***
Eight
***
Crystal
I stood, glowering at my offspring in the ridiculous kaleidoscope of lights created by the emergency vehicles and the headlights of the various parents' cars that had shown up to retrieve their spawn. Diane Horowitz had attempted to corner and berate me for allowing the incident to occur in the first place, saying she'd been assured by her children I would be chaperoning. I had calmly and pointedly asked her how her children lying to her was my responsibility given that she hadn't even bothered to verify by attempting to contact me. My feedback was not appreciated.
I gave her some leeway given that her son was one of the boys being removed in an ambulance. Based on the observation I'd made from a distance, he was looking at a complete fracture of his ulna, along with a concussion. Either of them would have ended his season playing football for the school, and it was very likely the arm break put his baseball season in jeopardy as well. He was a junior, however, so for him there was always next year.
"What happened in the pool house?" I asked Amber and Ruby.
As usual, Amber did her best to imitate my lack of affect in her expression while Ruby made no effort to control her annoyance and anger. "Some of the guys wanted to have fun with a girl and we didn't want to watch that, so we told them to take it out to the pool house," Amber said.
She was lying. I'd known the girls' tells since they were capable of lying. "So you wouldn't be witnesses to the rape, you mean."
"She wasn't complaining at the time," Ruby said with heavy snark.
"Clearly her complaints escalated sharply given that the varsity team is now missing several starters," I retorted.
"That blonde bitch couldn't have done that!" Ruby snapped.
Amber tried to calm her sister down a bit. For once, the source of Ruby's anger wasn't me, or at least not wholly me; I'm sure she had some deep-seeded, lingering anger at me for being a nearly absent and inadequate mother, but most of her current outrage was likely because of whatever she and her boyfriend had been arguing about when I arrived. If she had been the one to suggest the boys take the girl to the pool house, her boyfriend's ire probably stemmed from the fact that their team's star wide receiver now had something at the end of his arm that was mostly bone fragments contained in a hand-shaped glove of muscle and skin. His football season was over, and if I remembered correctly Ruby's boyfriend and he had been planning to attend the same college, subsidized by a football scholarship apiece. That scholarship was probably in jeopardy too.
I focused my attention on Amber. "Why couldn't the girl have fought back?" I asked.
"Jemma's...she's not tiny but she's average. The guys...they would have been able to hold her off," Amber said.
"While they backed away to the house to avoid conflict and allow her to calm down, I'm sure," I said, "So you're saying someone else did that to them?"
"Fucking right. The team's going to beat his ass into the floor," Ruby said.
"They have a suspect?" I asked.
"No," Ruby snapped, "but it's gotta be one of her sister's friends."
"Jemma's sister?" I prompted. I was familiar with Jemma from her association with my daughters, but knew nothing of the identity or even existence of a sibling.
"Robin," Amber supplied, "She's a...she's smart. AP classes and everything, doesn't hang out with Jemma."
"So she did this?" I prompted.
Ruby scoffed, "She's a curveless mouse. Flinches when teachers get annoyed, and not even at her."
"Maybe her mother's new girlfriend?" Amber said.
"You think some dyke bitch came around and took out the guys?" Ruby said skeptically.
"There are dyke bitches that serve in all branches of the military," I reminded her, "And Israeli special forces have long operated without the misogynistic views of the West."
While Ruby ranted about her revenge fantasies against a "bull dyke with a crowbar and brillo pussy," I pulled out my phone and connected to the app for our electronic doorbell. The camera on it had an annoyingly narrow view. I rewound the recording for two hours or so and watched forward through the likely time of the incident. The only people who parked in front of the house were my daughters' guests, and all of them came to the front door. I thought there was nothing of note, but something caught my eye.
A streetlight across the street from the house cast a glow that showed up on the narrow camera. There was a brief period where the light seemed to stretch. Like if a car had driven up with its headlights on and stopped several feet out of view.
I went out back. Police were all over the pool house examining the broken furniture and blood. A single CSI tech seemed to be collecting samples. I walked up to one of the uniformed officers standing on the line.
"Officer?" I said.
"James, ma'am," he said, turning around.
He was young and clearly ex-military. Given his age he might resent his patrol officer rank, especially if he'd been more accomplished while serving. "We think there might have been a trespasser who attacked the boys," I said.
"Did anyone see anything?" he asked.
"No, but my doorbell camera caught the edge of a car that parked across the street. One of the neighbors' cameras might have a better view," I suggested.
"...Thank you ma'am, I'll pass that along to the detectives," he said.
I caught the slight pause as he said that. He wanted to take action himself, but years of brainwashing about the importance of chain of command stopped him. However, I bet it wouldn't take much to push him.
"I know some of the neighbors; I'm sure they'd let me take a look, especially if you come with me," I said. I infused my words with a mix of "helpful citizen," "damsel in distress", and "lonely desperate woman" that should have sent his protective instincts into overdrive while tickling that instinct to help and be the problem solver all men believed themselves to be.
"Hey, cover this for me? I 'm going to check on something," Officer James said to another cop. His partner, I assumed.
I led him across the street to the most likely house. Fortunately it was owned by the widow Barnsworth, a woman who upheld the "busybody" stereotype like she had a script. She had numerous unflattering theories about me, but the attention of a young attractive police officer made her forget or ignore whatever misgivings she had. She let us have her tablet and pulled up her own doorbell app.
Hers was an older model; the camera was lower resolution and the fisheye was more extreme, very nearly at the level of a physical peep-hole. It also didn't have good night-vision adjustment. We saw the car pull up; a generic sedan without any distinguishing style or mark that could be made out.
"Who the fuck is that monster?" I heard James mumble.
His language was hyperbolic, but I understood the sentiment. The person that exited on the passenger side of the car was massive, probably nearly two meters tall. Their clothing was loose, obscuring their body shape except for the long hair they tucked in their shirt, but that was hardly telling. If this was Jemma's mother's new girlfriend she was the largest woman I'd ever seen. They also moved in a tight, controlled manner that screamed military. They kept their head moving in a way that said they'd developed the kind of situational awareness most people only got from living where their life was in danger. This person had seen combat.
The girl that got out of the driver's side was average in the extreme. If my daughter's guess was correct, it was Jemma's sister. She was clearly out of her element and worried.
When the large figure moved, it only reinforced my assumption about the military. They skirted the edge of the streetlight's glow and approached my house obliquely, giving bad lines of sight from most of the windows. By the time they crossed the street the light and resolution on Mrs. Barnsworth's camera lost her. Jemma's sister followed the figure's path but was much clumsier about it.
We expected to have to fast forward a while, but barely ten minutes later the figure came back into view, cradling a girl in their arms. Based on the girl's movements, she was either drunk, drugged, or massively concussed. The large figure and Jemma's sister packed her into the car and then the car backed away.
"That's likely enough for trespassing at the least, ma'am," the officer said, "possibly kidnapping too. None of the parents have mentioned anyone missing. Do you know who that girl they took was?"
My stroking of his "save me" instincts and his desire to prove himself were probably both in overdrive if "kidnapping" was his first assumption after seeing that. He was also ignoring a significant fact.
The figure that got out of the car had crossed my property, located Jemma, violently disabled four healthy, athletic men, and extracted Jemma all in ten minutes. I'd been flippant about my special forces reference earlier, but this person was extremely dangerous.
"Just do your best to follow up, officer," I said, "We can figure out charges after you identify this person."
Rhia
I'd sated myself on Robin's body for a good portion of the night. She'd become a mostly senseless shell of a woman after the first hour and my initial lust had worn off after cumming inside her, but when I'd pulled away from her she'd let out a plaintive whine, reached back to spread herself open and begged, "more."
I was too deprived and too wound up to really remember, much less follow, Kathleen's wish about Robin, so I'd indulged myself like I would have after a battle at home where a willing harem of women would be waiting and eager to service myself and my comrades. By the end, a river of my cum dripped out of Robin's slit and her face and mouth were coated in ejaculate. I'd carried her up and rinsed her off in the shower while she was completely insensate, then put her in her bed. Kathleen had fallen asleep cradling Jemma. I was actually tired because of the various exertions of the day, and I'd considered using Kathleen's bed, but played it safe and went for the couch.
I was woken after a few hours by the sound of rushing water. It took me a moment to recognize the sound of the house's shower. I followed the sound to the bathroom where I found Jemma curled up, naked, under a shower spray that was almost hot enough to burn, rubbing herself so hard it looked like she was peeling off skin.
I'd known soldiers who reacted badly to combat, and I'd heard about the attitudes and behaviors of some of the women and futas that had been rescued from the Subjugators. Unfortunately I wasn't an expert in treating them.
"Jemma. You clean now," I said, turning off the water and getting a towel to dry and cover her. Despite her nakedness I didn't feel any sexual urges toward her; she just seemed too wounded for that.
"Not clean," she said as I dried her, "Never be clean. I'm a slut. Sluts are dirty."
