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From: "Philip Harris" <pcmail@boxfrog.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} At the Bird Sanctuary (MF,rape)
Date: Sun,  6 Apr 2003 21:10:02 -0400
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At the Bird Sanctuary (MF,rape)
by Philip Harris 

Wendy was tired from the long drive, and she badly had to pee.  She
hadn't felt the urge when she'd passed the highway restaurant a few
miles back, but almost as soon as she passed the turn-off she began
to feel the need.  Since then, the road miles had seemed endless.
She felt an almost physical release when she saw a sign for a bird
sanctuary.  Maybe there was a bathroom there; or if not, then at least
maybe the woods would do. 

The bird sanctuary itself turned out to be quite a way from the
highway.  It did have a small cement building, with two green metal
doors.  There was one other vehicle in the small gravel parking lot,
a battered brown pick-up truck.  Nobody was in sight. 

Getting out of her car, Wendy found that the green door on the left
had a silhouette of a woman, and, thankfully, was open.  Inside was
dirty and cold and there was only one toilet stall, but the relief
Wendy felt when she squatted on the toilet made her as comfortable
as if she were sitting on a palace thrown. 

Her business took her only a minute.  She was just drying off with
some toilet paper when she heard the women's room door open, and
then close again with a heavy clang.  The gravel-trodding boots on
the cement floor didn't sound like a woman's boots. 

"Ah, It's occupied," Wendy said aloud, thinking that a janitor had
entered the room.  "I'll be out in just a second." 

"Finish your business," a man's voice said, "but leave your pants
off.  Come out with your eyes tightly closed." 

Wendy was stunned into silence!  Oh no!  Was it really going to
happen to her?  All her life, like every woman, she'd wondered if
she'd ever be raped.  Was this really going to happen? 

"Come on," the male voice said.  A heavy hand beat on her stall
door.  "Just stand up and leave your pants on the floor.  Come on!"
The hand beat again.  Clearly the man was strong enough to knock down
the flimsy door. 

Wendy stood up. 

"Leave them!" the man commanded, as Wendy automatically reached down
toward her panties. 

She was bare from the waist down.  Her jeans and panties were bunched
at her ankles, confined to her feet by her own footwear. 

"Take off your shirt and hand it over the door," the man commanded. 

"Please . . ." Wendy started to say, but he pounded on the stall door
viciously.  Wendy slowly began unbuttoning her shirt.  Tears were
beginning in her eyes.  Wendy wasn't sure if she was angry, but she
was definitely frightened.  Very timidly she passed her shirt over
the top of the stall door, surrendering it to the man, who now had
her helpless. 

"Now your bra," he said. 

Wendy tried to think of some argument, some way to reason with him,
but she was fearful of angering him.  She decided that she'd better
cooperate.  She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, removing
her arms from the loops and exposing her breasts to the cold air.
Wendy was still in the stall and he couldn't yet see her, but she
suddenly started crying aloud. 

"The bra," was all he said, and Wendy handed her bra over the top
of the stall door.  This time she saw his hand.  It was white, with
clean fingernails.  For some reason she'd expected his fingernails
to be dirty. 

Wendy stood naked in the stall for several minutes, sobbing.  Her body
was chilled; she felt very exposed.  He wasn't hurrying her now.  That
made Wendy cry harder, realizing that he was confident at taking his
time. 

"Okay, you've had your cry," he said, "now close your eyes tightly and
come out." 

Wendy closed her eyes, tried to be brave, and unlocked the stall door.
She heard the door swing open only slightly, but then felt it pushed
open.  She was covering her eyes with her hands, as well as keeping
her eyes closed tightly.  She felt him grab her left elbow and let him
guide her from the stall.  His touch was surprisingly gentle, and his
hand felt warm in the cold air of the bathroom. 

He led Wendy out of the stall a few steps, and then kept her standing
upright while he evidently inspected her body.  His hand stayed on her
elbow. 

"You look very nice," he said, his voice not at all cruel sounding now. 

"Thank you," Wendy stammered, not really knowing what to say. 

He touched Wendy's left breast, just caressing the nipple with open
fingertips. 

"Very nice," he said. 

His open hand slid across to her right breast then, and then back and
forth between them.  He teased at Wendy's nipples very lightly with
his fingertips.  Wendy felt ashamed to find that her nipples became
erect almost instantly. 

"I could play with these forever," he said.  Wendy was ashamed to feel
pride in what he'd said.  "I've never touched such responsive
breasts," he added. 

Wendy didn't say anything; she didn't know what answer to give. 

His hand slid down Wendy's belly to between her legs, and his middle
finger gently parted her pussy lips, and eased just a little way
inside her.  He tickled her there for several minutes, very slowly,
barely moving his finger within her.  Wendy couldn't see him, but she
wondered if he was still looking at her breasts or if he was looking
between her legs. 

"You're very willing, aren't you?" he asked.  Wendy was ashamed to be
wet with arousal.  "I guess you're more willing than frightened?" he
asked. 

"Yes," Wendy said.  "I'll . . . I'll do whatever you want; and then
you won't hurt me?  Right?" 

He continued playing with Wendy's womanhood for several more minutes,
saying nothing, making himself familiar with her naked and helpless
body.  She felt a warmth of new arousal between her legs, and her body
no longer felt chilled.  Wendy knew that her lustful desires were
beginning to betray her. 

During all this while the man had kept his hand on Wendy's elbow.  Now
he led her forward.  She had to move slowly because her ankles were
still entangled within her jeans.  To Wendy, her jeans felt like
shackles; she knew that she couldn't run away with her ankles confined
like that. 

"Bend over," he said.  "Keep your eyes closed, but put your hands out
in front of you." 

Wendy bent forward, reaching out.  Her hands felt the cold surface of
the bathroom sink. 

"Bend farther forward; put your head in the sink." 

"Please," Wendy begged, her voice echoing off the porcelain sink.
"Please don't drown me like this.  I'll surrender to anything you want
to do to me." 

He pushed the back of her head; forcing Wendy to bent more.  She found
that her face fit inside the bathroom sink.  She knew that there was a
mirror above the sink, and guessed now that her captor put her in this
position so that she couldn't sneak a peek at him in the mirror. 

In the bent-over position, Wendy's upper body was almost parallel to
the floor, her breasts hung downward; she was exposed entirely exposed
from the rear. 

"Okay, you can have me like this," she shouted, "I'm ready."  She
raised her rear slightly, anticipating penetration. 

He touched a hand to the back of her neck, scaring Wendy for a moment,
but then he only brushed her hair forward so that more of her skin
was exposed. 

He began feeling Wendy everywhere.  He caressed the flesh of her back,
feeling her with both hands, like an artist might caress the marble of
a fine statue.  He reached beneath her and felt her breasts.  He
played with her breasts for a long time.  He complemented Wendy about
what fine skin she had, what good breasts, about what an excellent
woman she was, and the wisdom of her obedience. 

He often touched her pussy, stroking it with his fingertips, sliding
the tips of his fingers into it.  He caressed her gently right on her
clit. 

"You'll be alright," he promised her.  "I just want to fuck you." 

He touched her hair too, and told her that it was sensual.  He touched
her shoulders.  His hands caressed her rump, slid up and own her
thighs, all the way down to her ankles and all the way up.  He touched
Wendy's clit again.  He parted her pussy open gently, as if preparing
it for something very big.  He returned to touch her there again and
again as he explored the whole of her body. 

He even touched Wendy's face, reaching into the sink to feel her
cheeks, touching her lips with his fingertips, which he made her
kiss.  The porcelain sink felt cold, but Wendy's body was beginning
to feel warm everywhere, especially wherever he was touching her. 

She heard him undress.  That was the only time he stopped touching
her.  Ever since he'd first touched Wendy's elbow, he'd always kept
one of his hands on some part of her body, owning her flesh.  Wendy
felt colder while he was undressing.  When he touched her again, his
touch felt anticipated, familiar, desired. 

He eased a finger into Wendy's pussy, deeper now than before, and
then he slid it in and out, slowly and rhythmically. 

"Do you use a dildo when you masturbate?" he asked.  He inserted
a second finger just as he said that, and began finger-plunging
Wendy faster. 

"Sometimes," Wendy confessed, with a little "uh," of involuntary
arousal. 

"That's good," he said.  "You should dildo every night.  You should
have something inside you often.  You deserve it." 

"Uh . . . huh," Wendy agreed, to placate him.  She was now unable
to conceal her body's sexual betrayal. 

"You should masturbate a lot," he told her, finger-fucking her faster,
earning squirms and gasps from her.  "It feels so good.  It gives you
a lot of pleasure, and so you should do it often." 

"I . . . I will," Wendy gasped, wanting to agree with whatever he
said, so that he wouldn't become angry with her. 

Just as Wendy felt ready to climax, he suddenly stopped
finger-fucking her. 

"You've made good juice," he said.  "I'm rubbing it on my cock now,
to lubricate me.  It feels good." 

Wendy heard him behind her, stroking his cock.  She could hear her
own juiciness on him, and that aroused her tremendously. 

He kept one hand on her left rear end; it sounded as if his right
hand was frantically busy.  The thought of her juice slickening his
doubtlessly-erect cock tortured Wendy with arousal.  She wanted to
see.  She wanted to see him stroking his cock for her, with her.
She thought of peeking, not at his face, but at his cock.  She knew
it was going to be inside her, and she felt that she deserved to see
it.  But she obediently kept her eyes tightly closed and her face in
the sink. 

Then his Wendy-slick hand touched her rump on the right cheek, and
together both of his hands slid up Wendy's body, slid beneath her,
and encircled her breasts.  She felt the tip of his cock press between
the very entrance of her womanhood. 

"Do you want it in you slowly, or hard and fast?" he asked. 

"Fast," Wendy answered, thinking to end her ordeal quickly. 

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" he teased. 

"Yes, yes!" Wendy said, "fuck me!"  What else could she say to him? 

Instantly she was rammed hard.  He penetrated deeply inside her; she
felt his full balls press against her.  He pulled part way out and
then rammed her again.  With each ramming, Wendy bumped her head
painfully against a sink faucet.  She tried locking her elbows more
firmly, but her position was unfavorable. 

"Please, less hard," she pleaded.  Instantly he moved his hands to
help her.  He grabbed Wendy's shoulders instead of her breasts.  He
kept fucking Wendy just as hard, but now her head wasn't being bumped. 

"Oh!  Oh fuck!  Oh you're a great fuck!" he was shouting as he
ploughed her. 

Wendy could tell that he was being sincere, that he was truly enjoying
the sexual experience of her body.  She thought of boys, way back in
high school, who'd looked at her in longing, and of how she'd giggled
to guess what they'd done in private.  Now this stranger, this rapist,
was enjoying her fully as much as a frustrated boy who is finally
having his way with a girl. 

She could picture herself, in her mind's eye.  She could see her
breasts jiggle beneath her as this man--she didn't even know what he
looked like--as this man cock-rammed her pussy again and again.  Oh his
balls felt good when they smacked her clit.  They felt hot.  He was
full of cum, and all of that cum was going to flood into her. 

"Oh, I'd like to have you in bed for a week," he said, "to just keep
fucking you and fucking you!" 

Wendy was moaning too, but her moans echoed like sobs in the porcelain
sink.  The fucking felt so good that she had to remind herself that
she was being raped. 

"Cum for me slut!  Cum for me," he shouted to Wendy. 

That made Wendy angry.  She wasn't a slut--he was raping her.  This
was totally against her will!  None of this was her choice.  She was
totally unprotected.  He was going to cum inside her, maybe impregnate
her.  She was totally vulnerable to him. 

But Wendy was aroused, aroused to true climax.  She came, something
she knew she would feel ashamed of forever.  It was not a quick cum.
She fought it off; she squirmed against it.  She imagined herself
testifying in court, in front of a jury: 

And did you orgasm during this sexual encounter? the defense attorney
would ask. 

Yes, Wendy would have to say, publicly; and it wasn't a 'sexual
encounter,' he raped me. 

But you did cum for him? the defense attorney would insist. 

"Yes, yes," she admitted.  In her mind she said it weakly, but it came
out aloud, echoing in the porcelain sink.  "Yes, I'm cumming!" 

When Wendy finally came, she came in overwhelming waves.  She came
because he made her cum, because secretly she really was a slut, a
woman whose pussy opened for any man who had demand it.  She was
ashamed of herself, but also prideful.  Why should she be ashamed of
her healthy lustfulness, she asked herself defiantly. 

Wendy rested her face inside the sink now; she was tired, spent.  She
knew that he had cum too.  She felt it inside her.  He was dripping
from her. 

He rested upon her; rested his body on hers.  He left his cock inside
her.  "It feels so good in there," he whispered into her ear.  He
kissed her gently on the back of her neck.  One of his hands strayed
beneath her and caressed a convenient breast.  "Being inside you feels
so good," he said.  Wendy believed him; she agreed with him. 

He started playing with her breasts with both hands.  Wendy realized
that he was very good; he knew how to touch her.  He stayed on top of
her, stayed inside her, played with her breasts.  He'd fucked her, but
he still wanted to enjoy her body more.  It was rape, she realized, it
was awful; but she loved feeling so desired. 

Wendy dressed herself after he'd left.  When she was leaving she saw
that he'd put a store bought "out of order" sign outside the woman's
room door.  That's how he'd known he could enjoy her at his leisure. 

Wendy knew she should go to the police, but then the ordeal wouldn't
be over.  She had the evidence against him inside her.  They would
take samples.  A nurse would scrape her; scrape him out of her.
Somehow that felt like a betrayal.  She didn't really want him out of
her. 

And then he would be caught, punished for what he did to her.  They'd
punish him for the orgasms he'd made her have.  Wendy would have to
take a "morning after" pill.  There would be a trial.  She would have
to tell everything in public. 

No, Wendy decided, he hadn't really hurt her, not physically.  She
probably wouldn't have a baby.  Wendy dressed herself, drove home in
a daze, scrubbed thoroughly in the shower; she washed him out of her.
When she climbed into bed, but before she went to sleep, she took her
vibrator out of her bedside table and thought about what he'd
said: "You should dildo every night.  You should have something inside
you often.  You deserve it." 

 --- 

The author appreciates comments at pcmail@boxfrog.com 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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