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| Rape In The Movies Stories | Pictures Of Mature Rape | Home Rape Pics | Free Family Rape Movies |
| Thanks for all the work you do to help people share their writing! "Patience is a virtue," he told himself. Staring intently at a computer monitor for two hours without break each afternoon wasn't easy, even if it was in his comfortable office. Concentration was required so that he didn't miss the brief but important event for which he was waiting. At times he felt as though he couldn't so much as blink--because he'd have only seconds to come to a decision and act. The monitor was displaying two images: an overhead view of what looked like a small room and an image of an alleyway. What could be seen of the former was mainly an unpainted concrete floor surrounded by equally drab walls. A casual observer might have wondered if it was a view of a prison cell, but in fact it was simply a room that linked an alley with the ground floor of a parking garage. His attention was on the other image, though. Three times today he'd seen a person walking into the alley, toward the camera. None had been the right person, so his careful watch had continued. Sitting and watching gave him time to reflect on things, to recall the line of chance occurrences that had brought him to this point. He liked to mull over the past because he was convinced that doing so helped eliminate the repetition of error. And it was error that had driven him into exile in this new city. It was only a year and a half ago that he had been forced to transfer. Rather than feel sorry for himself over his involuntary move, he patiently waited for an opportunity that would compensate for the inconvenience. As he had fully expected, it came unexpectedly, and very much by chance. The opportunity started with his inability to give up his car and use the bus. He had certainly tried; there were many good things about riding the bus. He could board it directly in front of the office building in which he worked, and it took him non-stop to his suburb's transit station. During the summer months it was positively refreshing to stand at the downtown bus stop. The air was reasonably fresh, the temperatures usually moderate, and the scenery pleasant, for an urban setting. The view was greatly enhanced by the many attractive women who used the bus or walked by his boarding point. He liked woman, more so than most men; that he liked them differently than most men was why he'd had to move. That, and the mistake he'd made. Then things had changed for his commuting habits. Summer had faded to fall and the weather had grown cooler, then cold. With the change had come jackets, then long coats for the women; skirts had given way to slacks, and high heels to boots designed more for warmth than style. The female scenery, in short, had become buried under the layered look. Between this and the dreary weather, he found ample reason to abandon the corner bus stop. Driving a car required that he find someplace to park it each day, and he learned that there was an inexpensive parking ramp just two blocks away. It was shortly after starting to use this ramp that the opportunity he had patiently waited for arrived. The city began tearing up the streets to coincide with the removal of the building next to the parking ramp, causing some extra walking for many people (himself included) who now had to circle two blocks in order to enter and exit the ramp. This he did for a couple of months. Then, one particularly dismal February evening, he was walking to the ramp through a light snowfall. Walking ahead of him was an attractive woman he had seen using the ramp other nights. Rather than taking the usual long detour as he expected, she instead stepped from the sidewalk into an inconspicuous alleyway between the ramp's outside wall and a tall, wooden construction fence. Curious, he followed. Twenty yards in she turned towards the wall, opened a recessed door, and disappeared into the ramp. He ran and went through the door himself. Inside was a small, drab room. There was a door on the opposite wall that opened to the interior of the ramp. Cars were parked all around, including the car of the woman he'd been following. Its lights were just coming on and it began backing out of a stall. Obviously, she had found a shortcut into the ramp and gotten to her car far more easily than if she'd walked around the block. He had an inspiration at that moment. He pounded hard on each door and they responded with only dull, soft thumps that were surely inaudible outside of the room. The then-unlocked doors did have locks. Lighting and electrical outlets were both present; there were no windows or other breaks in the solid poured-concrete walls. The air had smelled vaguely of cement dust and decaying cigarette butts, and the floor occasionally shuddered. The overall impression was of being in a building about to collapse from old age, neglect, or both. Good enough. He realized that the room was something he could put to good use. More information was needed, of course. Fortunately, he was a patient man and willing to work hard for what could potentially be a great reward. Even better, he learned from his mistakes. This time it would go better. A month of watching the tiny alley from nearby had resulted in the following facts: No more than forty-five people knew about or used the shortcut during the evening rush hours; twenty-eight of these were women; ten of these he found attractive enough to be acceptable. He had liked these numbers a great deal. Of the ten women, one would eventually be chosen. Now as he sat watching the alley from the comfort of his office, he was satisfied to let fate and chance duel over which woman it would be. Carrie Stevens was never one to ride the bus. Her life was one of schedules, procedures, and efficiency. Punctual to a fault, she was unforgiving of those who were not. This extended to the local bus system, which had a well-deserved reputation for ignoring its printed schedules. She had never used mass transit, choosing instead to rely on herself. As a result, in fifteen years of employment she had not once been late for anything. Imagine her delight--which is not too strong a word for it--when she discovered the parking ramp shortcut. It clearly saved a minute off each walk. And when she realized that no one parked near the shortcut's inner door because of its large distance from the ramp entrance, she added another saved minute. That gave her an extra four minutes each day. She really was delighted! In her mind an extra four minutes was a great blessing; at one point she had actually tried to figure out what to do with it. She might be able to process more e-mail, review more reports, or perhaps write a few more memos in that amount of time. Or she could even give her sister a call and see how her family was doing. How long had it been since she'd last visited them? And to think they only lived across town, not at the other end of the country. Could four minutes a day be enough to bring them closer together? "Probably not," she told herself, then mentally changed the subject to avoid the usual self-recrimination. Tuesday was one of Carrie's health club days. She didn't particularly look forward to the self-imposed workouts, but they were nice after a long workdays, in a sweaty sort of way. The exercise also kept her trim and in good health--and her boyfriend appreciated what it did for her figure. Sometimes he'd even mention it, and it would make her glow with self-satisfaction. It was nice to know that her sacrifices were appreciated. She distractedly fumbled through the small gym bag on her desk, intent on making sure that all her exercise clothes were ready. Working out was a sacrifice, yet she couldn't remember the last time her boyfriend had mentioned her figure. In fact, the man who most recently had commented on it was her doctor, and that was only because he was so pleased at her overall condition--from a medical standpoint. He'd offered that praise a long ten months ago at her last annual checkup. A vague mood of dissatisfaction settled over her as she zipped the bag shut with a too-rapid tug. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she picked up her laptop case, and then lifted the large backpack she used as a purse. On her way out she passed by her manager's office; inside, a new hire was having another briefing on office protocols. Her manager called after Carrie, "You know, you could leave some of that here." "And if I did, who would do the work around here?" It was meant as humor, but the way the two reacted she knew she'd sounded harsh, which only made her angry with herself. "Now don't give me any trouble, I've got a schedule to keep." And with that she dashed into the hallway and out of sight. The manager sighed, turning back to her desk and the work spread out on it. The new hire across the desk wondered, "Is she always like that?" "Yes, and she's getting worse. It's getting to be that if you want her to sit still and work with others, you literally have to tie her to the chair. And god help you if you mess up her schedule." Carrie strode briskly out of the office building, crossed the street at mid-block, and made a straight line for the alley and the parking ramp. As she walked she was mentally rearranging her schedule--just in case she'd be unable to make up the five minutes she was currently behind. Traffic was light and that would help. Also helpful would be if the ramp's automated check-out system had finally been repaired, but she wasn't expecting a miracle. Entering the alley she broke stride once to rearrange the way the gym bag hung off her shoulder, then it was back to long, fast strides. The shortcut door was right in front of her now. She grabbed the dull silver handle and swung it open. The usual stale, damp air flooded out as she stepped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lower light level, and she paused to momentarily set down the laptop case because the leather grip was beginning to hurt her hand. Stepping to the interior door, she pulled on the door handle--and nothing happened. She cursed silently at the thought that the door might be locked, not noticing that the outer door had just slipped shut with an unusual click. She allowed herself one audible "Damn!" before turning to go back outside, knowing that this was going to shoot her schedule to hell. Mild anger turned to near-rage when she found that that door wouldn't open either, and that she was locked in the small room. Immediately she put all her things down and began pounding on the inner door, hoping to get someone, anyone, to open it. Now. Five minutes of that, along with shouts for assistance, got her sore hands, a rough throat, and no closer to being out. She had stopped to catch her breath and reconsider tactics when the sound of a man's voice made her jump. "Ms. Stevens," the voice said in a matter-of-fact manner. Carrie wheeled around to see an empty room. Her rage was diluted with bewilderment. "Up here, Ms. Stevens. In the far corner of the ceiling." The lights made it hard to see, but tucked into a dark corner was a small, gray bump with a tiny black circle on it. "Where--who are you?" she said uncertainly, facing the bump. "Ms. Stevens, look under the crumpled canvas sheet in the far corner." She didn't like the way the voice sounded, but maybe it was attached to someone, perhaps a security man, who would eventually come and get her out of here. She held her anger and quickly obeyed. Under the canvas was a small cardboard box. "Open it, Ms. Stevens, and then open the flat envelope with your name on it." "Listen, I'm kind of stuck in here, can't you come down and unlock one of the doors?" she said, trying to make it sound like a command to an underling rather than pleading. Security people were trained to take orders, after all. "I've got somewhere I'm supposed--I need--to be." "Yes, you do. The envelope, Ms. Stevens." "Lousy training everywhere," she thought. There were many envelopes in the box, all flat, manila-colored, and embossed with names of women. A white envelope was different, being bulky and heavy. She set the latter aside and ripped open the flat one with her name on it. From it she pulled out a picture. It took her a moment to realize what she was looking at. "Wha--what the fuck is this?" she stammered. The picture showed a young girl of about twelve seated on a folding chair and holding a small cardboard sign with the word "kidnapped" on it. "Of course you recognize the subject of the picture, Ms. Stevens," the voice said, in the same damnable monotone. It added, in a mildly chiding tone, "Please mind your language." "This is my niece! What's this all about? Who are you?" She was shouting now. "Correct, Ms. Stevens; that is your niece, Lisette. I've gotten to know her quite well in the last few hours. As for what this is all about...it's about her ransom, and you." Teetering between rage and growing panic, she stood silently, trembling. "I need to reassure her parents that she's still alive, and that's where you come in. You will come with me to see and talk with your niece. I'll then release you so that you can tell her parents what you have seen as a firsthand witness. "If you don't do what I tell you, I will be forced to terminate my plans, and your niece along with them. Do you understand, Ms. Stevens?" She looked at the picture again. It was her niece. "Of course you will not be harmed even if your niece is terminated. You're worth nothing to me; no one would pay a decent ransom for you. But if you refuse, I'll make sure that everyone will know how you failed the little girl." The lifeless tone of his voice terrorized her; he sounded like someone who could kill a child without a second thought. She knew she had to do what he said if her niece was to live. And the threat about the guilt she'd feel wasn't lost on her. "Tell me what I have to do," she said with sudden submissiveness, her eyes downturned. "Open the large white envelope." She did as the voice said. Inside were two pairs of handcuffs and a cloth bag with a drawstring opening. She trembled as she handled the cuffs, causing one to fall noisily onto the floor. "Sit down on the floor and remove your walking shoes and the ankle socks. Place a pair of cuffs around your ankles, Ms. Stevens. Make sure they're snug." She complied without hesitation, hiking up her skirt as she lowered herself to the cold floor. The cuffs ratcheted into place over her ankles, snagging her pantyhose in one place and starting a run. The man's voice seemed to change a bit, as if he was becoming pleased with her. "Now the last. Put the bag over your head, pulling the drawstring tight around your neck. Then cuff your wrists behind your back. Do you understand?" She nodded silently. The bag went over her head and a tug on the drawstring secured it in place. There was a strange, chemical smell. She brought her wrists together behind her and cuffed them together with only a little difficulty. She knew she was completely helpless now--something she'd never been in her life up to this moment. She shivered, suddenly very aware of how exposed she was with her skirt drawn up around her hips. "Well done, Carrie," the voice said, now sounding quite pleased. He used her first name this time, and with a familiarity that filled her with dread. "By now you've probably noticed an odd aroma. That's something that will put you to sleep for the trip. I promise you it's harmless. Your niece was unaffected by it. Now just lie back, I'll be with you shortly." There was a short thhhp sound as the electronic connection was broken, and she knew the voice would not return except in person. She wanted to rip the bag off her head, she wanted to scream loud enough for someone to hear, she wanted to bang harder on the doors. But her mind began to go soft around the corners, and soon she found herself wishing not for rescue but for something softer beneath her. And then she was asleep. He was astounded, simply amazed. It had gone without a hitch! He broke the network connections to the cameras, stopped the video recorders, and powered down his computer. Woman #6 was sitting handcuffed and drugged in the room he'd scouted out months ago. All he had to do was go get her. The short walk to the alley seemed to take forever. It wasn't easy walking casually, given his state of anticipation, but he had practiced. Once at the outer door, he used his phone to access the door relay and unlock it. With one glance around to be sure no one was watching, he opened the door and stepped quickly inside. In the low light he could make out Carrie's inert body on the floor. He locked the door behind him. She was unconscious, but her pulse was strong and she was breathing regularly. The few drops of fluid he'd sprinkled into the bag had cost a small fortune, but one couldn't argue with the results. He unlocked the inner door and looked into the ramp, which was half-full of cars but devoid of people. His van was parked just outside the door. With practiced efficiency he transferred Carrie and her belongings into the van, gently laying her onto its carpeted floor. He then emptied the room of all the things he'd placed there in anticipation of this day: The wireless-networked overhead camera and door relays, the individualized boxes--each with their own specially tailored contents. One last, careful look around the room reassured him that nothing incriminating was going to be left behind. He unlocked the outer door, restoring the shortcut. Everything was back to normal. He climbed into the back of the van with Carrie. He used two long cable-ties to secure her ankle and wrist cuffs to metal rings set into the floor; should she come around unexpectedly, he didn't want her moving about. He couldn't stand the thought that she might hurt herself. He removed the bag from her head. She looked so wonderfully relaxed under the influence of the drug. He brushed her shoulder-length brown hair from her face; her lips were parted and her eyes closed as if peacefully asleep. He wondered if he'd done her an injustice, ranking her only sixth of the ten candidates. Now he could clearly see that she was quite striking, with perfect complexion and the gentle signs of age that made women in their thirties so attractive to him. She was tempting. "Patience," he told himself, "get her home and you'll have all the time in the world." He succeeded in convincing himself to wait, but just barely. Returning to the driver's seat, he started the van. As he exited the ramp, he considered with satisfaction the fact that in a bit over an hour he'd--no, they'd--be home. She stirred slightly and sighed; he took this as a subconscious reaction to his thoughts, a sign of approval. Her expression, unseen by him, was one of troubled sleep, however. Whatever thoughts she was having in her drug-flooded mind, they were not of approval. "What do you mean, my niece isn't here! What's this about?" He was walking around her, checking her bindings. Bands of thick, supple leather encircled her wrists and ankles, and each band was connected to vertical steel beams on either side of her with some sort of cable. "I told you, she's not here because she's with her parents. I never touched her, much less kidnapped her. She's a child, after all." The last he said with obvious disgust, as if the act was completely unacceptable. He began fussing with one of her ankle cuffs. She kicked at him ineffectively; the restraints kept her legs wide apart and the wrist bindings were nearly lifting her off the floor. As it was, she was standing on her toes. "But the picture..." she said, the words laced with anger. |
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