Now that I knew everything I needed to about the Ziegler home's security systems, I could proceed against my original targets. Katrina and her daughter Zoë were particularly tantalising. If what Maria had said was true, then Zoë was a teenage virgin with piercings in her cunt and navel; merely picturing Zoë naked was enough to make me instantly hard and positively bristle with the need to sexually aggress. Young Zoë would be very pliable once I had 'broken her in', and might even come to bond with me the way Leah had done.
That being said, the female half of humanity had been programmed by evolution to be mortally terrified of rape. As much as I liked the idea of my victims developing Stockholm syndrome, I knew perfectly well that the chances of Zoë acquiescing in such an intimate intrusion of her body were extremely low. It had taken weeks to emotionally subdue Leah, and even then she still harboured perfectly natural misgivings about the feelings she had developed towards her rapist. Although forcing her into physical submission would be easy enough, there was absolutely no guarantee that I would be able to replicate my success with Leah when I finally did conquer Zoë.
Katrina, however, would be an entirely different game. Imagining this toned, fitness-conscious MILF naked was just as exciting as picturing her daughter. The feisty, short-tempered divorcee was no less likely to resist, but I got the distinct feeling that her resistance would be a lot more physical. I felt an excited tingle in my groin at the thought of some rough sex, particularly a struggle for dominance in which I would triumph through raw, virile strength, but there was also the likelihood that Katrina would get really violent in fighting me. I didn't want that, not least because I would have to physically injure her if she did; I may be a rapist, but the idea of beating a woman still offended the gentleman in me.
In any case, raping and impregnating two women over the next few weeks, with all the associated risks, would be an interesting challenge. It was only the second time I had tried this MO, and it was certainly a step up from keeping a woman prisoner in her own apartment. My exit strategy was prepared and the Ziegler phones had been tapped and the necessary settings "adjusted". The Martinez women had been an exciting detour, but the Zieglers were my original targets, and thanks to Maria Martinez I now had all the information I needed to get started.
***
Having grabbed a few hours of sleep after my Friday night activities in the Martinez home, I showed up for work the next day to clean the Zieglers' swimming pool. Katrina met me at the front door as usual, wearing her Capri jogging pants and sports bra, her toned, tanned stomach on full display and making me hard on sight. She gave me the keys to the shed as usual and left me to do the simple job of cleaning the pool. I was finished in all of fifteen minutes.
As I made my way back to the house I heard that something was wrong, there was shouting coming from the kitchen. The walls were clearly not soundproof, and I recognised the voices of Katrina and Zoë in heated argument. Instead of re-entering the house and potentially interrupting the argument, I lay down in a deckchair in the shadow of the house, out of sight of the kitchen window, and listened intently whilst pretending to bask in the afternoon shade.
"You know damn well why you've been grounded, missy!" yelled Katrina.
"I took a break with some friends, mom!" Zoë protested in response, "and they fired me for no fucking reason."
"The whole point of you doing this community service thing was as part of our deal on you taking a year out before going to college, and you've gone and lost it!"
"I don't want to go to college, mom! Don't you get that? I don't want to spend four years of my life studying some bullshit subject--"
"You are not gonna spend your life lounging around this fucking house just because we're loaded, you little brat!" the irate New York MILF screamed.
"Why the fuck not?!" Zoë screamed back, her teenage voice not nearly as aggressive as her mother's, "dad paid us a giant pile of cash when he dumped you, why can't we just use it?"
"We're going to use it to get you an education!"
"I don't want to go to college--"
"Oh, just go to your room." Katrina snapped, her patience worn out.
"I'm not a little girl anymore," Zoë objected, "You can't send me--"
"GO TO YOUR FUCKING ROOM!" Katrina's screech was so loud I actually jumped in my seat. That woman had strong lungs, almost as strong as her thighs, I imagined.
"Fine!" Princess Zoë shouted back defiantly, "maybe I'll just run away and get myself pregnant, you fascist bitch!"
The argument ended there as Zoë presumably stormed out. I slowly rose from my seat and quickly sat down again in startled surprise when the door shook as Katrina punched it hard; maybe boxing would be a better outlet than yoga. I stood up again and opened the door, striding into the kitchen as though I hadn't heard a thing.
"Ms Ziegler? I'm done cleaning the pool." Katrina had pulled out a bottle of wine, downing an entire glass in one go.
"Oh, hey there." she acknowledged me wearily, pouring herself another glass, "I'll get you your cash in a second."
"I'm guessing something's wrong." I ventured cautiously.
"Congratulations, buddy." Katrina shot back sarcastically, "you get a fucking medal for guessing what's totally fucking obvious. My daughter is a lazy, spoilt little brat who misses her daddy; so she acts like a bitch thinking that it'll get his attention, like he still gives a shit about her, about us. I'm telling you, don't ever have kids; and if you do, give 'em up for adoption. It's bad enough carrying 'em around inside you for months on end and then spending hours in pain while you squeeze 'em out between your legs -- well you're a guy, so you probably don't give a shit about all that -- but then you have to spend years raising 'em, only for them to treat you like dirt and act like their king or queen of the fucking universe as soon as they hit puberty."
Katrina took a deep breath and regained her composure, then downed another half a glass.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that," Katrina continued apologetically, "you don't have to listen to me and my fucking problems. But it's not every day your own daughter calls you a bitch." She finished her second glass and reached for the bottle to pour herself another one. I put out a hand and stopped her.
"You'll get a headache if you drink anymore." I counselled.
