Forward: This is a revision of the chapter one to this story. The original first chapter, which you can still read, makes the assumption that a woman could enjoy being raped. Actually we know better. Susan still gets raped in this revision, but it plays out differently. I hope you still enjoy it.
Introduction
Susan Slattery was proud of herself. Here she was, promising young attorney, out on her own, starting her own law firm, and about to conclude her biggest case. Smartly dressed in a beige business suit, white blouse, top three buttons opened providing the opportunity for judicious and certainly provocative glimpses at her healthy bosom.
She had on a tailored A-line skirt dropping to just above her knees permitting just a slight voyeuristic glimpse of muscular thighs wrapped in dark brown nylons. Her feet were encased in dark brown high heeled shoes she used to click clack around the floor in front of an already enthralled judge. Hair done up in a tight bun with just a couple stray blond fronds drifting alluringly around her tortoise shell glasses. She looked every bit the young female professional about to win her case.
The case had involved another notorious womanizer who'd been leaping from bed to bed for years. However he'd committed one indiscretion too many, and his wife had brought down the hammer. The hammer came in a nasty legal battle, a massive settlement, and the man's reputation forever and irretrievably a shambles. Susan had to congratulate herself. She'd brought the mighty kingpin to his knees, and she'd acquired a hefty fee in the process. Her name would be broadcast far and wide; Susan Slattery the man killer had brought down another one. Her courtroom power would be every philanderer's nightmare. She would be enshrined in the hearts of every woman ever cheated or betrayed by a wayward husband. Her reputation had been established, her future bright.
Close to the rear of courtroom sat another professional; not in the back of the room, certainly that would have been too conspicuous, but about midway back from the middle sat a nondescript observer. He had a reputation also. His reputation was neither that of man or woman killer. His reputation was just killer.
The crushed and defeated man currently at Susan Slattery's mercy had played his one last card. Believing his destruction at the hands of the pitiless Ms. Slattery was nothing better than an assassination he'd called some acquaintances from his past. Sitting in the courtroom was the fruition of that phone call. True, he may have overstepped himself. He may have seduced one woman too many, but he knew his wife never intended what the Slattery woman had done. The great Ms. Susan Slattery had become a marked woman.
Briefcase under her arm, Susan sauntered out of the courtroom. She thought, just a short trip to the office, clear off her desk, check the calendar for next week, and then a quick drink at the tavern before home, a shower and bed. Behind her in an undistinguished dark suit walked the engine of her destruction. He'd been paid and paid well to see the woman in front of him never saw another sunrise.
His instructions had been simple. Get her, kill her, chop up the remains, and bury them. He thought about that. That was the kind of thing only a disgusting perverted mind would want. He thought it was too much trouble over a person who'd done nothing more than her job. In fact he'd watched some of the case. She was good. Besides the kind of garbage the client was asking had never been his style. He'd think about it. Maybe he'd kill her, maybe not. She was pretty. He liked the way she looked, the way she sauntered around the courtroom. She might be worth a lot more alive than in some plastic bag dead.
He'd liked her looks. Besides, if he didn't punch her out, it wouldn't be the first time he'd let someone off the hook. He was his own man, his own boss. It didn't matter too much anyway, first he had to get her, and then he'd decide what to do. The easiest way was a shot of some drug, put her under, carry her out, and take her home. She was small. It wouldn't take much to knock her down.
As it turned out it was just that easy. The bar she habituated was dark, well served, but not especially crowded. It whispered that sense of pseudo familiarity so many places did; a place where patrons thought they were known, but in truth, were just as nondescript as he had been in the courtroom. As he watched her order a drink he could tell she had that comfortable feeling of being at home, relaxed, off her guard. It would be too easy.
He tapped her arm, stealthily inserted a smallish needle; she dropped like a rock. He intimated to the bartender he was her date, helped her up, half carried half walked her to his car. He gently laid her on the back seat and drove home. She was light as a feather and soft too.
As he drove he watched for cars that might follow, and he watched for movement on the back seat. She was sound asleep, or, more accurately, soundly drugged. Her hair had come undone. It looked thick and soft. She had small delicate hands and equally tiny feet; all very feminine.
Her dress was hiked up around her thighs, nearly to her waist. Watching her relaxed deep breathing, he much preferred the idea of having sex with her of than offing her.
He'd checked into her background a little bit. She was one of those robot-like feminists; who, for want of a man of her own, preferred slicing and dicing men she didn't know. The man who'd hired her, he was told through intermediaries, had said as much. He believed it. Bitch she was, and bitch she'd die, unless...
Home was quite a distance, but after several hours of driving he was there. He carried her inside, and surrendered her to one of his friends, a woman in this case, who worked with him. She took the drugged woman upstairs, undressed her, cleaned her; put her in some pajamas, and into bed. Later he went upstairs and secured her so she wouldn't be able to get away. Then he went downstairs, showered and hit the sack. It would be hours before she awakened, plenty of time for a little shut eye.
