(Again, this one is one i originally wrote for another site; it's a bit darker and nastier than my usual approach - read "Winston's Witch" for a contrast. One important tag is intentionally left off because it would be a spoiler. All of the potential squicks i see are tagged, though, and i promise you this is not a snuff or similar story...)
(I really need to get around to explaining who Nikki is, precisely, and why her sex shop/boutique seems to be bigger on the inside than the outside...)
He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting, nursing a couple of beers, watching the Saturday night crowd swirl in and out of the bar. His eyes kept coming back to one woman in particular -- a tall, slender redhead with firm tits under a tight clinging top and legs that went on forever up to the skirt that shaped her round ass and barely covered her cunt. He wasn't exactly sure, but he thought he remembered trying to talk to her and being completely ignored by the yuppie bitch. Thinking about that, he vaguely wondered why he couldn't remember how long he'd been here, or when he'd come here. But he wasn't drunk, so it couldn't have been too long... and the thought faded from his mind.
Guys kept coming on to the redhead, and the bitch just brushed them off like flies. Oh, sometimes she'd dance with one, but not more than once with the same guy, and she managed to get rid of them pretty quickly after the dances were over.
God she was hot out there on the dance floor -- she only danced the ones that gave her a chance to strut her body and shake those braless tits, and sometimes her skirt would ride up enough that he thought he could see her bush...
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Jesus, it was a boring night. There wasn't a guy in the place that I liked, and I was tired of turning off the creeps who kept coming on to me. There were a couple who were okay to dance with, but then they wanted to talk, and I wasn't interested in anything they had to say.
It was a real turn-on, though, out there on the dance floor, letting the would-be studs get a little feel, shaking my breasts in their faces.
I had decided that I was going to be naughty tonight; I stopped by Hot Rags on the way home from the office and spent way too much for the sluttiest outfit Nikki had on sale that was still just this side of making me look as if I planned to peddle it on the street corners. The tight knit top showed off the fact that my 36C tits were still high and firm and didn't need any artificial support; the tight black buttery-soft leather skirt made it clear that the only thing under it besides me was a sheer pair of pantyhose, and the red fuck-me pumps with their straps and clunky four inch heels completed the outfit.
And then I headed out to the Kumaniwanalea Lounge, the sleasiest pick-up joint near ESU. I was going to find me some college stud, a jock, and take him home and fuck him till he couldn't move.
At least that was the plan.
But they were all so boring.
Suddenly, I couldn't take this crummy joint and all the phony studs out to score, strutting their muscles and money for the girls on the meat rack. The hell with it -- i was going home and use my vibrator.
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She was leaving. Alone. None of the guys were good enough for the stuck-up cunt, it seemed. Huh. Someone ought to teach her a lesson.
Without consciously deciding, he set down his beer, shoved a ten across the stick, and began working his way through the crowd toward the door.
By the time he was outside in the cool air, she was half a block down the street, her heels tapping a rhythm on the pavement as she briskly walked toward the parking garage. It seemed as if his feet stepped out in the same direction without his volition, not quite running, but moving fast enough that he could see that he would overtake her near the entrance to the garage.
He looked around. There was nobody else in sight; it was too early for the early crowd to be heading out, and not late enough that the after-hours bunch were arriving yet.
Good, he thought, there'll be no-one to see or hear... And then he wondered why he cared.
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I hadn't realised just how dark it was in the streets around here in the evenings, or how deserted. Not that I was worried; the area around the University was one of the safest parts of town -- aside from the occasional cheerleader gangrape by ESU football players, that is.
And it wasn't far to my car in the garage.
Wait.
Someone was behind me.
I reached in my bag and pulled out a mirror, pretended to check my makeup.
It was that weird guy from the bar. The one who sat and stared at me the whole time I was there. Even when I wasn't looking his way, I could feel his eyes on me; and it was as if I was naked in front of him.
I hurried a little. Once I was in my car, I would be safe.
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She'd seen him. She'd speeded up.
Good. The bitch was afraid of him. It gave him a sense of power to know it.
She'll be even more afraid soon, he thought. And then wondered what he'd meant by that thought.
She hurried through the garage entrance, and managed to duck into the elevator. The door closed before he could catch it and the elevator started upward.
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I cowered against the back of the elevator as I saw him lunge to try to stop it. But he was too late; I was on my way up to my car and safety.
The elevator was slow but steady; the floors clicked away on the indicator above the door -- two, three, four... five. It stopped, the doors sighed open and I could see my car. I stepped out.
"Got you, bitch," a harsh voice growled in my ear as a powerful arm wrapped around my waist and a rough hand clasped itself over my mouth. As he spun me around into the shadows behind the elevator shaft, I heard him panting for breath and saw the open stairway door.
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She struggled ineffectually as he dragged her into the shadows. He snatched the scarf from around her neck, shoving it into her mouth as an improvised gag. He snapped the handcuffs (Handcuffs? Why was he carrying handcuffs?) from his back pocket onto her wrist and to a standpipe as he shoved her roughly down onto a litter of sacking and discarded carpeting in the shadows.
She tried again to kick him, then lay still in wide-eyed terror as he opened a folding hunting knife, flashing the razor-sharp blade in front of her eyes.
"That's right, bitch -- lay there and enjoy it," he grated out, reaching forward with the tip of the knife to touch her belly just below the edge of her top.
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I knew that my legs were splayed wide open as i fell, and that my skirt was riding up onto my hips. I tried to fight, tried to breathe around the mass of cloth that he jammed into my mouth. Then I felt the cold metal on my wrist, felt my arm wrenched above my head and shackled to a pipe.
He pulled out that huge knife, and I was suddenly afraid that this might be more than rape -- suppose he was a psychotic killer. What was he going to do? Would my mutilated corpse be the front page in tomorrow's papers?
I felt the cold metal of the knife against my belly, and I sobbed in terror, then lay still as he slashed upward between my breasts, completely slashing through my tube top. I lay there, tits exposed, as he stood back and looked down at me. Wind blew across my breasts, and, despite the terror I felt, I could feel my nipples rising a bit in the cold air.
Reaching down, he clutched my left breast in his hand and brutally squeezed it; not so hard as to herm me, but painfully. He pressed his palm over my nipple, rubbing it back and forth, then twisting and tweaking it with his fingers. I was astonished and angered to feel my flesh responding in spite of the situation; to feel my nipple rising and hardening even more.
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He grinned humourlessly as he felt her nipple pressing against her palm; they were all alike; all sluts, bitches in heat. All it took was a real man to get them panting for it.
