The Ease Of It All

Like all good fantasies, it starts with a girl. I see her out and about every now and then, but I don't know her name. That's the story of the suburbs, even the busy ones. No one knows anyone. And that's just perfect, because it also means no one notices.

She hits all of my buttons-- smooth pale skin that has seen more hours of moisturizer than work in her life. Long brown hair, straight, shiny, flowing, well kept. Petite-- barely a sneeze over five feet, and sleek. A dancer's build. Fit but not starved. Breasts that are firm, round, but not stupidly uselessly big. A perfect handful. And oh how I can imagine how they feel. The low cuts she wears-- just enough to accentuate the curves of her cleavage, but not enough to look like a desperate slut.

That's all her clothing. Perfectly matched. Perfectly colored. Beautifully chosen. And yet just short enough, just tight enough, just low cut enough--- all to look devastatingly beautiful because she doesn't intend it. She rides that smooth borderline of looking like either a street walker or a fashion model. An innocent, or an undiscovered? I must know what those clothes hide. I must know how she feels, before anyone else has her.

She was put on this planet to be the perfect outlet for my desire.

Do you know how easy it is to follow someone, to learn their schedule, their every move? Be in a parking lot amongst a thousand other anonymous cars? To walk down a street, staring at her, while all that anyone sees is someone checking his cell phone? To walk past her apartment and look up and keep track of when the lights are on and off? How much information is just right there in plain sight for anyone looking? I know her name-- thought it is a guttural, common name that isn't as beautiful as she, so I refuse to use it. I know her classes. I know the long stretches of time when she won't be missed.

Passion doesn't mean haste. I've spent months planning this, and I've been careful. I know where the security cameras are in all our common places, and I'm not on them. I haven't asked anyone about her. We have absolutely nothing in common. And that's why it's perfect. The sheer randomness, the absolute disconnect-- there is literally nothing to connect us. She may have chosen me with her beauty, but I am the architect of our destiny. I've lived a good life. I have no prints or DNA on file, no wanted posters in my name. I'm not part of the system at all.

And tonight we meet for the first and last time.

She's on the top floor of a duplex. The bottom floor where the owners live is empty. Away on vacation. She's studying for midterms. At the coffee shop, she already told her ugly friends she would be "offline" for the weekend. She went grocery shopping and bought plenty. No one is coming to see her. No one is expecting to hear from her.

While she was at class, I went to her place. I wore a hardhat and an orange reflective vest. I'm highly visible but not one can see me. I screwed her windows shut from the outside. The front door is the only other way in or out of her place. I let myself in using the key she hid under the floorboard. I install a trap-lock on the door. Next time it is open and shut, it will lock from the inside. Once she comes home, she is mine. There is no escape. She doesn't have a landline. My first priority will be getting her cell.

A small apartment. A student's apartment. A bowl and charger by the front door. If she drops the cell in the bowl, then I've won. Otherwise, I'll have to wait for my opportunity. There's a common room, a kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom. I can hide in any and see all the others. The bathroom will be best-- closest to the front door, most hidden. If she puts down her cell, I strike. Otherwise I lie in wait for when she is most vulnerable.

I spend the next hour sorting through her clothes, in case she is wearing the wrong thing. The black mini skirt. The purple top with the v-neck. All so soft, so smooth, so tight. I pocket a pair of her pantyhose. Then there's footsteps coming up the stairs. I slip into the bathroom, into the shower. I can see well enough through the shower curtain without drawing it.

A key in the lock and my heart skips. It's finally time to meet my beautiful one.

She comes in, looking perfect as always. Except her hair is up in a bun, rather than flowing down past her back like it should. No! Why does she do that. Doesn't she know she looks so much better with her hair down. Stupid. She's being so stupid! I'll have to fix that.

But priorities.

She closes the door, and there's a subtle second click as the trap lock above the door clicks into place. My heart skips again, did she hear it? I heard it. If she sees it and opens it and runs, it's all over. No, she didn't hear it. Good.

I'm already hard. I take a deep breath-- save it for her. Calm down. Soon.

She tosses her keys in the bowl, but her cell phone is still in her hand. I had already unplugged her wifi, but I saw her cell phone bill. She has 3G, and will still have Internet. Why was she wasting so much money on useless luxuries like that? She's so stupid sometimes. The phone, I have to get the phone.

I am distracted, and I know it. She yawns and stretches-- yes, it was a long day, last day before midterms, wasn't it?-- arms over her head, arching her back. Her pink top rides up her midriff, exposing her cute belly. Flat. Perfect. I can't wait to kiss it. Maybe I'll cum on it, watch it all pool on that flat, perfect surface. There's so much to do to her.

Wait, what's she doing? She still has her phone in hand, checking her messages. And she's going over the the window. Why is she doing that? That isn't her routine. I've seen her through the window, she comes in, goes to the kitchen first. Not to the window. She's doing this wrong! Why is she not obeying? Maybe she just wants to close the curtains but-- oh shit, no. She's reaching for the window.

I take hold of the shower curtains, unsure of what to do. She's doing this on purpose! Heat is rising up the back of my neck, and I poise to strike. If she tries to open the window, discovers them screwed shut-- I'm found out! She's smart. She'll deduce something's wrong. Run or make noise before I can stop her.

She pulls on the window-- and it's jammed, won't move. She-- oh thank goodness, she puts down her cell on the window sill and grips the window with two hands.

This is my only chance. If I don't move now, she'll put together that she's trapped, call for help. I step out of the shower, move slowly towards her. In a panic, I forget that I mapped out the creaky floorboards during my wait-- and I step on the wrong one. It creaks and she spins around.

For just a moment, the entire world is still. Our eyes lock-- her perfect, brown eyes framed in a face that is cute and sexy and beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Little round nose. Sharp cheekbones. Tiny chin. She doesn't see through the cloth mask I'm wearing. Even if she did, she wouldn't know me from any of the other thousands of strangers on the street. No one knows me. No one loves me. It's why I can do this. It's why I have to do this!

We both move at once. I am by no means a massive hulk. That's up to the jocks and their waste of space on this planet. But I easily outweigh her-- and I spent enough of my life learning to defend myself from assholes. I know how to fight. I charge straight at her-- no need to get fancy. Get her away from the phone, away from the window. Overpower and subdue. Focus.

I focus too much on her, and only see the lamp too late. One of those tall, halogen deals. I can only turn my body, take it on the shoulder. She's strong, and has torque on her side. It slams into me, a searing pain on my left shoulder. The bulb explodes and I shut my eyes-- but I have physics on my side. I'm still barging forward. She had her one shot, and now it's mine.

I swing where I remember her being, and connect. Fist dives into stomach-- not as hard as I could swing, but maybe harder than I should have. I don't know how much it hurt her, but my hand is on fire. There's a crash-- the lamp's on the ground. I can finally open my eyes, still seeing the daze-- and see her doubled over, winded. She stumbles back, trips on the lamp cord, crumples to the floor. She's writhing, but looks dazed. Her skirt's riding up her thighs. Priorities! I grab her phone, turn it off and shove it into my pocket-- draw the curtains closed again. Then I look down at her.

She's on her back, rolling back and forth-- cute little mouth open, gasping for air. I didn't hurt her. Just winded her. Nothing worse than bumping into a door handle. She didn't wear much makeup today-- some lipstick, eye makeup-- but her face is decorated. Her cheek is purple now. How hard did she land when she fell? I'm sorry to have to do that, but she looks all the more beautiful with the mark of my power on her. I've hurt her.

And I want to hurt her more. It's real now. I did that. I made her bleed, and there was nothing she could do about it. For the first time ever, someone is truly mine.

Or at least she will be, once I stop admiring her and instead subdue her.

"Don't struggle," I grown down at her, my voice lower than my normal range. It's annoying-- but another mask. Can't be too careful.

I grab the lamp, unplug it, and take the cord. She's still on her back, so I push her gently onto her side. I kneel on her ankles-- she'll start kicking as soon as adrenaline kicks in-- and wrap the long cord around her ankles. Over under over and through. I'd practiced this knot over and over again. It had been with rope-- why hadn't I brought rope? I-- my god, what else will I fuck up tonight? No, nothing else. THIS IS PERFECT!

Suddenly, flailing. Her arms are waving, wildly, swatting at the air. I'm on her ankles, and she's on her back. Her petite frame, her short arms-- they can't reach me.

"What." she says, her voice slurred, still dazed. Good.

"Shh," I tell her. I shouldn't speak much. My actions will speak louder than my words. I pull her pantyhose from my pocket-- and wind each end around my hands, holding them taunt. Holding them up for her to see.

Her eyes are wide, everything snapping into place for her. The daze wearing off. The situation sinking in. She jerks to the side, trying to throw me off.

Now it's begun.

I lean forward, still on her legs, pinning her-- and put the pantyhose on her throat. Her long, luxurious neck. Like a crane. A swan. A thin, elegant expanse of soft, kissable skin. I think my biggest regret of this whole thing will be that I won't be able to push my cock past her soft lips, into her mouth, and down that beautiful throat to feel it from the inside. I just can't risk her biting me. As much as I know her-- as much as I know I can dominate her-- I just don't know if I can make her docile. Why does she have to be this way?

"Just relax," I tell her. Shouldn't it be obvious? I push the pantyhose harder against her throat. "It'll be easier on you, it's okay. Shh, just relax, and I'll let go."

Her eyes are wide and her face is red. The hard wood is scraping against my knuckles. I blink away the thoughts I'd lost myself in, and see her writhing under me, my hands on either side of her neck, the pantyhose digging deep into her throat. Her mouth is open. Small, cute gurgling sounds are making it past her lips. Her whole body is convulsing, trying desperately to get air. On her back, her breasts bunch up at her v-neck. Perfect, soft mounds.

She's swatting at me, so feebly. I loosen the pressure on her throat-- sitting back just an inch, and stop strangling her. Her hands go to her throat and she gasps, gulping in deep breaths. The pantyhose have left dark red pressure marks right across her pale throat. I think I've made my point.

I stop and realize I had her life right in my fingers. What a rush!

"Shh," I say again, glancing down at the pantyhose, then back up at her. "Shh?"

She gasps, looking around the room. For a weapon? For escape? I'm almost tempted to let her try to get loose, only to realize all the ways I've trapped her. But that would just be cruel.

But I do need her to realize this is happening. I let go of one end of the pantyhose, pull back-- and slap her. Not hard, but it's loud, vicious. Her head rolls. The side of her face with the bruise is now balanced with a red handprint on the other side.

"Shh?" I imply again. Now she's crying. Not a quivering, whimpering cry of fear. Just of pain. Anyone would cry if hit. Or hit again.

This time I backhand her--again, not hard-- enough for some scary noise. The side of her face fully red now, no distinct hand print. Tears stream down her cheek, her face a mess of ruined mascara. How glad I am she wore that makeup. I know she didn't put it on for me, but it works so well. She looks so sexy broken like that.

I put my bare hand on her throat-- no pantyhose this time-- fingers against her windpipe. I squeeze, not enough to cut off air, but just enough to get her attention.

"Shh?" I repeat, hopefully for the last time.

She sniffles, bravely fighting back the tears-- and nods. I let go of her throat, and stroke her red cheek. Her skin is every bit as soft as I imagined it.

And now I'm finally realizing just how close to her body I am. My legs are on top of hers, my chest just inches above hers. I can feel her heat rising up. I can smell her perfume. She fits so nicely under me-- trim body, shapely legs and holy fuck those breasts. Just the hint of them is driving me wild, gentle tender curves that fill out her shirt perfectly. Rising and falling as she breathes. She's so young, and they're still so firm.

I let go of her cheek, and grab one of them. Past the layers of shirt and undershirt and bra-- finally, in my hand. It's just as firm and soft and round and everything I ever imagined. Her eyes close and she looks away, but that is okay. There will be plenty of time to make her watch what I'm doing to her later. This one is just for me.

I rub it gently, the nipple hidden under cloth. I bet I could pull the neckline down, scoop it out of her bra, suck on the nipple. Make it hard. Make her body betray her to me.

It stiffens under my fingers. "See?" I say, "You can still enjoy this."

Suddenly, flames down my face. FUCK! She scratched me, clawed at my eyes. I grab at my face, and feel blood. She's suddenly out from under me, struggling to get up-- and falls flat on her face. She looks down at her bound ankles, horrified. Ha, she didn't even realize I had done that. Seeing the hope drain from her face was worth a few nail marks. She reaches down to her ankles-- like she can untie that knot-- and grabs the lamp.

Shit.

She swings it at me, and I roll away. I look up, expecting a second blow, but instead see her chop overhead at the window. The fragile window which, if it shatters out onto the street, will be noticed.

The world moves in slow motion as my whole plan is a swing away from being unraveled. The lamp comes down, and strikes the window sill with a loud thunk. She missed the window!

I lunge and grab the lamp, pulling. She won't let go, pulling, pushing, twisting. I can't get a good enough grip to yank it from her hands. Her teeth are grit, her eyes wild. She has too much fight in her. If she gets the lamp, she won't miss a second time.

I lift a booted foot, and stomp on her stomach. My god, this is the first time I noticed, but my boot is almost as wide as her body is. So petite, so fragile. It's why I need her.

She doubles up, lets go of the lamp, and lets out a nearly silent wheeze, on her side, mouth open. I rip the cord from the lamp and toss it aside, while she just lays there in a fetal position.

I close the curtains tight. Not that anyone looks up in the suburbs.

I want to relax, but don't have the time. Without the lamp, the knot's compromised. I need to bind her. I didn't think she had the upper body strength to fight back so hard. Stupid me. I always described her as having a dancer's body. I forget she'd also have a dancer's strength.

Her legs aren't going anywhere, so I don't have to worry about them. I step over her, now facing her back. Her skirt's ridden up, exposing as much as it can without giving me a glimpse of her underwear. It's-- it's so fucking perfect, I couldn't have planned that. I kneel down, one knee on the ground, and the other on her neck, and apply just enough pressure so she can't move.

I grab her wrist, and tie the pantyhose in a knot around it. Tight enough that I can maneuver her arm, but I don't want to cut off circulation. Given time, she can slip out of it. I just won't give her that time. Control now, dominance later.

She only has one couch, a two seater facing the TV. It looks heavy, solid. It'll do. I stand up, a firm grip on the pantyhose, and drag her to the couch. Her arm extends. I can almost see her shoulder straining to keep her bones in place. This would be easier if she wasn't resisting. She'll learn.

I kneel on the couch, and start to drag her up the back of it. She's gone limp, and I don't know if that's the beating or her being passive. Not that it matters. 110lbs of dead weight is still that. I put my back into it, heave-- fucking hell-- and finally get her up, draped face down across the back. It's an ugly blue thing, probably bought second hand when she moved in for college. Probably dragged up the stairs by friends and loved ones. People who care about her.

People who can't help her. Can't save her. People who won't miss her this whole weekend. People she can think about while she's bound to this couch being raped.

There's the word-- and sure enough I'm hard again. I've thought of it so many ways. That I'll fuck her. That I'll use her. That I'll make love to her. But I tried to avoid thinking of that one word. Not because I have any delusions about what I'm doing-- but because I want to do it so badly. Each time I thought about raping her, I would get hard. The blood would rush to the wrong head. It would get hard to plan. I'd have to masturbate to her pictures.

But I can't think of it any other way now. I just need to focus. Almost there. Almost there.

The couch is just tall enough-- I can drape her over the couch, her stomach on its back, her feet on the floor. She took off her shoes, but that works out well. It makes her just the right height. She'd be too tall in heels. Bent over, her arms draping, there's more than enough slack in the 'hose to reach the floor. Pantyhose are, after all, at least as long as two legs. I reach under the couch and find the boxspring. Loop the hose around-- once, twice, and knot it-- then loop it back up. I look up at her-- her eyes are almost glazed over, her breath in short wheezes, her face flush. She's looking up at me now.

I grab her other wrist and finish the binding. She'll still have plenty of mobility-- move her arms back and forth, but she's firmly bound to the couch. I'll need more pantyhose, though. I had just thought of tying her hands together. I hadn't actually planned of full body bondage. I guess I thought she'd give in by now. The couch is, honestly, a stroke of inspired improvisation.

I hadn't originally meant to hit her this much. I knew I'd have to in the beginning. It's unavoidable. She had to be subdued. She had to be hurt to know I'd hurt her more. I'm taking what I want from her, and I know she wouldn't just let me. But inflicting that pain on her, beating her--

-- actually, it felt fucking wonderful. It's like, I knew I'd be able to rip pleasure from her body by fucking her. I never thought it'd feel just as good to make her suffer just because I could.

I reach up and grab her messy face in my hands, shake her, make her look at me. Look right in my eyes. This was getting a bit hard, talking only with 'shh'. I didn't want to say too much. I didn't want her to know my voice. But a few very carefully chosen words, in a deep growl below my normal range-- combined with the stress of the situation. That should work.