Rape Stories

Warning!

I'm sorry chapter IV

by Psiberzerker

Finally, I came down to the thunderous sound of someone rummaging through the kitchen. The little raccoon was making a cacophonous racket with pots, and pans. I called from the den, knowing she'd be bent over to reach them. There's some things, I realized, that I shouldn't allow myself to see if it can be helped.

"Shower's all yours," I offered, "Let me handle breakfast." I threw together omeletes, musing that she probably had to scavenge at her old place, and hadn't gotten used to someone actually cooking for her. She headed up to get clean while I was at it, and took her time.

I realized that I had an appointment in a few minutes, and moved to clean up quickly. The real mess was on the couch, so I bundled them up, and headed for the wash. I guess I was distracted, trying not to notice what I smelled on the bedding. It was real fresh, but then, I knew that.

My only warning was a squeal from upstairs. I ran, panicked and was halfway up the stairs when the door burst open. I had to look away very quickly, but it was another one of those mind etching moments.

"The fuck happened to the hot water?" she yelled down to me.

"Sorry," I realized, sheepishly, "I started the washer."

Perfect time for the doorbell to ring, I hate that cliche', but like most of them, it became proverbial for a reason.

Jeremy was a bit early, I'd have to start scheduling him later in the day. His mommy had a nasty habit of doing everything on the same trip, so depending on when I was on the itinerary, he never showed up at the same time. Averaged out, he was probably on time, give or take twenty fucking minutes.

"Could you hang on a few minutes?" I pleaded, "I'm in the middle of breakfast."

"We'll come back," Mrs. Whatshernuts trundled little Whatshisnuts off to the minivan. Fucking yuppie breeders made it all look so god damned easy, I fumed as I went to take care of the half naked little girl I had upstairs. I wouldn't have even thought about how that would look if it weren't for the fact that I thought it was true.

True to form, she wasn't back by for the better part of an hour until her trade rout brought her back around to my little island again. By then, I had Jodi dressed, fed, and instructed to go out and play.

"Sorry, sweetie," I regretted that little epithet instantly, "I've got to work."

Like I said before, I aint rich. I do alright, mostly because I'm not married, and hitherto only had to provide for myself. That doesn't include enough for a separate office space replete with commercial rent, secretary, and all the other shit that goes along with it. The only other alternative was being incarcerated with the poor jerks working for the school system, but I make about half again what they do. Working out of my house was the best I could do, so I'd have to adjust.

Finally, I did. It was just a matter of fitting her in my schedule. I had to give up having saturdays off, so she could go to school while I saw other kids, but such are the sacrifices of the single parent. It was worth it to see her turn around.

Over just less than a year since she started living with me, or a little more since I'd known her, the once skinny, filthy, depressive little girl grew up a lot. She filled out, her face developed curves even as her body did. I had to buy her the first bra, and god help me, instruct her on how to use it.

I'd inured to her occasional and inevitable nudity, and physical contact. She kept to her word by not calling me Daddy, but when enraged by my being a man, and her hormones, she called me "Mother" in the way she must've referred to the desiccated womb that spawned her. I had to buy her tampons monthly, and other "Feminine products" that I'd only had hypothetical knowledge of before.

I found that I was well suited to fatherhood. I told myself I wasn't a pedophile, and even started believing it myself eventually. I do love kids, it's in my job description, but that doesn't have to translate to sexual attraction. She sure made it hard, though. Alright, poor choice of words there.

She bloomed into a beautiful young woman before my eyes. Short, and petite, but with decent sized breasts I was reminded of every time she outgrew a cup size. By her fifteenth birthday, she'd filled out to a 32c, and made no signs of receding. Her hair had grown out too. The woody tresses hung down to her shoulders, and she kept it neatly groomed and trimmed.

Thank god someone came along to distract me. Mrs Childress was one of Jodi's teachers, and we hit it off when I was called in to review her remarkable improvement. She went from a straight F average to B's, and C's in a couple semesters. Where it not for her lackluster start, she would've made honor roll.

The first thing she ever said to me was, "I've heard so much about you." It was doomed from the start. She was a Catholic, I wasn't. That pretty much summed it up. It was like dating a fucking nun. As in that was the extent of the fucking, none.

Damn, that was just what I didn't need. I had enough sexual tension at home. At least she displaced it some, but the problem with walking around with a twenty four hour hard-on is eventually it breaks free.

I've been stating all along that I'm not a pedophile, and I stick by that. Unfortunately, I can no longer say I'm not a rapist. A man can only take so much.

Loren, (Her first name) had me over for dinner, and set a rather romantic trap. That's how she was, hopelessly, naively, romantic. To a girl, that's sweet. To a guy, it can be painful. To her credit, she didn't mean to tease. It just came naturally.

Alright, I can't say she gave me Nun of it. Just enough to hurt. I'd seen her tits, and touched them. They where nice, fuck that, they where wonderfully, completely different from Jodi's, and that's just what I needed. Unfortunately, I got real sick of jerking off in secret. I couldn't let Loren know because of some shit about spilling seed in barren ground, and I had to hide from Jodi to keep her from getting the right idea.

Another thing I couldn't do is bring them together. Last time I had Loren over, there was a big knock down drag out that ended up with Jodi locked in the bathroom. Fortunately, I knew her all too well, and battered down the door before she finished with the seccond wrist. Just to keep medical costs down, I stopped bringing her over. I'd moved her to a different school even before I started going out with her former teacher, so she basically lived in healthy blissful denial.

So, it was at her place where I wound up with her for the last time. She cooked for me, and served by candlelight before we retired to the rug in front of the fireplace. I drank mostly to suppress erectile function, but was largely unsuccessful. She still brought out my pent up lust, then stopped me before we got serious.

I'm not telling you this to justify what I did next. Dealing with teenagers gave me a healthy dose of the effects rape have on a woman. It maims the psyche, amputates something vital to happiness that won't grow back without years of healing. Some never fully recover, and even those that do still have the deep scar where something was ripped out of them.

I wasn't thinking about any of that, just selfishly focused on my unsated need. At first, she tried to convince me as I took off her clothes. "Please," she started crying, "I want to wait."

"It's alright," I soothed her insincerely, "No one will ever know." As it turned out, she didn't tell anyone, except perhaps her confessor.

I wasn't brutal, just insistent. I used only enough force to ensure her cooperation, and she didn't fight me. I don't know what I would've done if she had. I might have settled for attempted rape, or I might've beaten her. I don't know, because I'd only ever done it once, and thankfully didn't have to find out.

When I finally slipped into her, It was exquisite. I felt her Hymen pop despite the fact that she was a couple years my senior. She didn't even use tampons, for christ's sake. I was entering a sacred place, and perversely, I enjoyed that.

Admittedly, it'd been college since I'd had my last fuck, but I don't remember it being quite so tight, and dry. She was a virgin, and I realized, not aroused at all. That's about when I got my shameful release, and I figured it was too late. A little sooner, and that thought might've caused me to withdraw. I did anyway, having the common decency not to add pregnancy to the shame.

As I've stated, I'm a man. I used to be proud of that fact, but as I fled the fuck in a most stereotypical way, I realized it was nothing to be proud of. I felt like a dog, and I cried on the way home.

Chapter V

When I got home, it was fairly obvious that I'd been crying.

"How's your date?" Jodi asked with a wry grin.

I practically shoved her aside, and ran for the bathroom. I vomited before deciding to hit the shower. There where aftershocks from the eruption in my midriff, but they all washed down the drain. Long after they where over, I stayed in there with the white noise. I didn't even touch the soap.

I thought ruefully that if the drain where a vulva, I'd have impregnated the whole sewer line. Jacking off in the shower daily for that long had a nast habit of conditioning response. For once, my rebellious flesh stayed suppressed.

At the time of the abortive suicide attempt, it seemed a good idea to install a new door without a lock on it. Now, I rued it, but then again, I deservered it. She'd already gotten me back for the Faux Pas with the washing machine via a glass of ice water over the shower curtain whenshe started feeling frisky again. This time, she just waited me out. I knew she'd opened the door by the chainge in the air temperature. She left it open, and eventually, I pulled back the curtain to face the music.

"Pay no attention to the naked man behind the curtain," I joked humourlessly. It didn't have the desired effect of saying I was fine without using such a suspicious phrase.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," she pointed out tight lipped, "But why are you acting like a rape victim tonight?"

I tried again to play it off with a joke, "I wasn't raped," I said truthfully, and failed to laugh, "I just had a little too much to drink."

"Who did?" she nailed me with her gaze. I couldn't take that, so I ducked it, and reached for the towel. "My god." she caught on quick, damn her intilligence.

"I don't want to talk about it," I fled towards my room.

"Not good enough!" she stormed after me. I tried to slam the door, but she must've kicked it because it slammed back open. "You fucking RAPED Mrs C?!!!" she didn't sound best pleased.

I couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound like a standard excuse. I was rather new to being a rapist.

"What the FUCK is wrong with you?!!" she always yelled like that, picking one word to epmphasise with a shrill accent. Usually it was an obscenity.

I rolled over, "I'm sorry," was the best I could come up with.

"I TRUSTED you!" she informed me at the top of her lungs. Fortunately, my neighbors where relatively far away, and tried to ignore these tantrums.

"So did she," I admitted depressively. I started crying again, but she was right ahead of me. She sank to the bed, and I cried with her.

"Why?" she sobbed, "What HAPPENED?"

"Idanknow," I admitted, "Same thing as always almost happens when I go out with her." I realised suddenly that she didn't know. I'd kept her in the dark by mutual agreement. Don't ask, dont tell. "Se was a virgin," I admitted, "A jesus freak that had to be married to give it up." I couldn't believe how bad I sounded. Of course, I didn't mean any of it that way, that's just how it came out of my filthy testosterone controlled mouth. I was talking out of my dick, just like man had since he raped the neanderthals into extinction.

"So she ASKED for it?" she was starting to get pissed again.

"No!" I backpedalled, then noticed which creek I was in, "I mean I had a few too many drinks, and I lost controll. She didn't deserve that, nobody deserves what I did to her." I broke down then. Up to that point, it was relatively manly weeping, like I'd twisted an ancle runing a touchdown or something. Then, I realized I didn't want to be manly any more. I looked as dispassionately as possible at what it'd gotten me, and came to the very real realization that I was now a date rapist.

I collapsed then, capsised into a deep wracking fit of girlish sobbing. I curled up into tha feotal position, and did some good regression. Finally, Jodi, my tormentor shut up, and just heald me, healed me with her soft warm comforting preasence. Slowly, I ran out of tears, ran out of energy to cry any more. Like a drunkard on an epmty stomache, all I had left was dry heaves.

It was then, and there, during my deep dark introspective suffering that I looked into my heart, and saw what was there. It'd been there all the time, buried under a bucket of denial, and a mountain of guilty shame. I loved her. Jodi, I loved her in a way that transcended simple lust, or attraction, or sexual need. I loved a fifteen year old girl, and couldn't even recognise it.

I'd never loved before. Ok, familly members in the sort of platonic obligatory way I was trying to foster with Jodi. Some how, it'd festered into this sick twisted infatuation, but searching it, I could find no moral fault with it. I'd ben chivarous to a fault, untill it nearly killed me, or worse, an innocent bystander.

I sat up, bolted up really with this epiphany. "What's wrong?" she looked at me. Her teary eyes where filled with hurt. Guilt, and shame, and betrayal all for me. I looked deeper, searched for love there. I saw none. I was too late, I'd waited untill after I'd broken her poor heart to realize something so deep and instinctuall.

My dulled reactions failed me again, I hadn't noticed that she was kissing me for a while. It was chaste of tongue, but deeper for all of that. I fell to the bed again, this time on my back, and she followed.

Chaper VI

I lay back, stunned, and numb with emotive overload. Jodi followed me down with Her lips pressed to mine. What started as a rather chaste kiss degenerated to the passion of need.

Though naked save for a towel, my 15 year old ward was fully clothed. Fortunately, my near nudity made for four hands to even things up a bit.

Due to the platony of our relationship, I'd seen Her naked only briefly, and accidentally touched Her through Her clothes. We where both experienced, but virginal to each other. I quickly familiarized myself with the feel of Her slim frame as I disrobed Her. She ran Her hands through my damp hair, and across my chest.

She weighed hardly anything, but I could feel a different weight from Her. My guilt, and love for Her created a gravity between us that tugged our hearts together. As Her shirt came up, I unclasped the brassiere I'd bought for Her, and ran my hands over the beauty they'd held back for far too long.

They where fairly large, 32Cs according to the tag I'd read in the store. Despite this, Her lack of physical age defied the more common variety of gravity for now. Not even a crease appeared beneath them, They where still firm beneath the smooth taut flesh of youth.

Running my hands over them, I could feel the tips pressing back into my palms. I found them with my thumbs, and rubbed them to full erection. She sighed into my mouth, and I reflexively inhaled Her breath. In my mind, I could almost taste the emotion behind it, carried there from Her heart, and exchanged for life giving air. I didn't want to let it go, but had to too live. I would have happily died there in Her arms, but not until I'd loved Her fully.

I was still crying, and could feel Her tears rain down from above. Only speaking for me, it was a mixture of Love Regret, and Relief just as Our tears mingled on Our cheeks. The exact ratio was impossible to estimate, emotion cannot be weighed by any scale, nor compared for intensity. They became one as Our feeling ran down my face.

We moved together, removing the skirt from Her body. I could feel Her heat, a reflection of my own. Her humidity drenched me, quenched me as We wept together. Finally, I breathed back into Her, and She accepted it. Then, She sat up, and asked the question.

"D'you got something for this?" She asked gently while giving a squeeze for punctuation. I, having a virginal Catholic girlfriend, and a fifteen year old ward, assumed I had no need of such things. In the course of a night, I suddenly found one.

"It's alright," I hoped desperately. "there's other ways."

I, being a school age councilor, had access to a vast store of sexual technique. There where books on the subject, and teenagers who seek to shock me by revealing dark dire secrets of sex. Ironically, high school students taught me more about sex than any stack of texts.

Frottage is the act of rubbing the prick between two body parts. Popular sites include, but are not excluded to the breasts, buttocks, and thighs. Basically anywhere there's enough flesh to wrap around. Tribado is a popular technique among lesbians that involves rubbing a member between the labia, and across the clitorus. Combined, they can no invasively substitute for coitus. I like to call this Frottribado, but the words aren't important.

"Trust me," I offered, and guided Her down onto me. Rather than standing it up for her to slide down, I wrapped her beautiful vulva around me, and pinned it to my pubis. Her warm muggy cunt settled onto my cock.

Sorry, I ran out of nice euphemisms. Besides, that's about the time we stopped making love, and got down to the serious business of fucking. She slid back and forth along me, and I could feel Her little erection gouge into my larger one.

Don't take that as sexist, if anything, my bias is for the woman in bed. All we have to match their beauty, complexity, and sensation is a stick, and a pathetic fifteen second orgasm. I'd put up with cramps, ovulation, menstruation, pregnancy and even child birth for the privilege of multiple orgasms, and the ability to create life.

Barring that, I'll settle for appreciating the female body from the outside. Here was a prime example right in front of me. She'd really blossomed into one hell of a beauty.

Her face, softened by pleasure was filled with curves and angles that defied simple geometric understanding. Her lips darkened and swelled with blood, as did Her cheeks. She was right to shun cosmetics, Her beauty would only be covered by them, and no pigment could replicate the heart stabbing grace of her arousal. Her eyes closed, and then Her face disappeared as her head lost it's support, and lolled out of view. The last I saw of it was a cheshire grin before Her chin obstructed it.

The frame of spun cedar hair parted to reveal a fragile throat as luscious as a stem. As Her head fell back, Her shoulders rose creating a cleft between her clavicles I'm convinced was designed by god to lap sweat from. Her back arched, and I moved my hands to appreciate the shape, and proportions of her chest. The gentle valley that framed her chin now that her head had fallen back.

Of course, there was the popular choice, the breasts, but I took the time to appreciate the Gestalt the holistic picture that found more than the sum of the parts. I had plenty of it, between my earlier stolen orgasm, the remnants of alcohol in my system and the lesser stimulation of the necessitated act, I could be in for a long ride. A greater worry was if I could maintain pressure. If not, I'd enjoy it so long as I could.

Speaking of which, I got sidetracked by my reverie. Too much of that, and the part no man has any control of might lose interest. I went back to my appreciation of the most beautiful body I'd ever had the privilege to straddle mine.

I'd been staring at the heavy mammal growths, and I won't bother describing them. Anyone who's had a pair, or coveted them knows the score. What few take the time to appreciate is the lowly maligned armpit. Seen from below, framing the automatic center of most men's attention, they have a beauty all their own.

I suspect Jodi of trying to appear more adult because the only thing I could see signs of the razor on where Her legs. The slight brow of fuzz at the apex of each arm merely set off the curvature of that sexy socket. I guess it reminded me of another hairy depression, who the hell really knows the source of our attractions? I reached up to gently stroke the soft pelt.

A word to the wise: anywhere She's ticklish is an erogenous zone. Think about it, nerve endings are nerve endings. Once the orgone starts pumping any sensation that isn't distracting is erotic. Sadomasochists are people that have discovered that even the intensity of pain is pleasurable once you're turned on. Not my bag, it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

She responded well, not with girlish giggles, but long low womanly moans. I let my hands play down Her ribs, stroking across Her ribs rather than tickling. That'd ruin the mood as bad as a hairbrush across the backside.

My eyes followed down between, taking in the long taut lines of Her midriff. Though not particularly muscular, her torso was bent back like an Assyrian bow. Each striation was visible under her stre tched flesh like tanned hide pulled over braided thong. She shuddered, and I could see tiny ripples flow down them as if the spider who spun them was climbing down to see what the disturbance was.

Muscles worked in places I didn't have, and I vainly wished for a condom so I could feel them around me. All I got was the output, a suctioning action that paradoxically flooded my crotch with thick brothy fluid. I knew I'd get to drink them from the font that brought them forth, but first, I had my own need to take care of. The score was now one to zip, and I sought to even it up a bit.

I knew She'd win eventually, which made it even more imperative. I couldn't let her have the shutout just because I was literally shut out.
She fell back, still twitching, which gave me the opening I needed. Raising up to my knees, I took matters into my own hands, and brought myself off. With the near constant state of arousal, it was short work.

I kind cheated. While Frottribado is less stimulating for me, it basically goes straight to her clitorus, which makes it extremely powerful. All it took was a little more to send me over the same gulf I'd pitched Her across, and soon enough, I was spilling my seed on the barren ground of Her fertile body. I already had one child to worry about, I didn't need more, especially from Her.

I finished first, despite Her head start, showing just how uneven the odds where. I envied Her that, but not enough for me to stop giving it to Her. I loved Her to much to deprive Her of something so lovely because I couldn't have it.

I bent to kiss Her, and paused, lapping the palpable fluid of Our love from Her cheek. It was a strange flavour, blander than I imagined, yet indescribable. The texture was unfortunate, thick, and runny like several things you don't want to put in your mouth, but I dutifully cleaned it off Her because I was the one who left it there.

She appreciated it, the excitement was visible in her eyes. There was just the first shot on Her face, so I moved down to find a small pool of it in my favourite part of the neck. Now I truly knew what god intended it for. The chrychoid depression served no evolutionary purpose. In fact, it only served to mark one of the most vulnerable parts of the body. I was required to take first aid, and it was pointed out as where a tracheotomy is done. It's very vulnerability enhanced it's appeal, made it an issue of trust. As parts of the body go, it's only slightly less private than the crotch. Of all the ones that aren't commonly covered by clothing, it's one that I'd least like touched by someone I don't trust.

I know, I lingered to long, but soon enough I moved down to the main course. Beyond being the natural feast for the eyes, the chest also appears to be designed for fluid collection. Some, of course, deposited at the peaks. I'd aimed deliberately for them, resulting in temporary simulated snow caps.

I lingered here as well, naturally. Damn near everything on the upper torso is arranged around these two foci. They rose, and fell with Her breath, making things challenging, but all the more fun for it. Again, She arched, this time to my lips rather than my hands, and eyes.

It was a simple matter to clear the two solitary bull's-eye shots, then I gravitated down to the pass between. This was damn near blocked with creamy white banks. I reclaimed almost a mouthful of it from there, but did it efficiently due to lack of interest. From there, it was a short trip downhill to the remainder on Her belly. At rest, it was a much softer, smoother palate. Another dollop moved down to Her navel. I became convinced that the female body was designed for this. Of course, I only believed in the creator when I was in bed, and not alone. This was my church, and She was my priestess.

She took my face in Her hands, smiling, and raised me like a chalice. Bringing me to Her lips, she took my communion with all due reverence, and savored it a moment before letting it slide down. My tongue told me by touch that it was gone.

That done, I let Her further cleanse my palate before bending to sup from Her holiest of grails. I had wanted the communion to be complete, but though the subtle mingling of our flavours would be missed, I couldn't risk the resulting miracle. I knew to much, like the fact that my little soldiers would fight on for three days after I've given up the effort. That's plenty of time to traverse the at most eleven inches to where their female counterpart lay waiting. It was literally a shot in the dark, but if anything can be learned from the study of biology, it's that life will find a way to beat the greatest of odds. One in a million is too great a risk.

Finally, cleared to my satisfaction, I bent to her font, and tasted her holy water. This was stronger than my own elixir of life, tangy, like copper. I'd tasted it before, long ago, but never tired of it's subtle complexity. As indescribable as my own fluid, it was completely different, and wholly wonderful.

Her cup flowed everlasting, for as much as I took away, it only stimulated more. I dared not neglect Her miter either, and coaxed it out of it's hood with gentle calculated passes of my tongue. It peeked from it's lair, didn't see it's shadow, and decided to come out and play. Moving back down to her deepest pit, I ground the bridge of my nose in to keep it from feeling left out. She stiffened, and moaned, Her fingers snaking through my hair, and thighs closing on my rougher cheeks.

I had to supplement with my fingers, but fortunately, I'm a compulsive nail biter. I even had to blunt the edges to retain a professional fascade. If only anyone knew what I was doing, they'd send me to an even deeper darker place filled not with pleasure, but torment. I hear that they tend to be less than understanding of my current situation, though none of them who switched places with me would even attempt to resist. Indeed, they'd be much less gentle, nor concerned about her feelings. They'd become the rapists they violently condemn, just like me.

I'd passed through the various stages of grief in the span of minutes without bothering to recount them. It'd started with denial, and stayed there for over a year. Once through that, I'd progressed in record time, and ended in acceptance. I am a pedophile, in the latin sense, for I love a child. I feel no shame, She was no child when I'd met Her, no innocence was lost to me, and I could only hope She'd even gained some. She'd learned more than an eighty year old would ever want to know of pain, neglect, self loathing, and yes, even sex. I sought to teach Her something new, outside Her experience, and ken. I would teach her love, and she would teach me.

Obligatory epilogue: Alright, this probably violates the spirit, if not the letter of the 15YO rule. I apologize. I truly am not a pedophile, and I find the thought of sex with underdeveloped people is not just disgusting, but silly. However, this is what I do with my writing. I take the Serial Killer, the Pedophile, the Rapist, the Torturer, the Terrorist, and try to understand them. When I feel that I know what it takes to make men into monsters, I write it down, and try to convey it to my audience.

These are evil people, but people nonetheless. "There but for the grace of god," and all that. By understanding them, they can be stopped, possibly prevented. Why do I take such an active interest in them? Because they have an even more active interest in us, and our children.