Just a (fictional) little story I've been working on. This is a first draft. Let me know if you'd like to read more. (What I've written so far is pretty long, so it'll have to be posted in installments.)
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It's eleven o'clock on a Friday night, and I'm driving home from the grocery store. I lead an exciting life. I always slow down when I pass through the strip of college bars on my way home. I wouldn't want to run over a poor drunk frat boy. I wouldn't want to miss the skimpy outfits the sorority girls are wearing, either. When they have a few drinks in them, they never seem to notice that their shirts are riding a little too low, or that their skirts are hiked up a little too high.
While I wait in the road for a couple of guys to carry their drunk buddy across, I take notice one of these unfortunate sluts. Perky tits, tiny little waist, and just enough hip to hold her skirt up. She's sitting on the curb, with her perky little tits spilling out of her skin-tight top. The light is dim, but I could swear I see a hard pink nipple poking out, begging to be squeezed. She drunkenly shifts her legs and gives me a perfect view of her lacy white panties. The cloth is slightly askew, revealing just a peak of her pink, hairless pussy. I get wet just looking at her, and ache to rub my own pussy through my jeans.
Just as I reach down and rub my throbbing cunt through my pants, a honk from behind me breaks me out of my trance. I've apparently been sitting there in the middle of the street a little too long. I wave at the other driver and drive ahead, losing sight of the sorority slut. As I begin imagining what her date might do to her tonight, blue lights flash in my rear view mirror. Great. I guess a cop noticed my little vacation in the middle of the road, too.
I pull over to the side of the road, and notice that the car behind me is an unmarked police car. Why does he care if I sit in the road too long? Doesn't he have better things to do? As he gets out of his car and starts walking towards me, I notice just how large he is. He's at least 6'4”. He's not a body-builder by any means, but he still looks like he could break me in half. I've already rolled down my window by the time he makes it to me, but the asshole still knocks on my door with his flashlight to get my attention. I grit my teeth against the knowledge that he's just scratched my paint, and say, “Is there a problem, officer?”
He speaks with his gruff voice, and tells me, “I'm going to need you to step out of the car, ma'am.”
“Is that really necessary, sir?”
He lowers his voice to a menacing growl, “Get out of the car. Now.”
“Okay.” As I step out of the car, I notice that, while his gun and taser seem genuine, his badge isn't real. It's a cheap plastic badge you'd get at a costume shop. He catches me looking at his badge and grabs me by the wrist, spins me around, and pins me against the car, my tits pressed against the door. “Who the fuck are you? Let go of me, now!”
In answer, he grabs my other arm, pulls out honest-to-god handcuffs, and cuffs my wrists together. I scream at him this time, “Who the fuck are you?!”
“That's none of your goddamn business, whore.”
He kicks my legs apart, and jams his knee into my crotch. My pussy that had been throbbing in pleasure only minutes before is now in searing pain. Tears stream from my eyes, and he squeezes his hand between me and the car, working his way up my shirt. He reaches my tits and squeezes the right one until I cry out in pain. Mercifully, he pulls his hand out of my shirt, and I breathe a sigh of relief, even as tears stream down my face from the pain in my pussy.
I hear a metallic click, and my breath catches in my throat in fear. I stand perfectly still, and he once again slides his hand up my shirt. This time, though, he has a knife. He runs it up my belly just firm enough to barely slice my skin. I scream, and he uses his other hand to roughly cover my mouth. He cuts me from belly-button to my bra, just enough to draw blood. Tears are now streaming down my face in earnest, and I can't control the sobbing noises coming from my throat. He adjusts the angle of the blade, and saws at my bra, also digging deeper into my flesh. The searing pain makes my breath catch again, but as soon as it started, it stops. He's cut through my bra, and my tits spring free. He pulls the bra away from my tits, and returns with the knife. He pokes at each of my nipples with the knife tip, causing me to cry out in fear. He chuckles darkly, the first noise he's made in several minutes, cuts down the length of my shirt for good measure, and removes his hand and the knife from inside my shirt.
Why has no one noticed that this is going on? We're on the side of the road. Surely someone should have noticed by now? He grabs my throat, moves his knee away from my aching crotch, and spins me around to face him. The hand on my throat tightens, making it all but impossible to breathe. With his other hand, he puts the knife to the base of my throat. I finally get a look at it; it's only about four inches long, but lethally sharp with one serrated edge. The smooth edge of the blade rests on my throat as he says, “Go on and cry, bitch. It's better when you cry.”
To be continued...