Theodore Stickles: Prisoner Of Lust

My god, she thought, fucked right out of your mind less than an hour ago and still so goddam round heels you can't say no! What had happened to her will? Where was her strength of character? Where was her independence?

Washed down the drain along with this totally irresponsible little man's semen, that's where! He had ignored all her protests, gone directly to the heart of the matter-to the cunt of the matter-and had taught her things she didn't really want to know about herself.

He had taught her that she had no will of her own, that no matter how she had trained and disciplined her mind to thread the maze of the law, all her training stood for naught whenever he decided it was time to thread her needle.

And now standing paralyzed, watching him undress, she knew the time had come again. God damn the miserable little bastard! He had given her just time enough to clean up, to digest what had happened, time enough to make all kinds of spurious promises to herself, and then here he was back all ready to do it all again, to rub her nose in her ass, to prove to her that all her education was nothing when placed before an older, prelogical wisdom which she had forgotten but which her body had always known. He was going to fuck her again.

Simple as that. He was going to fuck her again. Again! And she was totally unable to do anything about it. She could be calling the police. She could be struggling. She could whop him over the head with the skillet. She could kick him in the jewels while he danced about on one foot and wrestled to get his recalcitrant trousers over the other. But even as she contemplated all these possibilities Paula knew what she was going to do. She was going to stand there and feel fire coursing through her belly, going to stand there unable to move while he undressed, while he took his own sweet time, and when finally he laid a hand to her lush and ready body she was going to have to struggle even to utter a token protest instead of the shrill giggle of delight that she could feel struggling up out of her tight throat.

It was crazy. She had dealt with society's losers long enough to recognize the type of woman who is fascinated by low-life men, who loves to play with fire and cannot resist the undercurrent of violence in the lives of petty crooks-losers all in a society which has channeled violence in ways far more efficient than their muggings and two-dollar stickups.

But Paula had never been that type of woman. She had never encouraged her yearning-eyed, sex-starved clients. Never ever had she dressed provocatively. Never, until this morning in City Hall, had she ever undressed provocatively. But… had this ferret-faced little man with eight, full, throbbing inches-had he even seen her this morning? Could this all be coincidence?

This time his eyes did not seem so flat or weird. Whatever he'd been on the first time seemed to have worn off. She wondered what had prevented him from coming down with a thud, full of horror and terror at what he had done to his parole officer. Then she saw the sad truth. Harry Riggs was a breaker and enterer because he was not smart enough to work at one of society's more legal larcenies like selling cars or houses. He was not smart enough to realize that he might not be God's gift to women. He found himself fascinating. Why shouldn't everybody else?

Why should Paula? Christ almighty! If she were to put the other phone back on the hook, chances were she would have a hundred proposals or propositions before nightfall. Oddballs, freaks, weirdos-of course. But certainly no less suitable for studding her than a paroled breaker and enterer!

Still she stood paralyzed, paralyzed not so much by the sight of this sleek, ferret-faced little man undressing in front of her but rather by the memory of the prodigious prod that lay beneath his jockey shorts, the memory of what that potato masher had done to her insides.

God, how she hated him! It was crazy. An hour ago she would have said she couldn't even remember Harry Riggs, couldn't distinguish him from an even hundred hollow-eyed losers in her stable of parolees. Now…

The nerve of the miserable little bastard! He could barely spell his own name. He had spent half his life behind bars. He was totally incapable of finding a useful niche in society.

But he had found his niche in her! He had found it and he had burrowed into her tender, ticklish flesh. He had pushed her unresisting body flat on her back on her own rug in her own living room and he had put his hot, throbbing cock into her and she had not been able to stop him and now he was going to do it all over again and once more she knew she was totally powerless to stop him. He was going to fuck her and she didn't want him to only she really did and it was all so unfair and she wanted to scream and if he didn't hurry up and finish getting his clothes off and get on with it she knew that sure as probate she was going to kick and scream and wail and do all sorts of things lawyers were not supposed to do. God damn him!

Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she resist him? As if she didn't know. Finally, after all these years her body was extracting vengeance for all the deprivation that came from independence in a man's world. God damn him! Why couldn't he move a little faster?

Finally he was free of his clothes and stood before her with his bowsprit standing out at a rakish angle, its tremendous, golf ball-sized tip moving in lazy figure eights in time to his heartbeat. He moved toward her and Paula put up her hands in a feeble gesture to fend him off. He pushed her nerveless hands aside and once more he was peeling her quilted robe back down over her shoulders while she stood like a sacrificial lamb.

But this time he didn't push her down to the floor. This time Harry Riggs had already blunted the fighting edge of his weapon and could permit himself the luxury of a long slow and careful buildup. He took her hand and led her unresisting into her bedroom. With a nicety that surprised her, he turned back the spread and blanket before pushing her gently back until she was touching the bed with the backs of her knees, then falling gently backward, and he was coming down on top of her, kneeling between her thighs, and it was just like an hour ago.

Or was it?

To her surprise and horror, Paula suddenly knew that this time Harry Riggs was not just going to fuck her again. Rape was not enough. Having tried his wings and discovered how easy it was to fly, he was moving on to the next logical step, moving slowly up her body, straddling her, no longer kneeling between her thighs.

Now her thighs were pressed close together and his thin, wiry body squatted over her belly. As he moved a fraction of an inch forward she could see the great thumping head of his cock pointing the way before him, onward and upward like the schoolboy Excelsior poem.

His thighs were spread wide to straddle her and as he moved she could feel the smooth roundness of her belly react to the tickle as his well-haired scrotum dragged along it, dragged along her midriff, and then the fronts of his thighs were impeded by the twin bulges of her full, firm tits and the tip of his juddering tool pointed forebodingly onward, upward.

Paula belatedly wished she'd used a little common sense. What had ever made her think this egotistical little chauvinist would be content to repeat his last performance? Now he was preparing to force her to the ultimate in chauvinistic and porcine degradation. Why hadn't she fought back while she still had a chance? Why wasn't she fighting now? Surely there must be a way to get a grip on all that male vulnerability he was thrusting so confidently forward, onward and upward.

What was she going to do? Her turn-on of a moment ago was gone now, submerged in a wave of terror. God damn him! Was there no limit to his male chauvinist piggery? Was there nothing she could do to protect herself from this ultimate degradation? She could feel the heat radiating like a branding iron from the tip of his cock. She could smell the essence of masculinity. She shuddered and could not tell if it was terror or if it was joy she was feeling.