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After reviewing some comments I have received, I have chosen to add the following disclaimer: this is not a story meant to turn anyone one on and I am actually a very sane person. There is nothing wrong with having erotic fantasies about rape, I'm just telling you that if that's what you're looking for, then this is NOT the story for you.

This story is an expression of rage; the rape scene is brutally depicted in order to reflect that.


Episode 1

Thomas Brown was charming and intelligent, with boyish good looks. Thomas Brown wore the right clothes that set off his nicely toned but not too muscular body; he had an expensive apartment in the right area of the city; he had the right car; he had the right woman as his fiancée; and until three weeks, five days and sixteen hours ago, he'd had the right job in the right firm and with luck would have made it to being a partner in a few short years. Thomas Brown was unemployed at the moment which would have been all right, since he was the kind of guy that knew the right people and had the right connections, but in a fool move that had seemed right at the time, he'd made the disastrous decision to take the wrong case that had ended up falling apart and taking everyone involved down with it. His colleagues were very sorry to hear about it. His superiors were sorry to hear about it. Everyone was sorry but no one was sorry enough that they could afford to associate themselves with him.

Thomas Brown still had his looks, wit, and charisma, but unless he found the right solution fast, he was going to lose his apartment, and when the girl came to her senses, a fiancée.

He spent the first two weeks of unemployment doggedly exhausting all his resources to find a way out of his slump until he admitted to himself that he was a pariah. After that he spent his time in a drunken stupor, eating fast food, lying on his couch while jerking off to late night cable porn features. Until this morning when he finally met his own eyes in the mirror and was appalled to see an unkempt bleary eyed male dully staring back at him. He didn't look like Thomas Brown. He looked like a loser. So he went for a brutal five mile run, took a shower, carefully shaved off his upstart beard, and went throughout his apartment, ruthlessly throwing out every container of alcohol that he found, including the contents of his well stocked bar. He tidied his apartment, threw out moldy Chinese food, went across the street for groceries that wouldn't higher his cholesterol level and then checked his week's worth of messages. The first message was from Christine, his fiancée.

"Thomas? Are you there? If you are, pick up." Her smooth contralto voice was filled with tentative concern. "Well, I have to go out of town tomorrow morning on a b-on a trip." So that was why she hadn't been around his apartment to check up on him. "I can come over for a while tonight, if you're home." Pause. "Or-or I can come over and stay over for-for a while. Keep you company 'till you're back on your feet. I'm sure they won't mind if I cancel." He heard what sounded like a stifled sob. Then her voice in a husky almost-whisper. "Thomas? Think about it. Call me. Please."

Next message. Christine. She was out of town and wanted to see how he was doing. Next message. Christine. Call her back. Next: Christine. Christine, Christine, Christine. His mouth turned down in a grimace, and he almost automatically skipped the next message until he heard the voice on time.

"Hey, Tommy, it's Elliot. Haven't heard from you in a while. Me and the boys were wondering how you were doing. Give me a call, man. Bye." Jesus. Elliot. He'd been avoiding Elliot too. Only man on earth that could call him "Tommy" as if the name fit him. Probably his only real friend. "The boys" his ass: the last he'd seen the boys they'd all slapped him too heartily on the back while avoiding eye contact.

He called them both back and left messages on their voicemail. He made himself lunch. He decided to look through the newspaper for a job but couldn't manage to demean himself enough to circle any ads. The ones he wanted he'd be rejected for. The ones he could easily get, he didn't want. He found his eyes roving around his apartment and he realized he was searching for something to drink. Cursing he stood up and decided to go for a walk to clear his head.

He grabbed a coat, tidied himself in the mirror and headed out the door. Someone was waiting for the elevator, and deciding he didn't want to make small talk with anyone, Thomas veered towards the stairs exit. He was on the sixteenth floor and rarely ran into anyone coming up when he was going down. Which was why he was surprised when he saw her between the fourteenth and fifteenth floor. He'd seen her around the building a few times and once even thought for certain he was looking at her back as she turned a corner by his old office but never did he see her up close. She was never with anybody. She always wore red. And no one, including the doorman, had a clue what her name was.

He saw her head appear first, coming up the stairs, and when he recognized that lustrous mahogany hair his cock immediately hardened before he even saw what was below her neck. Sweet Jesus. And her eyes! He realized he must have fantasized about her because he thought they should have been warm brown like they were in his imagination. Or a sultry amber when she was moaning beneath him. They were cool clear grey and seemed to hold the midday sky in their depths. She was a petite woman, he realized; the top of her head wouldn't reach his armpits. She wore a tight crimson sweater that molded itself to her high breasts and slim torso, with not quite baggy, but not exactly tight, blue jeans that made her sweater seem all the more clingy. She gave him an assessing look as they passed each other and he couldn't tell what her judgment of him had been when she was by. His cock was aching like a schoolboy's having his first wet dream. He hurried down the stairs.

The crisp air was a relief when it finally hit him. He nodded to Bob the doorman and set out at a brisk pace. His lust for the woman in red served to fill an emptiness. After the initial panic when he realized that the life he knew was falling apart, and the booze-numbed knowledge that there was nothing he could do about it, now came the realization that the quiet emptiness sitting inside him hadn't started when he lost his job. He WAS the emptiness; the emptiness was that charming and intelligent Thomas Brown with boyish good looks. But when he recalled that woman and her fuck-me body, that lust was like getting a foot in the doorway. He'd found a piece of himself and wherever that doorway led now, he would follow.

His feet were moving quickly with excitement when suddenly they halted. Thomas Brown looked around his environment. He was in a run-down neighborhood, maybe four blocks west of his apartment. The people here were mostly Hispanic, with a few whites, blacks, and Koreans sprinkled in. It was known for being the gateway into the bad part of town, considered the somewhat "safer" which meant that here when it was broad daylight, as it was at the moment, it actually made a difference unlike one block over where you were just as likely to be mugged, raped or murdered in broad daylight as you were at dead midnight.

He continued walking through the neighborhood, at a slower pace now. The area was deserted for the most part and anyone that saw him ignored him. Ahead of him a woman struggling with three bags of groceries came into view from around the corner. She couldn't see Thomas over her tottering bags and she didn't see the large crack in the uneven sidewalk before her either. She stumbled and gallantly managed to hold on to two of her bags while the third escaped her grasp and slumped onto the ground on its side. Most of the items didn't go far out of the bag but a few apples came reeling out, an especially precocious orb rolling to him engagingly and coming to a halt right at his feet: an enticing gleam shone along one red curve.

He picked it up. He walked over to the woman who looked to be in her early forties or very hard thirties and was tsking over her bruised apples. She looked beaten around the edges herself but still retained a remnant of what must once have been beauty. He handed her her errant apple, noting in the back of his mind how it looked freshly plucked and with no bruises. She took it from him with a grunt of thanks: not looking at all surprised to see a well dressed man in this neighborhood, not giving him the once over that women usually gave him. He picked up the two brown bags she had set down and said easily, "Why don't I help you home with these?"

Now he got the considering look that had not come earlier, but it seemed to have an unfriendly edge. She took her time putting the apples back and picking up her bag. Her mouth was thin. He had a vision of another thin mouth; the woman in red, whose mouth was lusciously wide and lips cruelly thin. He could see his penis disappearing into that wide mouth, going in and in, on and on, a penis of endless length into a mouth of endless generosity.

"You're very kind. I live that way." She had a heavy Spanish accent despite her yellow hair and pale skin. A leggy woman too: he didn't have to look far down to see the woman in red's promising lips superimposed over her down turned mouth.

They walked one block back the way he had come earlier and turned right at a street. It had railway tracks passing behind the houses. She headed up the walkway of one sagging dwelling that had been painted a defiantly cheerful yellow ages ago and now challenged anyone to remark upon the abuses heaped upon it since then. He stood behind her as she set her bag down and fumbled for the key to the front door. Her hair was up in a utilitarian ponytail and the sight of her vulnerable neck was making his scalp tingle. His penis had been in a constant state of half erection since seeing the woman in red and had fully awakened when it realized it was near a female now.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" He asked conversationally to her neck.

It stiffened like she knew where his gaze was.

"Yes." She said shortly without turning. She unlocked the door, and hastily picking up her bag, put it and herself on the other side of the threshold.

"Thank you for your help," she said politely and firmly before beginning to shut the door in his face.

He stuck a foot in before it closed. She glared at him. Thomas shrugged to emphasize his full arms and jiggled the bags a bit. He smiled wryly, "Did you want these?"

"Oh," she said, before beginning to look sheepish. She kept looking at him though, but this time more like how women were supposed to. He continued to stand there, smiling disarmingly, just enough so she could see a hint of his dimples, and he let a mischievous glint play in his eyes.

"Or did you want me to set them down on the porch for you to get later?" He crouched a little as if he really intended to do just that.

That cinched it. "No, no," she said, tentatively laughing. Surprisingly, her laugh sounded much the same as it must have ten years ago: filled with simple good humor, it held no bitter edges. She opened the door.

"The kitchen is over there" she gestured as she held the door open for him. "Over there" was about four feet to the left. He noted that she left the front door open as she followed him into the kitchen. Furnishings and appliances were spare and looked like they'd been around for a while, but in a good way, like they'd been well used and well taken care of. He set the bags on a narrow counter. He noticed that although there were no signs of children; toys, certain types of cereal, there was a picture of an angelic blonde girl about four years old taped to the fridge.

"Well, thank you again for your help." The defensive note was back in her voice.

He turned away from the picture to smile at her. "Sure thing." Letting her trail behind him at what she thought was a safe distance he went to the open front door. And closed it in front of him. And locked it.

He didn't wait for her reaction, simply whipped around to face her and shoved her, hard, against a thin wall. She looked stunned and before she recovered he was grabbing handfuls of that ponytail and pulling her head back at a painful angle. Blood shrieked through his head and he moaned desperately as it rushed into his cock as well, and he felt his skin stretch tight over the pulsating blood, so tight he thought that a touch would set it to bursting over the walls in a crimson rush.

He covered her mouth with his own as she was about to scream. He used his other hand to grip her chin and force her clenched jaws open, digging his thumb and fingers right into the hinges and then her mouth opened and he poured his tongue into it and it was hot hot hot and moist moist so moist and-ouch!

She had bitten him. He stared down at her as she suddenly turned into a writhing mass of limbs flailing furiously. Jesus, it was his own fault. Anyone who'd seen any movie or any book with this scenario should have known that you didn't kiss her or go anywhere near her mouth because biting you like some rabid dog was the first thing she would do. Actually, he reflected while deflecting blows, the first thing was usually-oww...Fu....ck. He jerked so hard on the fistful of hair in his grip that her head banged against the wall and she stopped struggling, dazed. He rubbed his sore penis. He'd seen it coming in time to protect himself from the worst damage but even the little bit of him she'd reached was hurting. He tasted copper in his mouth and realized his tongue was bleeding. He rubbed the wounded part of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A numbness was spreading in his head. So still inside, so still. His hand snaked out, palm open, to slap her for good measure. She closed her eyes and went still, not like she was unconscious, but like she was trying to wish herself invisible.

He stared at his victim, noting with a vague surprise that never had he before him as vulnerable a human being. It was terribly...intimate. There was nothing to stop him from hurting her. Moral reasons leapt at him and melted away, absorbed into the white noise as he realized that morals really had nothing to do with right and wrong and everything to do with a society being practical. If we have laws to stop people from killing each other, then it's less likely the next person to be killed will be me; everyone subconsciously thinks. And the human spirit likes nothing better than to view itself as noble so it labels things as "right" and "wrong" and individuals judge their enemies as wrongdoers while they themselves are the good guys.

Thomas felt as if shackles were loosening as his thoughts arranged themselves in his head. He had always had such thoughts, shoved so deep inside that he had not even been aware of them. Before he had had no reason to go against societies rules. The society he lived in had handed him everything on a plate from the day he'd been conceived by two of its prominent members. He could have everything he wanted, everything he wanted by playing by the rules. Rules that no longer applied to him. If society wasn't going to fulfill its contract of a happily ever after, with the white picket fence, perfect wife, and two-point-five children, he had no reason to fulfill his end. There was nothing to stop him from having what was in front of him; therefore he would take everything.

Thomas bent over this woman, this aging, not particularly attractive, tired woman and put a light hand on her throat. She didn't curl into a ball, but laid open, she didn't bother trying to remove his hand. Her pulse throbbed intensely, just as his own was beating. He imagined himself in her position, he thought of being this woman, having her defiant pride, and then being confronted with this violent stranger and knowing she couldn't stop him because it was his will. His vision blurred and blood raged in his cock-he squeezed his eyes shut for a breathless moment to savor the bittersweet pain of it all. When he opened them again he saw a faint line of trembling across her jaw.

"Would you fuck me willingly if I told you that I wouldn't hurt you anymore?" He asked curiously.

Eyes still squeezed tight, she shook her head back and forth, back and forth. He wasn't sure if she was saying no to his question, or just continuing her denial of him. He decided to take it as a no to his question.

"Really?" He persisted. "What if I told you I'd be the most gentle, the most tender lover you'd ever had, taking care to attend to all your needs? Really." He stroked her hair lovingly.

Her mouth shuddered open and a small noise came out. She drew in a ragged breath. "I would..." He leaned in close to hear her answer. He knew she would not bite him now. "Yes, go on." "I would..." He stared, mesmerized, at her face. She opened her eyes. He thought his cock would explode. They were a pale blue, holding the clear light of an autumn noon's heaven. He unzipped his pants. "I would tell you that you are a disgusting and insecure," tears welled up in the heavenly orbs even as her voice dropped fiercely; he pulled his penis out of the side of his briefs, "confused about who you are," and laid it against her thigh as his fingers sought to open her jeans. Her voice shook with rage or fear, "a monster." Lifting her hips, he freed her from her jeans; the rain in her eyes fell, just two drops, "And you need some serious help."

His heart and throat were constricting; his head was pounding and he rested it against hers. "Thanks. I'll take you up on that offer."

He put his cock at her entrance and squeezed the head in. The foreskin clung to her dry walls and he pulled back, letting his dripping pre-cum moisten her cunt for her. He breathed into her hair, smelled traces of her cheap shampoo, "I'm not a monster. I'm you."

She didn't answer him. He hit her open-handed, feeling her head rock back, feeling her pain, and then he slammed a fist into her face, punishing her, punishing himself. He thought he felt something crack beneath his knuckles. He thought he was going to cry. And his dick was so so hard. Globs of pre-cum creamed out of his cock and he shoved a hand between their legs. Gathering his slickness and smearing it on her nether lips he climbed up to her lower abdomen where his fingers stopped when they discovered a thick long scar. Shuddering, he stroked it with his juices. She was uttering guttural sounds from her throat now. From far away he saw the blood on her face and wondered if he'd obstructed an airway. She sounded like it. But he thought he might be making similar noises. Ruthlessly, his hand was groping her mound again, then shoving two, three, four fingers deep into her pussy. Her hips writhed to get away from the invading digits and he twisted them along with her, manipulating her cunt not to stimulate her but to make room for him. And he felt her outrage with her at being used in this way. Gone was his composed charm. He clenched his fist into a tight ball and punched it all the way up her cunt and started pumping his arm in time to her now shrill piping screams.

Christine wouldn't have recognized her considerate lover in this man. The Thomas Brown of charm, intelligence and boyish good looks was gone and in his place was...this. He laid his soul bare for this woman, this woman that was fighting not to see it. He pummeled his fist into her bruised walls one last time for good measure before taking his hand out. He used a knee to spread her thighs wide, indecently wide, and humiliatingly open before him because he could and he Wanted. Both hands snaked between her and the hard wooden floor too worn for splinters, and gripping her buttocks tightly, he rammed half his cock into her, shifted, heaved one, two, three times and impaled himself to the hilt, into her depths. He felt his head jab, no, crash into her cervix and they both cried out, primitive shrieks spilling from their mouths. They were animals, he the predator, she the prey.
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