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From: "jack tompson" <violenturges@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Rage M/f rape revenge
Date: Wed,  6 Dec 2000 18:10:04 -0500
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Warning; this story contains scenes of violence.
coments to; violenturges@hotmail.com

I walked into a bar with some friends.  It was a sleazy kind place,
in a sleazy part of town.  Not the kind place that my friends and I
ever went to, but we had been to a show in the area.

We ordered our drinks, and then I heard him.

That voice, that cruel laugh.  It was burned deep into my mind, far
too deep to ever forget.



I had only been 16 years old, I was on my bicycle coming home from
my dance class.  My next memory was waking up on the floor in the
back of a van, a pain on my head where I had been struck.  My hands
were tied to my ankles behind my back, there was something stuffed
in my mouth.  I couldn't move, and my screams made no sound.

The van stopped, the engine and lights were turned off, and the man
came into the back.

He was large and black.  He was grinning maniacally.  There was a
bulge in his trousers as he looked down on me, helpless.

He laughed then, that cruel laugh.



"Let's get out of this place."  I said to my friends, and we all
left together.  I gave them the slip within a couple of minutes, and
doubled back to the sleazy bar.

I went to the table.  My palms were sweaty, my pulse pounding in my
ears as I confronted him.

He wasn't as huge as I remembered.  His shoulders and arms were
powerful though, the bulging muscles of a lifter.

He looked up at me.  There was no recognition on his face.

"And what can I do for you, sweetheart?"

If you didn't know him, if you didn't know that this was not a human
being at all, but a monster, then you could be fooled by the
apparently open, honest smile.



He untied me, but did not remove the tape from my mouth.  When I
lifted my hands to do so, he struck me hard across the face with an
open palm, throwing me down into the corner of the vehicle.  He
lifted me by my hair, and struck me again across the face from the
other side.

His eyes were bulging with excitement as he tore the clothes from my
innocent virgin body.

My attempts at resistance only succeeded in furthering his obscene
passion.



I sat down with him and his two friends at the table.  I had a beer
with them, and flirted with my rapist.  He put a dark hand on my
white thigh, and grinned at me.  I wondered if it was possible for
him to enjoy sex without violence, or if he intended to beat me up
again first.



After he had enjoyed himself punching and kicking me, he told me to
lie down and spread my legs.  He kneeled down next to me, and
squeezed my breast cruelly while pushing the thumb of his other hand
into my vagina.



I didn't want to spend too long in the bar.  I put my hand on his
knee and asked him if he could take me to his place.

I was surprised that he owned a fairly late model car.  Somehow, I
had imagined that he was poor.



The least brutal thing he did to me was the actual sexual act.
Although the humiliation of it was worse, the pain was less than the
beating.

He put something around my head, and a bit between my teeth.  He
pulled his penis from my vagina, and stuffed it into my mouth.
Somehow my teeth were held apart, and he could pleasure himself
without me being able to bite it off.



We arrived at his apartment.  Rather upper middle-class.  I removed
my clothes, everything.  I folded my clothes and put them on a high
shelf.  He sat and watched me, enjoying the show. As he bent down to
unlace his shoes, I kicked him in the head.



"I'm gonna kill you, bitch."  He said to me, as he once more fucked
me on the floor of the van. "First I'm gonna fuck you, and when I'd
done, I'm gonna kill you, and put your body where no one will ever
find it.  Your mama and your daddy will never even know what
happened to their little white bitch."

I could see how he enjoyed the panic in my eyes.  He held me by the
hair, smashing my head against the floor of the van while he
ejaculated.



He looked up at me in shock, trying to focus.  I kicked him again,
in the nose, breaking it.  Blood squirted.  I felt joy.



I was only saved by the greatest of luck.  Someone was walking
through the woods at night where my rapist was digging my grave.  I
was still alive, tied up and unconscious.  Like the bully he was, my
rapist fled.



He stood, to my surprise.  Anger was flashing from his eyes almost
as powerfully as the blood was exiting his nose.  He raised his
powerful arms, and charged at me.



I awoke once more, this time in a hospital, my family by my bedside.
The pain in their faces was greater than the pain in my body.

My physical recovery took months.  My mental recovery was more
difficult.

I no longer went to dance class.  I could no longer face the boy I
had been seeing; for he was colored.  I, who abhorred racism, was
now panicked every time I saw a black male.



I punched him in the face.  I don't have great punching power.  So I
punched him five times.  Despite the agony he must have felt, he
succeeded in grasping my other wrist.  I slid my naked leg between
his, hooked his foot, and pulled.  He landed on the floor like the
bag of shit that he was.

I kicked him in the balls six or eight times.



My father enrolled me in the most violent martial art that was
available; wing chun. It is especially suited for women, emphasizing
speed and accuracy above raw power. I mastered it after only five
years of training five times a week for two or three hours each
time.



I looked into my rapist's eyes.  I still saw no recognition.  I
searched in my soul, examining myself, curious to know if I felt
even the slightest pity.  If it was there, I failed to find it.

I crushed his larynx with the edge of my foot, and watched as his
eyes bulged, and the life slowly drained from his body.  I wondered
how many he had raped and killed.  How many lives he had destroyed
for his brief moments of sexual gratification.

I carefully cleaned his blood from my body, took my clothes down
from their safe position, and dressed.



It barely made the news, it got three inches on page four of the
paper.

My therapist is surprised at my suddenly accelerated recovery.  The
dreams have almost stopped, and I may even be able to pass black men
on the street without struggling to hold down the panic one day
soon. But I know that the happy innocence I enjoyed before the
attack is lost forever.
coments to; violenturges@hotmail.com

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