This story features graphic, detailed acts of a sexual nature, including themes of violence, humiliation and rape. If this does not appeal to your tastes, please, don't read it. I don't want to offend you. Please do not copy or distribute this material without direct permission of the author: me.

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Another Approach

Three months after his release, Michael sat in his car, in the pouring rain, watching the entrance of the neon-lit nightclub from the parking lot. The pulsing music had come to an abrupt halt a quarter of an hour ago, and the drunken punters had been trickling out ever since, swaggering off down the street towards the various fast food outlets which stayed open specifically for this moment. Michael watched it all with open contempt, occasionally switching on his window wipers when the rain obsured his view.

It represented humanity at a serious low to Michael. Men, drunk as skunks, pissing their nights away. Women, dressed like hookers, doing much the same. Why? All because, whether they admitted it to themselves or not, they wanted to get laid. All this pathetic expense over a carnal desire. But Michael would not be led astray; no, he'd given up the nightclub lifestyle a few months ago. Too many expensive rejections. Besides, he had a better way of getting his end away.

She'd be out soon. Her shift usually ended about half an hour after close, assuming she wasn't on clean-up duty. Michael hoped she wasn't, because he didn't want to spend another hour sitting hunched in his car, his body pumped so full of nervous adrenaline that he wanted to puke. He wanted to do this now. Plus, he didn't think he could stand listening to any more of the early-morning radio channels on his car's stereo.

He'd known about her for a while. First time he met her, she'd served him a drink. Of course, if she remembered him at all, it was the time he asked her out several weeks after their first encounter, when she'd politely told him she wasn't interested. Well, fuck her interest. Michael was sick of the dance, sick of the rules and regulations, sick of the conformity. He wanted to fuck her, and he was going to fuck her. He knew where she lived, he knew her route home, he knew she'd take a shortcut through a park; he'd been watching her for a while, after all. Michael knew he could do it. It was only a matter of time now.

He glanced at the dashboard. The digital clock read 03:24 in green numbers. Michael sighed, and rapped his hands on the steering wheel impatiently. He reached across the passenger's seat to the glove compartment, tugging it open. He reached in and pulled out a knife, long and sharp, with a wooden handle. It was a carving knife, taken from his own kitchen. It'd do. There was a balaclava in there, too. It was cliche, sure, but fuck it: it was cliche for a good reason.

At 03:27, she left the nightclub. Michael practically fell over himself clambering out of his car, desperate not to lose his opportunity. She walked quickly, did his prey. The night always made her nervous, especially with so many rowdy, drunken men prowling the street. She knew she was pretty, even in her standard uniform, which consisted of a rather worn black t-shirt emblazoned with the club's logo and her black work trousers which hugged her tight around the hips.

Michael stashed the knife in his overcoat and stalked her through the rain, avoiding the streetlights, keeping to the shadows. She always shyed away from the crowds of people queueing outside the chip shops and kebab shops, preferring the quieter routes. Perhaps not very bright, this girl. But that just made things easier. She walked slowly, probably exhausted after a hectic friday night. She had earphones in her ears, focusing on the sound of her music. She wasn't even going to hear him coming.

Michael struck when she cut through the park, tearing after her across the damp grass, safe in the near-absolute darkness of the night. There were no streetlights in this park; the glow of the streets nearby, like lights on the horizon, were all that guided the girl to her home from here. She made it past a kids' swing park before Michael pounced, throwing his entire body weight at her back, knocking them both to the ground. Her earphones fell out of her ears and she grunted as she connected with the soft, wet earth, the wind knocked out of her. Michael used the opportunity to turn her over onto her back and clamp his hand down over her mouth. With his other hand, he held the knife up to her eye so she saw it clearly. It shone with a sick, pale light under the moon. She started to scream through his hand, so he tightened his hold and brought the knife-point closer to her eye.

"Quiet," he told her. His eyes were wild. "Or I'll cut you."

She fell silent instantly. Michael straddled her, pinning her arms with his knees, squatting on her perky teenage breasts. He figured he had her full attention, at long last.

"If you scream, I'm going to cut you, so keep your voice down," Michael told her. His voice sounded smooth and cold. He was relieved, because his heart was going a mile a minute, and his knife hand kept twitching; something the girl had certainly noticed. Her watery eyes were locked on that lethal blade's point. Mascara tears were running.

"Remember me?" Michael asked, but she just looked at him dumbly, clearly in shock, likely terrified. "Nah, I didn't think so. Let's just say I'm the result of every guy you gave that cute, shy smile to when you flirted over the bar."

Michael pulled at the hem of her t-shirt, attacking it suddenly with the knife. The girl squealed, whimpering when the fabric ripped, but she kept her voice down, scared to defy the one order he'd given her. So far. Michael tore her top to shreds with the knife, pawing at her breasts through the remains of her clothes, through her bra, his lust obvious.

"I'm what happens when you lead boys astray," Michael breathed, his voice thick with desire. Could she feel his dick through his pants yet?

"Please," she begged. Her voice was small and delicate, just like the rest of her. "Don't hurt me."

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm not going to hurt you. Girl like you; this shit's exactly what you want anyway."

"Money," she gasped, struggling in futility as he tore her bra from her chest and tossed it over her shoulders, freeing her pert, milky tits. He groped at her chest, pinching and squeezing her nipples, grinning like a maniac. "I have money... tips... an iPod... please!"

"Know how you got those tips, whore," Michael said snidely. "All that fucking posing behind the bar, eh?" He slapped one of her breasts, hard, and she cried out, so he slapped it again and warned her to keep quiet or 'bad things would happen'.

"Tell me, what's your name? I've been aching to put a name to your face for a while now."

"Rebecca," she said, sobbing the name out.

"Rebecca. Rebecca. Becky. Becks," Michael tried out the variations. "I think 'slut' suits you better, don't you? Our names should befit us, I think. You can be Slut, and I'll be Mister Rapist. We're going to have a little roleplay, Becky!"

"Please, just let me go..." Rebecca whined, but Michael held her steady.

"No," he said, evenly. "No, slut. Not 'til you live up to your name. Not 'til you give me what all those shy looks and sweet words have promised. I didn't spend all that money on fucking alcohol to be turned down!"

"You're crazy!" Rebecca practically shrieked, which earned her a violent smack to the face. It knocked her senseless for a moment, her head spinning. Her lip seemed to swell up instantly. She could taste blood in her mouth. It was hot and metallic.

"Certifiably so, slut. At least that's what the doctors tell me. You don't get a certificate for that, though," Michael said, sounding almost sad. "They just lock you up for a while until you're 'no longer a danger to society'. Guess they made a bit of a boo-boo letting me out. Too bad for you!"

Rebecca just looked at him, bewildered and frightened. Michael leant back and let one grubby hand slide up her thigh until it rested between her legs, where he massaged her crotch lewdly. Rebecca squirmed, and more tears slipped down her cheeks.

Michael moved suddenly, twisting round on her helpless, gorgeous body, and forced himself upon her, pressing his lips against hers, worming his tongue against her clenched teeth. He sucked on her lips, swallowing her sweet blood, his body crushing hers down into the soaking, freezing grass. He broke free of the kiss and laughed, trailing his knife down her cheek, down her neck and over one breast, pausing to play with a nipple until it bled.

"Enough foreplay!" Michael said suddenly. "It's time we made love, slut. Do you even understand that concept, you fucking whore?" He eased off her torso and pointed the knife at her seriously. "Now, you're going to get on your hands and knees, hike down your trousers and cute little panties, and beg me to fuck you like the hot little slut you are. I prefer consensual sex."

Slowly, moaning, Rebecca turned over in the grass, her tits pressing into the biting cold ground. She was wet all over and shivering. Her jaw ached. Her dark, brown locks clung to her face in wet bangs. Her bottom lip was puffy and red. She felt abused, hurt, helpless, humiliated and so weak it was difficult to move. It was as if all her energy had just upped and abandoned her. All she felt was fear and dread. Her face burning with humiliation, she slowly loosened her belt and slid her trousers down around her thighs, pulling her panties with them, exposing her sex to this stranger, this lunatic.

"Please," she heard herself talking, but it was if someone else was saying the words. She couldn't possibly be asking this madman to fuck her, surely? "Please, fuck me! I'm begging you!"

"Mmm," Michael moaned, unzipping his pants and introducing her pussy to his cock. They'd never met before, but his dick had sure as hell thought about being here an awful lot. It was ecstacy for Michael, feeling her flinch as he entered her, knowing she'd remember this moment for the rest of her life. No matter what she did, no matter where she went, she still got fucked in a park one night after work, and she barely even tried to stop her assailant. She'd begged him to rape her, in fact. That part'd hurt a lot in the morning. That part especially.

He fucked her hard and he fucked her fast, humping her like a rabbit, giggling to himself, jeering at her. Rebecca heard names that she thought she'd never be called. He spanked her ass so hard she cried out. He pulled her hair back hard, yanking her head 'til she faced the sky just so he could spit in her face. Eventually, after what seemed like forever, his balls tightened and she felt his dick twitching inside her, spewing its vile load into her tight cunt.

"Nooo," Rebecca moaned weakly. Michael pushed her back down into the grass, triumphant.

"Fucked ya, whore!" He whooped, jubilant, waving the knife around. "But we aren't done yet..."

His dick in his hand, he crouched down and turned her over, almost gently, and knelt down over her face again. "I want you to lick it clean. Then I'll let you go. Promise. Rapist's honour," and he gave the boy scout's sign.

Rebecca stared at his fat, limp dick for a long time. Then, slowly, tentatively, she stuck her tongue out and started lapping at his prick, licking up her own juices, tasting his cum. Michael girnned and let her careful, gentle tongue do its work. He knelt down a little more, and she let him put his dick in her mouth, enjoying her dutiful suckling until he was satisfied that he was clean.

He stood up, stashed his dick and zipped his pants back up. Rebecca lay in the grass, her pussy raw and aching, her throat convulsing at the thought of having just sucked her rapist's cock of their mess. She felt sick.

"I'll be around, slut," Michael warned her. "You'd better behave yourself."

Laughing, he disappeared into the night, running back in the direction he came, leaving the poor girl to have a good cry in the dark until she found the energy to walk home, hugging her shredded t-shirt to her naked breasts as she went.