Posted by Willailla on April 15, 2000 at 10:27:01:
RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie
Bogle, as the windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she
wanted to have pictures of John Blackthorne’s grave site to show
her students on Monday. That was when she was going to
introduce them to the poetry of that obscure, eighteenth century
American poet. She felt her introduction would be more interesting
to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled.
Her boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked
her to set the day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just
when everything was coming into bloom. When all was fresh and
new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The
most attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett
High. What her students would call a knockout. She usually wore
her straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun to give herself a more
mature, sophisticated look. Without makeup, she could have easily
passed as one of her students. The face was sensitive and
intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery,
she hummed along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and
waved cheerily to the guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today,
she thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and
monuments, streaked with centuries of lichen, were depressing to
look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite
trysting place for lovers. But in the middle of November there
weren’t likely to be many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She
remembered reading about it, once, in the Sunday supplement.
There were trees of all kinds, but mostly oaks and maples. The
newer section of the cemetery was on the other side, where there
were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate the
dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic
and neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and
Corinthian columns competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering
angels to form a virtual maze around her as she drove deeper down
one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the
location of the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many
of the lane signs were so badly faded with age that she couldn’t
read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when,
suddenly, she recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones
throw of the site, at least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after
picking up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs,
with snarling gargoyles on their corners, was an old, red brick path
that descended down a terraced slope. Towering oaks shrouded it,
their bare branches dripping clear, crystal drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the
path cautiously, for the bricks were slippery from being worn
smooth over the ages. She regretted having worn her high-heeled
sandals instead of her joggers, but then it hadn’t been raining when
she’d left the house. At least she’d had enough sense to put on her
gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes
were watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An
unpleasant thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday
she, too, would be lying under her own press of earth. It was a
horrible thought. She tried to think of something more pleasant,
like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom of the surroundings
settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray
tombs, where he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an
occasional, sparing, sip of Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he
thought dolefully, for he didn’t have anymore money. Flat broke,
busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street
and hustle for money. It was too much work. And he wasn’t as
young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat coarsely
hairy belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray
T-shirt. Once when he was younger, his belly had been rock hard,
but that had been a lotta years ago. Too much booze and too much
junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble
of wiry beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit
here in the goddamned cemetery for the rest of his life if...if only he
had enough whiskey to keep a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn’t going to happen in the real world. In the real
fucking world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle,
and most of the time you didn’t get jack shit for it! Fuck it all
anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the
homeless who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they
weren’t bumming from strangers on the streets or eating out of
filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn’t be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light
out of the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she
was lost. The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no
resemblance to the neat, precise layout of the cemetery map. If the
map could be counted on at all, then Blackthorne’s grave had to be
somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet. She would just
have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most
of the ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and
stepped between a row of tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish
up between her toes as she moved to her left. It wasn’t an
unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences
with spear points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or
coffin-shaped sepulchers presided around by a host of simpering
angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids. To Marie, the smiles
seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among them
cautiously, in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over
one shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the
still, misty air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without
realizing it, she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross
made of white marble. Climbing vines had been carved into its
surface. On the base she saw the name, Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera
from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some
of the words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory...
breathless before new seasons,
new joys...before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the
inscription had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the
words had been penned by Blackthorne. That was the most likely
assumption, she guessed. But, if so, why did he think he would be
going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne hadn’t been an evil
man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs.
She took several shots from different angles using various settings,
in case some didn’t turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn’t notice
the stocky man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime
now. He wanted to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely
thought to ask her for money, but now other thoughts were
crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother wouldn’t have
approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought’a be a crime. Even
with the raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure.
She would be sleek and sexy underneath. He wondered if she
shaved her cunt. A lot of women did; he knew from all the porno
filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be one of those
women. She didn’t look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he’d had. He’d always
fantasized fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking
prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply
into the pasty mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the
inside of his thick, hairy thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting
her camera back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only
a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery
handymen, but then she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating
from him, his scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and she realized,
with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
“Oh, you startled me,” Marie said, self-consciously raising her
hand to her throat, trying not to show her disgust at his
rotten-toothed grin.
“Takin’ some pictures are you,” he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her
body. His gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud,
and it made her feel vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a....She tried to push the thought from
her mind.
“Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class.” She tried to
smile.
If you’re friendly with people, they won’t want to...to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or....She remembered what her girlfriend,
Carrie, had once told her: there isn’t a man in the world who
wouldn’t rape a woman given the opportunity and knowing he
could get away with it.
“Class?” his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
“Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there.”
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she
had placed them.
“It was muddy; I didn’t want to ruin them,” she offered lamely,
feeling more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
“You’re a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something
like you. Only you’re better lookin’.”
“Well, thank you,” Marie replied. “A woman always likes to get
a compliment. And now I guess I’d better get going,” she smiled,
trying to inject a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her
mouth twitched slightly. She avoided looking into his eyes.
“What’s your hurry?” Logan asked, placing his hand on her
upper arm and rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don’t make an issue out of it. You
don’t want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you
would if he were one of you students.
“I really have to go.”
His grip on her arm tightened.
“So if you don’t mind”
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she
could just focus her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning,
spinning, like a circus merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw
banging her back into the hard granite of a tombstone. Instantly,
his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat. The top snapped open.
A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
“Fucking whore!” he screamed. “Fucking, goddamned whore!”
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her
head and off. He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black,
turtle-neck sweater and a short, gray skirt.
“Take’m off, bitch.”
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen
almost to her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the
upper region of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes
slowly focusing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her
mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She
pulled it up and over her head. He took it from her and tossed it
aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need to. Her breasts
were firm and round with pink nipples and areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant
and put it in his pocket. “The rings, too, bitch, and the watch.” He
was going to strip her of everything.
“OK, take the skirt off.”
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her
thighs, letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it.
She bent down and picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look,
she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from
her breasts, down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with
long-nailed fingers reached inside the waistband and scrolled the
panties down. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His
cock was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle
dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin
to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny
pricks the sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist,
slurping sounds. He gazed over her shoulders and down her
arched back to where her rounded buttocks curved out resting on
the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen even more.
He’d made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he’d
carried in his hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more.
He had gotten her drunk, she knew, so she couldn’t run away. But
at least the alcohol had softened the horror of what was happening
to her. Some at least.
“OK, that’s enough,” he said. “Get on your back.”
“Please--”
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip,
squeezing her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a
fraction of an inch from her eye. If she moved her head even
slightly, he would blind her in that eye. It was paradoxical. He was
hurting her so she would want to struggle, to resist. Yet, with the
knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
“Please, I’ll be good,” she gasped quickly, before he could
tighten his grip again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t
hurt me.”
“Well, that’s a little better now.” He watched her lie down on
her back in the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body
and slid from her jiggling breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart.
He stared fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were
tight and smooth. She was staring at his cock.
“Nice isn’t it?” He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin
back over the swollen purple head. “I once killed a woman with it,”
he said laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have
heard her scream. Now that I think about it, she might not have
been a woman after all.”
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from
expressing the full disgust she felt for him.
“Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I’m really cooking, like
right now. “Put your hand around it,” he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one
and a half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
“Course no man’s dick can compete with the fucking babies you
worthless cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it’s
gonna hurt, bitch. I could’ve been a real porn star if I’d wanted.
Donkey Logan, har, har.” He spit out his wad of chewing tobacco
on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey bottle out of the mud and
made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits himself.
“Some women say I get mean when I’m drunk. But you don’t
think I’m mean, do you?”
Marie shook her head.
“That’s good cause I can tell you’re a woman who likes to fuck.”
Marie nodded obediently.
That’s good cause I want us to get along real good.” He moved
the tips of his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt,
stopping to roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll bet that feels good doesn’t it?”
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered
something else Carrie had told her: it’s impossible to rape a
woman, because her body will always betray her and become
aroused even against her will, and despite how much revulsion she
might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just once.
Marie couldn’t accept this, wouldn’t accept this. She fought
against the pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not
cum! She would not give this hairy, smirking, male ape the
satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself
above her. The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of
her cunt. Drops of water dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The
slap of his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol
cracks in the quiet afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the
crack of her ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way
between her teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of
chewing tobacco. She could feel the thick length of his cock
entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips
forward. Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her
wet, warm tightness.
“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “That’s really tight..”
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills
through her. “If you don’t cum, I’ll kill you!”
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would
do no good. She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was
lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She
heard him gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping
furiously. His fists clenched in her hair, pulling and yanking. She
ignored the pain. If she was going to live, she had to cum. Nothing
else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one
goal: to cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and--
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cummed with
Brad. Harder than she had ever cummed in her whole life. She felt
Logan’s cock swell and jerk spasmodically, swelling in her belly.
Hot gushes of cum spurted into her, filling her. Cum oozed out of
her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot and sticky. He kept
filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a bull for several
short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she
did, she knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he
cut with his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was envolved in a car wreck over three
states away. Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the
police found on him was a camera with negatives of a gravesite and
of a naked woman in various erotic poses. On the last frames of the
roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms to the beam, her waist,
thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round, and staring
at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in a
cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said
he knew nothing about them, that he’d been on a drunk for several
weeks since being laid off from his last job. The police held him for
forty-eight hours then let him go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle’s former students was
surfing porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude
pictures. He downloaded every one, and notified some of his
former school chums, so they could get copies, for all of them had
wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END
RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie
Bogle, as the windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she
wanted to have pictures of John Blackthorne’s grave site to show
her students on Monday. That was when she was going to
introduce them to the poetry of that obscure, eighteenth century
American poet. She felt her introduction would be more interesting
to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled.
Her boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked
her to set the day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just
when everything was coming into bloom. When all was fresh and
new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The
most attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett
High. What her students would call a knockout. She usually wore
her straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun to give herself a more
mature, sophisticated look. Without makeup, she could have easily
passed as one of her students. The face was sensitive and
intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery,
she hummed along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and
waved cheerily to the guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today,
she thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and
monuments, streaked with centuries of lichen, were depressing to
look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite
trysting place for lovers. But in the middle of November there
weren’t likely to be many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She
remembered reading about it, once, in the Sunday supplement.
There were trees of all kinds, but mostly oaks and maples. The
newer section of the cemetery was on the other side, where there
were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate the
dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic
and neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and
Corinthian columns competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering
angels to form a virtual maze around her as she drove deeper down
one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the
location of the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many
of the lane signs were so badly faded with age that she couldn’t
read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when,
suddenly, she recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones
throw of the site, at least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after
picking up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs,
with snarling gargoyles on their corners, was an old, red brick path
that descended down a terraced slope. Towering oaks shrouded it,
their bare branches dripping clear, crystal drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the
path cautiously, for the bricks were slippery from being worn
smooth over the ages. She regretted having worn her high-heeled
sandals instead of her joggers, but then it hadn’t been raining when
she’d left the house. At least she’d had enough sense to put on her
gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes
were watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An
unpleasant thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday
she, too, would be lying under her own press of earth. It was a
horrible thought. She tried to think of something more pleasant,
like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom of the surroundings
settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray
tombs, where he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an
occasional, sparing, sip of Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he
thought dolefully, for he didn’t have anymore money. Flat broke,
busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street
and hustle for money. It was too much work. And he wasn’t as
young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat coarsely
hairy belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray
T-shirt. Once when he was younger, his belly had been rock hard,
but that had been a lotta years ago. Too much booze and too much
junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble
of wiry beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit
here in the goddamned cemetery for the rest of his life if...if only he
had enough whiskey to keep a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn’t going to happen in the real world. In the real
fucking world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle,
and most of the time you didn’t get jack shit for it! Fuck it all
anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the
homeless who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they
weren’t bumming from strangers on the streets or eating out of
filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn’t be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light
out of the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she
was lost. The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no
resemblance to the neat, precise layout of the cemetery map. If the
map could be counted on at all, then Blackthorne’s grave had to be
somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet. She would just
have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most
of the ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and
stepped between a row of tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish
up between her toes as she moved to her left. It wasn’t an
unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences
with spear points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or
coffin-shaped sepulchers presided around by a host of simpering
angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids. To Marie, the smiles
seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among them
cautiously, in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over
one shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the
still, misty air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without
realizing it, she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross
made of white marble. Climbing vines had been carved into its
surface. On the base she saw the name, Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera
from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some
of the words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory...
breathless before new seasons,
new joys...before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the
inscription had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the
words had been penned by Blackthorne. That was the most likely
assumption, she guessed. But, if so, why did he think he would be
going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne hadn’t been an evil
man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs.
She took several shots from different angles using various settings,
in case some didn’t turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn’t notice
the stocky man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime
now. He wanted to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely
thought to ask her for money, but now other thoughts were
crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother wouldn’t have
approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought’a be a crime. Even
with the raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure.
She would be sleek and sexy underneath. He wondered if she
shaved her cunt. A lot of women did; he knew from all the porno
filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be one of those
women. She didn’t look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he’d had. He’d always
fantasized fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking
prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply
into the pasty mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the
inside of his thick, hairy thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting
her camera back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only
a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery
handymen, but then she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating
from him, his scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and she realized,
with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
“Oh, you startled me,” Marie said, self-consciously raising her
hand to her throat, trying not to show her disgust at his
rotten-toothed grin.
“Takin’ some pictures are you,” he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her
body. His gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud,
and it made her feel vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a....She tried to push the thought from
her mind.
“Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class.” She tried to
smile.
If you’re friendly with people, they won’t want to...to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or....She remembered what her girlfriend,
Carrie, had once told her: there isn’t a man in the world who
wouldn’t rape a woman given the opportunity and knowing he
could get away with it.
“Class?” his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
“Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there.”
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she
had placed them.
“It was muddy; I didn’t want to ruin them,” she offered lamely,
feeling more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
“You’re a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something
like you. Only you’re better lookin’.”
“Well, thank you,” Marie replied. “A woman always likes to get
a compliment. And now I guess I’d better get going,” she smiled,
trying to inject a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her
mouth twitched slightly. She avoided looking into his eyes.
“What’s your hurry?” Logan asked, placing his hand on her
upper arm and rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don’t make an issue out of it. You
don’t want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you
would if he were one of you students.
“I really have to go.”
His grip on her arm tightened.
“So if you don’t mind”
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she
could just focus her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning,
spinning, like a circus merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw
banging her back into the hard granite of a tombstone. Instantly,
his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat. The top snapped open.
A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
“Fucking whore!” he screamed. “Fucking, goddamned whore!”
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her
head and off. He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black,
turtle-neck sweater and a short, gray skirt.
“Take’m off, bitch.”
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen
almost to her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the
upper region of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes
slowly focusing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her
mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She
pulled it up and over her head. He took it from her and tossed it
aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need to. Her breasts
were firm and round with pink nipples and areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant
and put it in his pocket. “The rings, too, bitch, and the watch.” He
was going to strip her of everything.
“OK, take the skirt off.”
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her
thighs, letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it.
She bent down and picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look,
she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from
her breasts, down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with
long-nailed fingers reached inside the waistband and scrolled the
panties down. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His
cock was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle
dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin
to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny
pricks the sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist,
slurping sounds. He gazed over her shoulders and down her
arched back to where her rounded buttocks curved out resting on
the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen even more.
He’d made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he’d
carried in his hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more.
He had gotten her drunk, she knew, so she couldn’t run away. But
at least the alcohol had softened the horror of what was happening
to her. Some at least.
“OK, that’s enough,” he said. “Get on your back.”
“Please--”
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip,
squeezing her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a
fraction of an inch from her eye. If she moved her head even
slightly, he would blind her in that eye. It was paradoxical. He was
hurting her so she would want to struggle, to resist. Yet, with the
knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
“Please, I’ll be good,” she gasped quickly, before he could
tighten his grip again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t
hurt me.”
“Well, that’s a little better now.” He watched her lie down on
her back in the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body
and slid from her jiggling breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart.
He stared fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were
tight and smooth. She was staring at his cock.
“Nice isn’t it?” He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin
back over the swollen purple head. “I once killed a woman with it,”
he said laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have
heard her scream. Now that I think about it, she might not have
been a woman after all.”
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from
expressing the full disgust she felt for him.
“Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I’m really cooking, like
right now. “Put your hand around it,” he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one
and a half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
“Course no man’s dick can compete with the fucking babies you
worthless cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it’s
gonna hurt, bitch. I could’ve been a real porn star if I’d wanted.
Donkey Logan, har, har.” He spit out his wad of chewing tobacco
on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey bottle out of the mud and
made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits himself.
“Some women say I get mean when I’m drunk. But you don’t
think I’m mean, do you?”
Marie shook her head.
“That’s good cause I can tell you’re a woman who likes to fuck.”
Marie nodded obediently.
That’s good cause I want us to get along real good.” He moved
the tips of his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt,
stopping to roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll bet that feels good doesn’t it?”
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered
something else Carrie had told her: it’s impossible to rape a
woman, because her body will always betray her and become
aroused even against her will, and despite how much revulsion she
might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just once.
Marie couldn’t accept this, wouldn’t accept this. She fought
against the pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not
cum! She would not give this hairy, smirking, male ape the
satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself
above her. The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of
her cunt. Drops of water dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The
slap of his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol
cracks in the quiet afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the
crack of her ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way
between her teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of
chewing tobacco. She could feel the thick length of his cock
entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips
forward. Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her
wet, warm tightness.
“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “That’s really tight..”
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills
through her. “If you don’t cum, I’ll kill you!”
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would
do no good. She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was
lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She
heard him gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping
furiously. His fists clenched in her hair, pulling and yanking. She
ignored the pain. If she was going to live, she had to cum. Nothing
else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one
goal: to cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and--
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cummed with
Brad. Harder than she had ever cummed in her whole life. She felt
Logan’s cock swell and jerk spasmodically, swelling in her belly.
Hot gushes of cum spurted into her, filling her. Cum oozed out of
her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot and sticky. He kept
filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a bull for several
short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she
did, she knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he
cut with his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was envolved in a car wreck over three
states away. Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the
police found on him was a camera with negatives of a gravesite and
of a naked woman in various erotic poses. On the last frames of the
roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms to the beam, her waist,
thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round, and staring
at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in a
cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said
he knew nothing about them, that he’d been on a drunk for several
weeks since being laid off from his last job. The police held him for
forty-eight hours then let him go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle’s former students was
surfing porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude
pictures. He downloaded every one, and notified some of his
former school chums, so they could get copies, for all of them had
wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END
RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie
Bogle, as the windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she
wanted to have pictures of John Blackthorne’s grave site to show
her students on Monday. That was when she was going to
introduce them to the poetry of that obscure, eighteenth century
American poet. She felt her introduction would be more interesting
to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled.
Her boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked
her to set the day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just
when everything was coming into bloom. When all was fresh and
new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The
most attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett
High. What her students would call a knockout. She usually wore
her straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun to give herself a more
mature, sophisticated look. Without makeup, she could have easily
passed as one of her students. The face was sensitive and
intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery,
she hummed along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and
waved cheerily to the guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today,
she thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and
monuments, streaked with centuries of lichen, were depressing to
look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite
trysting place for lovers. But in the middle of November there
weren’t likely to be many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She
remembered reading about it, once, in the Sunday supplement.
There were trees of all kinds, but mostly oaks and maples. The
newer section of the cemetery was on the other side, where there
were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate the
dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic
and neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and
Corinthian columns competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering
angels to form a virtual maze around her as she drove deeper down
one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the
location of the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many
of the lane signs were so badly faded with age that she couldn’t
read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when,
suddenly, she recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones
throw of the site, at least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after
picking up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs,
with snarling gargoyles on their corners, was an old, red brick path
that descended down a terraced slope. Towering oaks shrouded it,
their bare branches dripping clear, crystal drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the
path cautiously, for the bricks were slippery from being worn
smooth over the ages. She regretted having worn her high-heeled
sandals instead of her joggers, but then it hadn’t been raining when
she’d left the house. At least she’d had enough sense to put on her
gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes
were watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An
unpleasant thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday
she, too, would be lying under her own press of earth. It was a
horrible thought. She tried to think of something more pleasant,
like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom of the surroundings
settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray
tombs, where he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an
occasional, sparing, sip of Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he
thought dolefully, for he didn’t have anymore money. Flat broke,
busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street
and hustle for money. It was too much work. And he wasn’t as
young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat coarsely
hairy belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray
T-shirt. Once when he was younger, his belly had been rock hard,
but that had been a lotta years ago. Too much booze and too much
junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble
of wiry beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit
here in the goddamned cemetery for the rest of his life if...if only he
had enough whiskey to keep a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn’t going to happen in the real world. In the real
fucking world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle,
and most of the time you didn’t get jack shit for it! Fuck it all
anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the
homeless who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they
weren’t bumming from strangers on the streets or eating out of
filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn’t be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light
out of the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she
was lost. The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no
resemblance to the neat, precise layout of the cemetery map. If the
map could be counted on at all, then Blackthorne’s grave had to be
somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet. She would just
have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most
of the ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and
stepped between a row of tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish
up between her toes as she moved to her left. It wasn’t an
unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences
with spear points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or
coffin-shaped sepulchers presided around by a host of simpering
angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids. To Marie, the smiles
seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among them
cautiously, in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over
one shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the
still, misty air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without
realizing it, she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross
made of white marble. Climbing vines had been carved into its
surface. On the base she saw the name, Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera
from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some
of the words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory...
breathless before new seasons,
new joys...before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the
inscription had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the
words had been penned by Blackthorne. That was the most likely
assumption, she guessed. But, if so, why did he think he would be
going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne hadn’t been an evil
man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs.
She took several shots from different angles using various settings,
in case some didn’t turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn’t notice
the stocky man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime
now. He wanted to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely
thought to ask her for money, but now other thoughts were
crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother wouldn’t have
approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought’a be a crime. Even
with the raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure.
She would be sleek and sexy underneath. He wondered if she
shaved her cunt. A lot of women did; he knew from all the porno
filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be one of those
women. She didn’t look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he’d had. He’d always
fantasized fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking
prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply
into the pasty mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the
inside of his thick, hairy thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting
her camera back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only
a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery
handymen, but then she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating
from him, his scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and she realized,
with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
“Oh, you startled me,” Marie said, self-consciously raising her
hand to her throat, trying not to show her disgust at his
rotten-toothed grin.
“Takin’ some pictures are you,” he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her
body. His gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud,
and it made her feel vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a....She tried to push the thought from
her mind.
“Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class.” She tried to
smile.
If you’re friendly with people, they won’t want to...to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or....She remembered what her girlfriend,
Carrie, had once told her: there isn’t a man in the world who
wouldn’t rape a woman given the opportunity and knowing he
could get away with it.
“Class?” his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
“Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there.”
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she
had placed them.
“It was muddy; I didn’t want to ruin them,” she offered lamely,
feeling more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
“You’re a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something
like you. Only you’re better lookin’.”
“Well, thank you,” Marie replied. “A woman always likes to get
a compliment. And now I guess I’d better get going,” she smiled,
trying to inject a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her
mouth twitched slightly. She avoided looking into his eyes.
“What’s your hurry?” Logan asked, placing his hand on her
upper arm and rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don’t make an issue out of it. You
don’t want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you
would if he were one of you students.
“I really have to go.”
His grip on her arm tightened.
“So if you don’t mind”
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she
could just focus her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning,
spinning, like a circus merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw
banging her back into the hard granite of a tombstone. Instantly,
his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat. The top snapped open.
A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
“Fucking whore!” he screamed. “Fucking, goddamned whore!”
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her
head and off. He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black,
turtle-neck sweater and a short, gray skirt.
“Take’m off, bitch.”
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen
almost to her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the
upper region of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes
slowly focusing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her
mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She
pulled it up and over her head. He took it from her and tossed it
aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need to. Her breasts
were firm and round with pink nipples and areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant
and put it in his pocket. “The rings, too, bitch, and the watch.” He
was going to strip her of everything.
“OK, take the skirt off.”
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her
thighs, letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it.
She bent down and picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look,
she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from
her breasts, down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with
long-nailed fingers reached inside the waistband and scrolled the
panties down. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His
cock was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle
dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin
to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny
pricks the sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist,
slurping sounds. He gazed over her shoulders and down her
arched back to where her rounded buttocks curved out resting on
the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen even more.
He’d made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he’d
carried in his hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more.
He had gotten her drunk, she knew, so she couldn’t run away. But
at least the alcohol had softened the horror of what was happening
to her. Some at least.
“OK, that’s enough,” he said. “Get on your back.”
“Please--”
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip,
squeezing her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a
fraction of an inch from her eye. If she moved her head even
slightly, he would blind her in that eye. It was paradoxical. He was
hurting her so she would want to struggle, to resist. Yet, with the
knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
“Please, I’ll be good,” she gasped quickly, before he could
tighten his grip again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t
hurt me.”
“Well, that’s a little better now.” He watched her lie down on
her back in the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body
and slid from her jiggling breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart.
He stared fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were
tight and smooth. She was staring at his cock.
“Nice isn’t it?” He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin
back over the swollen purple head. “I once killed a woman with it,”
he said laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have
heard her scream. Now that I think about it, she might not have
been a woman after all.”
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from
expressing the full disgust she felt for him.
“Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I’m really cooking, like
right now. “Put your hand around it,” he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one
and a half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
“Course no man’s dick can compete with the fucking babies you
worthless cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it’s
gonna hurt, bitch. I could’ve been a real porn star if I’d wanted.
Donkey Logan, har, har.” He spit out his wad of chewing tobacco
on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey bottle out of the mud and
made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits himself.
“Some women say I get mean when I’m drunk. But you don’t
think I’m mean, do you?”
Marie shook her head.
“That’s good cause I can tell you’re a woman who likes to fuck.”
Marie nodded obediently.
That’s good cause I want us to get along real good.” He moved
the tips of his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt,
stopping to roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll bet that feels good doesn’t it?”
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered
something else Carrie had told her: it’s impossible to rape a
woman, because her body will always betray her and become
aroused even against her will, and despite how much revulsion she
might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just once.
Marie couldn’t accept this, wouldn’t accept this. She fought
against the pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not
cum! She would not give this hairy, smirking, male ape the
satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself
above her. The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of
her cunt. Drops of water dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The
slap of his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol
cracks in the quiet afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the
crack of her ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way
between her teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of
chewing tobacco. She could feel the thick length of his cock
entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips
forward. Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her
wet, warm tightness.
“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “That’s really tight..”
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills
through her. “If you don’t cum, I’ll kill you!”
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would
do no good. She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was
lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She
heard him gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping
furiously. His fists clenched in her hair, pulling and yanking. She
ignored the pain. If she was going to live, she had to cum. Nothing
else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one
goal: to cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and--
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cummed with
Brad. Harder than she had ever cummed in her whole life. She felt
Logan’s cock swell and jerk spasmodically, swelling in her belly.
Hot gushes of cum spurted into her, filling her. Cum oozed out of
her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot and sticky. He kept
filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a bull for several
short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she
did, she knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he
cut with his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was envolved in a car wreck over three
states away. Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the
police found on him was a camera with negatives of a gravesite and
of a naked woman in various erotic poses. On the last frames of the
roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms to the beam, her waist,
thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round, and staring
at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in a
cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said
he knew nothing about them, that he’d been on a drunk for several
weeks since being laid off from his last job. The police held him for
forty-eight hours then let him go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle’s former students was
surfing porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude
pictures. He downloaded every one, and notified some of his
former school chums, so they could get copies, for all of them had
wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END
RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie
Bogle, as the windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she
wanted to have pictures of John Blackthorne’s grave site to show
her students on Monday. That was when she was going to
introduce them to the poetry of that obscure, eighteenth century
American poet. She felt her introduction would be more interesting
to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled.
Her boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked
her to set the day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just
when everything was coming into bloom. When all was fresh and
new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The
most attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett
High. What her students would call a knockout. She usually wore
her straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun to give herself a more
mature, sophisticated look. Without makeup, she could have easily
passed as one of her students. The face was sensitive and
intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery,
she hummed along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and
waved cheerily to the guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today,
she thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and
monuments, streaked with centuries of lichen, were depressing to
look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite
trysting place for lovers. But in the middle of November there
weren’t likely to be many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She
remembered reading about it, once, in the Sunday supplement.
There were trees of all kinds, but mostly oaks and maples. The
newer section of the cemetery was on the other side, where there
were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate the
dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic
and neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and
Corinthian columns competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering
angels to form a virtual maze around her as she drove deeper down
one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the
location of the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many
of the lane signs were so badly faded with age that she couldn’t
read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when,
suddenly, she recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones
throw of the site, at least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after
picking up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs,
with snarling gargoyles on their corners, was an old, red brick path
that descended down a terraced slope. Towering oaks shrouded it,
their bare branches dripping clear, crystal drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the
path cautiously, for the bricks were slippery from being worn
smooth over the ages. She regretted having worn her high-heeled
sandals instead of her joggers, but then it hadn’t been raining when
she’d left the house. At least she’d had enough sense to put on her
gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes
were watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An
unpleasant thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday
she, too, would be lying under her own press of earth. It was a
horrible thought. She tried to think of something more pleasant,
like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom of the surroundings
settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray
tombs, where he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an
occasional, sparing, sip of Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he
thought dolefully, for he didn’t have anymore money. Flat broke,
busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street
and hustle for money. It was too much work. And he wasn’t as
young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat coarsely
hairy belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray
T-shirt. Once when he was younger, his belly had been rock hard,
but that had been a lotta years ago. Too much booze and too much
junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble
of wiry beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit
here in the goddamned cemetery for the rest of his life if...if only he
had enough whiskey to keep a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn’t going to happen in the real world. In the real
fucking world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle,
and most of the time you didn’t get jack shit for it! Fuck it all
anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the
homeless who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they
weren’t bumming from strangers on the streets or eating out of
filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn’t be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light
out of the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she
was lost. The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no
resemblance to the neat, precise layout of the cemetery map. If the
map could be counted on at all, then Blackthorne’s grave had to be
somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet. She would just
have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most
of the ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and
stepped between a row of tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish
up between her toes as she moved to her left. It wasn’t an
unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences
with spear points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or
coffin-shaped sepulchers presided around by a host of simpering
angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids. To Marie, the smiles
seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among them
cautiously, in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over
one shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the
still, misty air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without
realizing it, she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross
made of white marble. Climbing vines had been carved into its
surface. On the base she saw the name, Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera
from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some
of the words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory...
breathless before new seasons,
new joys...before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the
inscription had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the
words had been penned by Blackthorne. That was the most likely
assumption, she guessed. But, if so, why did he think he would be
going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne hadn’t been an evil
man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs.
She took several shots from different angles using various settings,
in case some didn’t turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn’t notice
the stocky man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime
now. He wanted to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely
thought to ask her for money, but now other thoughts were
crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother wouldn’t have
approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought’a be a crime. Even
with the raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure.
She would be sleek and sexy underneath. He wondered if she
shaved her cunt. A lot of women did; he knew from all the porno
filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be one of those
women. She didn’t look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he’d had. He’d always
fantasized fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking
prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply
into the pasty mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the
inside of his thick, hairy thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting
her camera back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only
a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery
handymen, but then she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating
from him, his scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and she realized,
with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
“Oh, you startled me,” Marie said, self-consciously raising her
hand to her throat, trying not to show her disgust at his
rotten-toothed grin.
“Takin’ some pictures are you,” he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her
body. His gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud,
and it made her feel vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a....She tried to push the thought from
her mind.
“Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class.” She tried to
smile.
If you’re friendly with people, they won’t want to...to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or....She remembered what her girlfriend,
Carrie, had once told her: there isn’t a man in the world who
wouldn’t rape a woman given the opportunity and knowing he
could get away with it.
“Class?” his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
“Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there.”
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she
had placed them.
“It was muddy; I didn’t want to ruin them,” she offered lamely,
feeling more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
“You’re a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something
like you. Only you’re better lookin’.”
“Well, thank you,” Marie replied. “A woman always likes to get
a compliment. And now I guess I’d better get going,” she smiled,
trying to inject a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her
mouth twitched slightly. She avoided looking into his eyes.
“What’s your hurry?” Logan asked, placing his hand on her
upper arm and rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don’t make an issue out of it. You
don’t want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you
would if he were one of you students.
“I really have to go.”
His grip on her arm tightened.
“So if you don’t mind”
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she
could just focus her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning,
spinning, like a circus merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw
banging her back into the hard granite of a tombstone. Instantly,
his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat. The top snapped open.
A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
“Fucking whore!” he screamed. “Fucking, goddamned whore!”
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her
head and off. He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black,
turtle-neck sweater and a short, gray skirt.
“Take’m off, bitch.”
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen
almost to her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the
upper region of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes
slowly focusing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her
mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She
pulled it up and over her head. He took it from her and tossed it
aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need to. Her breasts
were firm and round with pink nipples and areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant
and put it in his pocket. “The rings, too, bitch, and the watch.” He
was going to strip her of everything.
“OK, take the skirt off.”
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her
thighs, letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it.
She bent down and picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look,
she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from
her breasts, down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with
long-nailed fingers reached inside the waistband and scrolled the
panties down. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His
cock was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle
dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin
to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny
pricks the sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist,
slurping sounds. He gazed over her shoulders and down her
arched back to where her rounded buttocks curved out resting on
the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen even more.
He’d made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he’d
carried in his hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more.
He had gotten her drunk, she knew, so she couldn’t run away. But
at least the alcohol had softened the horror of what was happening
to her. Some at least.
“OK, that’s enough,” he said. “Get on your back.”
“Please--”
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip,
squeezing her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a
fraction of an inch from her eye. If she moved her head even
slightly, he would blind her in that eye. It was paradoxical. He was
hurting her so she would want to struggle, to resist. Yet, with the
knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
“Please, I’ll be good,” she gasped quickly, before he could
tighten his grip again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t
hurt me.”
“Well, that’s a little better now.” He watched her lie down on
her back in the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body
and slid from her jiggling breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart.
He stared fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were
tight and smooth. She was staring at his cock.
“Nice isn’t it?” He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin
back over the swollen purple head. “I once killed a woman with it,”
he said laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have
heard her scream. Now that I think about it, she might not have
been a woman after all.”
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from
expressing the full disgust she felt for him.
“Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I’m really cooking, like
right now. “Put your hand around it,” he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one
and a half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
“Course no man’s dick can compete with the fucking babies you
worthless cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it’s
gonna hurt, bitch. I could’ve been a real porn star if I’d wanted.
Donkey Logan, har, har.” He spit out his wad of chewing tobacco
on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey bottle out of the mud and
made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits himself.
“Some women say I get mean when I’m drunk. But you don’t
think I’m mean, do you?”
Marie shook her head.
“That’s good cause I can tell you’re a woman who likes to fuck.”
Marie nodded obediently.
That’s good cause I want us to get along real good.” He moved
the tips of his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt,
stopping to roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll bet that feels good doesn’t it?”
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered
something else Carrie had told her: it’s impossible to rape a
woman, because her body will always betray her and become
aroused even against her will, and despite how much revulsion she
might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just once.
Marie couldn’t accept this, wouldn’t accept this. She fought
against the pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not
cum! She would not give this hairy, smirking, male ape the
satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself
above her. The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of
her cunt. Drops of water dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The
slap of his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol
cracks in the quiet afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the
crack of her ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way
between her teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of
chewing tobacco. She could feel the thick length of his cock
entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips
forward. Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her
wet, warm tightness.
“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “That’s really tight..”
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills
through her. “If you don’t cum, I’ll kill you!”
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would
do no good. She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was
lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She
heard him gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping
furiously. His fists clenched in her hair, pulling and yanking. She
ignored the pain. If she was going to live, she had to cum. Nothing
else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one
goal: to cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and--
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cummed with
Brad. Harder than she had ever cummed in her whole life. She felt
Logan’s cock swell and jerk spasmodically, swelling in her belly.
Hot gushes of cum spurted into her, filling her. Cum oozed out of
her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot and sticky. He kept
filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a bull for several
short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she
did, she knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he
cut with his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was envolved in a car wreck over three
states away. Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the
police found on him was a camera with negatives of a gravesite and
of a naked woman in various erotic poses. On the last frames of the
roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms to the beam, her waist,
thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round, and staring
at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in a
cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said
he knew nothing about them, that he’d been on a drunk for several
weeks since being laid off from his last job. The police held him for
forty-eight hours then let him go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle’s former students was
surfing porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude
pictures. He downloaded every one, and notified some of his
former school chums, so they could get copies, for all of them had
wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END
RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie
Bogle, as the windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she
wanted to have pictures of John Blackthorne’s grave site to show
her students on Monday. That was when she was going to
introduce them to the poetry of that obscure, eighteenth century
American poet. She felt her introduction would be more interesting
to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled.
Her boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked
her to set the day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just
when everything was coming into bloom. When all was fresh and
new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The
most attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett
High. What her students would call a knockout. She usually wore
her straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun to give herself a more
mature, sophisticated look. Without makeup, she could have easily
passed as one of her students. The face was sensitive and
intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery,
she hummed along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and
waved cheerily to the guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today,
she thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and
monuments, streaked with centuries of lichen, were depressing to
look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite
trysting place for lovers. But in the middle of November there
weren’t likely to be many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She
remembered reading about it, once, in the Sunday supplement.
There were trees of all kinds, but mostly oaks and maples. The
newer section of the cemetery was on the other side, where there
were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate the
dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic
and neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and
Corinthian columns competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering
angels to form a virtual maze around her as she drove deeper down
one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the
location of the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many
of the lane signs were so badly faded with age that she couldn’t
read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when,
suddenly, she recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones
throw of the site, at least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after
picking up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs,
with snarling gargoyles on their corners, was an old, red brick path
that descended down a terraced slope. Towering oaks shrouded it,
their bare branches dripping clear, crystal drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the
path cautiously, for the bricks were slippery from being worn
smooth over the ages. She regretted having worn her high-heeled
sandals instead of her joggers, but then it hadn’t been raining when
she’d left the house. At least she’d had enough sense to put on her
gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes
were watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An
unpleasant thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday
she, too, would be lying under her own press of earth. It was a
horrible thought. She tried to think of something more pleasant,
like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom of the surroundings
settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray
tombs, where he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an
occasional, sparing, sip of Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he
thought dolefully, for he didn’t have anymore money. Flat broke,
busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street
and hustle for money. It was too much work. And he wasn’t as
young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat coarsely
hairy belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray
T-shirt. Once when he was younger, his belly had been rock hard,
but that had been a lotta years ago. Too much booze and too much
junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble
of wiry beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit
here in the goddamned cemetery for the rest of his life if...if only he
had enough whiskey to keep a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn’t going to happen in the real world. In the real
fucking world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle,
and most of the time you didn’t get jack shit for it! Fuck it all
anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the
homeless who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they
weren’t bumming from strangers on the streets or eating out of
filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn’t be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light
out of the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she
was lost. The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no
resemblance to the neat, precise layout of the cemetery map. If the
map could be counted on at all, then Blackthorne’s grave had to be
somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet. She would just
have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most
of the ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and
stepped between a row of tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish
up between her toes as she moved to her left. It wasn’t an
unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences
with spear points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or
coffin-shaped sepulchers presided around by a host of simpering
angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids. To Marie, the smiles
seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among them
cautiously, in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over
one shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the
still, misty air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without
realizing it, she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross
made of white marble. Climbing vines had been carved into its
surface. On the base she saw the name, Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera
from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some
of the words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory...
breathless before new seasons,
new joys...before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the
inscription had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the
words had been penned by Blackthorne. That was the most likely
assumption, she guessed. But, if so, why did he think he would be
going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne hadn’t been an evil
man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs.
She took several shots from different angles using various settings,
in case some didn’t turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn’t notice
the stocky man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime
now. He wanted to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely
thought to ask her for money, but now other thoughts were
crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother wouldn’t have
approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought’a be a crime. Even
with the raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure.
She would be sleek and sexy underneath. He wondered if she
shaved her cunt. A lot of women did; he knew from all the porno
filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be one of those
women. She didn’t look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he’d had. He’d always
fantasized fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking
prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply
into the pasty mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the
inside of his thick, hairy thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting
her camera back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only
a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery
handymen, but then she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating
from him, his scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and she realized,
with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
“Oh, you startled me,” Marie said, self-consciously raising her
hand to her throat, trying not to show her disgust at his
rotten-toothed grin.
“Takin’ some pictures are you,” he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her
body. His gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud,
and it made her feel vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a....She tried to push the thought from
her mind.
“Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class.” She tried to
smile.
If you’re friendly with people, they won’t want to...to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or....She remembered what her girlfriend,
Carrie, had once told her: there isn’t a man in the world who
wouldn’t rape a woman given the opportunity and knowing he
could get away with it.
“Class?” his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
“Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there.”
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she
had placed them.
“It was muddy; I didn’t want to ruin them,” she offered lamely,
feeling more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
“You’re a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something
like you. Only you’re better lookin’.”
“Well, thank you,” Marie replied. “A woman always likes to get
a compliment. And now I guess I’d better get going,” she smiled,
trying to inject a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her
mouth twitched slightly. She avoided looking into his eyes.
“What’s your hurry?” Logan asked, placing his hand on her
upper arm and rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don’t make an issue out of it. You
don’t want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you
would if he were one of you students.
“I really have to go.”
His grip on her arm tightened.
“So if you don’t mind”
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she
could just focus her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning,
spinning, like a circus merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw
banging her back into the hard granite of a tombstone. Instantly,
his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat. The top snapped open.
A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
“Fucking whore!” he screamed. “Fucking, goddamned whore!”
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her
head and off. He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black,
turtle-neck sweater and a short, gray skirt.
“Take’m off, bitch.”
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen
almost to her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the
upper region of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes
slowly focusing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her
mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She
pulled it up and over her head. He took it from her and tossed it
aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need to. Her breasts
were firm and round with pink nipples and areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant
and put it in his pocket. “The rings, too, bitch, and the watch.” He
was going to strip her of everything.
“OK, take the skirt off.”
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her
thighs, letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it.
She bent down and picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look,
she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from
her breasts, down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with
long-nailed fingers reached inside the waistband and scrolled the
panties down. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His
cock was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle
dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin
to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny
pricks the sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist,
slurping sounds. He gazed over her shoulders and down her
arched back to where her rounded buttocks curved out resting on
the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen even more.
He’d made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he’d
carried in his hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more.
He had gotten her drunk, she knew, so she couldn’t run away. But
at least the alcohol had softened the horror of what was happening
to her. Some at least.
“OK, that’s enough,” he said. “Get on your back.”
“Please--”
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip,
squeezing her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a
fraction of an inch from her eye. If she moved her head even
slightly, he would blind her in that eye. It was paradoxical. He was
hurting her so she would want to struggle, to resist. Yet, with the
knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
“Please, I’ll be good,” she gasped quickly, before he could
tighten his grip again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t
hurt me.”
“Well, that’s a little better now.” He watched her lie down on
her back in the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body
and slid from her jiggling breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart.
He stared fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were
tight and smooth. She was staring at his cock.
“Nice isn’t it?” He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin
back over the swollen purple head. “I once killed a woman with it,”
he said laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have
heard her scream. Now that I think about it, she might not have
been a woman after all.”
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from
expressing the full disgust she felt for him.
“Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I’m really cooking, like
right now. “Put your hand around it,” he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one
and a half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
“Course no man’s dick can compete with the fucking babies you
worthless cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it’s
gonna hurt, bitch. I could’ve been a real porn star if I’d wanted.
Donkey Logan, har, har.” He spit out his wad of chewing tobacco
on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey bottle out of the mud and
made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits himself.
“Some women say I get mean when I’m drunk. But you don’t
think I’m mean, do you?”
Marie shook her head.
“That’s good cause I can tell you’re a woman who likes to fuck.”
Marie nodded obediently.
That’s good cause I want us to get along real good.” He moved
the tips of his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt,
stopping to roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll bet that feels good doesn’t it?”
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered
something else Carrie had told her: it’s impossible to rape a
woman, because her body will always betray her and become
aroused even against her will, and despite how much revulsion she
might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just once.
Marie couldn’t accept this, wouldn’t accept this. She fought
against the pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not
cum! She would not give this hairy, smirking, male ape the
satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself
above her. The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of
her cunt. Drops of water dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The
slap of his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol
cracks in the quiet afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the
crack of her ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way
between her teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of
chewing tobacco. She could feel the thick length of his cock
entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips
forward. Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her
wet, warm tightness.
“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “That’s really tight..”
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills
through her. “If you don’t cum, I’ll kill you!”
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would
do no good. She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was
lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She
heard him gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping
furiously. His fists clenched in her hair, pulling and yanking. She
ignored the pain. If she was going to live, she had to cum. Nothing
else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one
goal: to cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and--
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cummed with
Brad. Harder than she had ever cummed in her whole life. She felt
Logan’s cock swell and jerk spasmodically, swelling in her belly.
Hot gushes of cum spurted into her, filling her. Cum oozed out of
her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot and sticky. He kept
filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a bull for several
short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she
did, she knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he
cut with his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was envolved in a car wreck over three
states away. Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the
police found on him was a camera with negatives of a gravesite and
of a naked woman in various erotic poses. On the last frames of the
roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms to the beam, her waist,
thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round, and staring
at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in a
cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said
he knew nothing about them, that he’d been on a drunk for several
weeks since being laid off from his last job. The police held him for
forty-eight hours then let him go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle’s former students was
surfing porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude
pictures. He downloaded every one, and notified some of his
former school chums, so they could get copies, for all of them had
wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END
RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie
Bogle, as the windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she
wanted to have pictures of John Blackthorne’s grave site to show
her students on Monday. That was when she was going to
introduce them to the poetry of that obscure, eighteenth century
American poet. She felt her introduction would be more interesting
to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled.
Her boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked
her to set the day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just
when everything was coming into bloom. When all was fresh and
new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The
most attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett
High. What her students would call a knockout. She usually wore
her straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun to give herself a more
mature, sophisticated look. Without makeup, she could have easily
passed as one of her students. The face was sensitive and
intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery,
she hummed along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and
waved cheerily to the guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today,
she thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and
monuments, streaked with centuries of lichen, were depressing to
look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite
trysting place for lovers. But in the middle of November there
weren’t likely to be many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She
remembered reading about it, once, in the Sunday supplement.
There were trees of all kinds, but mostly oaks and maples. The
newer section of the cemetery was on the other side, where there
were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate the
dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic
and neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and
Corinthian columns competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering
angels to form a virtual maze around her as she drove deeper down
one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the
location of the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many
of the lane signs were so badly faded with age that she couldn’t
read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when,
suddenly, she recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones
throw of the site, at least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after
picking up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs,
with snarling gargoyles on their corners, was an old, red brick path
that descended down a terraced slope. Towering oaks shrouded it,
their bare branches dripping clear, crystal drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the
path cautiously, for the bricks were slippery from being worn
smooth over the ages. She regretted having worn her high-heeled
sandals instead of her joggers, but then it hadn’t been raining when
she’d left the house. At least she’d had enough sense to put on her
gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes
were watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An
unpleasant thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday
she, too, would be lying under her own press of earth. It was a
horrible thought. She tried to think of something more pleasant,
like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom of the surroundings
settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray
tombs, where he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an
occasional, sparing, sip of Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he
thought dolefully, for he didn’t have anymore money. Flat broke,
busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street
and hustle for money. It was too much work. And he wasn’t as
young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat coarsely
hairy belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray
T-shirt. Once when he was younger, his belly had been rock hard,
but that had been a lotta years ago. Too much booze and too much
junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble
of wiry beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit
here in the goddamned cemetery for the rest of his life if...if only he
had enough whiskey to keep a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn’t going to happen in the real world. In the real
fucking world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle,
and most of the time you didn’t get jack shit for it! Fuck it all
anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the
homeless who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they
weren’t bumming from strangers on the streets or eating out of
filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn’t be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light
out of the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she
was lost. The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no
resemblance to the neat, precise layout of the cemetery map. If the
map could be counted on at all, then Blackthorne’s grave had to be
somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet. She would just
have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most
of the ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and
stepped between a row of tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish
up between her toes as she moved to her left. It wasn’t an
unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences
with spear points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or
coffin-shaped sepulchers presided around by a host of simpering
angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids. To Marie, the smiles
seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among them
cautiously, in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over
one shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the
still, misty air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without
realizing it, she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross
made of white marble. Climbing vines had been carved into its
surface. On the base she saw the name, Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera
from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some
of the words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory...
breathless before new seasons,
new joys...before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the
inscription had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the
words had been penned by Blackthorne. That was the most likely
assumption, she guessed. But, if so, why did he think he would be
going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne hadn’t been an evil
man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs.
She took several shots from different angles using various settings,
in case some didn’t turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn’t notice
the stocky man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime
now. He wanted to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely
thought to ask her for money, but now other thoughts were
crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother wouldn’t have
approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought’a be a crime. Even
with the raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure.
She would be sleek and sexy underneath. He wondered if she
shaved her cunt. A lot of women did; he knew from all the porno
filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be one of those
women. She didn’t look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he’d had. He’d always
fantasized fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking
prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply
into the pasty mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the
inside of his thick, hairy thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting
her camera back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only
a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery
handymen, but then she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating
from him, his scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and she realized,
with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
“Oh, you startled me,” Marie said, self-consciously raising her
hand to her throat, trying not to show her disgust at his
rotten-toothed grin.
“Takin’ some pictures are you,” he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her
body. His gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud,
and it made her feel vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a....She tried to push the thought from
her mind.
“Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class.” She tried to
smile.
If you’re friendly with people, they won’t want to...to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or....She remembered what her girlfriend,
Carrie, had once told her: there isn’t a man in the world who
wouldn’t rape a woman given the opportunity and knowing he
could get away with it.
“Class?” his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
“Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there.”
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she
had placed them.
“It was muddy; I didn’t want to ruin them,” she offered lamely,
feeling more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
“You’re a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something
like you. Only you’re better lookin’.”
“Well, thank you,” Marie replied. “A woman always likes to get
a compliment. And now I guess I’d better get going,” she smiled,
trying to inject a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her
mouth twitched slightly. She avoided looking into his eyes.
“What’s your hurry?” Logan asked, placing his hand on her
upper arm and rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don’t make an issue out of it. You
don’t want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you
would if he were one of you students.
“I really have to go.”
His grip on her arm tightened.
“So if you don’t mind”
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she
could just focus her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning,
spinning, like a circus merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw
banging her back into the hard granite of a tombstone. Instantly,
his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat. The top snapped open.
A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
“Fucking whore!” he screamed. “Fucking, goddamned whore!”
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her
head and off. He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black,
turtle-neck sweater and a short, gray skirt.
“Take’m off, bitch.”
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen
almost to her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the
upper region of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes
slowly focusing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her
mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She
pulled it up and over her head. He took it from her and tossed it
aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need to. Her breasts
were firm and round with pink nipples and areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant
and put it in his pocket. “The rings, too, bitch, and the watch.” He
was going to strip her of everything.
“OK, take the skirt off.”
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her
thighs, letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it.
She bent down and picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look,
she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from
her breasts, down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with
long-nailed fingers reached inside the waistband and scrolled the
panties down. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His
cock was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle
dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin
to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny
pricks the sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist,
slurping sounds. He gazed over her shoulders and down her
arched back to where her rounded buttocks curved out resting on
the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen even more.
He’d made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he’d
carried in his hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more.
He had gotten her drunk, she knew, so she couldn’t run away. But
at least the alcohol had softened the horror of what was happening
to her. Some at least.
“OK, that’s enough,” he said. “Get on your back.”
“Please--”
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip,
squeezing her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a
fraction of an inch from her eye. If she moved her head even
slightly, he would blind her in that eye. It was paradoxical. He was
hurting her so she would want to struggle, to resist. Yet, with the
knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
“Please, I’ll be good,” she gasped quickly, before he could
tighten his grip again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t
hurt me.”
“Well, that’s a little better now.” He watched her lie down on
her back in the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body
and slid from her jiggling breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart.
He stared fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were
tight and smooth. She was staring at his cock.
“Nice isn’t it?” He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin
back over the swollen purple head. “I once killed a woman with it,”
he said laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have
heard her scream. Now that I think about it, she might not have
been a woman after all.”
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from
expressing the full disgust she felt for him.
“Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I’m really cooking, like
right now. “Put your hand around it,” he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one
and a half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
“Course no man’s dick can compete with the fucking babies you
worthless cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it’s
gonna hurt, bitch. I could’ve been a real porn star if I’d wanted.
Donkey Logan, har, har.” He spit out his wad of chewing tobacco
on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey bottle out of the mud and
made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits himself.
“Some women say I get mean when I’m drunk. But you don’t
think I’m mean, do you?”
Marie shook her head.
“That’s good cause I can tell you’re a woman who likes to fuck.”
Marie nodded obediently.
That’s good cause I want us to get along real good.” He moved
the tips of his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt,
stopping to roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll bet that feels good doesn’t it?”
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered
something else Carrie had told her: it’s impossible to rape a
woman, because her body will always betray her and become
aroused even against her will, and despite how much revulsion she
might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just once.
Marie couldn’t accept this, wouldn’t accept this. She fought
against the pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not
cum! She would not give this hairy, smirking, male ape the
satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself
above her. The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of
her cunt. Drops of water dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The
slap of his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol
cracks in the quiet afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the
crack of her ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way
between her teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of
chewing tobacco. She could feel the thick length of his cock
entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips
forward. Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her
wet, warm tightness.
“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “That’s really tight..”
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills
through her. “If you don’t cum, I’ll kill you!”
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would
do no good. She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was
lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She
heard him gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping
furiously. His fists clenched in her hair, pulling and yanking. She
ignored the pain. If she was going to live, she had to cum. Nothing
else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one
goal: to cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and--
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cummed with
Brad. Harder than she had ever cummed in her whole life. She felt
Logan’s cock swell and jerk spasmodically, swelling in her belly.
Hot gushes of cum spurted into her, filling her. Cum oozed out of
her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot and sticky. He kept
filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a bull for several
short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she
did, she knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he
cut with his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was envolved in a car wreck over three
states away. Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the
police found on him was a camera with negatives of a gravesite and
of a naked woman in various erotic poses. On the last frames of the
roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms to the beam, her waist,
thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round, and staring
at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in a
cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said
he knew nothing about them, that he’d been on a drunk for several
weeks since being laid off from his last job. The police held him for
forty-eight hours then let him go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle’s former students was
surfing porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude
pictures. He downloaded every one, and notified some of his
former school chums, so they could get copies, for all of them had
wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END
RAPE IN A CEMETERY
By Willailla
Chapter 1
A Rainy Day
What a day to be going to the cemetery, thought pretty Marie
Bogle, as the windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth.
It was a bleak day. A gray sheet obscured the sky.
Rain drizzled. She could have waited until a better day, but she
wanted to have pictures of John Blackthorne’s grave site to show
her students on Monday. That was when she was going to
introduce them to the poetry of that obscure, eighteenth century
American poet. She felt her introduction would be more interesting
to them once they knew Blackthorne had been a local and was
buried in nearby Iron Gate Cemetery.
She glanced at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled.
Her boyfriend, Brad, had proposed to her last night. He had asked
her to set the day. She thought early spring would be nice. Just
when everything was coming into bloom. When all was fresh and
new.
She was twenty-five and into her third year of teaching. The
most attractive and popular female teacher, by far, at Crockett
High. What her students would call a knockout. She usually wore
her straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun to give herself a more
mature, sophisticated look. Without makeup, she could have easily
passed as one of her students. The face was sensitive and
intelligent with blue, sparkling eyes.
As she drove through the iron-gated entrance of the cemetery,
she hummed along to a bouncy, little tune playing on the radio and
waved cheerily to the guard standing in the doorway of the keep.
He must think it strange for someone to visit on a day like today,
she thought, for it certainly was gloomy. The gray tombs and
monuments, streaked with centuries of lichen, were depressing to
look at.
She knew that in the springtime the cemetery became a favorite
trysting place for lovers. But in the middle of November there
weren’t likely to be many about.
The cemetery was huge, almost four thousand acres. She
remembered reading about it, once, in the Sunday supplement.
There were trees of all kinds, but mostly oaks and maples. The
newer section of the cemetery was on the other side, where there
were only bronze plaques sunk into the ground to commemorate the
dearly departed. Here, in the old section, towering obelisks, gothic
and neoclassical monuments, tombstones and huge Ionian and
Corinthian columns competed with sphinxes, cupids, and simpering
angels to form a virtual maze around her as she drove deeper down
one winding lane after another.
She had called the cemetery office the day before to get the
location of the gravesite, and they had faxed her a map. But many
of the lane signs were so badly faded with age that she couldn’t
read them. Some were missing entirely.
She was beginning to think she might never find it, when,
suddenly, she recognized the name of a sign that was within a stones
throw of the site, at least, according to the map.
She pulled her car over to the side of the lane and got out, after
picking up her camera case. Nearby, between two gothic tombs,
with snarling gargoyles on their corners, was an old, red brick path
that descended down a terraced slope. Towering oaks shrouded it,
their bare branches dripping clear, crystal drops from the rain.
Marie popped open her black umbrella and started down the
path cautiously, for the bricks were slippery from being worn
smooth over the ages. She regretted having worn her high-heeled
sandals instead of her joggers, but then it hadn’t been raining when
she’d left the house. At least she’d had enough sense to put on her
gray raincoat, she told herself.
Marie wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she passed close by a
life-sized stone angel, she could not help feeling that its stone eyes
were watching her and that its stone arms were reaching out to her.
The dead were everywhere, and she felt their presence. An
unpleasant thought crossed her mind, for a moment, that someday
she, too, would be lying under her own press of earth. It was a
horrible thought. She tried to think of something more pleasant,
like her wedding in the spring. But the gloom of the surroundings
settled upon her like an ill omen, and she determined to get her
pictures as soon as possible and leave this sullen place.
Chapter 2
The Watcher
Tom Logan sat in the entrance way of one of the numerous, gray
tombs, where he was sheltered from the drizzle, and took an
occasional, sparing, sip of Heaven Hill. It would have to last, he
thought dolefully, for he didn’t have anymore money. Flat broke,
busted, nada zipzap.
He dreaded the thought of having to go back out on the street
and hustle for money. It was too much work. And he wasn’t as
young as he used to be.
He sighed, then farted loudly and stared down at his fat coarsely
hairy belly, where it stuck out from the hem of his dirty, gray
T-shirt. Once when he was younger, his belly had been rock hard,
but that had been a lotta years ago. Too much booze and too much
junk food.
But he no longer cared about his figure. He stroked the stubble
of wiry beard along his jaw. He would be perfectly happy to sit
here in the goddamned cemetery for the rest of his life if...if only he
had enough whiskey to keep a permanent buzz going.
But that wasn’t going to happen in the real world. In the real
fucking world you had to get off your real fucking ass and hustle,
and most of the time you didn’t get jack shit for it! Fuck it all
anyway.
He was just another tomb rat. One of the many dispossessed, the
homeless who hung out in the cemetery for shelter when they
weren’t bumming from strangers on the streets or eating out of
filthy dumpsters.
It was good to have a bottle of whiskey on a rainy day.
A little pussy wouldn’t be bad either.
As he tilted his head back for another, he caught a flash of light
out of the corner of his eye, like the flash that a camera makes.
Chapter 3
The Gravesite
About halfway down the terraced slope, Marie realized that she
was lost. The jumbled mass of old stones and monuments bore no
resemblance to the neat, precise layout of the cemetery map. If the
map could be counted on at all, then Blackthorne’s grave had to be
somewhere off to her left, about a hundred feet. She would just
have to search around until she found it.
Beneath the tall, sheltering oaks, the grass grew sparsely. Most
of the ground was a muddy gruel. She took her sandals off and
stepped between a row of tombstones, feeling the cool mud squish
up between her toes as she moved to her left. It wasn’t an
unpleasant feeling, she realized, almost sensuous, in fact.
Some of the tombstones were surrounded by rusty, iron fences
with spear points. Others were gray slabs laid upon the ground or
coffin-shaped sepulchers presided around by a host of simpering
angels and naked, winged, smiling cupids. To Marie, the smiles
seemed malevolent rather than comforting. She moved among them
cautiously, in the slippery mud, with her camera case slung over
one shoulder and her shoes held in her hand, her breath fogging the
still, misty air. Far off, she heard the faint caw of a crow.
She wandered about for close to an hour, then, almost without
realizing it, she found herself standing before a tall, Latin cross
made of white marble. Climbing vines had been carved into its
surface. On the base she saw the name, Blackthorne.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and began removing her camera
from its case.
There was an inscription on the base, a prayer, it seemed. Some
of the words had been erased by the passage of years:
~where time has no memory...
breathless before new seasons,
new joys...before drowning in
your holy fire, give us one more
day~
The subject was obviously Death, Marie thought. She wished the
inscription had not been so badly faded, and she wondered if the
words had been penned by Blackthorne. That was the most likely
assumption, she guessed. But, if so, why did he think he would be
going to hell? As far as she knew Blackthorne hadn’t been an evil
man.
Since the lighting was so bad, Marie decided to use flash bulbs.
She took several shots from different angles using various settings,
in case some didn’t turn out right.
She was so intent upon what she was doing that she didn’t notice
the stocky man with a scruffy beard and beer belly watching her.
Chapter 4
Prelude to Rape
Tom Logan had been observing the pretty blonde for sometime
now. He wanted to make sure she was alone. At first he had merely
thought to ask her for money, but now other thoughts were
crowding his woozy mind. Thoughts his mother wouldn’t have
approved. Tom Logan grinned.
No woman should look that good. It ought’a be a crime. Even
with the raincoat covering her, Logan could tell she had a figure.
She would be sleek and sexy underneath. He wondered if she
shaved her cunt. A lot of women did; he knew from all the porno
filth he got out of dumpsters. She could easily be one of those
women. She didn’t look cheap, though. Bimbo-ish. She looked
sensitive and intelligent which made her even more sexy.
She reminded him of a school teacher he’d had. He’d always
fantasized fucking her. But this bitch was a whole lot fucking
prettier.
He moved toward her, his muddy work boots squishing deeply
into the pasty mud. He felt his cock stiffening halfway down the
inside of his thick, hairy thigh.
Marie heard the sound of his approach just as she was putting
her camera back in its case. She turned and saw him standing only
a few feet from her.
Her first thought was that he was one of the cemetery
handymen, but then she noted the vile, whiskey smell emanating
from him, his scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and she realized,
with alarm, that he was some kind of derelict.
“Oh, you startled me,” Marie said, self-consciously raising her
hand to her throat, trying not to show her disgust at his
rotten-toothed grin.
“Takin’ some pictures are you,” he said.
She loathed the way his eyes wandered freely up and down her
body. His gaze made her aware of her bare feet sunk in the mud,
and it made her feel vulnerable, naked somehow.
Alone in a cemetery with a....She tried to push the thought from
her mind.
“Yes. I was taking some pictures for my class.” She tried to
smile.
If you’re friendly with people, they won’t want to...to what? she
thought. Hurt you? Or....She remembered what her girlfriend,
Carrie, had once told her: there isn’t a man in the world who
wouldn’t rape a woman given the opportunity and knowing he
could get away with it.
“Class?” his eyes were bleary and confused looking.
“Uh, yes. At Crockett High. I teach there.”
She turned and picked up her shoes off a tombstone where she
had placed them.
“It was muddy; I didn’t want to ruin them,” she offered lamely,
feeling more and more alarmed under his brazen scrutiny.
“You’re a teacher, huh? I once had a teacher looked something
like you. Only you’re better lookin’.”
“Well, thank you,” Marie replied. “A woman always likes to get
a compliment. And now I guess I’d better get going,” she smiled,
trying to inject a note of cheeriness into her voice, the corner of her
mouth twitched slightly. She avoided looking into his eyes.
“What’s your hurry?” Logan asked, placing his hand on her
upper arm and rubbing up and down suggestively.
Ignore it, she told herself. Don’t make an issue out of it. You
don’t want to set him off. Just be firm. Take charge. Just as you
would if he were one of you students.
“I really have to go.”
His grip on her arm tightened.
“So if you don’t mind”
The slap came out of nowhere. Stunning her.
She stumbled backwards slipping in the greasy mud. If she
could just focus her eyes. Everything was spinning, spinning,
spinning, like a circus merry-go-round. A fist glanced off her jaw
banging her back into the hard granite of a tombstone. Instantly,
his hand yank at the collar of her raincoat. The top snapped open.
A fist flew into her stomach, doubling her over.
“Fucking whore!” he screamed. “Fucking, goddamned whore!”
He grabbed the back of her raincoat and jerked it up over her
head and off. He flung it aside.
She was bowed over on her knees before him, wearing a black,
turtle-neck sweater and a short, gray skirt.
“Take’m off, bitch.”
Her knees and toes were buried in the mud. Her skirt had risen
almost to her crotch. A dark, enticing shadow lay between the
upper region of her thighs. She looked up at him, her blue eyes
slowly focusing. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her
mouth.
Slowly her hands moved to the bottom of her sweater. She
pulled it up and over her head. He took it from her and tossed it
aside. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need to. Her breasts
were firm and round with pink nipples and areolae.
He made her give him the gold necklace with its heart pendant
and put it in his pocket. “The rings, too, bitch, and the watch.” He
was going to strip her of everything.
“OK, take the skirt off.”
The skirt had an elastic waist. She stood and pushed it down her
thighs, letting it drop down to her ankles, then stepped out of it.
She bent down and picked it up; giving him a sudden, defiant look,
she tossed it aside.
Now all that remained were a pair of white bikini briefs.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything. Her hands moved from
her breasts, down her belly to her hips, hesitated, then, with
long-nailed fingers reached inside the waistband and scrolled the
panties down. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Logan stared at her cunt and grinned. It was clean shaven.
Chapter 5
The Rape
The palms of her hands were flat against his fat, hairy belly. His
cock was huge and tasted of spoiled tuna fish. Blood and spittle
dribbled from the corners of her mouth and dripped from her chin
to her breasts.
He held the knife to her throat, which was dotted with tiny
pricks the sharp point had made. The air was filled with her moist,
slurping sounds. He gazed over her shoulders and down her
arched back to where her rounded buttocks curved out resting on
the heels of her feet. The sight made his cock stiffen even more.
He’d made her drink heavily from the bottle of whiskey he’d
carried in his hip pocket. Later, he had made her gulp down more.
He had gotten her drunk, she knew, so she couldn’t run away. But
at least the alcohol had softened the horror of what was happening
to her. Some at least.
“OK, that’s enough,” he said. “Get on your back.”
“Please--”
A hand shot out, gripping her slender neck in a vice-like grip,
squeezing her airway shut. He held the point of the knife blade a
fraction of an inch from her eye. If she moved her head even
slightly, he would blind her in that eye. It was paradoxical. He was
hurting her so she would want to struggle, to resist. Yet, with the
knife, preventing her from doing so.
He released his grip slightly.
“Please, I’ll be good,” she gasped quickly, before he could
tighten his grip again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t
hurt me.”
“Well, that’s a little better now.” He watched her lie down on
her back in the mud. Beads of rain glistened on her shapely body
and slid from her jiggling breasts.
He got on his knees between her legs, as she moved them apart.
He stared fascinatedly at the clean slit of her pussy. The lips were
tight and smooth. She was staring at his cock.
“Nice isn’t it?” He stroked it back and forth peeling the foreskin
back over the swollen purple head. “I once killed a woman with it,”
he said laughing. Course she was awfully small. You should have
heard her scream. Now that I think about it, she might not have
been a woman after all.”
Marie felt bile rise in her throat. Only her terror kept her from
expressing the full disgust she felt for him.
“Twelve inches, sometimes thirteen when I’m really cooking, like
right now. “Put your hand around it,” he said.
She did as he ordered. It was so thick that there was easily one
and a half inches separating the tips of her fingers.
“Course no man’s dick can compete with the fucking babies you
worthless cunts spew out. But I guarantee when I put it in you, it’s
gonna hurt, bitch. I could’ve been a real porn star if I’d wanted.
Donkey Logan, har, har.” He spit out his wad of chewing tobacco
on her belly. Then picked up the whiskey bottle out of the mud and
made her drink some more, taking several heavy hits himself.
“Some women say I get mean when I’m drunk. But you don’t
think I’m mean, do you?”
Marie shook her head.
“That’s good cause I can tell you’re a woman who likes to fuck.”
Marie nodded obediently.
That’s good cause I want us to get along real good.” He moved
the tips of his fingers slowly up and down the lips of her cunt,
stopping to roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’ll bet that feels good doesn’t it?”
In fact it did feel good, despite her revulsion. She remembered
something else Carrie had told her: it’s impossible to rape a
woman, because her body will always betray her and become
aroused even against her will, and despite how much revulsion she
might feel, her body will force her to cum--and not just once.
Marie couldn’t accept this, wouldn’t accept this. She fought
against the pleasurable sensations building in her. She would not
cum! She would not give this hairy, smirking, male ape the
satisfaction of seeing her cum!
She unsquinted her eyes suddenly. He had positioned himself
above her. The head of his cock was pressing into the entrance of
her cunt. Drops of water dripped from his hair onto her face.
It did hurt! She screamed. Her howls were lost in the mist. The
slap of his hand against her soft, firm flesh resounded like pistol
cracks in the quiet afternoon.
She grabbed handfuls of mud and squeezed. Mud oozed into the
crack of her ass. Her hair became matted with a chocolate paste.
His mouth closed down upon hers. His tongue forced its way
between her teeth and filled her. She gagged on the taste of
chewing tobacco. She could feel the thick length of his cock
entering her. Slowly.
He grunted, snorting through his nostrils, thrusting his hips
forward. Jerking, twisting, probing deeper and deeper into her
wet, warm tightness.
“Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “That’s really tight..”
Then he whispered something in her ear which sent chills
through her. “If you don’t cum, I’ll kill you!”
He had outsmarted her. He had defeated her. Resistance would
do no good. She sighed, giving up to the will of her body. She was
lost.
His cock filled her, impaling her with its turgid thickness.
She began moving her hips in an upward, rotating motion. She
heard him gasp. Soon he was pounding into her, humping
furiously. His fists clenched in her hair, pulling and yanking. She
ignored the pain. If she was going to live, she had to cum. Nothing
else mattered.
She closed her mind to every distraction, focusing on that one
goal: to cum and live! to cum and live! to cum and--
Then she was cuming, harder than she had ever cummed with
Brad. Harder than she had ever cummed in her whole life. She felt
Logan’s cock swell and jerk spasmodically, swelling in her belly.
Hot gushes of cum spurted into her, filling her. Cum oozed out of
her cunt and trickled down to her asshole, hot and sticky. He kept
filling her, groaning loudly, thrusting into her like a bull for several
short burst, then suddenly collapsed on top of her. His hands
loosened her hair. His body became lax.
His dead weight crushed her, but she dared not move, for if she
did, she knew she would cum again.
Chapter 6
He tied her to the marble cross with strips of her clothes that he
cut with his knife, shoved her panties in her mouth and gagged her.
Several days later he was envolved in a car wreck over three
states away. Nothing of the jewelry or money was left. All the
police found on him was a camera with negatives of a gravesite and
of a naked woman in various erotic poses. On the last frames of the
roll, the woman was tied to a cross, her arms to the beam, her waist,
thighs and ankles to the up right. Her eyes were round, and staring
at the camera. It could be seen that the pictures had been taken in a
cemetery somewhere.
When questioned about the pictures, the man, Tom Logan, said
he knew nothing about them, that he’d been on a drunk for several
weeks since being laid off from his last job. The police held him for
forty-eight hours then let him go.
Epilogue
Thirty-five years later, one of Marie Bogle’s former students was
surfing porn sites on the net, when he came across her nude
pictures. He downloaded every one, and notified some of his
former school chums, so they could get copies, for all of them had
wanted to fuck the pretty school teacher.
THE END