Please note: this story contains graphic and disturbing explicit content.
An Eye for an Eye
Ducking down into the shadows, she watched intently as her quarry moved clumsily from the door of the bar to his car.
Tonight was the night.
She had stalked him for weeks now, each day donning a black turtleneck and slacks and slipping through the shadows like a modern-day ninja.
She had come to feel agile, lithe, and potent. It was almost a shame that this fantasy life that she had adopted, an approximation of that of some acrobatic cat burglar or sexy super heroine, had to finally come to an end.
Although she was sure that he was too drunk to notice her, she remained cautious, following a safe distance behind his weaving car.
When she pulled up at his house, a location she had survielled for hours on end over the past few weeks, he was still fumbling with his keys.
Without hesitation, she pulled up to the curb, cut off the engine, and emerged from her car.
She approached with a swagger of confidence.
He didn't recognize her. That was hardly surprising.
She batted her eyelashes at him. It was that easy. The door swung open, and he eagerly invited her in, happily bewildered, baffled by his own good luck and what he could only assume was his personal charm.
His intoxication had ensured that she had the upper hand. But, now that she had him tied up, she would wait for him to regain his sobriety. She wanted him to have the full experience, and to remember every second of it.
Seven years ago, when they were both in college, they had gone out on a single date together, and he had raped her. Seven years. The time necessary for the human body to replace every one of its cells. She was an entirely new person now. Every cell had regenerated stronger -- like the bionic version of who she had been. She was made of steel now, impervious. She was the aggressor.
Her prey had been successfully captured; he was hopelessly ensnared, struggling futilely, impotently.
She smirked at him openly as he contorted helplessly against his bonds.
She was going to enjoy their second date.
She cut his pants and boxers off of him with kitchen shears, exposing the pale, vulnerable flesh of his lower body.
He was confused. Was this a home invasion? Or was this just some hardcore S&M scenario?
He wracked his clouded brain for a clue. How had they met again? Had a safe word passed between them? Had he given her some indication that he wanted to be tied up?
Her hands were cold. Her fingers roughly clasped his spongy member, stretching it out as far as it would go; when she released, it instinctively shrunk from her, trying to hide from the stimulation.
"That hurts." he tried to say through the rag stuffed in his mouth.
"What's that?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't like that?"
He nodded his head emphatically. He was feeling extremely uncomfortable and wanted this situation to end as soon as possible.
"Good." she said, flicking his balls.
"Mmmphh." he complained.
"It hurt a lot more than that when you raped me." she said.
His eyes grew wide.
"I was torn up down there for a long time. It was agony every time I had to urinate."
Terror was creeping into his face with the slow realization that, although the victim here, he was actually the guilty party. His memories of college were mostly a blur of frat parties, but he remembered a couple of times that he had let things get a bit out of hand. There had been a few times he had gotten laid when the girl wasn't entirely willing. In retrospect, he wasn't proud of those incidents, but he had dismissed them. But now one of those indiscretions was apparently coming back to haunt him.
"Call me a vigilante." she said. "I'm here to deliver retribution. Don't worry, it shouldn't hurt for more than a week or so."
She clasped his penis in her hand and squeezed as tightly as she could, smiling as he squirmed, areas of his member bulging unnaturally, like silly putty, out from her clenched fist.
Then she released him and lifted her skirt, exposing her genitals to him. She was not wearing undergarments.
He arched an eyebrow in confusion. Was she really planning to rebuke him with sex? That didn't seem like much of a punishment to him. He wanted to laugh in spite of his physical discomfort.
She had planned the revenge rape in her mind for years now. She knew first-hand that he was guilty, and now she would render her verdict against him. She intended to brutalize him just as he had brutalized her. It was justice, an eye for an eye. How was it any different from sentencing a murderer to death? She was his electric chair, his lethal injection.
Flinging over the chair to which she had tied him, it fell to the floor heavily, his head bouncing against the living room floor as it hit.
He let out a muffled cry of alarm and pain.
"Oh, stop your whimpering." she said. Then she withdrew a handgun from her purse.
Tears were involuntarily beginning to stream from his eyes.
She placed the gun to his head and told him "I'm going to remove your gag. If you scream or even speak, I'll kill you. Do you understand?"
Pitifully, he nodded.
She pulled the rag from his mouth and tossed it aside.
The gun still pressed to his temple, she said "I want you to eat me. Eat me, and eat me good. You'd better make me cum."
Then she climbed over him, straddling his face. With one hand, she shoved his face into her pussy while she held the gun to his head with the other hand.
This was the sex that he deserved -- sex as humiliation. She listened to him choke and splutter as he licked, sucked, and penetrated her with his tongue.
It had nothing to do with desire. It was about power. Control. Revenge. She felt her vagina shudder as she came, the orgasm setting off a series of involuntary contractions that ran through her nether regions.
She pushed his face further into her, willing him to drink her juices, the abundance of wetness produced by her orgasm. A cold snicker caught in her throat as she listened to him gag, suffocating on her, unable to breathe.
She loosened her grip, pushing his face back. He inhaled deeply, audibly sucking in air.
She lifted herself off of his face and then moved to his genitals, raking her nails coarsely over the soft flesh of his thighs, then digging a fingernail directly into his urethra.
He gasped, cutting short a scream as he remembered the gun she still held upon him.
"Somehow, I just don't think you're going to get hard for me." she said, pulling at his flaccid member. "That's okay. These things happen."
"So I guess I'll just give you a little hand job and call it a day."
She withdrew a square of sandpaper from her purse and proceeded to use it as an abrasive masturbatory tube. He stifled his screams as best he could as all of the skin was scraped from his genitals.
After he passed out, she untied him and left. She was not worried that he would find her. She was sure that he didn't even remember her name.
Her life had been building to this crescendo for a long time. But now that she had finally accomplished her goal, she felt strangely empty and deflated. It was over, and she no longer had a goal toward which to work. Moreover, she no longer felt sure that justice had been done.
She had convinced herself that brutality could be justified in retaliation. But it hadn't made it any less ugly. Now that it was done and could not be taken back, a terrible flickering of realization was growing in her mind -- that she had not actually empowered herself, but only revealed herself as tragically, irrevocably damaged.