Some of you have definitely already read this as I posted it in the #donors-lounge
That’s likely how I’ll be doing releases from now on. They’ll get posted in the donor’s lounge first, and get released on the public boards some time later. (I’m still thinking about if I should come up with a specific schedule for release. But right now it doesn’t matter since I haven’t done much writing of late.)
Anyway, that’s just a little incentive for those who donate, you get to read my stuff earlier than if you don’t.
So without further ado…
I sat in the car, in the dark. Lights off, engine off, and in fact, an extra switch to make sure none of the interior lights came on even if I opened the door or pressed buttons—a little extra precaution. In the distance I could see, through a pair of binoculars, the house I’d selected, or rather the house of the person who would be my target. Some might call them a victim instead of a target, but I wouldn’t. I’d call them fortunate, lucky, blessed.
You see, I’d selected this particular person a long time ago. I’ve been following them for a while, mostly via the internet and various social media sites. When you pick out a car you want to buy or even a movie you want to watch—things that only cost money, small amounts even—you take the time to read reviews. What do other people say? What are the pros and cons? Does a car or appliance last a long time? Is it safe? Are there features that are unwanted; are there features missing? Movies. You can buy a movie for next to nothing, less than the price of eating out at a sloppy fast-food joint that’ll have you sitting on the john for the next several hours wishing you were dead, and yet for that same price you’ll spend hours looking at reviews; who’s the director, screenwriter, lead actors, did it win any awards? And all for what will amount to the wages you earn in an hour at most and will use up two, maybe three hours of your time.
So for something like this, something like what I was about to do, there should be no surprise whatsoever to learn that I spent months watching the person of interest. Yes, dear reader, I spent a great deal of time on this. I’m a perfectionist; what can I say? By the end of this, perfectionism will hardly be the worst accusation leveled at me. But by the end of this it’ll be too late.
Pardon me for rambling; I shall return to the topic at hand.
Under the dim, reddish light of a flashlight designed to be all but invisible beyond a certain distance, I checked the paperwork. I like to double-check; perfectionist, remember? It’s all in order anyway, I needn’t have worried. But in this line of… occupation, one can never be too cautious.
Gotta say, at this point I was actually getting rather excited. So few and far between are these excursions, but like a savory chocolate, they’re oh so sweet.
Under the same dim light, I checked my kit. It’s all in order. I exited the car and quietly closed the door. Extra precaution I suppose. I was parked off the side of a seldom-used road in what could only be described as the middle of nowhere. Countryside, farmland and forest. Scattered around were the few lighted windows of much further distant houses, none of which were my destination and none of which were even remotely close enough to be of any concern. I could probably fire off a large-bore rifle and no one would so much as look up from whatever they were doing.
I took a few steps in the dark, slowly at first, but faster as I grew accustomed to the dark and my feet grew accustomed to the terrain. It was a cool night, a little overcast, half-moon at most. Not optimal, but perfect conditions would make me suspicious that something else might go wrong in their stead. My eyes adjusted, my feet found their grip, and soon I was strolling along as if in a daylit park. A pleasant calm over me to complement the excitement.
At the house I took the time to casually inspect the perimeter. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing special, nothing to worry about. But for me, just a little mental assurance. By the time I stopped and gazed in the window, I wondered if it wasn’t just savoring the moment. For my efforts, for my wages, could I not be afforded such a luxury?
I peered in the window. It was a small, modest house. The woman inside lived alone. She had a cat but I wouldn’t consider that worth considering. It wasn’t a big dog or a roommate, you know, something to actually worry about in my line of work. Animals usually liked me anyway. I spent a decent little while just gazing at her through the windows. Such an odd sight to be able to just watch someone go about their life.
Social media posts never did justice to the real thing. Reality shows, hidden cams; it’s all staged. But to peer, unnoticed into the life of someone else, it’s such an odd sensation. There’s a thrill to it, if you’re willing to appreciate it. Not everyone is. I can understand that.
She’d already made dinner, sat and ate it. The cat had eaten, then joined her on the sofa for a while before disappearing to another room. The TV had been running the entire time, but it appeared she had only been paying mild attention to it. Only once she’d sat down with her dinner did she give it focus. Nothing special in particular. Didn’t seem like she was really invested.
I joined her for a moment and we watched together. She scoffed at something stupid, rolled her eyes at something else, furrowed her brow at an exchange I couldn’t hear. I was starting to like her.
Her phone sat on the coffee table, away from her. I expected that and that was a bonus. She made social media posts fairly regularly, but she wasn’t addicted to it. A conscious effort to distance herself from the device.
I watched as she got up to pour herself another glass of wine. Not tall, not deep, just a simple refill. I’d have been a little disappointed if she appeared drunk. Would have postponed the entire thing too. She all but looked right at me as she moved from the sofa to the kitchen, but I knew the interior lighting would reflect on the window pane, entirely obscuring me from her view.
Dear reader, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t make mention of the fact that I very much appreciated her bottom. It’s a simple thing really; everyone has one. Women, however, have bottoms that are just more appealing by nature. Is it the jeans, the pants? Who knows. Does the design of their clothes define the shape? Doesn’t matter. Is it naturally toned? Doesn’t matter. Is it what popular culture would call shapely? Doesn’t matter. Thin, thick, THICC, thicker than a snicker, an actual dumptruck; it doesn’t matter by what metric you measure it, there’s something about a woman’s posterior that is inherently appealing. Hers was very much so, even just to the eye, not even counting to the imagination. Not counting that I knew I’d soon have my hands upon it, to be able to feel it, caress it…
I’m getting ahead of myself again, have to remember I was there for a job.
I’d read her social media posts; she didn’t think it was much of an ass. In fact, for all my research, I could probably give a decently accurate psych profile on her, and explain how she thought little of her appearance—her self-depreciation was the most ugly of her features. I actually shook my head at that moment. Oh how wrong she was to think such things of herself. But alas, I was not there for any such purpose as to correct her or to stand and admire. I watched, observed for a few minutes more before moving on. In truth I could’ve watched all night. But again, that was not why I was there.
I decided not to waste my opportunity. I could, of course, make things work with different timing, but what was current was optimal. She was watching a particular segment that would likely go on for several minutes, her phone was away from her, and the TV was turned up loud enough to mask a good deal of noise.
There was a storm door, unlocked, which I propped open. The main door was locked, but as usual for a residential application, was easy to pick. For a few minutes, I had to withdraw my focus from the person inside and instead attune my ears, and even the nerves in my fingers, to the subtlety of the pins within the lock. Mechanical, and likewise my attention to it, sadly something more familiar to me than most things.
I picked the lock and opened the door. Slowly, quietly, and made sure it was locked again behind me. Not disturbing the woman from her show. However the cat took interest, took notice. I diffused the tension of threat by aligning myself with the intention of a non-threat. It’s a mental, almost spiritual thing. Animals can sense it, especially those domesticated. They can perceive a threat, so one must simply not be threatening. The cat looked my direction, but the woman did not.
I waited until a lull in the TV show to announce my presence. The woman had laughed at something on the program, so I laughed along.
An insincere chuckle. “Ha ha, of course.”
A moment later she whirled to face me. Her face fiery with an immediate attempt at diffusion, defense, division. A wasted effort. We both knew already that I alone was in complete control of the situation from that very moment, but basic instinct compelled her to rebel. I observed the internal battle.
Her cat, from its previous location upon the floor, had jumped to the couch, and then to the back of the couch, and then made its way to greet me. Such a creature willing to entrust a total stranger, willing to give up its defenses in favor of affection. Between the taught string of our locked eyes—the woman’s and mine—strayed the cat, unaffected by the invasion, it simply did not perceive the threat. I held out my hand and let the cat rub itself against. Affection. Trust. I wondered if the cat’s response would influence the woman’s.
We began exchanging pleasantries.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Now reader, you, me, and her, all know that’s not much of a useful question. I did the right thing and only smiled in response.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
See? Now that’s a much better question. Again I smiled, but this time I had words to offer. “I’m here for you.”
She rose quickly as I circled round the couch. She made a move toward the coffee table once she realized my proximity to her phone, but by then it was too late. I snatched the device as she retreated, switched it off, and tossed it aside to clatter behind some other furniture.
Then I stood in front of her. She was backed up against the couch. A hurdle to clear if she intended to flee. The distance between us was minimal by now. Her best option was to my right, toward the front door. Of course, I knew it was locked and would take her precious seconds to open. There was at this point almost no chance of escape. So I stood in front of her and let that fact sink in.
The look on her face was quite amazing really. Her eyes studying. I could almost see the thousand questions running through her mind. Maybe I like to people-watch a little too much, but to observe such a range of expression through so minute changes as those before me was truly something to behold. No tears, not yet. You have to build slowly for the payoff to be worth the effort.
I took a step forward.
She took a step back. Or rather, she attempted to, but her foot found the couch behind her. Caught her breath. Oh mercy, she sure was trying not to show it on her face but I could see. With each millimeter less distance between us, her options dwindled and the inevitable drew closer to being the present. Her chest was rising and falling more rapidly, eyes unblinking, fists clenched.
I took another step forward.
She was quick, but not nearly quick enough. I caught her swinging hand mere inches from my face. The force of the blow was stopped easily, not nearly enough to cause damage, nor even to unbalance me. Perhaps I should have let it find purchase, using its ineffectiveness to prove my point.
“Naughty.” I waggled a finger at her with my free hand.
She tried to wrench away, but couldn’t. She tried to swing at me with her other hand, but I swatted her blows away. A couple more attempts and I had now caught both of her arms, each one secured at the wrist.
“No!” Again she tried to pull away. As expected. In the moment I let her go, which she did not expect. A sudden lack of resistance. But planted feet and her whole body thrown into the attempt meant she was now off balance, stumbling backward and with nowhere to go. She fell, sat, and sprawled into the couch.
“No, no, no!”
The surprise on her face was evident, though shaded at the realization of her now much more vulnerable position. I grabbed an ankle as she scrambled back. Her other foot didn’t kick or attack, but instead flailed about, trying to push off of something and leverage her other foot from my grip. I backed away and pulled. Heavy boots on carpet and my stance provided more than enough traction to drag her from the couch. Her hands failed to clutch and she found herself sliding toward me, her bottom landing on the floor with a thump. The jolt was enough to silence her continuing stream of ‘pleases’ and ‘noes.’
And then we were right back into it. Her pleas getting more desperate as her attempts to break free matched likewise. It was good she put up a fight. In fact, if she hadn’t, it would have put a damper on the whole experience. Of course, she knew she had to. We both did, really. Even if she never mentioned this night to anyone else, we knew she couldn’t live with the fact that she had simply given in.
Now, I can’t say as I know for sure, or that my experience is evidence to support the idea—some would, and they’d be fools to do so. But it seems to me that women have not the same fight-or-flight response as men. Anyone that says otherwise is an idiot, and yet anyone that says they know for sure the differences between, is also thus: Fools, the lot of them.
It’s common knowledge, of course, that women are more emotional, and men are more logical; but there are gaps in that particular line of reasoning. The thing is, when presented with a threat, a woman is almost certainly more likely to submit to the demands, the wishes, the intentions of the threat, the one who threatens. A woman will give in a hundred times before a man, to a clear and present threat to life and limb. Submission. A man would be called logical in the face of danger, studying, calculating, judging whether or not he has a chance, a plan of attack. And yet all his reasoning is tainted by pride, ego, which will almost certainly spur him to resistance, sometimes even to a fight he cannot win. Irrational that. A woman, the fairer sex, the more emotional, will calmly give in, obey, submit, wait for the danger to pass. That’s logical. Calculating. Is it not?
Of course, no one on either side of the proverbial fence will admit it. Seems that when arguing the matter, there’s too much at stake to give way. But when presented with an actual real-life situation, well, it tends to clarify things.
Our lovely subject had made the barest attempt at resistance, knowing that she was all but required to do so. But now that she had checked the box for ‘tried to resist’ it was time for me to punctuate the end of her attempt. It was the nice thing to do, really. Her reward for her efforts was a pistol being pointed at her nose. I had relieved her of the obligation to continue her protests. She could relax and submit, safe in the knowledge that she no longer had any choice.
I let go her leg and she didn’t move. Chest heaving, eyes watery. I waited a time. Let her calm from the exertion.
I suppose it would be a good idea to mention that I’m not a fan of violence. It should be obvious to anyone observing, but alas, relying on things that should be is simply an invitation to disaster. Ask yourself this: what would I really do if I ended up shooting her? Nothing, that’s what. Neither of us gain anything if our subject ends up injured or dead. It was never my intent to use the gun. Just pointing it at her is more than enough to get our little show moving.
Specifically, moving toward the bedroom, which is where I directed her after generously granting her a few moments to come to terms with the situation. The cat followed, but I brushed it into the bathroom with my foot, locking it inside. Shaky on her legs and lethargic in pace, she knew well that upon arrival in her bedroom that things would advance once again. She most certainly didn’t want that. There were no more words of protest, but whimpers and sniffles in their stead.
My hand finally left her shoulder once we were locked comfortably inside her bedroom. She put a couple paces between us, which I allowed.
“Take off your clothes.”
My command was met with hesitation. By now she certainly shouldn’t be surprised. I couldn’t think of what else she might be expecting to happen in her bedroom.
In a second I had advanced, once again had my hand upon her shoulder. Her eyes told me she knew I meant business. I twisted my grip, spun her to one side, a quarter rotation. She tried to turn her head, but I moved my hand from her shoulder to her head, forcing her to face straight forward, to my right. When I was satisfied she wouldn’t move from this position, I let go, pointing at her sternly, but only letting her view from her peripheral. I waited. She remained still. Good.
She yelped and jolted forward as I brought my left hand against her bottom with a firm swat, caught her breath and tried to hold still. I had made my point.
Backing away for a better view, I nodded to her. This time she obeyed. I was, however, pleased that I didn’t need to repeat my instructions.
See now, dear reader, you may find yourself wondering, or rather decided on the possible method of undressing which our subject now chose. You might think it in her best interest to proceed as slowly as she was allowed. She knew that such was not the case, and it was clear to see it in her face. The thing was, she wasn’t looking forward to what would happen once her clothes were off, and the longer she took, the longer it would be until she had to deal with that next inevitability. However, the more time she took removing each piece of her wardrobe, the more it became a tease.
Do you understand now? If she simply dropped her pants to the floor, it would only do just that, but if she slowly, gradually works them down her legs and inch at a time, then I get to sit and enjoy. I even went and got a chair so I could be comfortable while she undressed. I was planning to watch and admire, I had all the time in the world. The more she realized that, the more she would twitch nervously. She tried to pause for as long as wouldn’t earn her another swat, then quickly slid her pants down so as not to give me much of a show.
To be honest, I found it most enjoyable simply to watch her struggle with the conundrum. I am a very patient man.
Another fruitless gesture was to unbutton her blouse whilst keeping it closed, only to whip it off and then gently set it upon the bed. I couldn’t help but smile, nor would I even try to help it if I could; it made her uncomfortable, exactly as I wished.
Each article of clothing removed was another step toward completion of this phase. The inevitable was approaching. It was now quite near. I didn’t forbid her from covering herself once her bra was off, so her panties slid down even more slowly. A few inches down one leg, a few down the other, but once they were past her thighs she found herself with another dilemma. Too loose around her legs, her panties were ready to simply follow gravity to the floor. If she spread her legs a little, they could be slid by hand more gradually, but then that would give me a better view, would it not? Could she pinch her legs together and try to stop them? No, that would be too obvious and might prompt me to demand she continue.
Of course, it took less than half a minute for her panties to reach the floor, so in the end, her internal struggle was entirely pointless. Quite entertaining though, I must admit.
She was left trying to cover her sensitive parts with her hands, and that was my cue. My pistol, which I had been resting on my knee, I now set on my bag, the same bag from which I pulled two items. You’ll find out soon enough what they were, as would she, as I used some casual sleight of hand to keep them from her view while I transferred them into my back pocket.
There was fear in her face as I approached. A relief to me. I had begun to worry that I’d drawn this out too long, that I’d not kept the intensity high enough to maintain her tension. You see, in my experience with these things, you have to find a balancing act between proceeding so fast that your subject cannot process what’s going on, and going slow enough that they have too much time to process it. Too quickly and you’ll only give them time to be shocked, too slow and they may actually accept it.
Now, at long last, I rewarded myself with some selfish indulgence. Her chin cupped in one hand, head tilted up to face mine. My other hand casually brushed away the protection of her arms; she let them fall to her side. Yes, like an obedient woman.
I left her to stare up into my eyes while my hands wandered. I started at her neck, such a soft, small thing in my hands. Smooth skin to my rough fingers. My hands glided over her shoulders and down her arms. She recoiled just slightly as I put my hands under her arms, working them forward to enclose her breasts. Such a warmth from her was like nothing other. Her nipples I found already stimulated, erect. Interesting, that. I didn’t caress them, nor fondle them. Instead I released them and looked down to observe with my own eyes.
Words honestly can’t describe accurately what I saw, but I will make the attempt.
How else to describe them? To mention blemishes would to be doing them an injustice. Everyone already knows what shape breasts are, a general idea of what they look like. But to view them up close, to hear the flow of air as they rose, to feel the hint of breath against me as they fell. It was an experience like nothing else.
After beholding the magnificence of her breasts, I once more looked her in the eyes to observe as my hands once more went exploring. The quivers through her body the lower I went, and such a range of expression as most certainly cannot be portrayed in text. It’s something few people ever get to witness, the fear of someone completely under your control, and a woman no less—a distinction important because, let us be honest, women have prettier faces. She was a woman and I was looking directly into her face. Need I explain it any more?
I felt a smile prick the corners of my mouth as she gasped. My fingers had found her sex. Soft folds of skin, I drew a single finger from back to front, right along the middle. It was enough to get a reaction under any circumstances, but as she was now, on edge, heightened senses. Well, just that single motion was more than enough. So I left it at that. Time to pick up the pace. I didn’t come to fondle, nor vice versa. I had other reasons for my actions.
Before she could react, I took her by the upper arm and moved her around to the side of the bed. This time I applied force. No more than a few seconds later, I had her pinned with her back on the bed. Both hands this time, I moved her up to the headboard.
“Wait. No, please.”
Oh don’t protest now, my lovely subject, it’s far too late for that. I didn’t respond with words, but punctuated the sentiment with a set of handcuffs which I quickly fastened around first one arm, then the nearest bedpost.
“What!? No, what are you—”
I straddled her as I fixed the other handcuff in place likewise to the other side of the bed. Leaning down, I took a deep whiff, an inhale through the nose. I caught the smell of her hair, the smell of her bedding. Exhilarating. For a moment I just smiled down at her. Then I climbed off.
“Please! Let me go!”
She tried to kick and squirm, wiggle and twist. That wouldn’t do. From my kit I retrieved two more handcuffs and secured her legs so that she was now spread-eagle and completely helpless.
This time I came at her from the foot of the bed, between her legs. Her eyes widened as the moment was upon her. I walked on my knees until I was between her thighs. Hands on her knees, I slid up her legs, slowly, deliberately. I stared into her eyes, her chest was heaving again, panic shadowed on her face. My hands reached the center point, her center point. She did her best to break free, but had unfortunately purchased a very sturdy bed frame. I wondered at that point if such things were going through her mind. Was she regretting the purchase of such quality? Was she wondering if she had gone for a much cheaper bed frame, would she be able to break free and possibly escape?
Of course, I knew she couldn’t. I could overpower her easily; I needed no weapon or restraints, those were but conveniences, assurances that no one would get hurt while I worked. And work I did. Her breathing was deep and heavy now, my hands between her legs, a mere fraction of an inch from her most private of places. Again, I used a single finger; my right hand. My left hand on her abdomen, keeping her in place. I traced a single stroke, from bottom to top, back to front. I lingered but a second longer on her clit before retracting.
Then I climbed backward off the bed.
And she was speechless. But really, wouldn’t you be? Wouldn’t you expect me to whip out my manhood and claim the fruit of my labor? She certainly did. I expect that you, dear reader, were indeed expecting something else. But she was not and you must respect that. Perhaps you think you know where this is going. She thought so too and she was wrong, so please, reserve yourself some room for the unexpected. It makes for a better experience.
I withdrew to my kit, where I proceeded to put together the next part of my plan. In reality, I could’ve been doing absolutely nothing at all, just making noise. I could hear her moving, straining against her bonds, desperately trying to see what I was doing. All I had to do was pretend to do something and it would get a reaction from her, put her in a state of unease. Of course, I actually was doing something. A little mixture I’d prepared for her. Just a powder and some water. Plus one other item I set nearby, but well outside her line of sight.
Finished I brought the mixture with me and returned to the side of the bed. In my hand was nothing more than a water bottle with a reddish tinted liquid inside. I offered it to her lips.
“Drink this. It’s not poison, it’s not a roofie; it won’t knock you out or drug you. I promise.”
She looked up at me hesitantly. How could she trust a stranger who had chained her, naked, to her bed? Understandable. But then again, why would someone in complete control bother to lie about what was in the bottle?
Her eyes wavered as the gears turned. Finally it seemed she had come to the conclusion that it really didn’t matter what was in the drink, she would have to drink it anyway. And so she did. Slowly at first, but then more rapidly. She stopped in the middle and I removed the bottle, rewarded her for her obedience with a break. Not a long one, however.
With the bottle drained I withdrew once more, returning empty handed to take a seat beside the bed. The drink would take a while to have an effect. Once again, I am a patient man.
“What did you make me drink? What are you gonna do?”
I put my finger to my lips. “Shh.”
For a time I just watched her silently.
For a few minutes we just sat and enjoyed each other’s company. I mean, I did at least. She was quiet, obedient. This was good. I’m sure she was expecting me to do something. Most people rather expect something to happen once they’ve been chained spread eagle on a bed. It was clear that as much as she was curious about what would happen next, she knew that asking about it would likely prompt it to occur. She would keep her mouth shut for as long as doing so prevented me from doing something she was sure she wouldn’t want.
About ten minutes in, I stood beside her and gently placed my hand on her abdomen. She was sensitive, and jolted as though my fingers coursed with electricity. I caressed her skin, letting my hand travel around, large, lazy circles. Again I found her thighs, fingers snaking their way between. She tried to close her legs but that was impossible. I turned my head and found her eyes pleading with tears, her head shaking side to side.
I moved a hand to her knee, a firm grip. Traveling up toward her privates, I kept the pressure on, pinning down the selected leg. With my free hand, I motioned her to remain silent, and all while applying force to her leg, I reached out a probing finger and traced a single circle across bare skin. Slowly, taking all the time I pleased, I worked my finger around the outside of her womanhood; not once touching pink skin, not even so much as dancing along the edge of her folds. She looked away.
I removed my hand and she gasped, finally letting out the breath she’d been holding.
I crossed the room and retrieved another bottle of water from my kit.
“Did the taste of your drink bother you? Would you like some water?”
Her brow creased, eyes full of confusion. I knew she wasn’t likely to enjoy its flavor, but she had drained the previous bottle of its mixture, thankfully without much fuss. For that, I would reward her the opportunity to wash down the lingering taste.
Whatever options she had been weighing in her mind, she eventually nodded confirmation. I smiled.
The lid twisted open with a crack, signaling it had retained its factory seal. I put the bottle to my own lips and drank down enough that I could tip it to her mouth without spilling. She seemed bothered by this so I collected her shirt from the end of the bed and carefully wiped around the opening.
She accepted the bottle and drank a few sips; I held it in place. She seemed confused for a moment. I looked her in the eyes. She opened her mouth again and I began to slowly tilt the bottle. At around the halfway point, I lowered the bottle and gave her a moment to rest. When once again I returned the vessel to her lips, she took to swallowing the water in gulps.
With the bottle empty, I closed its lid and set it back in my kit, returning with a cloth to wipe her chin and around her mouth. Still remaining obedient to my request for silence, she could only stare up at me in confusion. A gave her a reassuring pat on the tummy and returned to my chair, once more to wait. To occupy myself, I took out a small notebook and began recording the points which I would later use to craft the more detailed retelling which you are currently reading.
I checked my watch; maybe fifteen minutes had passed since I had given her the mixture. It was early yet for her to be feeling its effects, but she was beginning to become restless. Pulling at her bonds, it seemed she was less attempting to break free and more testing their strength. Perhaps she was just trying to find a more comfortable position.
“Please!” Her voice rang out. “I don’t know what you want. If you want my valuables, there’s jewelry in a box in my drawer. Please, I—”
I placed a finger to my lips. “Shh, quiet please.”
Once she was quiet, I moved from my chair and adjusted the pillows beneath her head, adding a couple so she was propped up a little, rather than lying on her back. Again she looked at me with confusion, but I smiled to her and stroked her hair, once more motioning her to remain silent. I took my seat and resumed taking notes.
It finally began maybe some ten minutes later. My ears were tuned to it, but it was loud enough that I would’ve heard it even without listening for it. A gurgle. I didn’t raise my head or shift my gaze; I didn’t smile or otherwise react. I just kept jotting down detailed notes. She would take a few seconds to understand what the gurgle meant, then she would look at me. If she knew I knew, then she might conclude that all this was intentional, planned. Where’s the fun in that? For best effect, my intent had to be concealed until the proper moment.
I waited, raising my head to find that I had indeed timed it correctly, and she was now in the midst of an internal struggle. Scratch that: mostly internal. There was a fair amount of fidgeting and squirming. As the seconds ticked by into minutes, she became less and less capable of hiding it. More gurgles came, though faintly audible above the noise of her squirming. But I waited, didn’t engage. She would be the first to speak.
And she did finally, after some minutes of holding out, struggling first against the realization, then against the noises. She had kept quiet, both in body and in speech, doing her very best not to let on that anything was amiss. Alas, her cause was failed from the start, as I had the advantage in every area. And again I must remind that I am a patient man.
“Please, mister, I need to use the bathroom.”
We met eyes, hers finding mine as I watched. Could she tell I already knew? Her face showed no knowledge of this, only desperation, begging, urgency.
“Is that the truth?” My response gave her pause.
“Yes, I really need to go, please let me out.”
Her words clear, but tinted with need. She was making no attempt to be subtle. Seemed she couldn’t afford the delay of being polite about her need; no time to use subtle phrasing or acceptable references. I tilted my head to one side, considering her as if in confusion.
Her lip quivered; her voice came more softly. “Please?”
I stood up. “Hold on.”
Hope flashed upon her face. A thankfulness unmerited. Words hesitant to offend, but borne of necessity. “Please hurry.”
I didn’t. I took my time as I strode across the room, once more to my kit. The first time I’d done this I’d rushed, been hasty. The effect had been unprofessional, a message telling of amateurism. I’d learned to take my time, being careful, meticulous, calculated. I am a professional after all.
From the kit I fetched an object of simple description. A plain white diaper, adult sized. Plastic backing folded twice, I began to open it and approach from the foot of the bed. Her eyes upon me were at first confused, hopeful. That didn’t last. On the bed I got between her legs and finished unfolding the garment. Seemed she still hadn’t figured out what it was. I had kept it held low, where her vision had difficulty reaching—to good effect it would appear.
Craning her neck in an attempt to see, I’m pretty sure she figured it out once I began to slide it beneath her. Due to her position, I had to hold the diaper by the back wings and use my arms under her spread legs to lift up her bottom. She then began to protest.
“What!? No! You have to let me go!”
She began to wiggle violently, but a palm strongly against her thigh left her stunned. A reminder she could not escape. In the few moments of stillness, I folded the diaper up between her legs. A moment to adjust the leg cuffs and I had the first two tapes secured. A light tug on the rear waistband and remaining two tapes followed suit. I moved back and let her resume her futile straining.
“No no no no no! Please! I’m begging you, don’t do this! Please let me go to the bathroom!”
I gave her a reassuring smile and climbed off the bed. This time I did not take my seat, but instead remained standing at the foot of the bed, observing. By now her eyes were full of terror, worry, as if we both didn’t know what would happen next. Her pleading continued, escalated; she made offers, deals, anything she could think of in an attempt to sway me. Dear reader, if you know anything of me by now, it is that I would not be swayed, for in addition to being patient and professional, I am quite stubborn.
But she continued despite my lack of response. The only breaks between her stream of increasingly-unintelligible pleas were the moments when she had to stop and put all her effort into clenching her muscles. I suppose it is worth mentioning that she twice stopped to focus her strength against her bonds. A pattern became apparent: pleas, clenching, testing her bonds, squirming, a moment’s rest, then repeat. I understood well that these were her only options and that she had to work her way through all of them.
But twice through the routine, she had exhausted, devolved to sobbing. Words no longer formed in her mouth, but incoherent babbling. It was at this point that I was closest to being moved, for the mournful defeated sobs of a woman in distress are something few can resist. It calls out, spurring you almost instinctively to action, to rush and bring aid, comfort, defense. Pitiful face and tears streaming from her eyes, she heaved and wailed. I imagine she was still trying to beg for release, but I could understand nothing she attempted to say.
I waited; this went on for a couple minutes more. Deep inside, there was a part of me that wanted to release her, to carry her to the bathroom. I could almost imagine the thankfulness that would have been upon her face. Her gratitude would be immeasurable. Even in light of the fact that I was the one responsible for her distress, I would still be seen as her savior from it. Oh how I wanted that, to see her face light up, smile, weep tears of joy instead of tears of defeat. But alas… I am a professional, and I was there for a reason. There was no time for personal indulgences.
Despite her best and even quite admirable efforts, time ticked ever forward and her strength wore out. Her knees bent in toward each other as she made a final attempt to hold on, legs quaking as she strained. Sobs heaving her chest.
I imagine it was but a moment before her strength gave out entirely, her body screaming at her for release while she likewise cried to me for the same. Defeat, however, had finally reached her mind and in that moment she had to accept that there would be no escape.
“No no no no no—hck!” The inevitable had arrived. A sob caught in her throat; she choked for a moment, knees splaying outward to make room. Her body tensed, most visibly at her abdomen, and she pushed.
You see, with the realization, the acceptance that this could not be avoided, she decided that if it must happen, she would rather it be over with. A smart woman. Why delay something you cannot avoid, when doing so is likewise delaying that which is to come after? The sooner it is done, the sooner it can be in the past.
So she did not simply relax; she pushed. A great rush and a sticky noise muffled under crinkling of plastic as it stretched to contain. A gargantuan mess, filling—and I mean filling—the seat of her diaper. The diaper was folded, creased in places, but not anymore. Now it expanded as it filled, as she filled it. It’s outer shell pulled tight and became rounded as she continued to expel. By the second wave, the muddy coloring had started to soak through to the outer layer, proclaiming in no uncertain terms how miserably she had failed to hold in the mess.
But her diaper succeeded where she had not. There were no leaks. After the several seconds it took her to finish emptying her bowels—which I’m sure felt like minutes or hours to her—she collapsed exhausted upon the bed. No more attempts to raise herself or hold on. Her straining stopped, her breathing slowed; she rested her head back with a heavy exhale. It was at this point that she must have simply given up on holding her bladder as well. A yellowish stain appeared and began to swell the diaper in that area, trickling down toward the back of her diaper, the extra moisture causing the muddy hue to soak ever darker into the padding.
Her defeat now finalized, she lay there and sobbed gently for a time. I granted her the rest. She had done a good job so far, so I suppose she had earned a reward of some sort. It did occur to me that letting her simply rest, stew in her soiled diaper, was no great reward. However it was in her case a far more desirable option than many others which I had at my disposal. Instead of antagonizing her further, I let her be.
Some minutes passed. She eventually came to terms with her fate. Her sobs quieted to occasional whimpers, only returning momentarily as she had to push a few more surges into her diaper. But those too stopped, leaving her to calm down.
She didn’t address me, didn’t ask me anything or plead with me. I can only imagine what must have been running through her head at that time. I had made it clear I could not be swayed or bribed. My intentions were clear to her in reflection, but what I had in store remained a mystery. It seemed once again that she was at an impasse. Perhaps she was trying to figure out whether I was playing some mind game with her and at what point she had made the wrong choice. Perhaps if she had not resisted, perhaps if she had obeyed without reluctance, perhaps if she had thrown herself lustfully at me and serviced me sexually instead of waiting until I gave commands? Was she even now dooming herself to further torment by not playing along as I desired? Was the terrible situation in which she found herself better or worse than what was to come? If she lingered, endured the humiliation and disgust, would it save her from something worse, or would it ensure something worse? Again I was allowed the enjoyment of observing the struggle behind her eyes.
I don’t know what she concluded, but it must have convinced her not to speak further. Perhaps she was simply taking advantage of the fact that I had not yet moved to do anything else to her. So as I said: I waited.
My patience won out, for eventually after several more minutes, she began to show interest in having her messy diaper removed. The few squirms she made were accompanied by groans of discomfort. In time she once more looked around curiously, her eyes finding me still standing there. Questions flashed across her face, but she hesitated before finally voicing one.
“Why are you doing this?”
I responded with a long stare, one which left her a little more confused I suppose. I returned to my kit, fetching a few more items.
The first, a changing pad, which I held up, letting it unfold so she could see it. She didn’t understand. The next, a package of wipes. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized the changing pad, but these she did, and instantly perked up.
“Please, yes, get me out of this thing!” Tears and misery put emphasis to her words, as if it were truly needed.
I set both items on the bed and returned my gaze to her. She met my eyes. A minute passed and her hopefulness faded.
“Are you going to take this off of me?” Now her voice was hesitant, cautious. The mistrust was apparent and she didn’t want to provoke me with annoyances.
Reaching down, I held up a third item for her to see; this one I also let unfold. Another diaper, just like the one she was wearing, but this one was clean, obviously.
It took another minute for the implication to reach her. When it did, defeat washed over her face once again, and she remained silent, carefully picking her words.
The words she selected came as little more than a whimper. “Please change me.”
And so I began to work. She had indeed understood that I did not intend to release her yet, but would instead replace her deeply soiled diaper with a clean one. And so I did. She didn’t resist or cause difficulty for me, but wisely complied when I commanded her to lift her bottom, and again when I wanted her to rest it back down.
She was, or rather her bottom was, quite a mess. Many wipes were needed to clean her properly, but I soon had all the discomforting mess removed and had her taped safely into the fresh diaper. She could relax and use it any time she wished. Finished, I returned the changing supplies to my bag, and retrieved one more bottle, this one much smaller than the others.
“Please, no more,” she pleaded as I offered it too her lips. However, her protest was in word only, and she drank obediently. Half the bottle was enough, and I put it away.
“What’s that gonna do?”
I put my finger to my lips.
She didn’t ask again. In a few minutes she was asleep, knocked out cold by the contents of the small bottle. To my benefit, the concoction worked especially fast when taken on an empty stomach, and the previous mixture she drank had made sure of that. With her unconscious, I released her bonds and put them away. The soiled diaper was bagged securely and I quickly cleaned the entire room of any trace of my presence.
Her face was peaceful and relaxed, such a pretty sight. Drugged or not, I could watch her sleep for hours, her mere countenance enough to relax me and warm me to my core. But the sedative would only last for so long. I carefully pulled blankets over her and left her there. She would likely be glad I put her in another diaper. I suppose that had I not, she might have wished I had. The mixture I gave her occasionally had delayed effects, plus all the water she’d drank—not counting the wine she had before I arrived. Couple all that with a strong sedative and you can probably guess why it might be a good idea to leave her in a diaper. After all, her bedding was rather nice and it would be decidedly rude to let it be ruined.
With my kit once more slung over my shoulder, and the unfortunate cat released from the bathroom, I exited the house and locked the door behind me. No, I didn’t immediately leave, but instead waited outside the bedroom window to watch and ensure she awoke safely. When I was satisfied that all had gone according to plan, I made my way back to my car and then drove away to my distant home. A lonely ride I suppose. But a job well done is a comfort in itself.
And that was that. That was the last she saw of me.
So I thank you for taking interest and reading this tale. I’m sure you’ve already reached some conclusions about me, my methods, all manner of things. I will not make claim that my actions were anything but inexcusable. However, they were calculated and there is reason behind what I did.
Of course, all that is quite boring. So if you’ve no interest in backstory, then read no further and I bid you farewell.
If, however, you find yourself overcome with curiosity, then please open the enclosed postscript and I shall attempt to explain the rationale behind my actions.
Hello again, dear reader, I see you have chosen to pry into the why of it all. I like that. But before we get into it, I must remind that, as stated above, there is no excuse for what I’ve done. If you are looking for justification, you will not find it here. Better not to waste your time. Your approval is unnecessary to me so that will not be the intent here. I am merely providing information freely if you seek it.
Again, all you will find below is the reasoning; that which led up to this.
You must understand, this woman I found like I found many other women. Oh yes, she was not the only one I visited, nor would she be the last. As I said initially, I did not simply follow her home, I’m far too meticulous for such random occurrences. And as well, unplanned visits are risky. I’m a professional; I avoid risks.
You see, I found this woman on the farthest reaches of the internet. She was at the time just a nondescript account which showed an interest in a particular kink. Viewing records, likes, comments, all led me to understand her interest in rape fantasy. She mostly stuck with erotica, frequenting a few sites, searching for new content.
So, like the others, I stalked her. I took advantage of her general lack of operational security. It’s easy if you pay any attention at all. With almost no effort whatsoever, I was able to link a number of accounts across as many sites—all of them hers. Using a few methods I will not reveal as they are trade secrets, I was able to find her personal accounts on social media. So I studied her.
Under not-so-cleverly created usernames, she would engage in discussions with others who shared her interests. She had other kinks as well, of which I took note. More importantly, I took note of the ones she steered well clear of. Those were useful for my purposes.
It’s strange, isn’t it? Rape fantasy? It’s an impossibility, can only exist in fantasy. She knew it too. She wasn’t into rough sex or abuse or any form of bondage. Occasionally she would partake of such inclusions in her preferred erotica, as they are very common, but through her comments in multiple locations, I gleaned that it was not those attributes to which she was drawn. It was the lack of consent. It was the unrelenting force which got her all hot and bothered. Something to which she had no ability to protest.
But you understand the dilemma, no? It is impossible to consent to non-consent. Or so she thought. And that alone is why she became my next target. In a chat room she had once—likely under the influence of much wine—admitted to very nearly dressing up in what could only be considered ‘asking for it’ and simply walking around a bad part of her nearest city. She had thankfully come to her senses, and I along with others convinced her never to try such a thing again.
She was aware of the risks, but she was desperate. Not enough to chance death, injury, impregnation, or disease. But desperate nonetheless. So I put out some bait to her.
She ‘stumbled’ upon an offer for a hook up of a particular type. We exchanged some basic info at first, discussed the intentions. I was to arrive, to ‘break in’ to ‘rape’ her. I encouraged her to be careful and she seemed to listen. It would simply be some roleplay at its core, but ‘no’ wouldn’t be a safeword. Of course, I demanded certain info so as to avoid risks. Risks of incorrect location, risks that she might be misleading me to harm someone else, risks that this might be a trap. I didn’t push her or encourage her to accept; there was no salesmanship. She would have to advance this on her own; she must be the one to initiate.
And she did. I strung her along until I had her written agreement to the terms, her personal info and location. I already had such things, of course, but I needed her to volunteer them to me. Under our agreement, she knew full well that this wouldn’t be the real thing, this would be expected, consented to. But again, she was desperate at that time, so she agreed.
And then I ghosted her. I simply didn’t reply any more. I did extract some funds from her, though. They would find their way back to her eventually.
That was some eighteen months ago. Oh, did you forget that I said I am a patient man? I kept tabs on her in that time. All according to plan. She must have got the idea that even an arranged roleplay would just lead to her getting scammed again. Again, all according to plan. Perhaps you begin to see that I am not only a professional, but I am effective at what I do.
I waited until she was alone—she was single at that time too, which was necessary. My visit was completely random to her, but I had it on my calendar. I would not rape her. If she got even the slightest idea that I was there because she had contacted me, or if I did something to her that she actually desired, then the point of the visit would be lost. Instead, I selected a kink to which she was averse. If it was something she had expressed interest in, I couldn’t use it. It had to be something she would protest and fight against; it would be something that would prompt a ‘no.’
But her protests were ignored, as you just read. My will was not swayed, and she could not refuse. I had given her what she wanted by giving her what she did not want. A gift she desired but could not request, as by requesting, it would no longer be desired.
You may think me evil, or that I am some monster. I am not. I provide a service which cannot be sought out or asked for. By now you should understand why that is, that the very nature of the service I provide demands that it is not one requested or scheduled. I seek out my subjects and study them intently. When I select one for a visit, you can be sure that I did not select them in error.
Proof, as if it were needed, I found when I returned some time later for another visit. I did not enter, but simply observed from without. What I found told me I had been successful in providing my services.
But those details I shall keep to myself… Perhaps I am somewhat evil. But hey, gotta keep ya wanting more.