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