. And I continued to get wet. "That all looks pretty good, after getting played with a little, doesn't it? That's the way the other women were, too. Only in their case, they let me know they wanted it, so I let them take it in their mouths. Even Melissa, the little bitch, you should have seen her suck on it. I'll tell you something else, Amber, that's one beautiful sight, a big black cock in a white woman's mouth. I liked the way it looked when my balls slapped against their chins." It was all I could do, to keep myself from moaning at the obscene and exciting descriptions. I couldn't deny it to myself, I envied those women, having sucked on that huge, throbbing black cock. I closed my eyes, trying to get myself under some semblance of control. I felt him move away. I felt his hands on my feet. He pushed them widely apart. Then he began rubbing my belly, all over, then all the way to my back. He rubbed his hands down the sides of my body, slowing their motion as they grazed down my hips, to my thighs and then on down to my feet, which he massaged gently. Then he brought his hands back up my body, reversing the previous process. When he got to my belly, I gasped, as I felt him put a finger into my belly button, and rotate his finger within it. I felt him get up and lean over me, and then I felt his tongue inside my belly button, licking it, searching out every crease in its' interior. He had me moaning again, and now my hips and ass seemed to be moving of their own volition. The feel of his tongue was driving me crazy. I suspected that he had to be able to smell the odor of my lubrications, because they were really flowing. And maybe he did, because he changed tactics again. I felt him get off the bed. I opened my eyes, which I had closed as soon as he had touched my belly, and started massaging my lower body. He was standing over me, and again I had a close up look at his cock. It was now fully erect. It looked massive. I stared at the tracery of veins along the length of it, and the way they protruded from the shaft. His knob was wetter than it had been. Then he kneeled down. He put his face close to mine, within a few inches, and kept it there, for what seemed an eternity. I was holding my breath, in anticipation of what I sensed was coming. Then it did come. He put his mouth on mine, and gently pushed his tongue inside mine. He didn't have to push hard, because my mouth opened willingly to receive his thick, wet, velvety feeling tongue. We began a long and deep and wet French kiss, the kiss of lovers, not of a rapist and his victim. I imagined him kissing the other victims, and how they would have felt the same thing I was experiencing now, a satisfaction, an intimacy as deep and as close as fucking itself. He began teasing one of my nipples again, as we continued kissing. Now, he could not only hear my moaning, he could feel it against his tongue. Our kiss must have lasted five minutes, continuously except for a few brief moments when he removed his tongue, so we could both breathe. Even then, he didn't really stop his teasing, because he then briefly used his mouth to suck on a nipple. My nipples were so distended and sensitive that they hurt, and the use of his tongue was like a miraculous relief, as the sensations flooded from them to throughout my body. As we kissed, surely, the most passionate kiss I had ever, or would ever have, I wondered (even as we kissed), what he was thinking, how he was really feeling about the uninhibited passion of the mingling of our mouths and tongue. Did he feel anything other than exultation over the vanquishing of another white woman? Eventually, after an eternity, he pulled his mouth away from mine. He stood up, and looked down at me. I don't know whether he was studying my reaction to the kiss, or was giving me another opportunity to stare at his penis, which I did. I think now that it was probably both. I know for a fact that he enjoyed exposing and exhibiting his enormous member to a woman he had aroused to a fever pitch. I was aroused to such an overwhelming intensity. I wondered feverishly at what point in this physical seduction and conquest he would wait for me to plead for his cock. I knew now that I would do so, and I was ready to so now. But I knew he had in mind more demonstrations of his domination of me. He wanted to prove his superiority, and he wanted to rub my nose (and my entire body) in my degradation and submission to him. He wanted me to submit to him as a woman submits to a man, and to submit as well as a white woman to a black man. It had to be delicious to him, doing this to the woman who had convicted him in court of doing this same thing to other women. And now that I understood what had happened with those other women, I wanted to submit to his domination, I needed to. He had already proved to me his conquest over my body, and over its' responses to him and to his body. I now hungered desperately for the completion of his awesome demonstration. I wanted his huge black cock impaling me, filling my vagina. I wanted to hear his grunts, his noises as he emptied those great, black hairy balls into my moist interior. I wanted him to hear me moan, and cry out, and even scream out my surrender to him, as I joined him in that ultimate release. He kneeled down between my legs. He spread my labia, exposing my center groove. I felt a flush of embarrassment and of lust, too, as he saw and touched and smelled my dripping, messy wetness. Here, in front of him, legs spread open, exposing a dripping pussy, was the DA who had prosecuted him in court. What utter and complete triumph he must be feeling! The thought of his feelings of contempt and revenge made me wet myself even more. James held me open with one hand, and rubbed a finger all the way down one side of my inner labia, and then up the other side, then repeated it, time after time. I wanted him to touch my vagina, to put his fingers inside me. I wanted to feel him discover my clitoris, and use it to tease and torment me some more. But he kept fingering my labia. Then he began using his tongue in the same place, in the same way as his finger. I cried out, and raised my ass, to grind my pussy against his tongue and mouth. He held me open even wider, using both hands, and quickened the use of his tongue. He did that for another of those periods of a couple of minutes, which seemed like an eternity to me. I kept rubbing my pussy against his face. I felt him lapping up my juices, as his tongue continued its' work. He finally got up, and came back to the head of the bed. He kneeled down next to me again. "Now you're going to taste your own cunt, Amber. All the other women loved to taste themselves." I shivered with uncontrolled lust, at the thought of him having done this with the other women. He French kissed me again. I did taste myself. I thought of the time an ex-boyfriend had told me that some guys described the smell of a woman's pussy as being like tuna fish. It didn't taste that way to me at all, it seemed to reek of the lust this cruel and sadistic black male had aroused in me. It smelled of my submission and degradation. It smelled of his triumph over me. I loved the way it tasted, loved it the way I knew the other women had. I wondered if we all tasted the same. I wondered if black women tasted differently than white women. James would know, I was sure. James pulled his mouth away again. He returned to the foot of the bed, and got down between my legs again. Surely, I thought to myself, this has to reaching the point where he would demand my official surrender, so I could obtain the release his cock would provide. "Amber, lift up your legs, and pull them back, as far back as you can. I want you to expose yourself, to expose yourself like the cheap white slut you are." I moaned in excitement at the contemptuous and degrading way he talked to me, the contempt and degradation amply deserved. I lifted my legs and did pull them apart. I groaned and wet myself even more, as I saw in my mind the picture my black rapist was looking at. I must have looked like some female animal in heat, exposing herself to attract the male organ she so desperately needed. And, of course, that's exactly what I was. He reached down, and spread my ass cheeks. He held them wide open with one hand. With the other, he touched my pussy, and got his fingers wet. He moved his fingers to either side of my anus. I felt him pull the tight sphincter open, it must have been a gaping hole to his gaze. He put two fingers inside my ass, and shoved them forward. He began rotating the fingers around the inside of my rectum. I think I was moaning and crying out incoherently, at his invasion of my most private orifice. As usual, he kept doing it, kept on until I felt I would go out of my mind. When he did stop, he stood up again, and came to stand beside me, at the head of the bed. "Amber, I want you to suck on my fingers. You've tasted your own cunt, now I want you to taste your own asshole, and your own shit." He smiled at me. "The others loved this, too. And, Amber, while you suck my fingers and taste yourself, I want you to look at this big black cock. I want you to think about what you would like it doing to you. Think about what you would like to do it." He put his hand down to my face, and then put his two fingers into my mouth. I tasted myself again. James was forcing me to explore and experience my own body. The taste excited me, especially because I kept staring at his cock, just as he had ordered me to. I loved looking at it for its' own sake, and I loved looking at it because he had ordered me to do so. I craved his cock, I craved it for my pussy, and I craved it for my mouth. To my shock, I also craved it for my asshole. I loved the degradation of having been made to crave him so intensely, so passionately. His cock throbbed as I looked at it, and sucked the taste of myself off his fingers. It couldn't possibly be much longer, before he would give me the opportunity to abase myself before the power of his domination, and its' symbol, his enormous, thick, black cock. James pulled his fingers out of my mouth. He went back to the foot of the bed, and got between my legs once more. Without being asked, I lifted my legs, and pulled them back. I loved the way it felt to expose myself so lewdly, so shamelessly before his contemptuous and superior gaze. Then he touched my clitoris. My body convulsed, I thrust myself as forcefully as I could against his hand. He laughed as he teased my tiny pink equivalent of his huge black cock. After a couple of insanely maddening minutes of having my clitoris teased, I felt his other hand search out my dripping vagina. I felt two fingers go into it, and rotate around inside. I was making pitiful, mewling sounds, gasping for breath as the physical sensations from my clitoris and vagina overwhelmed me. I knew I was about to climax, but I wanted his cock inside, I wanted my vagina encasing it inside me. James suddenly removed his hands from me. He came back up to where I could see him. He looked down at me, mockingly, triumphantly. "Well, Amber, I know you said you wouldn't ever ask for my cock. Have you changed your mind, or should I untie you, and leave?" This was the moment I seemed to have been waiting for forever, though it couldn't have been more than an hour. I waited to say the words, so as to momentarily extend the intoxicating anticipation of finally getting his cock. But I realized there was something I wanted even more than his cock. I wanted to experience surrendering myself to him, to submitting to his domination. Yes, I wanted his cock all right, but even more, I wanted to know and feel the humiliation of retreating from my earlier defiance of him, and to know the feeling of having to beg him. "James, please, yes, I want your cock. I want it inside me. I need it, please. And then I want to lick it clean, I want to taste you, the way you made me taste myself. I want to taste both of us on that black cock. Please, James, I can't wait. I'm sorry for before." He kept looking at me, with a smile on his face. Then he reached down, and untied the piece of cloth which had held my right hand to the bed. "It'll only take you a little while to untie yourself. If you think about going to the cops, you better think carefully. There was no penetration, I didn't fuck you, I didn't even force you to touch me, except for my fingers. And I would love to hear you describe why you were sucking on my fingers. I also imagine you have it tough in the District Attorney's office, what with all those men whose balls you must have busted. Oh, they'll be very sympathetic, about a colleague getting sexually assaulted. But behind closed doors, babe, think about all the laughter, about how you got yours, on your back in front of a nigger rapist. Yeah, I would give it some serious thought, before you go and report this to anyone." He turned, and started to walk away. "Please, James, you can't leave me like this, please, fuck me. I'll do anything you say!," I screamed at his retreating back. He never even turned around. He picked up his clothes and went into the living room. I tried to get myself untied as fast as I could, but by the time I did, he was gone. I called in sick the next day, told them I had a bad case of the flu. The day I returned to work, I called James Anderson's parole officer, and spun a yarn about how we liked to keep tabs on certain paroled felons, especially someone thought to have been a serial rapist. The parole officer gave me James' home address. I planned on going there that night...
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