From the Victim's Perspective - Book of Evils

       From My Perspective.

       Introduction

       My name is Julia Birks.

       I'm a newscaster and sometimes an on-the-road reporter for a small TV station an hour north of Toronto, Canada.

       This is my story, told as events unfolded, to the best of my recollections, and through many of my thoughts at precise and terrible moments.

       He, my captor and tormentor, has permitted me pencil and paper and I write every chance I get. It's cathartic and allows me hope, and hope that somebody, other than me, will someday get to read my words. That they may be a warning to other unsuspecting, beautiful women and lead to his demise. My writing can seem disjointed at times since it's near impossible to think about, or think at all, after some of the horrors he's visited upon me, upon my body and often I swing back and forth between the present and past tenses.

       He only got me because of my ambition, my lust for fame.

       Some people told me it would be my undoing, but I never envisioned anything as horrid as all this.

       Of course, my ambition, the sum total of my focus was to become a fixture on a major network in Toronto. To be the chair, the anchor, the evening news broadcaster and to that end he tricked me.

       The Madeleine McCann story was huge at the time and he called from a payphone saying he knew where she was. That she was alive, and he could lead me to her discovery, but he'd only do it for me and there could be no cops. He claimed he had to maintain his anonymity or bad people would come after him to kill him. He sounded plausible and sufficiently scared and desperate, that I fell for it.

       I had been highly instrumental in solving a high profile kidnapping/ murder case previously of ---Koopmans and also in the rape murder of Holly Jones in Toronto so it semed plausible that he would contact me about Madeleine.

       But there was no Madeleine.

       He had watched me often on my broadcasts and had fixated on me as a potential victim for his sexual gratifications.

       He lured me to an abandoned house slated for re-zoning where he took control over me at gunpoint.

       He spirited me away in his vehicle to an unknown location.

       This is my account from that moment on.

       

        My Perspective.

Page 1.

       Who is this madman?

       His eyes are grey cold, almost dead.

       No, they're fucking dead.

       I need to swear. It makes me feel stronger, at least somewhat powerful, not so weak and helpless.

       But I better not swear at him, not yet at least.

       I'll save that for when I've got him under my control and God help me to get him, to better him, to get him under my control.

       I'll kill him. I'll kill him for kidnapping me.

       What does he want from me?

       I'm afraid it's sex.

       It's about raping me.

       I'm good looking but he is too. Not at all what I'd expect a rapist, my potential rapist to be.  He's not overly tall, maybe five foot seven, a hundred and fifty pounds. He's muscular but not muscle bound so he must work out to a moderate degree. His face is pleasant and he bears a striking resemblance to Pierre Trudeau, the former prime minister of Canada.  His countenance is not the least maniacal.

       So is he a maniac?

       He must be, to have kidnapped me and brought me here.

       Where ever here is? I don't know, but it was a long, uncomfortable drive, trussed and bound like I was and I didn't like how he handled me while he tied me up. He was more personal than he had to be which I assume wasn't an accident.

       He didn't hesitate to point a gun, he said was loaded, at me so he must be crazy.

       But is he sex crazy?

       Sex crazed?

       And is it because I'm good looking?

       It must be.

       I know my body's attractive to men. I take care of myself. I've  never been over a hundred and thirty-five pounds so for my height my figure is pretty well perfect. Very slender, svelt.

       I know I'm not  busty at 34C, at least not overly so, but I'm still proud of my chest. The way my breasts tug at my blouse trying to show off. They're my best feature.

       So is that why he has me? Because I'm perfect, because he thinks I'm special or unattainable?

       That must be it.

       That could well be it.

       I hope that's it, that he cannot attain me.

Page 2.

       That's so often it with the sexual misfits, the miseries like him who think because a woman's beautiful and capable, an independent woman, that she should be punished for it. Made to pay for her nerve.

       She should be knocked down a peg or two on the ladder.

       Taken down from life's successes.

       God, how he might punish me. How he might abuse me if it takes his fancy to do so. I can't go there.

       I can't let my mind focus nor dwell there.

       I must control my imagination and my fears.

       The images. The impossible images, fleeting.

       Horror movies I've seen and reviewed.

       When I wrote for the dailies.

       What one fears most is often what comes to pass.

       Please, please let me drift back to before. Let me wake up and not awaken to this.

       Let me see my life before.

       Who was I before this.

       I'm Julia Birks and I'm strong.        

       I'm beautiful and I'm regal. I have an air.

       I have drive.

       I've always been strong and an independent woman. I've never depended on a man and now I have to depend upon him to listen to my reason and not hurt me and to let me go.

       I hate men.

       Is that why he has me?

       Because he could sense my loathing for men and oh, how I loath him extra and severely, almost pathologically.

       I'm a newscaster and an onsite reporter. I've worked so hard to attain my positions and I'll be double damned if I'm going to let some prick with a prick, beat me down and back.

       I suppose I have myself to blame?

       My ambition and my drive, they blinded me to the dangers. My self-defense training made me overly confident and I never had a chance to get to my purse to get my stun gun.

       Oh, God, what will he do when he finds it?

       What will he think?

       Maybe he won't even go through my purse so I could get lucky. I need to get lucky right now. Right now, that's the only thing I can see that will let me defeat him.

       Lady luck and I'm a lady, so we're sisters.

       Still I may have to make my own luck, create my own golden opportunities.

Page 3.

       Why did I fall for his ruse about having knowledge about where missing three year old Madeleine McCann was? Why?

       How likely was it to be true?

       I so wanted it to be true, for her sake.

       And for mine.

       Visit:   http://www.bringmadeleinehome.com/

       But he spoke so convincingly and lied so ably that I was blinded by the specter of world wide recognition for being the reporter who solved the mystery. The way I had for the rape murders of Jessica Koopmans in Alberta and Holly Jones in Toronto.

       Visit:       http://www.cbc.ca/canada/story/2002/05/21/koop2trial2020521.html

       Visit:       http://www.hollyjones.ca/

       Front page headlines everywhere. Word wide acclaim and job offers. No more small town beat but the big time and the talk shows. I love publicity. I love being in the public eye and well thought of.

       I love being famous but don't have enough of it - yet.

       I was a fool and he fooled me, so what now?

       I have built my own career and have every reason to be proud of who I am and my accomplishments. But I want to achieve so much more, do so much more, both simple and grand.

       I will not let him make me feel inferior nor inadequate.

       I'm superior to him in every aspect. There's nothing about him that's better than me.

       I know I over compensate sometimes but it's allowed me to succeed as a newswoman. A woman in a predominantly man's world. Oh, yes, there are women who've made it but they have to try twice as hard to be considered half as good.

       It's a chauvinist clique but I'd break though it.

       I have to do, what I must do.

       I have done, what I've had to do.

       I only slept my way into one assignment, into one opportunity and God, I've wished ever since that I hadn't. It was the dumbest thing I've ever done. It wasn't worth it because everyone found out - eventually and so my feature was tainted and ridiculed when it should have been praised and lauded as ground breaking.

       But I think I'll have to do it again, now.

       I think I'll have to sleep my way out of this. I can sense it. I just know I will.

       I hope he's not brutal. He doesn't look mean but his eyes are peculiar and piercing and cold like there's something missing, like empathy.

       God I hope it's not his soul missing.

       I just know he looks right through my clothes.

Page 4.

       He sneaks looks at my breasts.

       Geeze, I wish I'd dressed more conservatively. I suppose he thought I was provocative with my knit sweater and no bra, that I provoked him and he couldn't help himself.

       Blame the victim.

       Always blame the victim.

       I refuse to be the recipient of his blame.

       I wish my nipples would stay soft.

       I'm getting scared, so I am scared of all the unknown things, unspeakable nasty and vile things he could do to me, to harm me. And it's making me erect. The same as cat's will purr when they're scared, not only when they're contented and feel safe.

       That's all I need, for my body to signal him, to send out a message that I'm aroused. That he could take my chest for sexual arousal. Oh, how perverse that I can't control what I most need to now, when I've been able to control so much of what's taken place in my life. So I suppose it's an illusion.

       How does it go? Women plan and God chuckles.

       I wish I had a bra on. A big thick padded one with lots of lace across the cups. I don't need a padded one. My breasts are so nicely proportioned and I know he's noticed. I could feel his eyes on them, more than once, and he gulped and was a little red and looked guilty like a found-out schoolboy.

       All men, most men notice my chest and sometimes it gives me a kick, a boost and other times not. Not, like the dripping lecherous stares of Bill, my condo super. He even tried to grope me once, like it was an accident in an over crowded elevator on the way down from my suite. But he missed and otherwise he's harmless because he looks the part to leer, and this monster, my captor, looks like the perfect gentleman. Almost timid and harmless. But so full of harm and malice. So full of his madness and anger and not at all the sort of man you'd suspect to want to rape you.

       If a man can be fey, he's fey.

       I wonder if he's done it before?

       He seems so calm and in control.

       He must have done it before.

       He's had practice.

       I'm not the first then?

       What a horror if I'm not the first.

       What about the others?

Page 5.

       Oh, God. Oh, my God. What has happened to the others?

       Are they still alive?

       Or are they dead - here?

       God. Oh, God no.

       Torture.

       Horrid unimaginable torture.

       Did he torture and murder them - here?

       Their screams. I can't hear their cries. There'd be ghosts. There'd be signs and I don't see any and I don't hear any.

       But my dread? What is it telling me?

       Maybe somewhere else in this house.

       They're buried in the basement like in all the horror films.

       I have to calm myself.

       I have to be mentally quiet.

       'Be still and know that I am God.'

       Be still my restless heart and racing, roving mind.

       I must. I just must calm myself to hear what I can from within.

       Yoga. Yoga. Remember my Yoga.  Uhmmm.

       OK. OK. So now I see now.

       Yes I'm in danger but I'll survive. I'm certain of it. I won't let him kill me. Not here. I refuse to die. I'll make it that he wants to keep me alive. That he enjoys having me about and if that means pretending to have great sex with him, I'll live that lie too.

       I love life too much to die.

       I have too many unfinished things, some I have yet to start and then complete. I want kids. I don't need a husband to have babies and I'd like a boy and a girl, or two girls or a boy and a boy and it doesn't really matter as long as they're healthy and smart and good looking. I can't stand ugly babies, nor adults, nor fat ones either.

       I suppose that makes me shallow.

       I suppose I could felate him.

       He can't be that big since I figure he only weighs about one sixty. But he must be fifty years old, positively ancient and I'm only thirty so that means it must be part of it. He's attracted to my youth, my youthfulness compared to his own age anyway.

Page 6.

       If I do, if I have to, I'll insist he wash himself and he has to scrub his cock or I won't go along. I won't accept him into my mouth and if he's going to rape me, he must wear a condom. He must take precautions or I won't accept him into my vagina, no matter how much he wheedles and begs or threatens.

       Oh God, he can threaten me. I don't want his baby. I don't want any man's baby from his cock having been inside me.

       Oh my God, but still he can threaten me and mean it.

       Gosh, I wish I had my period.

       Most men won't have sex during it. That's been my limited experience. Maybe I could fake it. I mean lie about it to keep him from trying in the first place.

       Or aids. I could claim I'm HIV positive.

       But if he found out I was lying, it could be worse. It could anger him to do things he wouldn't have done otherwise, spur him on, so to say. So I suppose it wouldn't be wise. So I shouldn't take the chances. I could really pay for them and regret it so I must listen to my intuition.

       Or should I?

       Should I ignore it and play it out by ear, as it unfolds?

       I'll have to weigh it and balance it and see what his approach is. When I know his method, then I can adjust mine as need be and as I see fit.

       I'll control the situation.

       He may not know it, but I will.

       The trick is that he not know I'm doing it.

       I can be pragmatic.

       I can be scheming.

       I can be. I will be.

       I can be strong and I can tell strong lies.

       I want to live and I'll do whatever it takes.

       I can live strong lies.

       But I won't resist.

       I can't resist.

       Not when he has me like this.

       At his mercy.

       And what about his mercy? Does he have any?

       When he has me like this?

       I can't resist.

Page 7.

       I can't resist, until the time is perfect and then I'll smash him. I'll smash his balls and I'll smash his head and his cock head too. He thinks he's going to stick it in me? I'll take a hammer to it and neuter him, for having the nerve to accost and hold me this way. Thank God for my defense training. It may have failed me, but only because he was too far away, out of kicking reach, and he had a gun. He showed me the bullets and crowed about how it was loaded and did I want to find out the hard way.

       He thought it was a stupid joke that the lead would be the hard way.

       He's a stupid man.

       What else would my answer be?

         But he doesn't know about my fighting skills, so it'll totally surprise him when he finds out and then it'll be too late for him.

       I'll make him scream. He'll see. He'll hear himself.

       I'll make him beg for mercy but not until I'm sure he'll have to. I'll make him watch himself being emasculated in a mirror.

       Thank God, I have patience and have learned not to be impulsive, at least most of the time I'm restrained.

       And now he has me restrained, constrained.

       How paradoxical.

       What if he wants to do it more than once?

       What then?

       I have to set a hard rule, like in stone. Only once.

       I'll agree to only one time.

       But what if he insists?

       Puts the gun to my body, to my private parts and insists. Then I suppose I'll have to let him. I'll have to let him do it over and over. I can do it, if I can't stop him, but I won't want to.

       But what about anal, anally?

       I draw the line there.

       I hate it.

       There.

       Before I beat him off, a guy tried to rape me there.

       I hate the thought of it there.

Page 8.

       It's vulgar and like animals.

       Another time I was drunk and did it, I despised it and him and me for letting him convince me through my foggy boozy haze.

       What will I do now? Then, if now?

       If that's what he wants, I'll have to derail him.

       Re-direct him.

       I'll simply have to.

       I will not agree to be buggered.

       I'm not buggering bait.

       Oh God, he's coming. Coming back into my prison, the one he's created for me.

       Here he comes.

       He's closer.

       Here he is.

       He's not a shadow any longer.

       He's got food for me on a tray, so at least he doesn't intend to starve me to death.

       He greets me with a sheepish look on his narrow face, his skinny goat face.

       'So how are you this morning? I've brought you some breakfast.'

       As if I couldn't see that for myself, but I must be thankful and shouldn't be ungrateful nor sarcastic, like superior. But I want to be horrid to him. Defile and ridicule him.

       'Well that's obvious.' I said.

       Damn it. Damn it, Julia, control your sharp tongue. It'll only get you in trouble, as it has a few times in the past.

       Learn girl, learn.

       He looks hurt, like I should have appreciated his consideration and my failing to do so hurt his feelings. As if he hasn't already severely hurt mine. He deserves to look hurt.

       'Did you sleep well?' He asks. As if I could with such fear and dread and longing hanging over me.

       I lied, 'Yes. OK, I suppose considering where and how I am.'

       I just had to ask.

       It was burning me.

Page 9.

       'Where am I? Where? You're going to let me go soon, aren't you?' I need to let my family know I'm OK.'

       But then it really dawned on me, seeing him there before me, and not being able to read his intentions, that I might not be OK, not at all.

       I was kidnapped and his hostage. His possession.

       Only he knew if I'd be OK, so I had to get him to tell me, so maybe I should just come right out and ask him.

       'You're not going to hurt me? Are you? You're not going to kill me? You won't be mean to me, or anything? Will you? You haven't said why I'm here, but I'll co-operate with you, whatever it is, I promise you don't have to hurt me or anything. OK?'

       Much to my own chagrin, it all spilled out of me.

       Like a nervous torrent.

       But not all of it.

       I was a chicken.

       I wanted to mention about the sex stuff, to give him my rules, but I couldn't force myself too. I suppose, I was too afraid of the answer, the answers, but that wouldn't change anything either would it? I reasoned with myself, if he was going to, he's likely going to succeed unless he's unusually careless and I won't be able to prevent him, not physically. Not as long as he has me secured like he does, fastened by my neck with a thin steel cable attached to the ceiling like a potential noose. I can move in a four foot radius but that's about all. And the device the line's attached to, at the other end, the one with the long handle, I don't like the look of that either. It looks like it's for adjusting the line length. It looks really strong so it looks like he might be able to hang me up if he wanted to.

       God forbid that he wants to hang me.

       I hate his voice. It's sappy and effeminate but I don't think he's queer. A mamma's boy, maybe just a mamma's boy.

       Oh my God, a repressed mamma's boy who's been saving up, saving it up and holding it in, and then it explodes.

       All over the place. All over me.

       It has to come out and now he's aimed it at me. He's about to take it out on me.

       And I'm sure he'll take it out of his pants too.

Page 10.

       Maybe, just perhaps, I could order him around the way his mother does or did. I wonder if she's still alive? Maybe he'll listen to me then and obey me the same way I'm sure she makes or made him.

       I'm used to giving orders so it should be easy for me.

       I can just see her. An over weight woman. An unfeminine slug with a pasty face and nasty full foul mouth, a mouth full of nasty things to say to him and about him and mean, grey, lifeless eyes the same as his.

       But then again, maybe she's not that way at all and I'm just seeing her through the eyes of my own prejudice as it relates to how my former fiance's mother was before I broke off our engagement. It registered bitterly and I'm still not recovered from the humiliation and shame, from the sheer stupidity of my allowing myself to make such a poor potential mate choice. As it be, it's long behind me, but I still feel it and now I have him to deal with.

       I wonder if he's adopted. So many of the sexual misfits that end up in the penitentiary, they're adopted. I did a piece, a story and it was even heartbreaking some of their stories of drunken step fathers beating on their natural mothers and throwing a Christmas tree, on Christmas morning, through a window in a fit of jealousy and anger. And stamping on presents before they were opened. A merry fucked-up Christmas to you and a new year in Hell.

       I'm sure she had a thing about dirt or dust and surely for food. Ate everything in site that wasn't nailed down.

       He's looking at me cold now.

       Studying me.

       What is he thinking?

       What is he wanting?

       What does he want he's afraid to take?

       But will he stay afraid?

       I'm afraid not.

       Maybe I shouldn't have said about hurting me. Maybe I should have kept my over-sized mouth shut. He's done nothing to indicate he plans to hurt me but then again he hasn't reassured me either, denied that he would and why am I restrained like this?

       He needn't have but he's chosen to, so he's set it up for his purpose to control me by my neck while my hands are free and my feet are loose, to do what?

       My hands are free, to do what?

       To strip?

       To undress for him?

       I'd better apologize, but try to sound like I mean it.

       I need to lie well now.

       'I'm sorry. You've been good enough to bring me breakfast and I haven't even thanked you. I'm sorry and thanks.'

       There, that did it. That must have sounded alright, I congratulated myself.

Page 11.

       'That's alright.' He said.

       As if anything's right let alone all of it.

       'What have you brought me? What did you make for me?' I had to sound receptive and appreciative.

       'See for yourself.' He said as he uncovered the tray.

       It's a reasonable meal of pancakes and scrambled eggs and orange juice, toast and coffee. Coffee, my coffee, I just have to have it and I'm hungry. If I'm going to fight him, I'll need all of my strength and then some.

       'You shouldn't have gone to all the trouble.' I lied to him and he seemed happy at my deference and appreciation.

       What a lie. He owed me the very best of everything if he was going to assume responsibility for having me. Be my keeper at his beckon and mercy and not my will.

       But maybe I could control him, with flattery. It was food for thought and his food was reasonably good.

       He'd prepared it right and I had no trouble eating it. I wanted to make it last though, since I had no idea what came afterward and as long as I ate, nothing more was happening.

       It was a security blanket but it was disappearing.

       He seemed to just like watching me eat, like it was a form of my accepting him.

       'Could I sit down while I eat it? It's a bit awkward this way.'

       'Of course.' He agreed. It was like I was a princess and he leapt to please me, like leapt to attention to attend to my attention.

       Strange as it was, he wanted my approval and I would use that against him.

       Weakness number one. He wants my approval.

       I was right about the device. It was a ratchet affair and he lengthened the line attached to my neck by five feet which easily let me sit on a chair he provided. He pulled a small table up and set the food tray to rest and then just backed off and away, watching, watching me.

       He had to be the greatest watcher ever.

       Like he's watched most of life go by and now he's contented to just feast on the images of me being there before him.

       It makes me uncomfortable the way I can't control what his eyes are looking at and I know my nipples are still a little bit hard, but with no bra they might as well be bare.

Page 12.

       I wish I could tape them flat, but I can't.

       He seems pleased at my appearance, at my situation and solitude and most of all now, with himself. It's as if he wasn't sure he could do it, that he could get me and now he has, so he's proven his worth to himself.

       I am his worth.

       But what is the next form his being pleased will take?

       What role will he next assume?

       He hasn't rushed me to eat, at all. Quite the contrary and I wasn't hurrying but eventually I'll finish. I'll have to finish.

       I'm wiping my hands and I'm staring back at him as if to say, So what now?

       He wants to say something.

       He was going to say some thing but he's reluctant.

       Like what he wants to say will make him guilty of more than he already is.

       I have to divert him.

       'Could you do something for me, please?'

       I asked in my most humble voice and I must always say please to him unless I'm screaming at him and then I can forget.

       'Depends.' He asserted his authority over me like it's a blanket affair.

       'Please, please I have to go to the bathrom.'

       I'd held off as long as I could about this, since it meant my skirt and panties had to come down and I didn't want him thinking of me like that because, who knows, he'd know it and maybe get ideas. But I really had to go and if I soiled myself, that would probably be worse and I couldn't hold it indefinitely so I might as well get the subject over with.

       If I wet myself, he'd see I didn't want to ask and draw his own conclusions, so the natural thing to do was to ask to do it.

       I could see the slightest change in his countenance, like he'd been waiting for it.

       He'd known I'd have to ask and now we were there and whatever else he wanted to attach to it, it was out there too.

       But what did it really mean?

       His face turned peculiar and his eyes actually lit up.

Page 13.

       The bastard.

       The bastard.

       The God damned bastard, he's undoing his belt.

       The bastard.

       The stinking bastard, he's undoing his pants.

       He's got a foul smirk on his face and his lips are quivering.

       So here it comes.

       He's finally getting to it. Just as I feared, as I expected.

       God let him stop.

       I must tell him to stop -

       Before it's too late.

       'No, please. What are you doing? Why? I only asked to use the bathroom, so what are you doing?'

       I tried not to sound too panicked but my heart and my mind were racing ahead of my reason and I'm sure it intoned, seeped into my voice.

       'I have to go to.' He retorted all smug and self-satisfied as if he was taking his pants off in front of me just because he could and just to show me, just to remind me, who was really the boss.

       The family that pees together, stays together. Is that what he thought in his twisted humor?

       His pants were on the floor and he had an erection.

       'What do you think of this?' he asked.

       The strapping male had a puny erection, maybe five inches tops and I thought he shouldn't be showing any women that poor excuse for a prick he called a penis.

       He had to know he wasn't big, not even average and was that another part of the equation about why he had me? Why he felt he had to have me by taking me prisoner, kidnapping and holding on to me, like a bauble. It was the only way in Heaven or Hell he'd ever get it close to me and now we both knew it.

       I suppose he got some of it right, but now I'd have to humor him and not insult his (lack of) manhood even though it was an insult to the kingdom of penises.

Page 14.

       'I don't know what to say. Please, you're scaring me. I only asked to go, not that you disrobe. There's no relation between the two, so please, just help me to go.'

       The very moment I said it, I knew it came out wrong. That it didn't ring right or safe.

       'Help you to go? I suppose I could do that too.' He'd seized like a bolt, on the opening, as fast I couldn't rebut him.

       He came right up to me in his slightly bulged underwear and asked me to hold my hands out in front. From off to my side he retrieved a pair of hand cuffs and was about to snap them onto my slender wrists.

       'No. Oh, no, I don't want you to do that. You don't have to. I promised. I promise, I'll co-operate.'

       'So co-operate then and do as you're told and put them on.'

       I stalled.

       'Or let me.'

       He was fixed, fast and resolute so in a minute or so, my wrists were cuffed in front of me.

       I didn't like it nor the implications.

       I didn't trust it one little bit.

       He checked them for fit and wanted them to be too tight.

       They hurt but not unbearably.

       But the deeper point was he wanted them to hurt and now he was having his first hurt fix.

       So I came to a deeper realization at that point, that the guy was dangerous in general, and dangerous to my health and well being to be specific and I fully expected he was extremely sexually dangerous, far beyond both the other circumstances.

       I had to out gun him.

       Without a firearm, I had to ambush him.

       He released the line restraining my neck, at the ratchet device end and pulled it out and free of the ceiling eyelet and held tight to the loose end and then we were walking out of my prison.

       To another jail.

       I looked around fast, with fast eyes for any sign of any thing that would help me ease my dire circumstances.

       There was nothing I could see to use to my advantage.

Page 15.

       He was cunning and careful and the short hall was stripped of any potential weapon I could seize upon or even improvise with.

       He guided me to the bathroom, digging his sweaty fingers into the soft upper fleshy part of my arm. I know he squeezed too hard and also sort of felt my arm up, like you would expect for a breast. I was into the bathroom and he came right on in with me.

       What was he planning?

       To piss for me?

       We just looked at each other, sort of in a Mexican stand-off, only it was a sex stand-off.

       'So, take it down or do you want me to do it for you?' His threat was obvious and mundane, really quite unoriginal but good enough, effective enough that, of course, I didn't want him to assist me. To undo my zipper at the back of my skirt with his greedy, skeleton little fingers close to my ass and my crotch, so I unzipped it slowly and let it fall even slower to the floor.

       His bugger eyes bulged.

       His fucking eyes bulged out like a bull frog's on top.

       I was very nicely built about my hips and it never occurred to me I'd have a pervert starring and appraising my attributes and I loved wearing sexual underwear to affirm and complement my femininity. Much to my own chagrin, I had on a pair of Victoria's Secret accessible crotch panties with a man's fly to the front.

       Where else would it be, unless I had them on backwards, the thought flashed through my mind and I could almost laugh at the sight.

       I'd forgotten, when I'd put them on in the morning, which was just yesterday by now, but it seemed like forever ago. Now I wished I had old lady's straight laced bloomers on.

       'Well holy fuck.' He exclaimed. 'Look at you. Will you look at you. Who would have thought? But then again, you can afford the best, and those are definitely that.'

       I was embarrassed and angry at myself as much as I was furious with him. But then I needed to be kinder to myself.

         How could I have anticipated my own kidnapping?

Page 16.

       They say to always wear clean underwear, at least my mother and her mother did, in case you're in an accident and emergency staff have to get your clothes off for whatever reason. Mine were surely clean but still wouldn't fit the bill for the rule. They were lavender, sheer stretchy and pretty well transparent and he could see my vagina and I knew it.

       And he knew I knew it.

       Now we were into a whole new arena of personal invasion. I think he wanted to fuck me then and there but had other ideas to attend to first. It seemed he was disciplined and able to control his carnal impulses.

       But for how long before his rage overtook his reasons?

       He backed away a bit so he could see my privacy better and muttered anew, to himself, but loud enough for me to know what he was on about, like on purpose and to humiliate me and infuriate me. He was on about getting off.

       'God you're beautiful. You're so fucking beautiful. Even more so than when I imagined all those times.'

       He'd imagined me, over and over? When? When had he seen me before? He chose me then. He tracked and hunted and hunted me down until he tricked me into his ruse. How utterly diabolical and scary, but intelligent and brilliant too, to have succeeded and gotten me. He got away with getting me, at least as far as I knew and he may even get away with it forever.

       How will I ever know? I fussed to myself.

       I know he has me cut off and he'll not likely change any of that so I have to defeat him on my own, on his own ground. Everything, he's familiar with and I know nothing about, and still I must prevail. A tall order for a tall girl but I must be up to it.

         Now God, God, he's reaching for me.

       God, God, not on me, not in me.

       His hands not, not, oh God, help me.

Page 17.

       'Stop it. I order you don't. Stop it.'

       'Fuck you bitch.'

       And so there it was, there they were, the 'f' word and the 'b' word strung together in classic un-originality.

       How many unimaginative men have spat out, 'Fuck you bitch'?

       He gave me an angry glare, a least I think it was angry except that he seemed to be enjoying it all so much. How do you enjoy something and be angry at the same time? You don't? So he was just pretending to be angry to heighten his pleasures and my fears.

       But I was angry that he'd toy with me with such dishonesty and I was afraid and gave him my best look of death, my best killer glare.

       It just seemed to propel him.

       It didn't work at all and his grabby hands had my select underwear at the sides at the waistband at the top.

       He was about to pull them down.

       Every beautiful woman's worst wide awake nightmare was now mine too alone.

       His face was mere inches from my business but his mind and his lust were a foot inside of me.

       His eyes were right in there too, tight.

       He bared my vagina quite smoothly and beckoned me to step up on one foot and then the other so he could park my panties in his pocket. Except he had no pocket, since his pants were off, so he stuffed them down the front of his briefs right around where his erection was hiding.

       The thought of his erect penis against my personal intimates revolted me but then I supposed the thought of his finger or his cock inside me would do so more.

       He told me to sit down to pee.

       I had no choice. I had to go so badly and the sound of my stream was strong like a spray.

       He ridiculed me and told me it all was quite unlady like.

       'Really had to go, didn't you?' He seemed to gloat and chuckle as if it was some way into my psyche which I couldn't help because all women, even beautiful vulnerable ones, always had to pee, especially scared shitless ones.

Page 18.

       I'd been relieving myself for maybe five seconds and he told me to stop. What the Hell? What the - in the name of all that's decent, was he up to?

       'Fucking stop pissing. Clamp your cunt shut and stop.'

       He was demented serious and I squeezed all those muscles down there and managed to stem the flow to a dribble and then shut it right off like a closed tap valve.

       'Now stand up.' He ordered me gruffly. I just barely could and he handed me a drinking glass.

       'Finish in this. Finish pissing in this.'

       It was humiliating and disingenuous but I filled the glass almost to the top before I was empty. I had a small bladder, like most women claim and I hadn't had any liquids other than for breakfast.

       Now he became an extreme monster. A prancing little degenerate ferret monster.

       'Would you drink it?' He asked like a quiz.

       The bastard was way beyond what I'd imagined. He was hollow, but full of sick ideas and he had to know drinking my own, still hot urine would make me sick too.

       He didn't seem to care other than he could make me revulsed.

       And he achieved his aim.

       He raised the glass to my lips and I wouldn't part them. How could I? No way I was giving him the satisfaction, so he took his satisfaction else where. He poured the full glass of piss onto the top of my head into my lovely long hair. I could not, not in a hundred dreads, would I have expected him to have done that.

       How vile.

       How utterly degenerate and disgusting.

       He was disgusting and I'd pay him back.

       I'd make him eat his own shit.

       My piss ran all down me, in hot streams, into my stretch knit sweater and down across my belly, back into my crotch where it'd just come from. Full circle, so to say.

Page 19.

       He was absolutely delighted and seemed quite proud at the degrees of my surprise and distress.

       I couldn't even rage at him at that moment.

       It was like something he'd always wanted to do to a beautiful woman and now he'd done it to me.

       'Now get in the shower. Wash yourself off, you stinking slut.'

       I was not a slut.

       I'd never been a slut.

       And I wouldn't let him make me into one.

       But I did smell.

       He'd made me what I was and now denigrated me for it.        How delicious for him and hopeless for me.

       I really had to watch out for his tricks.

       He had no sense of what was fair other than I was his fair game.

       I wanted to shower anyway.

       Before I needed to shower, I wanted to, so at least that part of my wish was being fulfilled.

       I didn't know what to do about my knit sweater. Of course, when I'd shower I'd never have it on, that would be silly and nonsensical and went without saying, but now I'd rather not take it off. But if I left it on, I was sure he'd have something unpleasant to say about that too.

       What should I do?

       What shouldn't I do?

       If he saw my breasts bare, it just likely would start him up again. Get him going back to the sex stuff.

       I didn't have an answer.

       There was no answer where I would win.

       It was lose, lose and I'm sure the sniggering little bastard knew it.

       'Get into the shower. I told you and I'm not going to again.'

Page 20.

       He barked at me as if using a few extra words was a labor, was a travail to him. He's so stingy and miserable, miserly. He's a fake person. He's not even human so he's an impostor to the human race. No admittance allowed.

       What was I to do?

       'Give me your sweater. I want your sweater, now. Too bad you don't have a bra on. That'll teach you to go braless and try to drive all the cocks crazy with your fucking erect nipples. They are erect you know. I guess your piss did it to you.'

       I hated how arbitrary he could be. How he could decide this way or that and that was the way it had to be for me.

       I'll get my chance.

       I'll make my chance and when I do, will he ever be sorry.

       I have to take my sweater off and it's killing me to do so. I've never been forced to strip before in my life and now I'm baring my chest right before his filthy devouring eyes.

       How did I ever end up in the situation?

       I have to take my sweater off in front of him.

       Why should that matter when he'd already seen my vagina?

       It does. But it does. It's another little part of me I'm giving up to him, giving over to him, so it does matter.

       Besides, some men, most men start with the breasts and work up to the vagina.

       Could I allow myself the luxury of a joke? Of some mild humor? When it should be work down to the vagina.

       Fuck him. Fuck him all to Hell and back, I won't let him see me struggling as I shed this bit of protection.

       'Nice. Julie, fucking nice. Take it off slowly. Don't rush it. I can only see your tits bare for the first time once. Only once, sort of like a first nipples impression.'

       He thinks he's being clever when he's only being predictable.             

          I'm so much smarter than him

       I'm so much better at things than him.

       I bet I'm better at everything that matters, than him, except I would never kidnap and he's done me so, so I guess he's good at something more than I could ever be, not that I'd ever want to be.

       But that's what he is in life, a life wannabe.

Page 21.

       I had no further avenue of delay and as my sweater cleared my breasts. They popped out and down.

       I was a 'C' cup for sure and almost a 'D', so the were full bodied and appeared even a little bit heavy even though I was only  a 34.

       His eyes popped out and down too.

       'My God. My fucking God, you're beautiful. Fuck. Fuck did I ever pick right when I chose you. Fuck, Julie, your tits are fucking fantastic and done for.'

       I hated the sound of that. What woman in her right mind wouldn't. What in earth did he mean by 'done for'?

       'Give me your sweater. Hand it here.'

       I threw it to the floor beside the tub, to make him stoop down to retrieve it. It made him lower himself in front of me and that satisfied me, just that tiny bit of manipulating him. Hopefully I could turn it into a larger and large manipulation as our time wore on together. As familiarity set in.

       He just looked at me with a smirk and started in again about my beauty. 'Shit and God. You've got the most beautiful tits. Fuck are they gorgeous, full and heavy, but not too large like that ugly silicone Playboy shit. Go figure that. What are you, about 34C?'

       He knew his tit sizes.

       How'd he know them so well?

       'Answer me.' He demanded.

       I will not, I won't say a word to him about my bust.

       He can't force me to.

       'No. Don't want to say? Fine, I'll measure you myself.'

       The arrogant drip, he thinks I'll let him do that? So now I'll have to eat those words about not saying a word.

       'Yes, you're right. I'm 34C.'

       'But almost a 'D', right?'

       What did it matter? 'C' or 'D'? What the fuck was it to him anyway?

       'You like my shape. I can see that so just let it be enough.

       'Enough? Enough for what?'

Page 22.

       He was sucking me in and there was no right answer.

       'Just enough.' I begged him to stop with the tone of my voice.

       'No. Fucking no. Into the shower it is. Get yourself scrubbed and polished.'

       I hated his turns of a phrase. How he thought he was being clever when all he was being was obnoxious and predictable. But the shower felt good. I got the water really hot, too hot so I would know I was still alive and I could control something. I got all my urine out of my hair and that felt better too.

       I had my eyes closed, blocking out my surroundings and situation and he surprised me.

       'Here, put this on.'

       I opened up my vision and he was handing me a bra. He must have had a supply. I found out later, he stole from the thrift stores. He said he would put them on under his clothes and walk right out past the female clerks with them and often women's panties over his balls too.

       He was one sick, uncute little puppy.

       I didn't want to, but really didn't have much of a choice.

       'It should fit you, and if it doesn't, I've got others.'

          He was just so satisfied he'd be able to stick with it until he got his way with me.

       I did it up at the back and stepped into it and pulled it up along my body, over my hips and across my bust until my breasts nestled into each cup. It was sheer beige stretchy, like a sports bra and I certainly did justice to it, and it to me. It quite flattered my endowment and it's one I would have bought, but only new, never used. For some reason, he was almost more excited and turned on with it on than with my chest bare.

       'Now wash yourself. Lots more soap. Wash yourself good. Concentrate on your tits.'

       I did his bidding and he wasn't inclined to have me stop anytime soon. Maybe ten minutes, I played around with my chest and finally with it beyond soaked through, he asked for his bra back. He thought it was my bra, but it wasn't. I hadn't chosen it, so as much as I liked it, it would never be mine.

Page 23.

       'Give me it back. Take your fucking bra off. Take it off and hand it to me.'

       'It's not mine, it's yours.' I argued with him.

       I was pissed and angry at his assumptions and fully intended to start letting him know. He wasn't going to get away with them. Get away with it any longer.

       'Whatever, bitch, just give it to me.'

       So just like that. Just like that, he had the power again and he wasn't afraid to use it and I wondered if he's not afraid to use me too. Just like that, I had to bare my breasts to him again and his horrid beady eyes and I had no choice. That's what I hated the most. Not having an immediate alternative. And I'm sure he knew it too. It's what he relished.

       I  unlatched it and stripped out of it and handed it off to him. He took it gladly and wiped it across his crotch and then the bastard put it on. What was with him? Was he a cross dresser? I didn't think so. No, it was that I'd just had it on and now he could. How dare he. How fucking dare he force me to bare myself just so he could taunt me with the garment I'd just had on. I'd use it to strangle him with. God just give me the chance to and I'll wrap it around his gawky neck.

       He preened himself in front of me and I didn't like how he started pinching his own nipples, and it looked like he did it hard. I was sure it wouldn't be long before he was up to doing the same thing to me. That should be obvious to anyone, I'm sure he thought.

       And of course, he wanted me to expect it.

       Like I had expected my baby would suckle at my breast, before I miscarried.

       I was afraid I wouldn't have enough milk or know how to do it properly. I was afraid it could hurt.

       I don't want him to handle my breasts.

       They're mine, not his, and he has no right.

       I don't want him to pinch my nipples and certainly not to suck on them and most of all I don't want him inside of me. I don't want him to fuck me and I'm sure with him it would be fucking and not bear any resemblance to making love making.

Page 24.

       So how am I to prevent it?

       If he's made up his mind to, how do I unmake it for him?

       'That's enough. You're clean enough now. Out of the tub.' He seemed so pleased to be able to order me around. Jump to his tune or dictate. Dicktake, yeah, I'm sure that's what he thinks.

       I don't see any alternative and step over the side of the tube closer to him, onto the bathmat. I look for a towel  and he has the only one I can see.

       'Please give me the towel so I can dry off. I'm a little cold and shivering.'

       Way up and down, deep into my spine is what he wanted.

       He just looks at me, all knowing and all powerful and all - finally.

       He says, 'Uh uh. Uh uh, no. I'm going to dry you off.'

       So there it was. He was going to get to molesting me and probably a lot worse.

       I stood there like a scared crow and let him do his horny thing.

       He did the perfunctory back and shoulders and legs but when he got to my chest, he totally took advantage. He felt me up through the towel on the guise of drying me and I stood bolt straight and just let him do it to me.

       To me.

       To me, Julia Birks.

       At least it wasn't his bare hands yet.

       When he dried my pubic hair, he got too personal by much. He pushed the fabric of the towel into my labia and parted me. He did little masturbatory actions against my clitoris and, of course, eventually I started to swell. There was just so much I could do to try to circumvent it, like pray really hard.

       But it didn't work and his movements did.

       I'm sure he thought that was just swell, me swelling up and all and then he dropped the towel and indeed all pretext went down with it.

       He gripped onto my hips at the side and planted his face fully right into my vaginal crease. He nuzzled and shoved and I think he even had the nerve to kiss me until he got his teeth going, that is.

Page 25.

       Now I was in serious difficulty and I knew it. My clitoris was engorging and I just knew he'd use it against me. He'd taunt me and shift the responsibility for his raping me to my asking for it. I must be, my pleasure center was responding.

       So I asked for it, how could he say no?

       If I was asking for it so blatantly?

       His little boy erection was hard and I knew he wasn't going to waste it.

       So I'd have to let him.

       I'd have to give it to him and not let him take it from me.

       As long as he wasn't violent or cruel, I could abide by it. As long as he didn't try to hurt me, I could stand it even if I couldn't stand him.

       It was just a round, short piece of meat. It wasn't an axe or something to burn me with. It was just a useless dick.

       I'd read about other women's accounts of being raped, about what they were thinking and feeling while it was actually happening, (In the heat of the moment, I'm sure he'd call it.) and they were being forcibly penetrated and thrust, and often they'd say they stepped out side of their bodies. Their feminine soul and the heart of their femininity, their feminine spirit and will would detach and transcend from the flesh of the body and become above and beyond the reach of the violation that was assaulting their sexual components.

       The vagina was just a device being used for one of it's intended purposes and they would remove themselves from the simple mechanics of being raped.

                 Now it sounded good, only in theory.

       But I was sure I could do it and I was just as sure I'd soon have to find out.

       God, I want to bash him and smash him.

       I want to hammer his testicles with a hammer and slug his penis with a ball bat.

       I could do it.

       I know, now, I could do it.

                I wasn't a killer.

                But I could be a killer of rapists.

       Particularly mine.

Page 26.

       I could kill him too, without hesitation and know that I'd not only defended myself against an unprovoked attack but done the world of women a service as well by getting him off the face of the earth.

       He belonged in it, in the earth and even that was a waste of good dirt.

       I was bound and determined to be instrumental, if not the sole instrument, to putting him there.

       He'd pay for what he was out to do.

       He'd see.

       He'd pay.

       He didn't even deserve a casket and I'd squat over his face and shit in his mouth and then flush his ashes into the septic where he belonged and from where he'd come.

       I'd piss on him too, but in his eyes. Not the way he'd poured my own urine onto my hair and thought it was a lark.

       Oh my God. God, God, no. He's starting. No, no, he's starting.       

       My God, no. I'm being raped. It's the beginning.

                 He's starting to insert his fingers into me.

       No. No. God. No. Don't let him do this. Oh, no. Now he's got two thumbs in me and he's pulling in opposite directions.

       Stretching me open.

       Oh, how horrid and demeaning that he should be looking inside of me. That he shouldn't be. He has no right.

       My vagina is an open hole now.

       Shit, I'm going to piss myself but I'll end up pissing on him too. Soiling him and myself and he might get mad.

       I don't want him mad at my vagina.

       'No. No, not that.' I plead.

       Now he's got him thumbnails dug into each side of my clitoris. He knows what it is, where it is and he's starting to hurt me there a little bit.

       Oh, God don't let it be a big bit. Don't let it be a lot.

                 Don't let it hurt a lot.

Page 27.

       Mercifully, he's stopped. I don't know why he has and while I'm thankful, I don't trust him at all. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Enjoying just being able to stop when he knew I expected more.

       What has he got?

       What's that in his hand?

       It's a hat pin. A long one with a pearl head. I've used them for sewing. I love to sew, at least I did.

       Why does he have to have that?

       What's he up to?

       I don't like what he's up to or how satisfied he looks.

       He knows I'm scared.

       He wants me to be scared.

       But he want's me to be really scared.

       I can see that now.

       Clearly I can, and I don't want to.

       He's a freak. Oh, God, but he's one who has me under his control. Does he intend to make me a part of his freak-show life?

       What is he doing?

       What? What? What on earth?

       Oh, my God. He's insane.

       He's sticking the needle, the hat pin into his own chest muscle. I guess it's a breast, a male breast. Oh, yes, for sure, I've read how men can get breast cancer too. What an embarrassing disease for a man to get. A woman's disease. What kind of wuss gets male breast cancer?

       He's still pushing it in. He's got it in about two inches.

       'What do you think of this?' He asks me proudly like he's accomplished something extraordinary and of value, but I suppose if he wants to scare me and he values that, then what he's done is valuable too, to him.

       'I think you're nuts. You enjoy inflicting pain upon yourself. You a masochist and you get off on it?'

       'You ain't seen nothin' yet.' He replied in his best contrived improper English.

       And, pointedly, he was right.

Page 28.

       He was going to push the point of the pin out of his breast, from inside. I could see that and what I couldn't believe was that he was forcing it to come out of his own nipple.

       God that had to have hurt him.

       But it seemed he wanted it to hurt extra.

       It took him five minutes of grimacing and groaning before he got the point right out his nipple and he seemed even prouder to show me.

       He was stupid beyond belief.

       But dangerous stupid.

       He was dangerous beyond anything I could have imagined.

          He's got another hat pin and now he's insisting I take it.

       'Hold on to this. This one's for you.'

       I know he's headed some where nasty with his little side show and I couldn't be more right.

       'Now it's your turn. You do the same as me.'

       I know I look horrified, more than I ever have before and I know that's what he wants.

       But I am horrified, to the nth degree.

       How can he think I'll do that to myself? He's raving mad.

       He's madder than mad. He gives new definition to the reality.

       'I want you to start and don't give me a lot of flak and shit about how you can't. How you're a woman and you can't.' He ordered me.

       'You've just seen me do it to myself and I'm still standing so it's no big deal you doing it to yourself.'

       I figure he's done it before, to himself.

       Maybe even to another woman.

       But if so, for certain, in his masturbatory fogs and frenzies and fantasies in his greasy little hidey-hole where he'd jerk off.

       Pathetic misfit feeding his obsessions by acting out on himself until he frenzied himself enough to act out on me.

       Greasy little pervert in his greasy little cum filled hidey-hole and he thinks he's going to get into my hole. Over my dead body.

       And then it occurred to me, that could just be it. That could be for real if I didn't kill him first.

Page 29.

       Oh my God. No, What? He's got a gun. A rifle. Oh, no, no, no. Don't let him shoot me.

       'So you're not too anxious to get started. This I can see.'

       His observational powers were truly keen for a slug blinded by his perversions.

       'See this? It's a 177cal air gun. It shoots pellets or bb's or darts. I prefer the darts. See, they have pretty colored tails to make them go straight and you can use them over and over again. They're expensive but well worth it. They're not lethal, but they hurt like stink.'

       He showed me a handful, as he smirked. More than I wanted to see, like an endless supply. God I wanted to smash that look of his self-satisfied face and I took a swipe at his hand, to knock them all flying, but I missed by a finger.

       'You bastard.' I struck out at him in outrage. 'So fucking what? What? If I don't stick the hat pin in my breast like you did, you're going to shoot me then, instead?'

       'Not instead, cunt. Until. Until you do. Starting now and about every ten seconds after that, until the point's sticking out of your nipple from the inside out.'

       He picked up the rifle and sort of broke it in half. The barrel flipped forward at a ninety degree angle and he placed a tiny metal dart with a yellow tail into the barrel hole. He closed the gun and I was right to presume this had somehow activated how it was designed to shoot.

       He stepped back about ten feet and ran the barrel sights all up and down my body.

       I turned to the side to protect my front.

       'Face me. Fucking face me at all times or you'll really be sorry, if you don't.'

       I could feel he meant it so I complied.

       But now, I didn't have the hat pin. I'd thrown it down in a pique of a fit and he was aiming all up and down me.

       'No. No, wait. I don't have it. I threw the hat pin at you, so you know I don't have it.'

       'So? So, who's problem is that then? I gave it to you and told you what was required and you threw your chances away with it. So now it's this.'

Page 30.

       He fired at me.

       The fucking little scuzzoid bastard actually had the nerve.

       The scum bag bastard had the audacity and the colossal nerve to shoot me. My upper thigh just to the inside.

       God. God, I mustn't scream too much. He wants me to scream. God I know he does. The pain is unbearable. The dart's not all the way in. Maybe a quarter inch to where it gets bigger in diameter, the size it is in the barrel where the feathers are.

       God, there's hardly any blood but I don't think he hit a vessel or anything.

       God, what if he hits an artery?

       He's re-loading.

       It must be one shot at a time. The gun must only hold one dart. That makes sense, the way the darts look.

       He's, he's aiming at me again.

       No. No, no, I can see him aiming for my crotch. For my vagina.

       'No. no, Oh, God, he wouldn't. God don't let him.

       Relief.

       I feel relief for a moment.

       I am relieved of my hope.

       He's moved the barrel up level with my chest. My nipples. Of course, they're natural targets for him like sex bull's eyes. He's so unoriginal but I don't want that either.

       Just as he's fired again, he's moved the aim and a dart's lodged in my breast plate in the middle of my valley. It's into the chest bone. I know it. And he looks so smug now, like he's pleased how I got the shot and, of course, we both know, he could have drilled my nipple.

       I have to beg.

       I have to beg now.

       I have to reason before he really sex shoots me.

       'OK, please, no more. Let me have the pin and I'll do what you want. I'll do it right away.'

       'That sounds fair. I'll tell you what, I'm going to give you a lot more slack on the line attached to your neck which is securing you, keeping you from running away or running at me. And you find the pin. You threw it away, so you find it and I'll just back up over here taking pot shots at you until you do.'

Page 31.

       'No. No, that's no fair. That's unfair. No, please.'

       'Unfair? What'll be unfair is, if you don't, I'll shove the muzzle of the gun right into your cunt and then trigger it. Then you think that'd be unfair too, do you? More unfair?'

       I could see that he meant every evil word he said, by how  much he enjoyed laying it all out for me so I'd have to go with his first offers. And I'd have to think about the consequences of not doing so.

       He lenghtened my leash by seven feet and I scrambled to my hands and knees to find the pin.

       He'd backed up, as he said he would, and after about twenty seconds shot me in my buttock. I know I screeched and fell flat to the floor. It seemed like he'd doubled the intervals, to twenty seconds, between shots. I'm sure it wasn't out of his generosity but more likely his malice. The more interminable seconds for me to anticipate.

       He was ready to fire again.

       His aim-eye was cocked and his other one was squinted shut.

       He said my beauty blinded him but if that was true, why was he using it for target practice?

       God dammed it, I could not find the pin.

       Why did I have to be so impulsive and headstrong and unrealistic, thinking I could better him? So defiant as to throw it away and now it was all that I wanted to find in life. My attitudes had gotten me in trouble before (with men) and it was happening again.

       'I can't see it. I can't find it, please. Please give me a chance.'

       He didn't.

       He put a green dart between my ribs at the side and it almost went right in all the way. It hadn't struck a bone. He knew he'd hit a soft spot and was more surprised it hadn't disappeared inside me.

       It seemed he was disappointed too.

       The bastard had sharpened the darts. He'd used a small grinder to make them needle sharp.

       He really wanted to hurt me, to penetrate my skin and muscle and bone, maybe even my brain.

Page 32.

       I'd collapsed to the floor again but managed to struggle back up to crawl and there it was, off to the side of me about five feet away.

       As I went to scramble and reach for it, he commanded, 'Hold it. Hold it right there.'

       'No, but you said I have to find it and now I've found it. There it is. So?'

       'Just fucking hold it right there.'

       The thing was, when he'd shot me in the side, he wasn't at the proper angle for what he'd really wanted. He'd seen my breasts hanging down like a cow's teat. Now he was at just the right angle.

       He put a red dart into my dangling breast about an inch back of my dangling areola and profiled nipple.

       It would have passed right through, the soft fatty tissue and all the milk globules, except for the tail feathers.

       I tried my best.

       I really tried.

       But I had to pass out.

       It hurt too damned much and I knew he could do it again if he wanted, or worse. But he couldn't do it if my tit was no longer hanging and I was squished to the floor flat out cold.

       Everything went red and swimming and I slumped into a flesh heap, oblivious to his next moves.

       As I swooned, I said a fast little prayer, more of a fleeting thought prayer, like a flash to a God I wasn't even sure any longer existed, at least not for me.

       'God, don't let him put the barrel inside of me. You can stop him if...'

       And then I was gone out cold.

       Unconscious and defenceless.

       It was an unaware respite but he was aware and doing things while I was away in mind. He was industrious and busy.

Page 33.

       God, oh God, how has he got me now?

       What has he done to me now?

       While I was defenceless and couldn't argue with him or yell at him to cower him, what has he gone and done?

       He's slapping my face back and forth. He want's me there with him again. In mind as well as body.

       And what's this? What the? He has me re-dressed. All my clothes are back on plus the bra that was his. What's he up to?

       He must be crazy. Why would he do this?

       He orders me to stand up and I struggle to do so.

       The hat pin, the needle, I'd half expected that he'd have stuck it in my breast himself and then out through my nipple, the way he wanted me to do, before he took to using me for his personal target practice target. The nerve and the gall of him, to shoot me, to shoot me like he did. Who does he think he is? What does he think breasts are for? But no, no the needle's not in my breast but he has me with a line, just one cord tied around my ankle.

       It seems the least secured I've been.

       I must finesse and engineer it to my advantage.

       I'm setting up now, in the middle of his horrid jail room and the line is extended up to an eyelet in the ceiling and then goes across to the evil looking ratchet device. It's a winch, a hand winch.

       "A winch for a wench", he joked at one later point.

       What is he up to now?

       I don't want to know.

       I have to know.

       My hands are free.

       My neck is free.

       Everything's free but my ankle.

       So what does he want now?

       'You were supposed to use the hat pin on your tit and you didn't. So we'll have to approach it another way now, from a different perspective, so to say.' He seems to gloat better.

       He says it all proper and like scientific, like he's a researcher trying to find a cure for cancer, rather than causing it.

       He is cancer.

       The worst form of breast cancer any woman could have.

       And he's my cancer of the moment and he brings it on where ever he goes.

Page 34.

       I shall resist him.

       I shall.

       I'll win.

       I have to.

       I'm not going to give into his whims for me, anymore.

       I've decided and it's been decided, so I'm strong now.

       What a relief, now that that's settled with myself in my mind. I can be a peace with myself. I'm sure he'll try to force me, but I'll never give in now. So now I'm the stronger and stronger than when I ran for public office and lost.

       It made me stronger and now I'm the strongest I've ever been. My resolve is etched in steel. I would have been a good mayor, just the best and would have looked out for all the little people. Certainly better than the spend happy socialist buffoon at the helm now. That Miller guy. I hope he gets defeated in the next election.  Some media critics call him, 'His Blondness' after his great shock of wavy dusty hair, and I so love it. Why didn't I think up that description for him? Him and his left wing council will spend us into the poorhouse so long as the money's there for their pet projects. And when it isn't they'll borrow and run up year after year deficits. I wish I'd won. I'd've had security and wouldn't be here now. In his debt.

       So, so what does he intend now?

       'You see this thing here?' He called for my attention and directed my eyes to the device at the end of the rope around my ankle. I didn't want to know what he was getting at.

       'It's called a come-along or a fence puller or stretcher, some just call it a cable ratchet, but the point being it'll lift a ton off the ground, two thousand pounds of dead weight, straight up, and that's what I'm going to use it for.'

       'What? How?' I was beyond anxious more into the panic now.

       'The handle works the ratchet and winds the cable around the spool making it shorter, so you can see your ankle will have to go up, and up as far as I want it too, even to the ceiling.'

       'No. No, for God's sake, what? Why? What's wrong with you? What's right with you? No, please.'

       He was working the handle back and forth and the line attached to my ankle was about to force my foot off the floor. I couldn't prevent it, not even a little. I tried to pull down on the line with my hands, like shinny up a rope, but it was too narrow a gauge and my hands couldn't get a grip, and it wanted to cut into them.

       But I'd have to.

       If I was going to get through this at all, I'd have to get a good first-hand grip.

Page 35.

       Christ, was he scaring me.

       My foot was now a foot off the floor and I had to hold onto the line some times to steady myself, to keep my balance. Of course, pulling on the line to stabilize myself only pulled my ankle up higher which tended to de-stabilize me. What a perfect catch twenty-two he had me in and I'm sure he knew it even better than me. If he'd done it to other women, then he'd know it better than me.

       It was my first time.

       This isn't madness, it's rageness.

       He's raging against women.

       Against my body. It's not me he wants. He wants my shape, my form. The way I appear. He wants my countenance but not my content.

       He wants.

       He wants.

       He's diabolical that way. He knows just how to twist the knife that little bit extra to make it just enough more worse.

       Yes, he must have had practice.

       Lots of practice.

       Why does my mind keep coming back to this?

       And all those times he's masturbated, thinking about such things, honing his skill, so to say, his ability to be an unfeeling monster and to inflict pain. He's a pain junky now, addicted and I have no antidote.

       I am the antidote.

       And that's the thing too, he doesn't care a wit about my feelings unless he's making me scared or wants me terrified too. Oh, he says he does, that he cares, that something I say can make a difference, but how could that be, when he has no difficulty treating and mistreating me the way he does?

       He's a truth coward.

       He can't bear to hear the truth about himself even though he knows it about himself.

       I'm sure he's heard my word thoughts before.

Page 36.

       I wonder if the shrinks have been at him, perhaps a whole army of them.

       What about the authorities? Do they know about him? Is he 'known' to them? Is he 'known to the police'?

       He doesn't care about my feelings.

       I care about them and I don't care about his either.

       He just wants to have me, not me, but my outsides. The way I look. My measurements and my long hair. And I'm not sure that's the biggest part of it now. My beauty. He wants to control my beauty. Manipulate it. Arrange or re-arrange it.

       And he wants my clothing, especially my underwear.

       I'm sure he has a whole collection of it. Not of mine, but of women's intimates.

       I know I'm pretty and have a good figure, but others have said I'm beautiful so I don't want to appear conceited or self-absorbed when I say he's after my beauty. The shape of my breasts, the way my nipples sit high and tilt slightly upwards, tilt at the stars. Yes, he's so satisfied just to look at me, to steal my image and absorb my outer dressings.

       That scares me. He really scares me to the core. The core he cannot see nor has no idea who I am and doesn't seem to want to know, to get to know. If I could get him to know me, I think I could melt him maybe. Trick him to thaw him out of his frozen attitudes.

       What kind of man kidnaps and holds onto a woman just so he can have her to play with? Like a new exotic toy. A living doll. I'm his boy-toy and I refuse to be fun.

       Oh God, he's taking the line attached to my ankle on up further.

       It's so hard to stand on one foot with my knee pulled up to level with my chest. Oh, God, I'm going to lose my balance soon and then my skirt will fall up my legs, up my thighs and I'll show off my crotch and underwear all over again, to him.

       This must be part of his fetish.

       Having me undress and then re-dress and I assume undress again. I suppose he just must like watching it and being able to make me do it. And he likes to see me clothed as much as naked.

Page 37.

       Talk about weird and pathetic.

       Now I must hold onto the line or I'll fall, but when I do, it'll probably cause me to tumble, because I'm pulling on the line which forces my foot higher.

       What's he up to now?

       He's coming back towards me with another length of cord like what's around my ankle.

       He's tying it to my other ankle.

       'What? Oh, what now? Not now? Why are you doing that? Why are you doing this to me?'

       'Because I can.' He answers so smugly.

       'So shut the fuck up.' He says it like a laborer.

       He's back at the ratchet and I know I'll have to fall any moment.

       And I did.

       I lost my balance and held onto the line in front of my face and then couldn't hold on any longer, so wrenched and tumbled, shoulder first to the floor. I hung there by one ankle about three feet off the floor and the rest of me twisted like a pretzel and swinging too.

       He must have loved it.

       He fucking must have relished it, the way he beamed.

       I could see his stupid grim and I wanted to relieve it of its teeth.

       My skirt was right up my thigh and almost above the crotch portion of my panties.

       The bastard, the filthy bastard was taking all kinds of still digital pictures. He had my vagina spread and exposed to his lust and lens and my sheer underwear must have photographed well.

       I'll kill him.

       For this, I surely will.

       He's coming to visit me closer.

       He grabs onto the taut line and shakes it and shakes me too and causes me to twist about. Now my skirt is up to my sweater and my entire hips are bare save for my panties.

       But my crotch spreads wide and the fabric hugs my vulnerable labia like a glove.

       Oh, the humiliation and invasion of my privacy.

       Oh, the spectacle of my spread vagina.

Page 38.

       Now he's working the handle again and taking me on up further and more.

       I'm so far up, now my shoulder and the side of my head are scrunched to the floor. A few more inches and I'll be dangling in the air, upside down, suspended by one ankle.

       Who could ever have imagined?

       I could never have imagined.

       And it hurts.

       It all hurts plenty.

       Even though I don't scream. I want to.

       I'm screaming inside and it's deafening to my ears.

       I have to, I must keep my legs together, but it's hard, really hard to, as I swing, my leg wants to fly out to counter balance the awkwardness of my predicament and ever changing positions.

       And now a real predicament, it was about to become.

       Several more clicks and I was fully hanging there by my ankle fully suspended and free to turn and rotate like a pig on a perpendicular spit. I could touch the floor, just a bit with my really outreached arms and fingers but it hurt my shoulders and ankle and moved my skirt to right over my head now.

       I can't see a thing except the floor right beneath me and I can't see him.

       I absolutely don't trust him and I can't see him.

       How utterly horrid.

       I can hear him, rustling up.

       What is he up to?

       Why doesn't he say anything?

       Oh, shit. Shit. Shit, no. I thought I could hear him undoing his fly. I heard a zipper, I did, and it wasn't mine. So it must be his fly.

       What's he going to do, rape me like this?

       I don't want to know.

       I need to know.

       I can hear him rustling some more so I'm sure he's taking the rest of his clothes off now.

       Here I am, hanging exposed and vulnerable and helpless like a side of beef and he's getting naked.

       I'm sure he thinks it's a joke.

       I'm a joke for his penis to enjoy.

Page 39.

       He must be undressed now.

       At least I think he is.

       What else can it be?

       He's standing right in front of me, but I can't see his face.

       I can see his bare legs, so I must be right.

       And now he's gone.

       Something isn't right at all.

       I can feel it.

       My spine is shivering and I can smell it.

       What's going on?

       I can hear him at the door and it's open.

       What's he up to?

       And now it all started to be clear.

       He called for him. 'Bailey. Bailey, here boy. Treat time.'

       I could hear the commotion and paws on the hard wood floor and his big dog came bursting into my jail.

       From what I could tell, blind folded by my skirt the way I was, he's a lively dog and friendly and seems to love his master.

       At least that was a little plus in his favor in the human being department.

       But it wasn't to be for long.

       They both approached me again, of course, the dog much faster than him. The dog almost crashed right into me and he had his face to the floor trying to find my face under my up-side-down skirt veil.

       He finally found my cheek and licked me enthusiastically.

       He was right in front of me and did the introductions, 'Bailey, this is Julia and Julia this is Bailey. He's my friend and he's going to be yours.'

       There was something sinister and unnatural in how he said it and it really chilled my spine.

       He seemed to pull a chair up, maybe ten feet away and comforted himself into it.

       'Come on, Bailey. Come on boy. Time for a treat.'

       The dog went to him for the usual servile doggy pats and then my captor turned reprehensible.

       Despicably reprehensible.

Page 40.

       'OK, Bailey do your stuff. Strip. Strip her boy. Strip. Strip.'

       What on earth was he saying?

       The dog lunged at me and started locking his jaws onto my skirt. He pulled ferociously back and had me at quite an angle off the floor. He growled and snapped and was tearing into my skirt fabric. He shook his body like a thrashing machine and tore my skirt to shreds.

       Now my vision was clear and I could see him sitting back taking his digital pictures and he was quite enjoying the spectacle. I went to raise my hand to the dog and he snapped at my thin wrist. This was a full grown male, pure bred Shepherd about ninety-five pounds and I assumed he could break my arm.

       'Better not do that unless you want your fingers off or your wrist snapped.' He warned me not prematurely.

       The dog played with my detached skirt about five feet away from me until he gave him the order again.

       'Bailey, strip. Strip her. Strip.'

       The dog charged back to me and sized up his choices, a stretch sweater or panties.

       He put his muzzle to my neck at the back, not wildly at all and then sniffed out my sweater collar and latched his jaw onto it.  He went berserk, like a mad dog and tried to shake me out of the garment. It was like he smelled the blood of a rabbit and was latching onto a frenzy. He couldn't get it loose that way so came around to my front and got his front paw and claws into the neckline and pulled out and then pulled like a tug of war hard enough to tear it, clean open down the front. He bit into the loose sides and tore and shredded it.

       How utterly malevolent. He had trained his dog to strip a woman which really was quite an accomplishment , I thought.

       The dog did the same things attacking the freed sweater.

       Now what?

       Now what the hell?

Page 41.

       He gave the same command again.

       'Good dog, strip her.'

       Bailey sized me up anew and went for my bra, actually his bra that he'd put on me. He got his jaws into the thin part between the cups and tore it off me in one snap. I was dangling and swinging wildly to and fro and my breasts were flopping about, trying to touch my shoulders.

       I couldn't keep my lose leg from swinging out too, and often it accentuated how my panties hugged my crotch.

       He commanded Bailey one more time and he lunged and chewed into my underwear like so much tissue paper and I was completely helpless before him and his monster dog.

       His snapping, carnivorous mouth was snapping right around my vagina, right at my labia, and he could smell me.

       What was left of my panties still covered the main part of the opening but most of my labia were bare.

       He was so satisfied.

       He'd terrorized me and hadn't even had to lift a finger.

       He lifted his naked self up and came over to me and just gazed in wonderment how well I'd fended off the dog's attack and I didn't get hurt myself.

       I was scratched and scraped but I wasn't bitten.

       He called Bailey back and gave him a hug and roughed him up in a playful way and then ordered him, 'Panties. Go get some panties. Panties. Finish it off. Off.'

       The dog was to me in a split and jumped up on me with both his front paws. He slipped down a couple of times and his claws strafed my breasts. I was screaming but he still managed to push his cold black wet nose against my opening. He was slurping and gasping (The way most selfish men do) and started to lick my sex. It didn't feel that bad as I'd expected but still I was terrified and in a fit and wanted them both to just stop everything.

       The dog shoved his big black nose, like a black man's cock, right into my opening. He somewhat urgently got his lower jaw into the torn crotch of my panties and pulled way back on them. I was jerking like crazy and his teeth shredded right through the fabric. He trotted over to his master and politely offered the rendered satin to him.

Page 42.

       'Thank you boy. Good boy Bailey. Well done.'

       He hugged the dog like he really loved him and it licked him in return appreciation. It was like the dog enjoyed getting to attack a woman and they both enjoyed attacking me.

       'So, what do you think of him? I've trained him pretty good, haven't I? Not many dogs can strip a woman like that. Maybe not any other one.'

       I was not impressed with what he'd trained him to do but was with the dog's obedience and intelligence.

       And then he made it a whole lot worse.

       Because he'd trained the dog to do more.

       He'd trained the dog to fuck a woman.

       'You know what else I've trained him to do?'

       I shook my head, in the upside down position. It was as best I could because I really didn't know.

       'Not too curious, are you? Well anyway, I've trained him to attack. To really bite and tear and go for the throat. On one command. One command.'

       He came up close to my ear and whispered 'Kill. Kill.'

       He stepped back all satisfied and smug. 'That's the word. But I have to bark it at him, ha ha.'

       He just gloated and towered over me.

       'Wanna see?'

       'Oh no. Please don't. No. No don't. Don't make him do that, tell him to, no don't.'

       'Aawwhhh, isn't that pathetic, you begging for your useless life like that. So what else, what else do you think he can do?'

       I really couldn't grasp his question and my head was spinning from jerking around and twisting upside down. I wasn't passed out yet, but was coming close sometimes.

       And then he let me have it, both barrels, so to say, in the psyche, in the woman's sensibilities.

       'I've trained him to fuck a woman.'

       He grinned like an idiot.

       'What do you think of that?

Page 43.

       What could I say?

       What possibly, to offset the horror of it?

       'And all I have to say are the words, 'fuck her' but just by themselves, like this.'

       'No, oh, no please. I beg you. I'm begging you no. That's not right. No please, do it yourself but not an animal. Please.'

       I really meant it.

       'Fuck - you', he said and the dog's ears perked up and he sprung to attention. It must have been the part he liked best.

       He got up from his easy watching chair and strode over to the ratchet device, Bailey by his side in lock step, and he started to lower me down. As I was bunching up onto the floor he barked it.

       He gave the command.

       'Fuck her. Fuck her Bailey. Good boy.'

       The dog sprung to alert and went rigid.

       'Fuck her.'

       It charged me, like a freight train.

       He was still lowering me, so I'd be more accessible to the slobbering beast and his hungry mouth and hind quarters. He first pushed his muzzle right into my labia. I tried to twist away but he growled like he was going to bite into me so I had to freeze, When I was down far enough, he started to straddle me. His doggy erection was out pink and skinny and veiny and eager as he aimed it for my vagina.

       He was heavy and he stood his front paws with their huge nails digging into my breasts. One nail was scrapping right into a nipple, like his owner had told him to do it for added abuse effect.

       He was wiggling his hyper dick at the opening to my canal.

       I can not let him do this.

       God, I'd rather die first.

       God, God help me, I have to stop him.

       I had to stop him. I had to fight him and even though he was snapping wolfishly about my face and breasts, I saw a chance. I grabbed onto his canine balls and squeezed for all I was worth, and more than he was worth or could stand.

Page 44.

       The dog was not indestructible.

       He shrieked and ran off like a scalded bitch, his stupid tail between his legs where his crushed balls were. He really howled pitifully and he was not amused.

       Neither of them were.

       He went to attend to his compromised canine friend and I was quite satisfied at my out-burst of self-preservation.

       That dog wasn't going to rape me anytime soon.

       He ushered him out of the room, I assumed to recuperate him and he was back in about half an hour with a glower on his face.

       He had a plumber's propane soldering torch in his hand. He intended to punish me for hurting his dog and spoiling his fun.

       He couldn't be serious.

       He was never more serious.

       He came right to my face and growled it at me.

       'I'm gonna fry you for that. I'm gonna roast you good, right in your cunt. You should have let my dog fuck you.'

       I should have let his dog fuck me.

       Why couldn't I have figured it out on my own?

       That there had to be worse things than being fucked by a dog. And now he was going to show me just how much more worse.

       I was a headstrong, impulsive fool and had foolishly antagonized him.

       He was angry.

       Sometimes, before, I wasn't sure he wasn't just playing at it, trying to make me more scared than I had to be, but now, for sure he was angry. I think he could have killed me if he hadn't had other worse (than dying) things planned for me.

       He set the propane torch, with the blue tank, down on the floor directly in front of me but far enough away I couldn't kick it. I could only kick at it, and rage at it being there, the implications, but I couldn't send it away flying.

       He knelt down and grabbed onto my hair at the back and pulled hard, twisting my face to face his twisted and demented anger.

Page 45.

       'You shouldn't have done that. You hurt Bailey. You hurt my dog and you hurt me. Sort of love me, love my dog but in reverse. You fucking shouldn't have done that.'

       'But you shouldn't have had him doing what he was either. And what he'd already done, tearing my clothes off and all.'

       'That wasn't his fault. That's what I trained him to do.'

       'Yes. But no, you shouldn't have. I realize it wasn't the dog's fault but it was your fault and I had to stop him somehow because I couldn't stop you.'

       'But that was just vicious, mean and I suppose you'd like to do the same thing to me.'

       As much as I wanted to reveal my agreement to him, I thought better of it.

       'No. No, I.. It's not that..'

       'Sure it is. Don't you fucking lie to me, Burke, or I'll rip your fucking TV tongue out.'

       'I..No, no. I..'

       He crouched down and took my hand and put it right on his manhood.

       'Take hold. Take a good handful.'

       I didn't want to - but wanted to, since if he was going to ask for it, why not do him the same way as his perverted dog. I cupped his business and held his testicles like two raw eggs about to me cracked wide open.

       'So? So, what are you waiting for? Come on Burke bitch, you fucking bitch get on with it. What are you waiting for?'

       What I was waiting for was for him to take away the sharp short knife he had pressed just inside of my labia where my minora lips were. He'd stab me in the vagina. I had no doubt of that and he was setting me up so he'd be justified to do so, at least in his eyes.

       I wanted to rupture him.

       More than anything I'd felt towards him up to that breath holding moment, I wanted to mince meat his balls but I just didn't have the nerve. I was sure he'd stab me in my crevice, 'slit my slit' as he laughed about it later, and that could make me bleed to death and I had no intention of letting him kill me ever, and certainly not that way.

Page 46.

       I let go of his stuff, and his dick, which had gotten hard because of my handling him, flopped straight up, like a spring. He looked so satisfied as if he'd known all along what my choices would be.

       I was angry.

       I was humiliated.

       And I saw red.

       That stupid and waving meat pole was taunting me and I went for it like a frog's tongue to a fly, without thinking.

       I lashed out and grabbed onto him but I only got his enlarged shaft, just back of its meat head, but well forward of his nuts.

       It didn't matter how hard I squoze, I couldn't really do him any damage. I needed his balls, but he was pulling hard away and if I let go, he'd get free of my iron grip. I was trying to pull him towards me so I could twist around to get my other clutching fist into the play. He saw through that motive pretty quick and would have no part of it. I was half pulled up off the floor by my arm which was attached to my hand trying to crush his pecker. It was all happening so fast and there was a lot of turmoil and yelling, mostly by me trying to intimidate him (further, I thought) by swearing at him. As our positions rotated, for a moment I was awkwardly twisted to the side and my breast hung well down to the side and he saw his chance and took his target.

       He kicked me as hard as he could in my almost dangling breast and it ruptured some of the milk sacks and freaked me. I had never been struck like that in my chest and the pain shot inward right to my heart. I thought I was having an attack but I was being attacked. The onset of an onslaught was coming.

       I instinctively had to release his boner and pulled my arms in to cradle myself, to protect myself should he see fit to try to hoof me again.

       Which of course he did.

       I was pulling up into a fetal position and he kicked me in the upper part of the back of my leg and he dropped down onto is knees and hammer punched me three times hard fast little slugs. God it hurt and each time he'd gotten just slightly closer to my exposed labia showing out of my rear. If he'd punched me that hard square into them, I'm sure he'd have ruptured me.

Page 47.

       I was scrambling to wriggle away but he'd have none of it. He latched onto my hair and pulled my head way back so that my throat was like a chicken's waiting to be slit.

       He gripped me like he wanted to strangle me and started to choke me. He was pissed and super strong now and wasn't about to give up the upper hands he had wrapped-locked around my throat.

       I tried.

       I really tried to plead with him with my bulging eyes before I passed out.

       What? What, in God? What? He has me tied. I'm tied. I think they call it spread eagle or spread eagled. I don't know. I don't care. Why do I care? Because he has it done to me and I'm completely naked. Oh, God. Oh, God, my breast hurts. My throat hurts. Can I speak? I wonder if I can, he was crushing my throat so bad before I..before I..

       I wonder how long I have been unconscious. I hate being passed out in his presence. I don't trust him at all. I have no idea what he might have done to me, what liberties he might have presumed to take of felt entitled to. I wonder if he raped me. I don't think so. It doesn't feel like he did. But could I tell? Depending on how long after it is now, could I really tell especially if it was more just like intercourse and not rough or violent. I'll bet he touched me though and probably peered inside me with his greasy greedy fingers and eyes. Where is he? Why isn't he here? What's he up to if he isn't here?

       A few interminable minutes later, I could hear the door into my jail opening and in they came. Mutt and Jeff, Bailey and him. Bailey came running right up to the bed but was wary. His muzzle was over the side trying to flesh out my face. I'd snapped my head the other way to avoid his slobbering tongue.

       'Up boy. On the bed. Up Bailey.'  His master commanded.

       He pretty well always responded to his commands without hesitation but this time was reluctant to do so.

Page 48.

       'Up. Come on boy. I'll show you. Up.'

       He climbed up onto the bed like a humanoid dog, on all fours and headed his pretend front paws towards my spread and helpless crotch.

       'Come on Bailey. Look see. Something nice. Something stinky and wet and nice and deep. Come on, boy. Up.'

       He circled a few times, the way dogs do just before they select a spot to shit and then he leapt up onto the mattress to join his master.

       The bastard shoved sets of fingers onto me from both hands and pulled me open like kids making silly faces by pulling their mouth lips open wide only it was my vaginal lips he was stretching. He had me so open, he could have fisted me if he wanted to and then Bailey got his big black wet nose into the act too. He was probably three inches inside my canal and was getting his front paws and nails dug into my breasts to stabilize himself while he tried to thrust his nose up even further.

       It seemed he was clawing at my nipples specifically.

       His master pulled back and reached for a large pillow that was off to the side and yanked me up by my inner thigh right at my crotch. He slid the pillow under my ass and my vagina was pushed right up trying to reach the ceiling. He pussy patted me and had the nerve to push his face into me along side the dog.

       Then he did it again.

       He gave the command again.

       'Fuck her. Baily, fuck her. Fuck her.'

       The dog stood straight up above me with his hind quarters getting all at the ready.

       I actually saw his doggy erection grow and the thing slide out of the sheath where it'd been growing already, albeit hidden.

       It was about five inches long and not that far off a skinny man's skinny dick's hard on.

       There was no way I wasn't going to get doggie fucked.

       I pulled and wrenched at my bindings and almost ripped my wrists off but I couldn't get at all loose. The dog had his pole jabbing around my entrance and all of a sudden his monster master gave him a new unheard-of command.

Page 49.

       God, I was lucky it wasn't chew, but it seemed similar.

       'Suck. Bailey, suck. Suck.'

       So, how on earth was it going to happen? How was Bailey going to suck me?

       The dog knew exactly what the command meant. He took a few meandering steps forward, up along my body, smelling and licking me all the way and then laid down right on top of me, like the missionary position. His doggy pecker end was right parallel with my cheek and my mouth. While his body was off to the side, so I could still breath, it still became disgustingly obvious who would and wouldn't be doing the sucking.

       He couldn't be serious. He wanted me to, he expected me to suck his dog's dick.

       No way. Absolutely, no fucking way in Hell nor la la land was I going to do that. I'd rather bite it off and finish the dog off for good. I'd take my chances, I thought, but then I never really got the chance to take them.

       Because, I could feel the pressure.

       I could feel the potential for rendering injury.

       He had the sharp little knife pressed right into the nub of my clitoris. He was going to spurt me and hurt me and mutilate my vagina if I didn't do the dog, so if I hurt him, castrated and eunuched him, I can't imagine what the knife would find next. Probably my cervix which I was very partial to keeping intact and inside my body.

       So I had to do it and that was just that.

       I opened my mouth wide enough and Bailey knew the drill. He drilled himself half way down my throat and the fucking dog just loved it. He pulled back a bit so I wouldn't gag. Throwing up all over the endeavor would mess the effect up and I tried not to swish my tongue around him, around his bone but there was no where else to put it. I suppose I gave pretty good head to a German. He was well, if not exactly expertly, fellated.

Page 50.

       A few more interminable minutes of this and he gave the final order.

       'OK, boy. That was nice, right? OK, Bailey. So, fuck her. Get it done. Let's get it done. Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her.'

       The dog obeyed almost immediately. He seemed to give one last hard shove of his shaft to try to burry it in my stomach but then he slid down me backwards, and gyrated his penis into me. He hunched his haunches and even though it wasn't the traditional doggie/beastiality position for women who were into that kind of thing with their big dogs, and I'd bet there were more than a few, he penetrated me to the hilt and rode my pussy like a roller coaster to his doggy cum fest. It felt the same as a man's and when he was done, he extracted himself, just like a man, and stood on all fours towering over me, looking down on my just used, used up spent body, just like a lot of men. I was good for one thing and the dog had done it well.

       I'd barely noticed while being violated by Bailey, his master had wiggled his thumb up my ass. The two of them fucked me simultaneously.

       I had never been so humiliated or furious.

       Mercifully, they both seemed satisfied with my performance, even though the man half wasn't satiated since he hadn't blown any load, I could tell, but they left me to weep quietly onto the bed sheets at the injustice and horridity of it all. I knew that wasn't a word but is just fit perfectly. The pillow was still jammed under my hips and I had to wriggle like a snake to work it out from underneath, so my crotch could drop down to a natural and more comfortable position.

       It was not his intention that I should do that. He hadn't started on me, with the propane torch, so it was not what he wanted and intended to punish me even further for my presumption.

       He came back in, after about twenty minutes, with a drink in one hand and a box of wooden matches in the other.

       He strode over to my side and placed the match box precisely in my valley between my breasts.

       'Didn't like the pillow under your ass. Didn't like it at all? Shoved your cunt too far up in the air, Burke? Like a fucking target, Burke?'

       The way he spit my name, he sounded mean and inflamed.

Page 51.

       I could tell he was meaner.

       I could tell he was in the mood to be really horrid to me and I had to stop him somehow.

       'Please. Please, look at me. You think I'm beautiful. You said you do, so just have sex with me, like Bailey just did. You can do it. I won't fight.'

       'You won't fight?' He laughed. 'Like you did with Bailey.'

       He really wanted to demean me.

       He picked up the pillow and hovered it over my face and then pushed it right over my mouth and nose to smother me. I thrashed the best I could, side to side, but he was up for killing me, it seemed. He held me that way with one hand while his other one bore down into my vagina. He pinched and squeezed and squished and thought he was having a thoroughly great time. He finally pulled the pillow away and as I gasped to grab some air, his other hand jointed the one shoved up into my vagina and he really went at me. I assumed he was going to do me right then, but as often as not with him, I couldn't have been more wrong.

       'So, you won't fight. I suppose you were fighting then. Were you?'

       I barely croaked out a non-answer. More a plead for him to stop. But he was just getting started. He picked up the box of wooden matches and selected one. He struck it and it erupted into flame. He held it directly before my eyes.

       'You see this? Of course you do. In fact I'm sure you don't see anything else right now. Well it's for that, for the blow torch. It's got a plumber's soldering tip on it and when it's heated up it gets almost red hot. It's copper so it really conducts heat well, and holds it. So, I told you way back, I was going to fry your cunt with it. I bet you thought I'd forgotten. Or hoped I had in your stupid little pathetic prayerful way.

       'Oh, God no. No. No, you wouldn't. No. No. What did I ever do to you? What did I ever do to deserve this? Oh, please don't.'

       The horror was so great, the prospects so horrid, I couldn't even beg effectively. I needed better words but there were none.

Page 52.

       'To deserve it? You're fucking right you deserve it. You deserved it the first time I saw you on the TV newscast. The way you displayed yourself all sexual and superior. You deserved it all the times some guy wanted to shove his dick into you and you wouldn't let him. And you deserve it for hurting Bailey and most of all for pulling the pillow out from under your ass when I didn't tell you you could. So you see there are lots of reasons, lots of good and deep reasons why you need it.'

       How could I argue with that kind of logic when there was no logic to it? He didn't just hate me. He hated all beautiful, successful, independent women, the ones he call 'the lookers' with the attitude and he didn't need any excuse at all to torture me.

       He just wanted to.

       He just wanted to torture me, right from the moment he grabbed me and well into the past before it too.

       He just loved seeing the realizations cross behind my eyes.        The look of fright and extreme uncertainty.

       What was going to happen to me?

       What was he really going to do to me?

       Would he kill me?

       Would I wish he did?

       'So here's the deal. You're so tough and independent, I won't light the torch. Hell I won't even use it cold on you as a dildo but you have to stop me.'

       Nothing he said was going to help me but I still had to go along in the hope there was some hope.

       'Yes. OK, stop you how? What?'

       'That fucking torch will really fry your lips. Fucking roast your clit to a crisp. A crispy clit, sort of like a crispy critter, only better. Oh, yeah, so much better.' He paused for added effect. 'But a few matches won't.'

       He struck a match and let it flare and dropped it onto my stomach. I hollered and bucked and managed to send it flying off into upper space.

Page 53.

       He was totally, around the bend, certifiably insane. His madness, had anyone else known about it, would have become the stuff of legends, like deSade, only he was worse. deSade was a wannabe and my rapist was beyond the real deal. Oh, lucky me.

       He was so into enjoying the fact that he was terrorizing me that the terrorizing was his sole motive. I don't even think it was sexual then. Oh, he surely was going to make it sexual, but right then it was just pure power, control and degradation.

       He struck another match and let it drop onto my breast valley. The flame scorched me a little before I could buck the match off. He grinned and loved how my breast tried to stay away from the flame. He laughed at my gyrations and beginning screams. I hadn't done a whole lot of hollering up until then, but it was becoming more necessary as he persisted and evolved.

       Then he got into the extra mean which he intended to do all along.

       He struck a match and instead of dropping it onto me, he ground the lit end into me, right into my nipple. He was gripping my breast with his other fist so I couldn't get the flame off my burning flesh. He put his face and nose down close so he could inhale the aroma of by roasting and sizzling nipple. After about three seconds of sheer agony, while all the nerve endings were being fused together, the match head broke off and the fire portion fell away across my breast but I hardly noticed it compared to what he'd just done to me. It landed on the white sheets and burned a hole in them fast. He put the starting inferno out and wasn't pleased I'd damaged his good linen, as he called it. They were privileged sheets because of what he got to do to a woman on them. He got them from WalMart. He was just plain deluded and nuts.

       He took my burnt nipple into his mouth and suckled and bit on me. He almost chewed it off and I almost had to pass out. He was pinching my undamaged, other nipple all the same time.

       'OK, so here's the deal. The next three get put out inside of you.'

       'Oh, what? What? No.'

       'You know what I mean, don't you?'

Page 54.

       Any woman who he had like that, doing that, would have but I didn't want to say in case, by some miracle, he meant something else. Miracles were in short supply for me then.

       I nodded my head, to say no. But it was no, don't. Not no, I don't know.

       'Sure you know, so tell me. Spell it out for me.'

       I shook my head again.

       'Tell you what. I'll just keep on lighting these then and dropping them on you until you let me know. Share your fears with me.'

       He struck one and before I could cry out had dropped it into my pubic hair, my delicate bush. Some of the little hairs sizzled and I was afraid it'd catch on fire. The burning bush, how biblical and utterly perfect he'd think that sight to be.

       'No. No, more. You mean you're going to put them out inside my vagina. But no. No, for God's sake. Don't be insane. Don't act insane. I'll do anything. I'll co-operate. I'll fight you if that's what you want, but don't do that.'

       'Where again? I want to hear you say it. I just love the words.'

       He towered over me like a mountain of evil and I had to repeat the reptilian phrase.

       'You want to extinguish them inside my vagina.'

       'Bingo. Bingo. At least almost bingo.' He chided me.

       'What? No. Go to Hell. What do you mean?'

       'Yes, yes but let me finish. Stop being so rude and interrupting. I've only told you half of it.'

       'No. You're mad. There can't be any more worse.'

       'Wanna bet Julia? Fucking wanna bet?'

       He said it with such malevolence and authority I just knew I was severely in for it. But he intended to keep me waiting.

       'You know, I've been thinking. Before I really bugger you up, before I start to mess with you, I really should fuck you straight up. Look how you're lying there, just asking for it, with your cunt spread and to the wind. Nice tight little tailored bush and your tits, I just love your fucking tits. Maybe I should fuck them first instead.'

Page 55.

       I had no idea exactly what he meant by 'tit fucking' but he was completely intend on showing me.

       'Yeah, I think that'd be perfect right now and then I can cunt fuck you and then we'll get back to the matches. How does all that sound to you, Julia baby?'

       What was there for me to say? He was totally decided to ravage me, before he damaged me, so he could fuck a whole woman, as he said, and with my extremities tied off so tight, how was I to prevent him from proceeding and succeeding?

       There was not a way.

       He took the large pillow and yanked up on my arm at my arm pit and forced the pillow under my shoulder blade. He slid it around until he figured he'd found the best position to maximize pushing my breast heaven-wards. I tried to wriggle off it but there was just no way, beside he made a fist to my vagina as if to say, keep it up and I'll slug you right where it counts.

       He was already naked and he crawled up onto the bed, more like slithered, being the snake that he was and he positioned his shaft and balls over my erected breast. He lowered himself slowly until his shaft was right across the fullest part of me which was pretty well right across my nipple. He was going to fuck the unburnt one. He lowered his full midsection weight onto me and wriggled around until he could feel my fatty tissue crunching under the hardness of his boner. He gripped onto the bed stead with one hand and somehow managed to run his hand down my front and hook his fingers into my vagina to further stabilize him self.        

       And he was good to go.

       He started with short hard cock jabs with my breast compressed mercilessly under him and then started to elongate the strokes and thrusts. Within about two or three minutes, he was crashing wildly back and forth on top of my tit. It was like he was trying to dislocate my breast, wrench it right away from by breast plate and pectoral muscles. He was beating me up with his crotch. With his bat and balls and then just like that, he shot a big load all across my other breast. He quickly re-positioned himself so I had to take the bulk of his cum load into my mouth. He squeezed so hard on the sides of my head, and looked to maniacal, I had to comply.

Page 56.

       Since I'd never tasted semen before, I was surprised that it didn't taste worse and it flashed through my mind it must be loaded with vitamins and I couldn't become pregnant that way. Stupid, silly, disjointed thoughts to help me survive and stay alive and possibly sane.

       When he was finished feeding me, as he called it, juicing me, he laid beside me for awhile playing with my bruised breast. He'd kiss me and pinch my nipple and slide over to suckle me and then kiss my mouth.

       Although it seemed like he was being loving, he was being horrid, since he was just waiting to accumulate enough of another semen load to go after my vagina properly. Ever so gradually his member started to swell again and he rolled himself right onto the top of me.

       I could feel his hardened prick pressing against my bust and then my pubic bone. He raised himself up onto his elbows and gazed down on me. I had my head snapped to the side and my eyes clamped shut in anticipation of my immanent penetration. He guided my face over to face his.

       'Open your eyes. You open them and keep them open.'

       I knew he meant it.

       He looked right into my soul and I could see he just loved what he was about to do. It invigorated him. Inflamed him. Dragging it out and prolonging it. Making me anticipate it. He didn't have a soul. Just madness and rage and a horrible glint of self-satisfaction.

       He had me. He had Julia Burke, the savvy news woman and he was about to do me. He was about to rape me and that's what it'd been about (at least in some small part) all along. So it was the sex too and now I couldn't prevent it.

       He held my head between his two hands and kissed me softy.

       I kept my mouth stiff and frozen.

       He pressed his fingers right between my clamped lips onto my perfect white teeth. They's cost me over eleven grand so they ought to be perfect, it flashed through my mind.

       'Nice teeth. Fucking perfect teeth. You have them capped? Now kiss right. Kiss soft and lots of tongue or I'll bash a few of the expensive ones down your throat.'

Page 57.

       He was a pretty good kisser and I wasn't half bad when I wanted to be or had to be. He held one kiss long and deep and I could feel his pecker head nudging my vaginal opening. He pulled his face away from mine to look me square and deep in the eyes. He could see I was pleading him not to continue, not to rape me but he just looked even deeper into my being. He was nudged about an inch into my crevice and his boner head was sliding along my clitoris. There is no way for an adult woman not to respond to that kind of physical stimulation. My clit engorged and he could well tell it. Slowly he kept penetrating into me further, all the while, not once, taking his eyes off my horrified ones.

       He was eye fucking me too.

       Brain fucking me.

       Soul fucking me and he loved that almost as much. He kept gaining entrance into me until he was hilted. He couldn't shove in any further and his cock head was against my cervix. What was he going to do now? I assumed he's start pumping and thrusting to get the deed done.

       I wish he had.

       He reached down and gripped onto my ass cheeks with both his clenched fists. He really squeezed beyond hard. He drew himself out slowly about four inches and gripped my ass even harder. He arched himself for a moment, and looked into my eyes with such hatred I thought he was going to dick murder me. And he tried. He thrust into me with all the upward motion strength he could muster and smashed his cock head into my cervix and tore me at the edge. I couldn't believe the degree of violence that lived in his cock and his heart. He pinned me down viciously and just ground away. Like a machine. Like an inhuman pumping machine he smashed again and again at my torn cervix. He was trying to fuck my womb. To bugger me so I'd never be able to have kids. I don't know if a man's cock can gain entrance to a woman's uterus, but he was surely trying to set a precedent, if it couldn't be done.

Page 58.

                He was on fire. He was ragging and flopping and arching and twisting and I was going all faint. He could see I was about to swoon and he didn't want that, so he stopped and yanked his weapon right out of me. He stuck his fingers inside me instead and jerked off my clitoris. I had to cum and he could see the exact moment as my body spasmed and trembled and that's when he slugged be. He busted my orgasm right in mid cum and I gave a fast little squeak and passed out. He'd ruptured part of my vagina but I wouldn't know that until I came too quite some time later.

               I don't know how long I was out and the bastard wouldn't tell me. There were no windows in my jail and no clocks so I had no idea if it was the middle of the day or the dead of night, other than it was the middle of my night mare.

               I suspected I was out for quite awhile, probably hours and I don't know why I felt that to be the case other than female intuition. What I did know was that I needed a hospital or at least a doctor. He had punched me so hard and meanly in my vagina that the pain radiated out, down my legs almost to my knees and back through me to my lower spine, especially around my tail bone. I don't know what he'd been up to while I was out but it felt like something and if I was ever going to master escaping from him, I knew I could not afford the luxury of escaping my pain by passing out again.

              He'd raped me.

       I was a raped woman.

       I now belonged to the legions of raped women, but I supposed mine was a more exclusive membership in that I belonged to the club of beautiful raped ones.

              I clearly remembered that and my cervix and surrounding area were just so sore. Also he'd done his stupid jerk-off thing across my breast. I'd never heard of that before and hadn't even imagined it being done to a woman and certainly not to myself. I just always assumed that if an attacker had a vagina available, he'd always go for it and the idea of breast fucking just seemed so secondary. But I supposed when he could do both and as often as he wanted, taking as long as he wanted, what difference then?

       What sexual attacking pecking order would be relevant or significant then?

       Like a hierarchy of abuses.

       A ten for the vagina and two fives for the breasts.

       I thought I knew about relative tortures but I knew nothing by his standards.

Page 59.

              I came to like I was half stoned, which I wished I was, and he started in about the matches being put out in my vagina again. About me having to do it to myself or he'd use the propane torch.

              Now I remembered it all just too well.

       'So you remember what the deal was? The next three matches you light them and you extinguish them inside yourself or I fire up the propane torch and give you some serious fifth degree burns.'

       He though he was being creative with his language. Every one knew third degree burns were the worst.

       'No, I won't. I will not. I can't, not after how you raped me and punched me. It's not fair hitting me like that and I need a hospital or at least a doctor.'

       'Oh, yeah, and pigs fly. You think I'm going to go along with that? Take you out of here or bring a doctor here? You must be fucking high on something. You high on hope? Or you just hallucinating in technicolor, dreaming in black and white like it's just that simple as opposite colors. You stupid cunt. Buck up and live with it, because it's your life now. I'm your life now. Your cunt's my life now.'

       I was truly horrified by the evilness of his outburst and the seeming truth that was instilled within his words. I was his. He could play with me as he wanted. Hurt me or torture me to death, or near death and I was powerless to stop him. Talk about horrid realizations or moments of truth, this was pretty well the worst possible for me and I really didn't know how to respond so I meekly shot back, 'That's easy for you to say, but..'

       He cut me off, like he was exasperated with me, but more he just loved the power and his sense that I was realizing the true extent of it.

       'You know what's easier? If I slug you in the pussy. If I bash your lips again. How about that, for being easier?'

       I could see he was obtuse and totally set, so I just clammed up.

       'So you ready?' He asked after an interminable ten minute silence and he asked as if I hadn't protested at all, so little good they were doing or would do in the future. A maniac tells me he's going to sexually torture me and there's nothing I can say nor do to dissuade him, now that's a pretty good definition of hopelessness for a beautiful woman.

Page 60.

       'I..No. No.' I just stuttered. It's all I could do.

       But suddenly I had a flash of a spontaneous plan.

       'No. No, I can't. How can I tied like this?'

       I had to make a lunge for him if he gave me any chance.

       'That's easily remedied.'

       And it was, just as I hoped. He cut my wrist ties, both of them in about ten seconds and I could sit up and wriggle about but was still firmly fastened at my ankles with my legs spread quite wide apart. It was all happening so fast, I don't know what really came over me after all the hurts he'd already inflicted on me and the ones he promised to, but all of a sudden I found my nerve and anger again and had no intention of participating in his ridiculous charade and the moment he cut the line holding my second wrist I twisted sideways savagely and lunged for him. I was a leaping alligator and I caught hold of his arm at the top and yanked him hard to me. I wanted to bite into him. He must have sensed my deeper intent and just managed, by the skin of my teeth, to avoid being chomped on. I was fierce and furious  and managed to twist his arm behind his back and pushed up for all I was worth. I wanted to dislocate his shoulder which would hurt him plenty too. But I wasn't strong enough. Damn, being the weaker sex because being a woman dictated it, really pissed me off. I wasn't strong enough or he was just too strong. He was succeeding in pulling away and I was holding on so tight my upper body was being pulled off to the side of the bed, which wasn't good. My far ankle was being cut by the cord binding it. He finally managed to break free and I knew I was really in for it. He grabbed onto my outreached arm, at the wrist and pulled with what must have been all his might. He was pulling me and even shifting the bed along a bit too. He yanked and tugged and jerked and I thought he was going to dislocate my shoulder or elbow. It seemed to be his intent.

       Then all of a sudden he let go, like he released me in a snap and he was over to my ankle that was hurt by the line and he cut the tie. I thought this was a good thing since I was three quarters freed and I only had one ankle left restraining me and to deal with and not four joints like when we started earlier.

Page 61.

       I had quite a bit of mobility. I slid down the mattress and managed to scramble to my knees and felt stronger and better able to fight him, to stave off his attacks. I only had one little ankle tie to keep me from killing him. But it didn't work out that way, for long.

       He had some nylon fishing rods which I'd noticed before but just in passing, that it was odd he had them there, but he must be a sport fisherman who really took it seriously.

       He selected a rod and without provocation whipped the bed right beside where I was struggling to gain the upper hand.

       I head the horrid swoosh and he'd left a little metal eyelet on the very end and it cut into the bed sheet. He swished again only closer to where I was entangled in my quest to be freed. I was bare everywhere, so all of me was a target, his target.

       He moved around and laced the first whip lash across my upper back. It stung beyond stung. It was like a hundred hornet bites all at once and everything went red and blurry in front of my eyes. I came as close as possible to passing out without actually doing so and he was lining up to scar me again.

       It was a three way proposition.

       A trio of tortures.

       The propane torch, or the fishing rod whip, and all of a sudden, the matches didn't seem like such a bad, nor impossible selection.

       Somehow he caught the metal tip of the rod, into my inner thigh for his next try and I think for a moment I was blacked out but came right back to, pretty fast. He was mere fractions of an inch from my labia so I assumed he was aiming for my vagina. How could he? How could he think to try to whip me there? But that was his game. I could really see just how devastating he could escalate it to become. What if he tied me with my legs spread wide and elevated my hips and whipped me repeatedly right into my crevice? What if he kept on aiming for my clitoris? Lacerated my clit by whipping it raw.

       What if?

       What if?

       I broke.

       He had me.

       'No. No. No. OK. OK. The matches. The matches. I'll do them. Give them to me. Let me do them.'

Page 62.

       I thought he might not cease with the whipping since he seemed to love cracking it into me but, luckily, I was wrong. He laid it down and gave me the smuggest, superior look of his stupid, pathetic life, at least that I'd seen up until then. It simply said, see there's always something worse if you don't do what I'm telling you to do. But at least he was stopped and I could breath without worrying about hyperventilating into unconsciousness.

       'Fine. Just fine, you figured it out then. Good for you, Julia. I never figured you for a dumb bitch, just a bitch, so good for you.'

       I barely reacted to his insults, where as before, when I was free I would have torn such a strip off any man who dared use the 'b' word on me. He'd wish he was never born at least not with balls.

       'OK. OK, then. Good. So do you want to be back down or sit up while you do them? It makes no difference to me.'

       I didn't want to, but figured it was better if I sat up, that way I could see what I was doing to myself. I should be able to keep the flames away from my clitoris and if I got myself good and wet, well lubricated, it should put the flames out fast. Drown them and extinguish them with minimal burning or at least it sounded good in abstract theory.

       I had to act like I was caving so he still might afford me a chance, if he went off guard.

       'I'll sit up, if that's OK with you.'

       He was so fucking pleased. I was asking permission to sit up to torture my own vagina. What he must have thought about his level of power in the universe, in my world, about that.

       'Sure. Great. Whatever. Either, I said.' Then he just had to lay his smugness on me. 'Want to see what you're doing down there, do you?'

       How did he always know just what my reasoning was. It was like he could read my mind, when I supposed it was just that he was good at reading my fears, any woman's fears in that situation.

       Or had he done it before?

       It didn't much matter.

Page 63.

       He pulled up a hard backed chair about five feet from the bed and settled in with the box of matches in hand. They were the kind that could be struck anywhere, on any hard surface and they'd ignite. He could even do it with his thumb-nail which is what he did a few times as he sat there on his cheap throne anticipating how I would follow through with the exercises and examples he was setting.

       After ten minutes he finally handed me a match.

       This one was my match now.

       How was this even possible.

       How had I met my match, and him?

       Here I was an accomplished, respected, even envied professional woman who had advanced herself at every opportunity and now I had hold of an insignificant match I had to light and stuff into my vagina. My sweet nectar, to put it out.

       How could it be?

       It couldn't be.

       It couldn't be true and had to be a mistake.

       He was a mistake of nature and he was just terrorizing me to see me afraid, but he couldn't really want or expect me to do it.

       I was deadlocked with myself.

       I kept looking at the match, like somehow I could disappear it or it'd morph into something else benign and not something I had to torture myself with.

       How could he expect me to torture myself. I wasn't a masochist. I wasn't into self mutilation or flagellation but he wanted me to be into self-burning and in my most intimate private woman's parts.

       He was nuts.

       I was nuts to think I could force myself to do it and I pitched the match away right at him. I wanted it to pierce his eyeball but came nowhere near.

       He didn't even have to dodge it and it seemed like he was going to cum in the air. He so relished my (useless) defiance.

Page 64.

       He sat there studying me all up and down, not saying a single word but thinking hundreds of horrible ones, I was sure. He seemed so happy he was almost giddy.

       I didn't care if he whipped me. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of forcing me to put a single match into my own body. He was such a bastard and had no right to ask it. Not a single one, I was determined.

       But, of course, I should have known he had that base covered too. He got up and came back from the other side of the room with a roll of half inch wide masking tape. I was totally puzzled, but horribly, not for long.

       He took off a piece a bit more than an inch long and taped two of the wooden matches together, the striking heads jammed tight to each other.

       And so it became immediately evident. He handed me the assembly and said, 'Throw this one away and the next one'll be three matches taped together and then four or five. Get it?'

       That obviously meant real trouble for my vagina. Now it was double trouble and could become triple trouble and so on.

       As it was, if somehow he succeeded in forcing me to follow through, I now had twice the flame for my vaginal fluids to snuff out. My God, what if there was three or five?

       Again, he'd made me hate myself for not anticipating that he'd up the ante, up the torture quotient.

       I just couldn't throw the duo away. I'd have to go for it and  blame myself for having to endure more pain than before my petulant, but short lived, outburst and bid for resistance.

       He'd sat back down and ever patient, waited patiently with a stupid, expectant smirk on his dumb face.

       'Anytime. Anytime sweets.' He gloated.

       My fingernails weren't overly long but they were hard and I ignited the match heads pretty well first try. The two of them flared up like a flame thrower, I thought, and then settled down to a steady orange level. I held them in my right hand, being right handed and all, and pried myself open with my left hand. I tried to stimulate myself but I just stayed dry. For some reason I wouldn't lubricate and the matches were burning down to where they were taped together.

Page 65.

       Just as I mustered the courage to jamb myself, they went out.

       He didn't look pleased (with me) but he looked amused (at the power he had over me).

       'Well that didn't go so well, did it? Chicken out, did you? Couldn't get yourself wet inside in time?'

       'You, you bastard. How can you expect me to do this. I suppose again you want me to try again.'

       'Well, not quite.' He said.

       'What? What? Why not?'

       'Not not. Not the same. Now it's with three matches at once.'

       I told myself a hundred times I wouldn't, but I burst out crying. It was so horrible and ever incremental that the hopelessness of my plight was sinking in. My shoulders convulsed and my face twisted up in agony and he just loved it, seeing my breasts quiver and all.

       'OK. OK, Julia. Settle down. OK. Settle down. One more chance with the two matches then.'

       How could I be thankful? How could I be relieved at that? Was I loco? But, I was relieved.

       He taped two matches together and offered them to me.

       I couldn't wait.

       I'd lose my gumption.

       I couldn't hesitate.

       I had to screw up my courage to stick it to myself.

       And that's exactly what I did.

       I ignited the matches.

       Pried myself wide open.

       And shoved them in.

       I convulsed into spasms and my hips rotated and were on fire. I twisted my vaginal canal into knots  and mercifully the flame went out.

       He supremely loved it.

       I went to extract the burnt sticks and he stopped me.

       'Hold it. Fucking stop, I want to deal with them.'

Page 66.

       I almost pulled them out anyway, not to heed his wish, but knew he'd just get back at me worse.

       'Lay down flat.' He ordered me.

       Carefully, suspiciously, I complied and he climbed up onto the bed and positioned himself in a kneeling position between my legs. Only one ankle was tied still so he had to force my legs to stay apart which he seemed to enjoy even more than if they were tied apart wide like before. He punched me a couple of times just below my crotch in the soft inner part of my leg to make me pay attention and try harder.

       He loved to punch me.

       And then he was in me.

       He fingered my outer labia using two hands and even pulled me wider open. The matches were there in plain sight. He took hold at the stubby end and I could feel him start to extract them a little before he shoved them as hard as he could, the farthest into me he could get them.

       My eyes flew open wide and I tried to bolt right up, to sit up but he punched me in the breast and I flew just as quickly back down, squirming and crying. He was mounting me and he raped me with the matches imbedded into the side of my cervix. Nothing hurt worse than that. At least not up until then. He seemed to aim his pecker head for the matches and wasn't the least bit concerned he might spear himself.

       God, I hoped he would but it didn't happen and he gave such a primeval scream out when he came, it was more like prime evil. He knew he'd forced the matches into the side of my cervix and couldn't wait to pull them out to study my crotch as he dis-impaled my cervix.

       He was a bloody mad bastard and I was about to get bloodier. He stayed in me, maybe five minutes more, massaging and chewing on my breasts. He loved biting on me, working ever further out until he had the tiniest bit of my nipple end between his incisors. But he only incised me once on my unburnt nipple. But that was important too. He was getting more into the drawing of blood things and the more he did it, the more he'd want it.

       He was a sexual vampire and I knew it.

Page 67.

       Wasn't that always the way with habitual perverts, ever higher or deeper levels of perversions and tortures?

       He slid his bloodied cock out of me and held it over my face.

       'That's from your cervix, you dumb cunt. That's not menstrual blood, that's womb blood, the best fucking kind from a woman's genitals.'

       He knew he horrified me by his ugliness but it's just what he wanted.

       'So let's see if I can get some more of it flowing. Time to go match stick hunting.'

       He sat down on the mattress beside me and slapped my face side to side increasingly harder each time until he was almost punching me. I was afraid he'd break my smile.

       'So, I assume you agree, they're my matches and I should have them back?'

       He was stupid idiot nuts.

       He leaned over to kiss me and whispered the most unimaginable, horrid suggestion into my captive ear.

       'You know what I'd rather do? I'd like to put a fire cracker in your cunt and blow them out. What do you think of that?'

       My brain went into shock. Those were words no woman should ever hear. I'd bet none had except that he told me later, he'd decimated a previous victim's vagina with several cannon crackers.

       (See part two of my story - The Wasps - And Now the Fire Crackers. - BofE)

       He said he stuffed them into her clothes when she was fully dressed and made her dance and watched them go off and then into her brassier next to her nipples. He said some how he exploded one of her nipples right gone.

       I had to get him off track for doing that. My hands were still loose and I figured if I pulled the matches out of myself, myself, he wouldn't be able to try to blast them out. Fast I went to try to pinch  onto them with most of my anxious fingers shoved into my own vagina, but I couldn't find the end and he saw what I was up to and snapped onto my wrists and forced my empty hands away and up as he hung his anger over me.

Page 68.

       Such a sight that must have been. Him struggling to keep my hands away and me grunting with all my might to shove my fingers inside myself. We wrestled for a couple of minutes and I was strong. I think I was stronger than him at that moment since I was so motivated and pumped with adrenalin. He sensed I was winning and let go of my wrists fast and punched me to the side of my face at the temple. My head spun and he grabbed my hair, and forced my head back forcefully and slugged my throat.

       I just about choked from the feeling of my gullet being crushed. It stunned me and then he could really line up his next punch.

       He pulled my head to the side again and temple bashed me but harder than prudent (if he wanted to keep me alive).

       My eyes exploded and I passed out. I might have had a concussion but how could I know?

       When I awakened he had me all dressed.

       Some were my old clothes and some new items I'd never seen before. He had me in my stretchy sweater and a different see through bra and pink tight short shorts which were new and the underwear I'd had on when he captured me. I looked a bit like a slut, mostly because of the shorts.

       I was woozy and disoriented at first but knew instinctively he was up for something worse. Quite possibly much worse. The images and descriptions of what he'd done to that other poor hapless woman with the firecrackers started spinning in my head almost at once. I could not comprehend or abide such unspeakable violence to a woman's private parts. How could such a thing be possible in God's universe? Did he not love that woman? What had she done to deserve that?

       I could hear him coming as he rolled a tea cart sort of trolley over and then I could see the array.

       The assortment.

       There must have been two hundred fire crackers of varying sizes and shapes neatly arranged, like almost artistic.

Page 69.

       I wanted to kill my mind.

       I wanted to blind my eyes.

       To murder my own thoughts so I wouldn't have to contemplate what he intended to do with them.

       What he intended to do to me with them.

       He picked a big one up. It looked to be the largest at about five inches long and an inch across and he held it right to my horrified vision.

       'Think this'd get rid of the matches in your cunt?'

       I shook my head in incredulous disbelief. How could he be asking me such a vile, unthinkable thing?

       'No. No, you don't? How about two at once then?'

       'No. Oh, God, have mercy. No. You can't possibly do that to me. It's not just inhuman, it's beyond that. Way beyond that. It's off the impossible scale. Impossible to describe. So please stop. Don't. Put them away and don't.'

       That's when he told me more details about the other woman and how much he'd enjoyed it and now just felt like doing it again.

       To me.

       He just felt like it and that was good enough for him.

       It was a good enough non-reason.

       I had not stopped him from doing one single horrid thing he'd indicated beforehand he wanted to and intended to do to me, so how could I now?

       If I could think, I could reason but I couldn't think.

       The only thing I finally alighted on was money.

       I had a lot of it. Not from my news casting, although it paid pretty well, but I lived well too, an executive condo facing the waterfront and a BMW and lots of designer clothes. No, I'd bought two thousand shares of Google just after the IPO and they'd increased six fold in value. I was a millionaire-is and what was left to lose at this point? What good was the money to me if I was dead?

Page 70.

       'I'll pay you. I have lots of money. I'll pay you not to do that to me with the firecrackers.'

       I tried not to sound too desperate but wasn't sure I at all succeeded. I was desperately desperate.

       'Money? You want to buy your cunt? Buy your safety? What's a cunt worth on to-day's market?'

       'I'll do anything. Obviously my money's no good to me if I'm dead or severely injured so I'll share it with you. I'll let you have it, even all of it.'

       'You're well off?'

       'I have enough. Yes, plenty. I don't even have to work. I just love to, I love my job.'

       'Yeah, on TV you seem to be having a good time. And the clothes too, you sure don't mind showing your figure off, do you? That's what first attracted you to me. The cunt slut newscaster showing off her tits and ass. The T and A broad, broadcaster.'

       By his interest I figured I had him. He'd actually pushed the firecracker cart aside and seated himself on the bed beside me and almost mindlessly, like an afterthought, mauled my breasts and slid his fingers into my crease like it didn't even matter. Like it was his right and it didn't even count anymore. It didn't even constitute sexual assault or invasion to him. He diddled with me like I was an inanimate doll that had sexual features.

       'How much you talking?'

       I wasn't sure how to answer. Too little and he'd sluff it off as being insignificant or an insult and too much he might not believe me and just take it for stalling on my part.

       'I'll pay you two hundred thousand dollars to not use the firecrackers.'

       'Two hundred g's, not bad.'

       And then I had to try since he seemed somewhat impressed with the offer.

       And then another three hundred thousand if you'll let me go safely now.

       'Half a mill. Shit, bitch where'd you get that kind of money? Not from doing the reporting, that's for sure.'

Page 71.

       I knew in my heart, that wasn't likely or even practical for him. I was a higher profile person. I knew his face. I didn't know where we were or who he actually was but I knew every detail of his countenance so a police sketch artist would have his likeness on the air-waves in no time, especially with the new computerized programs for that sort of thing.

       But I had to stall for hope.

       'So, as I said, we're at half a mill. You really have that kind of money? You wouldn't shit me would you?'

       I told him about Google and everything about that scheme collapsed. The bastard had bought even more of it than I had at an even lower price and didn't need money at all. He didn't need any extra because his main source of entertainment didn't cost much. Capture a woman and hold her to torture and mutilate her to death and then go ferret out the next one. That doesn't cost much at all even though he fed me pretty well because he said he wanted me to stay beautiful like I was when he first got me and not have me get all pasty and gaunt or skinny from malnutrition or whatever.

       All my hope collapsed and money would not be my way out and he was ready again to start with the fireworks.

       He had tied a new neck tether around my throat while I was unconscious and got me over to the center of the room so he could secure me to the ceiling eyelet. He used the ratchet thing so he could control the line length and hang me if he so felt like it. My hands and feet were free. They were but I wasn't.

       I was so vulnerable standing there.

       Fully clothed but the clothes afforded no protection. They would become my enemies if he intended to stuff fire crackers into them. If they, in effect, contained the crackers up against my flesh and body.

       All I wanted to do was faint and I couldn't. How ironic and inopportune. I figured he wanted me conscious for the explosions, so wouldn't proceed if I wasn't aware. He rolled the cart up to me with purpose and forethought.

       Again, my brain couldn't contend with what my eyes took in.

       An array of explosive devices he intended to assualt my body with.

Page 72.

        How in God's good green earth could such a circumstance unfold? It was not possible and yet, everything is possible. I was starting to go into anticipatory shock.

       He picked out a mid-sized one and let me inspect it. He forced me to inspect it. He asked me to read what was printed on it and the only thing I could really make out was 'made in China'. Where else. I thought and how appropriate since the Chinese invented them eons ago.

       He pulled my sweater arm hole wide and tucked the cracker inside it, just under my arm pit and inside the side and top of my bra. It was against my breast but not my nipple. Just the fatty part at the side. He made sure the little wick was hanging out enough for him to light it.

       He stepped back just to look at me and to savour the moment. A beautiful, desirable sensuous woman with a firecracker stuffed into her stretched sweater. How often does anyone get to see that spectacle?

       It wasn't as if he was struggling with whether or not to light it, but when. How long could he draw out my dread and anticipation? Fifteen minutes was enough for him and he got right up and came to me fast and lit the fuse.

       My legs were about to buckle as it went off with an evil bang. It had dropped down a bit and blew a big scorch to the side of my sweater and also the side of my bra. It didn't hurt all that much, certainly not as much as I'd expected, since, for some reason, it hadn't exploded with it's full potential force. Sort of a half dud.

       His next try would prove better.

       He came marching right back up to me and pulled my sweater up above my breasts. He could see what I'd felt, that not too much damage had resulted. He felt around my tits, like he was looking for a spot of injury but couldn't find any. But he wasn't one to be disappointed for long.

       He yanked my sweater back down so I was covered and tucked it into the waistband of my short-shorts. He retrieved another bigger red one, about four inches long and pulled my sweater collar out at the front and dropped it inside. The bottom of it was jammed on top of my bra middle, between the cups. It wasn't really what he wanted so he maneuvered it about, under my sweater until it was more over the center of my breast. Then he seemed happy. The sick fuck.

Page 73.

       If that's where he wanted it to go off, I had no idea how he was going to light it. But, of course, he did.

       He took a pair of scissors and made a little slit in the fabric you could stick your baby finger through. Then he fished down the front neck of my sweater again and fed the wick out the little hole and then patted it all down smooth except for the outline of the

red stick.

       He looked at me quite awhile amused and just got right up again and lit the wick. I was so scared I had to try to shake it away. But away from what and away to what?  It was a mistake on my part because it dislodged and fell down inside my sweater to over my bare belly almost at the button and exploded. It must have flared too since it burned right through my sweater and the blast portion sent red hot particles to be imbedded in my tummy flesh. I was proud of my stomach, my abs, from working out and now he was searing and disfiguring me there. I wanted to kill him for it but he was more likely to kill me first.

       It burned and it hurt and I couldn't keep myself from hollering. I tried to choke the screams off but they just intensified and increased along with the pain from the multiple tiny pinprick burns. So I was literally screaming from my gut.

       He must have gotten annoyed by my shrillness and ear piercing shrieks because he closed in on me and gut punched the wind and the sound right out of me. As I sputtered and coughed, he stuffed another big one, the biggest, up the tight short leg of my short-shorts. He didn't hesitate much. He got it lit and then gave it a fast shove upwards right in front of my bush. Luckily I could feel it'd stayed on the outside of my underwear. Still, I might as well not have had them on for all the protection they afforded me. The cracker went off right in front of my clit. The blast shredded the silk of my panties and molten hot debris was launched right inside my crevice. My shorts were smoldering right at the fly and so was my vagina.

       'Uh. Fuck. Fuck, bitch. That looked like a good one and even a great one, right in the fucking crease. I blow your crease up? You think?'

Page 74.

       I was almost passing out as he undid my zipper to open my shorts. He pulled them down a bit too.

       He was plenty pleased and cunt-blasting proud. My panties were smoldering and so was my pubic hair. I had a medium density bush and it's been weeks since I'd shaved myself or had a bikini wax so there was lots of muff. The little pubic hairs curled up to die as the creeping smolder worked along my fuzz. I tried to put it out by pissing myself but that only worked partially. The fire line, like a creeping forest fire, was moving inside my crease and I screamed myself unconscious.

       He must have put it out right away because as he slapped me to bring me to, I realized my clit wasn't fried nor roasted. He'd pulled my shorts off and my sweater too so I was just displayed there in my bra and panties which was a perfect invitation to him. He seemed to get more excited when I had my underwear on than when I was naked.

       He sidled up to me and stuffed another of the biggest crackers into each of my bra cups and lit them. He watched in fascination as about two seconds apart, first one cup exploded outwards and smoldered and then the other one followed, like it was a rehearsed follow-up act. But the second one burned while the first one was just pulverized. My flesh was seared and pock marked from the high energy particles imbedding themselves into my fatty tissue. The other cracker had caught the edge of my nipple and it must have flared because it was burned away on the side.

       Seeing my nipple shriveled and reduced like that pleased him the most.

       He washed and dried my vagina off from where I'd pissed myself and then went for the grand finale, the brass ring so to say.

       He pushed two of the biggest and baddest ones right up and into my opening. My vagina was loaded with explosives.

       This was not possible.

       It could not happen -

       To any woman.

       Let alone to me.

       Especially not me.

       I was too good for it.

       My vagina too fine and tight.

       And precious.

Page 75.

       What on God's earth was I going to offer him to get him to stop? I had to think and super fast.

       I figured the blow torch would be a controlled burn while if the crackers went off inside me, it would be haphazard and hazardous to the configuration of my cunt. As impossible as it seemed, the best choice was to have him intentionally burning the inside of my vagina. I believed that to be the case and I had to convince him of it and really had precious little time to do it.

       He had injected them up into me until they were crushing against my cervix. Oh, God, they might blow it apart and even compromise my womb. He'd murder my baby factory and I wanted two kids eventually. A perfect boy and an angelic girl, beautiful like me.

       He was knelt right down looking up into my pubic 'v' and he kissed me ever so gently, almost lovingly. I suppose he felt sorry for it. Not for me, but for my sweet vagina and for the fact my tidy little area was all still neat and tailored and intact and he was going to blow it to smithereens. Even my clitoris could disappear, I was worried.

       I had to have him understand it wasn't right nor acceptable and it could be likely my clit might be eviscerated.

       Did he really want to blast my clitoris into oblivion when he could have so much more fun with it, and me, if he let it stay put?

It was such a pleasure center. Men love to focus on a woman's engorged spot and he wouldn't be able to any more.

       'You say? What the fuck, you say?' I barked it at him.

       He seemed confused and I'd caught his attention and halted his progress for the brief moment. My briefs were now off and he'd put the on.

       'What? What's the matter with you? You having some kind of a fit? Like a break-down? Or a blast-down - there. Ha ha.'

       I so despised him when he thought he was being funny.

       'No. No, you listen and listen good to me. I'm talking to you and I demand that you hear me. Hear me out.'

Page 76.

       'Oh, I see, listening and hearing aren't the same thing then? You've got something deeper (He ha ha'd me again.) to say?'

       'You just stop and understand me then if that's what I have to say to make you aware.'

       I was fighting with words, with the meanings of words, or were they doing battle with me? Either way we had to convince him and fast. He had the damnable match in his hand. One swipe and he could obliterate my femininity.

       'OK. OK, now no. Think about it. Think. Think, the blow torch, the plumber's thing, if you use that to (I could barely bring myself to utter the words) burn me, you can be slow and careful. You can take your time and see what you're doing. I'm sure you'd like that. You'd like that better. To have your fingers on me and in me as you do it and to hear me scream. I know I'll have to since I know it'll hurt so much and I know you like to hear me scream. You've demonstrated that. You like the way my face looks. How it's all twisted and contorted up, so think about that and then when you're done you can still fuck me. You can push your cock into me and know you're grinding against where you've just burned me. Wouldn't that give you extra satisfaction to know you were hurting me more that way?'

       I must say, I surprised even myself. I believed I sounded quite eloquent and believable, like convincing and had gotten down  inside his head to where and how he would think. I never thought it possible that I could sink nor stoop so low but it took intelligence and determination so I wasn't ashamed of myself. It was survival, survival of the craftiest and I needed to out craft him. I was trembling  and crying slightly at the emotional content and physical images of my spiel and prayed that some of it would register with him. With his cock and his insanity. My lips vibrated and my chin quivered and I fought to keep from blubbering. I knew he liked my efforts to control my fear so I did it all the more.

       He matched right up to me with the match as if to say, - so fucking what? He held  it right in front of my tear filled eyes and ignited it with his thumb nail. The same one he liked to use to dig into my clitoris. God I hated his fingers and especially that one.

Page 77.

       How, if there was a God, could all my begging not have moved him? I had to keep on trying.

       'No. No. God, God no. Put out the match.'

       And then I blew it out.

       He was holding it right in front of my nose and I snuffed it with one breath out.

       He looked amused and satisfied as if he'd expected me to do it.

       Even invited and dared me to.

       Then he didn't look amused.

       He was moving into the core of his insanity.

       He had dozens more matches so I had to make my point then or never.

       'No. Listen. No, I'm sorry, but you've still got to listen. I wasn't finished. Controlling the torch is controlled but if you light the fuses down there, it's all unpredictable what the results will be and it'll only last a moment and all the damage will be done.'

       I reflected. Thy will be done. I thought about God for a moment and got angry at Him. And got angrier at the squalid excuse for a monster that was intent on blowing my crotch apart.

       I found a deep breath and calmed down.

       'And you don't know what'll be left of me. How I'll look or if you want to rape me more, will you be able to?'

       That seemed to interest him. The thought he might blow my passage so wide open his dick would have nothing to grind against. I saw the flicker of his wavering and I had to seize his apparent indecision.

       'Yes. Yes. Yes, you know I'm right. I could be right so I'm begging you, use the torch instead.'

       He stood up and looked me in the eye like he was a superior court cop and said, 'I'll take it under advisement.'

       What a jerk. What a fucking pompous ass. Advisement? As if it was appropriate.

       But I was confused too. What did he mean by it?

       He was stupid and given to childish, nonsensical behavior and her got down in front of me and talked to his cock, to his own penis like it was another person.

       God I hated his stupidity.

       But I feared his intelligence more.

       And his creative evilness topped the list.

Page 78.

       'So big guy, what do you think? She right? You going to be robbed of multiple future pleasures if I blast her to bits?'

       Then he have his prick a high pitched kid's squeaky voice.

       'Well yea sir. Yes sir-ee boss. I love bashing into that cervix donut at the top and you might eliminate that. Boss man. Host man.'

       'Well we can't have that then, can we?'

       He talked back to his prick as he held it and waved its stiff shaft at me and nodded its purple head at me, like a greeting.

       'No boss. No, I'd like to get in there right now for some more juice. It's acidic and stings a bit but I love the tang.'

       'I think we can arrange that.'

       And he got up, advanced on me and extracted both crackers from my vagina.

       I was so relieved but not for long.

       He sniffed them and licked one and told me to lick the other one and I wouldn't so he grabbed my labia and my mouth popped open and my tongue worked furiously.

       'Open wider.'

       I did and he shoved the cracker right into my mouth with about an inch remaining out. It couldn't be possible. How could he think to blow up my face?  It could kill me and besides he said he admired my face, my formal beauty. He requested I open wider again so he could put the other one along side the first one. I refused until he dug  that vicious knife-like thumb nail into my clit at the base and almost cut through it, as he sawed and shook at it. How could it all be so horrid?  He stepped back and I must have been a petrified sight with the two crackers in my smile. He had no pity though, but he was practical.

       He started to role play with his penis again but as far as I was concerned it was just two pricks talking to each other.

       'Boss. Boss, sir. Think about it. You could blow her brains out, literally and then she'd be no good to fuck at all, at least not for long until she got cold because she'd be dead, stone cold dead, worse than drunk.'

Page 79.

       'So my esteemed friend and attachment, what else? Where else? What would you suggest?'

       Then it became clear to me what he'd intended to do all along.

       He was going to blow the shit out of me.

       'Her rectum, boss. Her sphincter. Her sweet little pucker. I bet they'd fit up there nicely. Nicely and snug. Why not try that?'

       'Why not indeed? Perfect. El magnifico. Such a splendid idea.'

       And that was the end of their stupid, infantile conversation and the beginning of the end for my end.

       He pulled the crackers from my mouth and I have to admit, I truly and for real, mewled and whimpered. True, a rectal explosion shouldn't rupture nor compromise my vagina but it enclosed a whole new set of possibilities and likelihoods. The probabilities were too horrid to contemplate but I had to.

       'Oh God. Oh God in heaven, what now?

       The what now, was he wanted to fuck first.

       He slithered his cock into me and mechanically but rhythmically pumped me up and down while twisting somewhat sideways too. He wanted to ram all of my canal, all the sides. My body jerked and my breasts bounced. He grabbed hold of my nipples and stretched them to almost touch my chin and then he yanked up on them even harder. He didn't have to be so mean but I guess just raping me was far from satisfying for him. He was half way through his grinding  when he ejected himself, he withdrew his cock and stalked around behind me and worked it into my sphincter. He just had to bugger me before he buggered me up for good. He grabbed onto my breasts even harder to use them as handles and left a substantial load in my bum after about ten minutes.

       I was crying and protesting but was almost catatonic too so I wasn't very effective. When he was spunked he got the crackers and stuffed them, side by side, into my just raped bum. They'd been in two of my orifices already and now for the third, and I supposed, the final destination. He didn't pause nor consult me. He didn't want me to beg anymore.  He just lit the fuses without talking and six seconds later my shit exploded all over my bum cheeks and the floor. It was the end of my rectum as I'd known it, and it was disgusting. A disgusting sight and smell but I didn't know it because I was out cold.

Page 80.

       When I came to, I was spread eagled, face up on the bed and my rectum hurt so much I had to pass out again while screaming. I caught a fast glimpse of his sordid face and he was grinning widely. How could he still revel in my pain and horror?

       He used some smelling salts to revive me and after another three episodes of going unconscious and being revived, I managed to remain aware but was barely coherent.

       'Stay with us. Stay awake bitch.' He was commanding me through the fog and the haze of my unbearable rectal pain.

       'I want to tell you what happened to your asshole. Show you some pictures I took. Some digital close ups.'

       'No. No, why?' I shook my head in barely awareness.

       'So first the description. I swear you flew two feet off the ground, off the floor, like a short rocket ride. Straaaaight up. And your face, that was priceless, like there are no words to describe your surprise and disbelief and then you collapsed right down like a rock made of shit right into your own shit. It stunk and was crappy messy and took me twenty minutes to get you scrubbed and spic and span clean, but Christ was it worth it.'

       He looked at me to appraise that I was taking it all in.

       'Your fucking pucker, you sphincter's gone. It ripped the muscle right out of you and fried the surrounding sides that were left, to a crisp. Fused them. A crispy critter, you might say.'

       He laughed uproariously but insincerely.

       He knew his witticisms weren't all that funny.

       'So now you have a rectum, the inner chamber but no asshole as such and it seems your rectum got fused or something since you're not leaking shit anymore. But you wanna bet the blast, the concussion, bruised your cunt canal pretty good, being so close and all, to the other shit. But fuck, wait for this, one of the crackers blasted and then flared like an acetylene torch and burned half an inch into your leg right at the very top. I swear I can stick my pinky finger into the hole. Wanna see?'

       Visit:     http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:WeiblichesBeckenMedian.gif

Page 81.

       He had some computer printer pictures of the main and collateral damages. He'd used a close up setting with a flash and the images were quite clear and telling. From what I could tell, through my gushing tears, there was a carbon black gape where my light little pucker should have been. That was pretty well all that showed from the outside. And he showed me a picture of his finger stuck into the burn hole in my leg right at the very top and seeing the picture released the pain in excruciating waves. Until I saw it, I hadn't known it'd happened, even though he told me, like when someone chops off a finger, or fingers, and doesn't know until they see it and then it starts to hurt beyond belief.

       That's how it was for me then.

       Through it all, he never once showed sympathy not empathy for me. He was using my body as a plaything to be denigrated, disintegrated and dismantled as he saw fit and he just happened to concentrate all his vilest hatreds on my sexual components.  I didn't know if I'd ever get the chance to return the abuse to him but I prayed ferociously that I would. I wanted to nail a rusty spike through his testicles, first one and then the other,  and fasten him right to the wooden floor so I could lacerate his penis shaft and shorten it a half inch at a time. I wanted to take a vice or at least vice grip pliers and squish all the purple out of his penis head but I wouldn't kill him right off.

       I wanted him to live knowing he was no longer a man, not that he'd ever been much of one anyway.

       I wanted.

       I wanted.

       I wanted him to go away.

       I wanted him to go away and be dead.

       I wanted someone to get to read the accounts of my private hell so they would know, so the public would know, what a menace he was.

       I wanted other women to know.

       But not first hand.

       I wanted.

       I wanted.

       I wanted To die.