HARDCORE HALLOWEEN Story Bash…
HORROR STORY: “Victimizer”
by Lawrence R. Dagstine
Suggested Rating: 18 and Older, for sexual & extreme content.
[“We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones” ]
“VICTIMIZER” by Lawrence R. Dagstine
If someone were to ask me if my life has changed dramatically, I’d have to say that it has in only one way, and it came years after my victims requested it. If they were to ask me what I do for a living, I’d tell them that my job entailed a certain obsession of mine, and I treat my work with great enthusiasm, immersing myself in it.
Who am I? Well, I could be any one of millions of people with occupations just like you, living in any small town or city around the country. I could be the janitor in your child’s elementary school, the guy who drives the ice cream truck at your neighborhood playground, the man behind the counter at your local video store, or the 7-11 clerk who works the Slurpee machine. I could even be a police officer retiring soon with a nice pension. I might have a family that I come home to and love just as much as you—we’re all animals or creatures with carnal desires when you look at the big picture—which kind of makes us no different. And, walking down any ordinary street, I could be brushing up against your sleeve at this very moment.
I’m the kind of guy who talks your daughter into taking off her clothes for me before her sweet sixteen and spreads her wide open, just so she’ll be ripe and experienced for her real boyfriend. I’m the kind of stain on humanity that tells little boys to bend over for me, or push women into dark alleys or doorways late at night. If society only knew how much I enjoy what I do, they’d throw the book at me.
I’m a swarthy male with a strong, tall, virile frame that causes adult heads to turn and children’s faces to smile whenever I walk by, which makes my work all the easier. A healthy, muscular body that is the envy of all the male eyes that stare at it just as much as the female ones, and a pinpoint of forbidden desire and mystery to those who welcome it. During the night, however, I prowl the streets and nightclubs, looking for someone to break up the monotony of wanting something I cannot have. And if I don’t look for it in the club scene by night, then I hunt for it in the schoolyards by day.
I remember that cool spring evening a few months ago, thinking I might just yet find it. But all I found were lonely people searching for the same thing, and me, I’m rather picky. There had been plenty of overtures for sex from both males and females, but I had concluded that I was more or less impotent for the evening. I was positive that any sexual contact after Rebecca would be anti-climactic, so I almost ignored all attempts to catch a new victim’s attention.
Ah yes, thirteen-year-old Rebecca Wenderschmidt. The little after-school Lolita with the perfect puberescent tits and ass. She rocked my world, and always for a piece of candy; talk about innocence lost. The only time I had really lived was when I was fucking her. And that had been more than once and only for hours. Hours out of years of not living, and yet those minutes far outweighed the years before her. They were far heavier, far greater. More seductive. And I still had trouble shaking her from my head.
Rebecca had never been in complete command of my brain until I killed her and chopped her up into little pieces. I drove out to the wilderness and dumped her body parts in the swamp. I had to. She said she was going to tell her mother in detail about all the things we had done together. Soon afterwards, I started thinking about her all the time, and whenever I saw other girls her age, suddenly her ghost was there. That perfect image, grinning back at me.
Rebecca had been a study of passion every time I got a hotel room with her: wide-eyed and openmouthed, her young lips searching for mine, her tongue acting as if it had a mind of its own. She tickled and licked me in all the spots I knew were arousal zones, and a few others a girl her age should not have known about until she finally touched and found them out.
She always insisted on undressing me, tugging at my clothes with a fury until she managed the T-shirt off my back. But no apologies ever came and instead, she wrapped her skinny arms around my chest and explored my muscles with her lips and tongue, biting me around the nipples and neck as we toppled backwards on the bed.
Always holding on to me with one arm, she slipped the other between our bodies and undid my belt and pants so she could push her small hand all the way in; sometimes I thought she was more of a predator than me. Her fingers tickled my throbbing penis and gently caressed it with the touch of talented experience—that was the part that got me. Gently, tenderly, yet sensually, they ran up and down my shaft, causing it to bulge against my clothes. Bulge and throb until it was about to burst through them. Then she’d let go and ease off me, and I’d tear at her Catholic school outfit while I slipped out of my pants and boxers.
I really thought things would never be the same after Rebecca, until I spotted the woman in the trendy restaurant. She wasn’t thirteen, or eighteen, or even twenty-one. Perhaps thirty-five, but she looked like the kind of female I could connect with. Small, tanned, and almost frail looking. With finely-honed muscle power hidden in her long legs and slender but shapely body, she stimulated urges in me. Urges that I assumed had died in that swamp with Rebecca. Desires that had been ripped apart and burned in a turpentine-filled garage. It wasn’t that she resembled Rebecca, though she did, but what turned me on was the vengeful “fuck me hard” look that glittered out of her dark eyes. Rebecca had had that same appealing radiance. That “I’m ready for what you are” type of attitude. So I moved in.
Later, back at the hotel I had used for the hundreds just like her, she told me her name was Sally, and that she was a nymphomaniac. “Sally,” I said, playing with the name softly between my lips. “I like that. I like that you’re a sex addict, too.” Smiling back at me, her long legs curled seductively as she wiggled to get comfortable on the bed. She had been an enjoyable partner during dinner, a perfect drinking buddy afterwards and now, staring at her, I admitted I liked the way she coiled on the bed, making her slim but supple body fit the contours of the mattress and pillows.
I liked the way her medium breasts hung and wriggled when she laughed, and I loved the way she undressed me with her eyes as if I was her victim. The same, dark eyes that were now glued on me as I dropped ice cubes into a glass and washed them down with scotch. Swirling the cubes in the glass, I felt her eyes slowly creep up and down my body, exploring the muscles and bulges just as Rebecca had. Her eyes had a way of caressing a man’s frame, lighting the fire that burned until it was extinguished by an orgasm.
Without looking back, I switched off the light. Streaks of soft moonlight played in her hair and around the curves of her body so that even the shadows seemed to beckon me, call me to the bed. Begging for satisfaction as well as demanding the right to give satisfaction.
Unbuckling my belt with one hand, I watched as she placed her empty glass on the nightstand and settled back against the pillows. I wondered when I had last seen such perfect tits. There were so many victims, it was hard to tell between pairs. But Sally, no. Hers were soft and alluring, not too spongy for her age. They hung like half-inflated balloons. Large but not so big that they swayed back and forth like pendulous parodies. Full, lush breasts that were white, matching her white buttocks, and presenting a stark contrast to the rest of her tanned body. Then I remembered. Rebecca had had breasts like that. Proportioned for her body and age. The image of Rebecca settled in my stomach like cold fire again, and I tried to shake the memory with several quick swallows of alcohol that burned my throat and watered my eyes, as I finally stepped out of my pants and shorts.
By the time I wriggled next to Sally, Rebecca was in possession of my every thought. The woman wrapped her arms around me, pressing her wet, warm lips against mine; it was Rebecca who I was embracing and kissing. It was Rebecca’s tits I fondled. And it was Rebecca whom I was soon going to melt into as I shared a few moments of my existence. Shared them with a ghost.
When it came to my prey, I was never much of a kisser. I always tried to avoid a victim’s lips, so it was awkward trying to kiss her back. However, I surrendered to the images of Rebecca flitting in and out of my mind. She wouldn’t stay dead and the vibrant, moaning woman became that little girl to me all over again. She offered me everything I had eliminated a few months before.
My tongue found hers and my fingertips glided over her body, pinching and tickling at the right spots until she groaned deeply in her throat and frantically searched for my cock. Finding it, she wriggled out of my grasp and slid down so her lips could explore my bulging shaft. Flicking the head back and forth, she murmured something incoherent. She stopped licking to suck all of it into her throat; even the way she blew me was reminiscent of Rebecca.
As my penis slid between those lush lips, I couldn’t hold back a single moan of pleasure. Squirming and twisting the woman, I moved her around so I could match her sucking and begin playing with her clitoris between my tongue. She quivered several times and raked her nails over my backside. She sucked me in deeper and deeper until I thought there was no end to the depth of her mouth. Several more eternities of oral stimulation continued with each groaning in the moonlight.
Then, as if on cue, I stopped. I swung her around to kiss her face and lips, squeezing her so hard that her breath rasped out in tiny but happy jerks. As I squeezed, she worked her hand in between them. When her fingertips touched my penis again, she grabbed it and slowly jerked it back and forth, signaling me to back away slightly. Enough so she could guide me in.
Grabbing her shoulders, I buried my face in the soft hollow of her neck and began pumping furiously. She kept in tune and timed her movements to mine. When she caught onto the rhythm, we moved in perfect unison and became one entity. One being intent on experiencing the too-short shimmer of the orgasm. The shimmer that began suddenly at the base of our spines.
Moving her on her back, I felt her legs tighten around my waist; the strength of the woman was amazing. Her scissors grip actually hurt, but again, it was an exquisite pain that just made me want more. And I got more as I pumped harder. Harder. And harder. Until I was ramming into Sally as viciously as I could.
Her nails and teeth dug into me in a number of places too numerous to count and too pleasurable to care; she kept struggling for more sites to leave her mark as the ultimate pain hit us both at the same time. The ultimate pain of being on the edge of cumming. On the rim but not yet there. Though it was only a few seconds until we exploded through both of our bodies, it seemed like hours as we pulled and pumped, tugged and kissed, moaned and squirmed.
Finally, we were swallowed by the pleasure of our mutual climax. We both drifted off in a dreamy, blissful release—floating, until we settled back to our slice of earth and time, relaxing and tasting the sweet sweat of our ecstasies speckling both our bodies. Me and Rebecca’s old proxy.
We remained locked together, listening to each other’s hearts pounding away. I became scared that my heavy bulk might be too much for her slightly built frame. I reluctantly broke free. She sighed when I pulled out. Still half-hard, I whispered, “That was fantastic. Again.”
Chuckling, I tried to penetrate her a second time; my half-erect penis slid in without any trouble. As soon as our pubic areas intermingled, she began gyrating in a slow circle, working her hips in perfect timing. She nipped at my neck and stimulated me all over again. My once-quelled emotions were soon back to full erection, pumping back with violent rammings of my own. This time the climax took longer but it was as sweet and soothing as the first one. Still, it was exciting enough where I’d lost control of my biting, stopping only when she yelped in pain.
I began to act more sadistic towards her, giving her a slap here and a smack there, and she seemed to enjoy it. Just like Rebecca used to. However, the only difference was Sally seemed uncomfortable with me inside her while doing it. When I pulled out she didn’t object.
Standing, I was pleased to see her legs quivering. I went to the room’s wobbly-legged servicing table. She skipped into the bathroom while I made more drinks. When she came out, she looked as refreshed as when I had first spotted her in the restaurant. Cool, placid, pleased with herself and aflame with the desire to try anything.
She took the drink I offered and put it down, then curled up next to me on the bed, like Rebecca used to, making me decide that I’d never be able to get enough of her supple body moving effortlessly into any position she wanted. Never. She took two cigarettes out of her purse on the nightstand and, lighting both, placed one between my lips. I took a deep drag and, removing it, let the smoke dribble out of my mouth while I stroked her shoulder with my lips. Her long, auburn hair tickled the back of my neck.
“She must have been one hell of a girl,” she finally said in a hushed voice.
“Huh?” I almost choked on my saliva.
“The girl you just made love to.”
“You mean fucked.”
“No, I mean loved.”
I frowned as if I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she just laughed at my efforts, the moonlight making her features even more fragile, but also questionable.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m with you.”
“Don’t play stupid,” she laughed. “I’ve been around long enough to know when a man is screwing me or some other girl. I can feel that connection, and I know when things are off. Either a younger lady from his past or one he hasn’t found yet. There’s a subtle difference but most experienced women can tell.”
Her pert features grew more serious as she added, “I figure you don’t just dream about that certain someone and so you went out and found that love, like some predator. And then you fucked up. You let your obsessions get in the way, and you lost her.”
I sipped my scotch nervously and said, “Look, I had a wonderful time. But I’m sorry, I have no idea—”
“Shh. Don’t apologize,” she interrupted, hushing me with a delicate finger placed against my lips. “Don’t ever be sorry you found what most people frantically search for all their lives, and don’t ever make excuses. No matter what kind of girl she was, or how old she was, be grateful you had some playtime with her. Even if it was only one time, that’s one time more than the majority of the human race has to offer.”
Stunned by her empathy, and the way she read me and knew me so well, I stared at her and she smiled back. For a quick moment it crossed my mind that she might have been a cop, or she might have known what I did in my off time. My sickness, my fetish; call it what you will. She might have very well known I had spent the last twenty years raping, sodomizing, molesting, and victimizing my own fears away on countless others. Then again, she could have been just like me. Only more striking, more ambiguous.
Looking away from her, I said, “Yeah, well, when I picked you up, I wasn’t looking for a lifetime partner. Just an evening of fun and pleasure. Just something to control these urges.”
“When you picked me up?” she asked. “I thought I had picked you up.” She shook her head and laughed. “Good old male chauvinistic bullshit at work again. No man picks up a woman unless she wants him to. And I wanted you to.”
“That’s hilarious!” Then I chuckled and asked, “Even if it was to be a substitute for a shadow from my past?”
For some reason that seemed to hurt her and, at the time, I wanted to reach out and snatch back my feeble attempt to be amusing—like I said, at the time—but her words had already registered in her mind and I was helpless to do anything about them, as a pained expression flitted across her face. The hurt look soon faded and was replaced with the glint of enjoying each other’s company. Not minding having to take it as it came. She kissed my shoulder in the moonlight and began massaging my testicles while we both agreed silently to forget everything.
“Tell me about her,” she finally said.
“Just curious,” she remarked casually, that hurt skidding in and out of her eyes in a blink again. However, the tone was slightly more inquisitive.
At first, I did not want to tell her about Rebecca. I had wanted to keep my statutory love and what it had meant to me inside my head, and selfishly hoard it from the world. Even from one other person. Even if she was dead and I couldn’t get over the fact that I was the one who killed her.
I found myself babbling; I also found myself unusually drowsy. “Her name was Rebecca Wenderschmidt,” I began and she giggled.
“Really?” She began to tighten her hold around my nuts.
“Really,” I insisted, not really irked at her laughing at Rebecca’s name. “She was a…” I stopped and stared at Sally for a brief moment before I continued, “I could explain her to you, I guess, but unless you’re the kind of person I am and really felt it for yourself, you wouldn’t understand why it hurts so much.”
That sad look blinked alive again, and I realized what I was seeing in her expression. She wasn’t angry or jealous. She was empathic because she, too, had been envisioning an image of someone close to her. Someone she had loved. Someone she had lost.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” she asked suddenly.
“What I mean is—” She began again. “Well, it’s just that you don’t impress me as the type of man who would let a girl you loved so much walk away from you. And you’re too habitual to waste that kind of love. So, she has to be dead.”
But her last remark didn’t ring true to me, and I began seeing through her little act with great suspicion. “You’re in a questionable mood,” I said.
“Is she dead?” she asked again, squeezing my balls harder.
“Why is that so important?” I knew the answer but refused to tell her.
“I want to know. Is my daughter dead?”
Staring at her half-visible form in the soft moonlight, my mouth dropped in complete awe. “You mean, you’re…you’re…”
“Rebecca’s mother? Yeah, I’m Sally Wenderschmidt. And I’ve been looking for my little girl for an awfully long time. My baby still hasn’t come home.”
My eyes suddenly closed and I fell backwards off the bed. I hit the hotel room floor with a great thud, as the strange drowsiness from moments earlier took full control of my body. “Wh… What did you do to me?” I muttered incoherently.
I couldn’t get up for the life of me. My vision was blurry, and I could only see a shapely female silhouette, slowly rising from the bed to put on her bra and panties.
“I drugged your glass when we first checked in,” Sally said.
“What the fuck! You drugged me?” I heard her going into her purse.
“Yeah, I drugged you. I picked you up, I screwed you, and now I’m going to find out the truth. Only the truth will set you free.”
“But how? How did you know all those moves in bed? How did you relate to me so well?”
“Because my daughter told me about you. She told me what you did to her. She told me what you liked having done to you. And she told me what kind of a sick monster you really are.” Sally laughed as she came around the bed and knelt over me with a sharp glimmering object. “Just another sexual deviant who can’t get enough. So easy to victimize others, but oh so scared when they find themselves on the receiving end.”
“Please, don’t kill me,” I pleaded.
“I’m not going to kill you. I just want to know… Is my daughter dead?”
Before I could answer her, the swirling blackness from whatever she had drugged me with had taken over. But then she probably already knew the answer.
After that, the next time I awoke the sun was shining down upon me through rectangular slits in the room’s windows, and I was wearily tossing on the floor. I sucked in a double lungful of air and found myself alone, staring up at the ceiling. The blank, empty, white ceiling that resembled my life and that symbolized my existence pre-Rebecca and now post-Sally.
Like I said, the only time I had really lived was when I was fucking the woman’s daughter. And that had been more than once and only for hours. Hours out of years of not living, and yet those minutes far outweighed the years before her. They were far heavier, far greater. More seductive. And to this very day, I still have trouble shaking both of them from my head.
I got up and walked over to the mirror and blinked tears out of my eyes and wondered why I was so emotional. That night, with Sally, I didn’t want to think of Rebecca or any of my past victims. Not once. I was hoping the scar tissue would heal the wound her death had left upon me, and the wound her mother had left.
So if somebody were to ask me if my life has changed dramatically, I would have to say it has in only one way. Then I’d pull down my pants and tell them to look at where my privates used to be, and I’d say that they disappeared because one of my victim’s parents requested it…
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