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Message-ID: <42438asstr$1052907002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: secretkeeper3@comcast.net (Secret)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 13 May 2003 23:11:14 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Story Idea
Date: Wed, 14 May 2003 06:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This is a story idea I had, but is not actually in story form yet.  I
don't usually write in first person, but my ideas tend to come to me
that way, in the form of fantasies.


     I am being dragged down to the shooting range in Bonner, by
Ruhulessin and Storms. Ruhu is mercilessly dragging me across the
sharp rocks in my bare feet, and I'm begging him and crying. I fall
once and beg him to carry me. Finally, for whatever reason, he does,
and as we arrive, I cling to him, begging him to save me...to protect
me. Little do I know, that they intend to throw me in the river. I
bury my face in his chest, clinging to him, pleading, and he slaps me
away in disgust. I recover slowly, looking from him, to Storms, and
weighing my options, I once again crawl towards Ruhulessin, craving
comfort or protection. The ropes attached to the very heavy rock are
brought out, and as they attempt to tie me into them, a struggle
ensues. I manage to grab one of their guns and point it at them,
making them temporarily back off. But Storms provokes me, seeing my
inability to shoot, and I fling the gun in the river, helplessly,
knowing that my last chance is gone. "I can't.." I whimper, looking
into Ruhu's eyes, praying for sympathy. Suddenly he turns around and
starts walking away, as Storms approaches me, with murder in his eyes.
"That was my Godamn gun, Bitch," he curses at me, coming within reach.
I just look up at him sadly, waiting to see how he will hurt me next.
I even reach out my hand so he can pull me up into whatever hell
awaits me, and as I do I start to cry. "What is your problem," he
growls. "You always used to be such a Bitch." At his harsh words, I
pull my hand back, and flinch away from him. But he grabs my hand even
as it retreats, and jerks me to my feet. I sway, and then come up
against him, looking fearfully up into his eyes. "Don't hurt me," I
whisper, tearfully. "Please.." And as he draws his other weapon, I lay
my head submissivley against his chest. I know that this is the end,
as I hear him cock the gun, but I don't want to fight anymore. I
squeeze his hand and wait for the bullet, sobbing against his shirt in
terror. I feel the cold metal against my temple, as he caresses me
with the gun. "What's the matter," he whispers, uncertainty, evident
in his voice. "You can kill but not be killed? Be merciless, but yet
expect mercy?" I don't answer, afraid that defending myself could set
off another dangerous argument. He's completely convinced that I
murdered Sargeant Hammondtree, and that no amount of prison would be
sufficient punishment. He let's go of my hand and grabs a handful of
my hair. I can tell that he wants to rough me up again, as he is
flooded with memories of his dead friend and role model. He jerks back
my head, forcing me to look up at him with wide eyes. I shiver
uncontrollably in the light drizzle that has been falling all night.
The two officers wear full unifoms with light jackets, but I am
dressed only in a spagetti strap tank top, and thin cotton shorts. The
afternoon had been warm when they arrested me. He pulls back his other
arm to slap me, and his hand lands in a pool of tears.. The blow
wasn't hard, but I know that's the first of many to come. He's pacing
me so that he can beat me longer. I stare into his dark eyes,
wondering how he can do this. The second blow is harder, cracking my
lower lip. The rain quickly washes away the traces of blood, leaving
my face a clean slate for his next assault. But his next assault is
different. He grabs the front of my shirt, and starts to rip it off.
"Storms..please stop...I'm sorry," I beg in cracking tones. I now face
a new terror. Rape. "Oh God, please don't do this, Storms. Please,
please, please don't..." I start to become incoherent as panic sets
it. This is worse than death. The fear in my eyes must be something
intense, because he lets go of my shirt, and takes a step away from
me. But his face contorts into an awful smile, and he yells over his
shoulder,"Ron! We don't have to kill the bitch! Come back!"


Comments are more than welcome.  Please let me know if you think this
story could go anywhere.  Thanx.
Luv, Cat

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