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From: (G.M. Torrey)
Subject: "Surprise Visit" (rape, mystery). Trying again
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The following story is a work of fiction intended only to be read by
adults, for their entertainment. If you are offended by stories
containing sexual matter, including rape, do not read this. The story
is copyrighted by the author. Republication without permission of the
author is strictly prohibited. The author does not condone nor propose
any such behavior as this. 

Surprise Visit
By G.M. Torrey
(Copyright 1998 by G.M. Torrey, a pseudonym)

	Ten years of total frustration. That's what Shirley Sharpe had
meant to me.
	Not that it was a total loss, but it certainly had not worked
out to original expectations. Just like a lot of hopes turn out.
	There are all kinds of women. The kind that might be
attractive, but don't turn you on. The kind that aren't any models,
but because of a certain trait – intelligence, humor or just the
messages you get – turns your penis rock hard.
	Shirley fit the latter. And unlike any woman I ever knew, I
wanted to make love to her. Show her how special she was. After all,
lovemaking is supposed to be special. If it isn't, it's just plain old
sex. Even Webster's can't do better than that definition.
	I met Shirley through work. And she was a come on. 
	Or maybe I just misinterpreted the messages. That's something
about women. They can send those messages flying.
	And once the desired effect is obtained, leave you with
nothing except a burning desire and the knowledge that you'll never,
in a month of Sundays, get any relief. That is, any relief that isn't
in your own imagination and left up to your own ingenuity, whether it
be in the shower or on a mattress, perhaps enhanced by a bottle of
	And a hint here and there that somebody else – you never know
who, but you know he exists – is enjoying what you want, but can't
	Usually, the guy moves on. Sometimes he can wave his hand,
laugh about it and go about his business. Sometimes he holds a grudge,
an unpleasant memory that either dissipates with time or haunts him
	Sometimes, he gets angry about it. More than one man has
fantasized about the woman, about how he would force her to undress,
spread her legs wide apart – and perhaps making it her last
 	Now, anger is when a guy can get himself into trouble real
quickly. Especially when fantasy won't take care of it. All over the
country, lots of taxpayer dollars are spent to maintain penitentiaries
to house those who don't realize that the reality means the woman will
have the final say.
	And for those who silence their victims outside of fantasy,
there are electric chairs, gas chambers and tables where lethal
injections are performed to the great glee of the public.
Life isn't fair, is it?
	Shirley angered me for sure. But knowing about anger, I
channeled it into creativity. I'm a patient guy. That's one thing
Shirley never realized when I got the ''let's be friends'' line.
	OK, let's be friends. And funny thing, we turned out to have a
great friendship.
	But I didn't forget. I loved her. And I was going to show her
that love, one way or another.
	Shirley was a vivid brunette, in her early 30s, when I met
her, taken to trim her hair short at times and allow it to grow into
long curls at others. Her breasts were medium-sized but through a
tight blouse, either turned up or were well-supported to give that
effect. I pictured her pubic region as rich and full. Shaving likely
would have to be preceded by a trimming with scissors and a long
soaking with thick, warm lather.
	I thought of that often as we chatted over lunch on numerous
occasions, grabbed an after-work drink together and later, after she
moved to a city 200 miles away, by telephone. Unlike most women, she
could carry on an intelligent conversation about any topic, including
the mutual sports teams we rooted for and pouted over when they lost.
	But she always insisted, friendship was best. Sex would ruin
	She had been married twice. I had been married once. Still,
she preferred, as I found out through our intimate, trusting
conversations, that she considered herself as being burned badly by a
married man who was going to get a divorce just anytime now.
	Maybe she wasn't quite as intelligent as I thought. But I held
off. If sex could ruin anything, rape certainly would.
	A decade passed. I saw Shirley maybe twice a year when
business brought her to my town and vice versa. In a lot of ways, we
even got closer through e-mail. 
	Distance toned down the erections and the fantasies. But when
I saw her again, I would always keep one eye floating around her
house, looking for key signs, while trying to keep down the erection
that would begin building in my pants as soon as she gave me a firm,
friendly hug at the front door.
	No pictures of boyfriends. Just family, including a daughter,
Kris, who lived with her father and her stepmother. One evening, after
telling me to enjoy TV while she went to the store for a bottle of
wine, I quickly cased the house. 
	Drawers, closest and the area under the chairs revealed no
pictures, no condoms, no signs of any sexual activity. Maybe in her
early 40s now, she had simply sworn off. But her bathroom contained a
shower douche and enema kit, complete with the proper nozzles and
hoses. I made a mental note of that. It could come in handy.
	She returned, and of course, I told her all about Seinfeld, as
she popped open the red wine (she always knew my favorite) and
returned with two glasses.
	''A toast to the best friend I have,'' she said, raising the
	Our glasses touched as I returned the gesture.
	''Nothing to say?'' she asked.
	''Perhaps,'' I said. ''Would you consider a toast to the idea
of a major extension of our friendship? Just the idea?''
	She studied me curiously for a moment. ''We've had this
discussion before. We're both better off the way it is. Like I told
you, I've never known sex to improve much of anything.''
	''How about trying lovemaking?'' I said. ''You know, there is
quite a difference there. And I do love you. You know it.''
	She nodded. ''And I love you. But I want to keep it this way.
It's important. After all, I thought Ken…'
	She stopped suddenly. I tried not to notice. It was the first
time the guy had a name.
	It was difficult to smile and nod with the semen burning my
balls and beginning to inch its way up the shank, but I managed.
Convincingly enough to draw a wide smile of agreement from her.
	I raised my glass again. ''A toast to best, and probably
smartest friend, I ever had. Although somewhat regrettably.''
	She laughed. We polished off the wine, chatting about
everything with a quarter of our attention on the television, until I
departed for my motel. Not until, though, she had elicited a promise
from me to stay in touch always and visit.
	I put myself to sleep that night with the most-vivid fantasy I
had ever had of her, half love-making and half rape. The maid, I'm
sure, didn't enjoy changing the sheets after I left.
	On the way home the next morning, my crotch still burning, I
thought of Shirley and the fantasy. The only way to sex would be rape.
And I decided the deed would be performed within the next year.
	The image of Shirley, with no choice, slowly undressing, then
tearfully submitting was broken by a monument on the left side of the
highway, the Rollings State Prison. A throwback to the previous
century with its faded red brick walls and gun turrets that hid the
rows of jammed cell blocks, I knew that's where Shirley would have me
sent for years to come, if not life, if I carried through my plan.
	By the time I returned home, common sense had set in. But
another night of Shirley-type dreams convinced me there had to be a
way around that fate.
	There was only one – and the stakes were too high to imagine.
In the corner of Rollings was a small green building with its own
block that housed about 200 prisoners. They were all waiting for the
same fate.
	A seat in the yellow electric chair known as "Old Sparky." 
	To take on Shirley would be to take on Old Sparky. I would
have to be perfect.
	And the name that had slipped out – Ken – would help make it
that way.
	It would take only take a day off from the job to be perfect.
I chose a Thursday after giving Shirley a call – on the unlimited
outgoing WATS line at work that I always used – on Tuesday and finding
out that her week, like mine, was more routine boredom at work.
	Thursday night was her favorite, and only, TV viewing night.
She would be at home. Alone, hopefully. If she wasn't, the situation
could be gauged then.
	I told no one of my intentions for the day. I could leave in
the early afternoon and be there in plenty of time. Easy trip home
afterwards. Enough cash to take care of gasoline without using credit
cards and their telltale receipts. A double check of the tires, the
oil and coolants.  
	After that I assembled a package including a roll of duct
tape, a stylish red ball gag that I had picked up several months
before at a bondage specialty shop out of town, two fresh disposable
razors and a travel-size can of shaving cream. In case her patch was
as thick as I had imagined, I also included a pair of small trimming
scissors. Remembering this would not be voluntary, I added a small
tube of petroleum jelly.
	And of course, latex gloves, three pairs of them, finished the
package except for one last item that gave me pause: an old, but shiny
and sharp switchblade knife whose origin I could not even recall.
Being this would not be voluntary, Shirley would need something to
push her into submission. 
	But I had to give myself another option for when it was all
over. Two plastic bags, head-sized. And for good measure, I added a
bottle of tranquilizers I used on occasion. Perhaps I could slip a
couple in a drink. Or maybe under the duress of the blade, Shirley
would be more than glad to take them voluntarily.
	I put them all in a plastic bag, which I concealed in the
trunk of my car. Everything was in readiness. I gave myself 24 hours
to back out.
	When I drove by the Rollings State Prison without a blink, my
cock burning with anticipation, I knew that I would not turn around. I
entered the city about 5:30, as the wintertime darkness enshrouded the
city, an hour after Shirley got off work. I stopped on the side of the
road only briefly to get the sack, which I stuffed in the pocket of a
huge overcoat. I placed the switchblade in the right pocket of my
	From the main highway, I made the trip I knew well. Two stop
signs, a right at the signal, three more blocks and another right.
Three houses down on the left.
	Shirley's car was in the driveway. I pulled up in front and
took a deep breath.
	Proceeding as if there wasn't a thing out of the ordinary, I
walked to the front door and rang the bell. 
	''Who is it?'' Shirley's voice called out.
	''Guess who,'' I said back. Let any nosy neighbors ID me back.
	The door swung open. Shirley smiled broadly. ''What are you
doing here?''
	She was still wearing what appeared to be at least part of her
work garments, a semi-tight blue blouse and a pair of dark slacks. She
had changed her hair; it was short, styled and curled and complimented
her face perfectly. It sent a shudder through my midsection.
	''Home office sent me to work on a problem this afternoon.
Thought I'd just drop by and say hi.''
	''Well, you come in here,'' she said, standing aside.
	''Not disturbing anything am I?''
	''Other than for Thursday TV, not a thing.''
	''Uh-oh. Guess I'd better go,'' I said.
	''In your case, I will make an exception. That is, if you like
the same things I like on Thursday night.''
	''I can live with it,'' I said with a laugh so natural that it
sent a chill down my spine.
	I was in. But that was only the first step and easiest step. I
had to be perfect.
	''Shirley,'' I said with one eye on the overcoat, which I had
cast on a nearby chair. 
	She was engrossed with the TV program. ''After the show,
dear,'' she laughed.
	Seinfeld ended. ''Now you have exactly one minute to either
chat or I could go get us a couple of drinks.''
	''Bourbon and soda,'' I said. 
	''Sounds good. I'll make two of them.''
	I fingered the knife as she returned. ''Let me show you a new
program on my computer,'' Shirley said. 
	''What about TV?''
	''Next one's a rerun.''
	She went over to the corner where her home PC was stashed.
''Good grief, I left my server on. I was about to e-mail Kris when you
surprised me.''
	''Probably signed off by now.''
	''Not this one,'' she said, turning on the screen. ''Yeah,
it's still on. Never mind, I need to finish a note to her later.''
	''Let's watch TV,'' I said, walking over and taking her hand.
She looked up and smiled and followed me, still not turning off the
	We sat down on the couch. I reached over and kissed her on the
cheek. She returned the gesture.
	''What's on your mind, sailor?'' she said with a slight smile.
	''Shirley, I want to be your lover. I promise you, it will be
the last time I will ever ask. We're both getting older and there's
still time…''
	Her eyes rolled up to the heavens. ''Yes, and that's why we
should leave it the way it is. More than 10 years is too long to screw
everything up in the sack. I want you just as you are. Can't you
understand that?''
	I nodded as my hand slipped into my pocket. ''I do. And I
promise never to ask to be your lover again.''
	She smiled. ''Now, since that's settled…'
	With a quick motion I pulled out the blade and flipped it open
in front of her face. Her mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Her
eyes filled with bewilderment, then total realization.
	''You've made a choice, Shirley,'' I said. ''A long time ago I
decided I would be your lover or your rapist. I am now your rapist.''
	''But…'' The words hung in her throat.
	I shook my head. ''No turning back now, Shirley. You need to
	''Strip?'' she asked as if the word had not registered.
	''Everything, Shirley. Let's go to your bedroom. And I will
use this.'' I waved the blade slightly.
	''Why?'' she finally managed, wide-eyed.
	''Because, as I told you Shirley, I am going to rape you.''
	I grabbed the overcoat full of items as we walked slowly to
the bedroom. I kept the knife within Shirley's eyesight. Shock had
overtaken her. Her bedroom, neatly kept, was dominated by a queen-size
bed that was about to become her rape rack.
	She turned and faced me. ''Please don't do this. Just turn
around and leave. Don't ever call me again. I'll forget about this and
	I shook my head. ''Not a chance,'' I said softly. ''We've
crossed the threshold. Now, take off your blouse.''
	The first tears appeared as she slowly undid the top button
and hesitantly moved to the others, each with a slight flick of my
hand holding the knife. My penis, which had been twitching since my
arrival, now began to slowly expand. A tight band formed around my
stomach as she reluctantly dropped the blouse to the carpet, exposing
a white bra that fully contained her breasts.
	''You're going to prison,'' Shirley said with a mixture of
fright and contempt.
	''I don't think so, Shirley,'' I said. ''You're going to enjoy
this so much that you're going to invite me back.'' I knew better, but
best to let her believe that my thought process was more than a bit
screwed up.
	''Don't bet on it,'' she said.
	''In more than 10 years, dear, I have figured out that you
want it as much as I do. Just consider this a little push to get
things to where they ought to be. Now, take off your slacks. Leave the
belt inside. Just undo it.''
	Shirley looked down as if she had just been denied a potential
defense weapon. Yes, I was definitely on track. 
	The belt came loose and hung open.
	''Kick off your shoes. To the corners. If one comes this way…'
	She quickly flicked off both shoes away from me. Alternately,
she tried to stare a hole through me and looked away.
	''Now get out of your slacks.''
	Gingerly, she removed them, one hand making sure that her
white panties stayed in place. After the slacks were on the floor in a
pile beside her, she spoke again.
	''This is your last chance to stay out of prison. Please. For
both of us. Just turn around and leave. I don't want you there. But if
you go through with this, I'll do anything it takes to put you
	''Like anyone will believe you?'' I said with a taunt.
''Shirley, let me make this very plain. You are going to do exactly as
you are told. Now, turn around.''
	After a moment of hesitation, she did. My cock hardened
further with the view of her bra clasp. 
	''Now, slowly. Undo your bra,'' I said.
	Shaking hands came behind her, reached up and unclasped the
garment. The straps fell to the sides, revealing a nice, curved back
that extended down to her panties.
	''Take off your bra, Shirley,'' I said. 
	After a moment of hesitation, the straps slowly slid off her
shoulders and down her arms as if she was giving me a few seconds to
reconsider. All it did was turn me on even more.
	''On the ground,'' I ordered. The bra fell in front of her
bare feet. ``Turn around. Arms at your sides.''
	More hesitation before she faced me heated me further. Her
eyes were closed tightly as I viewed her bare breasts for the first
time. Not overly large, but round and full with large brownish nipples
that still pointed upward.
	I gasped. She opened her eyes.
	''You pervert,'' she said with a terrified whisper. 
	''Now, take off your panties,'' I said, again waving the knife
for emphasis.
	Surprisingly, she stripped them to her knees quickly. I
ordered her to wiggle the rest of the way out as I caught my first
view of her full dark pubic hair. Her triangle shook enticingly as the
panties fell to the floor and she stepped out of them. 
	''Arms behind your head,'' I said. ''Clasp your wrists.''
	Shirley obeyed. I spent a full two minutes admiring her total
beauty, from the sexy way she had her hair cut to her shapely thighs
and calves. I allowed her to stare at the side wall. Finally, from the
coat pocket, I extracted a last-minute addition: a pair of handcuffs. 
She gasped. ''Please don't.''
	''For your own protection, Shirley,'' I said. Walking behind
her, I pulled her arms behind her and gently put on the cuffs, just
tight enough to hold on, but not tight enough to leave marks. She
twisted her hands, all the confirmation she needed to know that she
was my prisoner.
	I walked over and pulled the sheets back on the bed and
fluffed the pillows. ''Get on the bed,'' I said. ''Face down.''
	''Why?'' she asked.
	I smiled. ''And be quiet. I have a little preparation to do.''
	Shirley buried her head in the pillows and quietly sobbed. She
had a cute, tight ass that I decided would be part of the upcoming
	I quickly stripped naked, keeping my clothes in a convenient
pile. Then, I put on the latex gloves, drawing a visible shudder from
her as I snapped them on. Without looking, she knew.
	''What are you going to do?'' she gasped, still not looking at
	I decided to add silence to her torment. There was a towel,
fairly clean, lying across a chair. Lifting her up, I slid it under
her midsection. Then I retrieved the scissors, the razor and the
shaving cream and placed all three on the bedside table.
	Her tearful eyes grew wide as she saw the trio of tools.
	''Turn over, Shirley,'' I said. ''It's haircut time.''
	It took a moment to properly position her on her back, during
which she saw my fully erect penis with its full mushroom head and
wide shank that curved towards the ceiling.
	''Please, you have to stop now,'' she pleaded. ''I'm sorry. I
didn't know you wanted me so much.''
	''Yes, you do,'' I said simply. I put a hand around my shank.
''This is over a decade of your teasing. And the relief is going to be
wonderful. Now, keep your legs on the bed, but spread your thighs.
Grasp the mattress with your feet. And if your thighs come up
suddenly, remember what's going to happen.''
	Fortunately, she was in good physical shape and able to
position her beautiful legs in the desired position, her triangle
fully exposed. Carefully, I straddled her, my cock pointed towards her
and, hair by hair, slowly trimmed the area. 
	After about 10 minutes, the triangle was still full, but much
shorter and ready for the lather.
	I removed the gloves and tossed them on the table, as she
watched every move with wide-eyed horror. Filling my left hand full of
the cool cream, I warned her to brace herself a bit. She shuddered as
the palm enveloped the hair and went between her legs.
	I retrieved the knife again and placed it close to her face.
''That needs to soak. I'm going to try to make you a bit more
	Without hesitation, she submitted as her wrists were
handcuffed loosely to a flower design in the headboard. I found the
new position to be even-more helpless and even-more stimulating.
	With gentle strokes, Shirley's pubic hair evaporated under the
razor. Using the towel, I touched up the missed spots and left her
with a clean vaginal area, slightly pink and very healthy in color.
All the time she looked at the ceiling.
	Tossing aside the razor, I moved up on her, knife in hand and
placed my cock in front of her mouth. She took it, not without
hesitation, but with the firm belief she had no choice.
	''Bite me and you know what happens,'' I said. 
	I forced her to extend her tongue, lick my testicles and
slowly work up and around the hardened shank. I placed the tip on her
lips. After four strokes of her tongue, she sucked the head in.
	One would have sworn she was not being raped. But I knew
Shirley too well. 
	My cock went back and forth in her mouth as she applied
suction. I allowed her to work for nearly 15 minutes before
	She smiled. ''You know, you might be right. Undo these
handcuffs and let's make love.''
	I laughed, which immediately knocked the smile off her face. 
	''Ten years, Shirley,'' I said. ''I know you're smart and
tricky. Hey, the cuffs will make it a little bit more kinky.''
	The look on her face confirmed the attempted con.
	I straddled myself between her legs, but she had tightened her
torso in an attempt to deny admittance. Getting the petroleum jelly, I
rubbed some on my forefinger and gently went to work on loosening her
lips. After a while, the stimulation, wanted or not, and the strain of
keeping her abdominal muscles fully tensed had the desire effect. I
slid into her with a minimum of force and slowly began stroking.
	''No,'' she gasped. I withdrew. For a moment, she had hope
that she had turned the tide, an idea I quickly knocked out of her
mind with my tongue, which slithered up to her clitoris and began a
	Even with the slight grease of the jelly, she tasted
wonderful. I had to limit myself, knowing she might try to shut her
legs on me, even though I kept the knife up against her leg as I
	My cock slid in easily the second time. My balls aching and
burning and the tight band around my stomach demanding relief, I began
stroking again slowly. As the heat moved up my shank and the pressure
grew, I stroked faster, my arms to her sides and my fingers slowly
stroking her nipples and turning circles on her breasts. I stopped for
a moment to draw first her left breast, then its mate into my mouth.
Sucking hard, I pulled each nipple out between my teeth until she
	I could wait no longer. I counted the strokes in my head – 31
well-timed surges – before I finally exploded inside of her, releasing
a decade of desire, lust and frustration as the cream filled her up
and leaked in between her legs and, in slow streams, decorated the
sides of her thighs.
	I had let go of the knife during the final stages, allowing it
to fall safely to the floor. By the time I stopped gasping,, Shirley's
expression had changed to cold hatred.
	I was her rapist.
	''Enjoy yourself?'' she asked, with a surprising calmness.
	''Very much,'' I said, smiling.
	''Good. Because in this state you'll be too old to have an
erection by the time you get out. Although, I imagine it will be far
from the last time you have sex. Excluding women, of course.'' There
was an evil smile on her face, despite her trembling lips, that made
her statement a guarantee of my future.
	''In that case, then, maybe I should try it from the giving
end,'' I said.
	For the first time, Shirley attempted to struggle as I undid
one of the handcuffs, turned her over forcibly and cuffed her in a
stomach-down position. Three times, her legs barely missed delivering
a potential knockout punch. I got off the bed, retrieved the knife and
placed it to her throat.
	''Quiet, Shirley,'' I said. 
	"You'll never do this to me,'' she said.
	The ball gag, I decided, was ready for action. She groaned,
cursed and struggled as the ball was forced into her mouth and the
straps tied firmly behind her head. 
	''Now, the guards won't be able to hear anything,'' I said.
	Shirley had drawn her thighs tightly together, almost reducing
the crack of her ass to nothing. She meant business. 
	So did I.
	I put on a fresh pair of gloves, again snapping them for
emphasis. The coldness of the knife against her cheek finally
convinced her to do as I instructed: to pull her knees up under her
and point her feet outward. The awkward position negated any
meaningful resistance, as well as exposed her ass to preparation.
After adjusting it slightly so it pointed upward, I rubbed petroleum
jelly on three fingers of my right glove and carefully worked my
forefinger into her crack. Her protests were little more than grunts,
thanks to the gag.
	Finally finding her anus, I gently circled and pressed until
she finally began surrendering her resistance. After one finger found
its way inside, causing her to vibrate with discomfort, I performed
the act with a second and then a third finger. For 10 minutes, I
stretched the rock tight opening, stopping every two or so minutes to
add more lubricant. My cock easily hardened for a second occasion,
this time without any of the feeling of love it had once had for
	This one was constructed of vengeance and pain against a woman
who had tormented me for so long.
	I coated my penis with jelly, removed the gloves and guided it
into the crack to the point of lubrication. She cried out with a
muffle that could only be heard close by as I penetrated her. It was
so tight and stimulating that I wondered why I had not warmed up first
from the back.
	Each stroke was slow and long and designed to force a gasp.
Shirley's turned back several times towards me, a twisted portrait of
humiliation and discomfort. Finally, after she was spread wide enough
for smooth movements, I stroked her to 41 counts before the second
discharge filled her again.
My own release was that of total vindication.
	The semen popped out with my organ and decorated the sides of
her buttocks. Her knees collapsed under her in complete exhaustion.
Shirley was crying, although the gag made it more the whimpering of a
beaten dog.
	Wiping myself off with the towel, I contemplated what came
next, though I knew. 
	At the side of the table were a bottle of pills, the same kind
that I had brought. Putting a bedside tissue around my hand, I poured
out four, retrieved a cup of water, removed the gag with knife in hand
and forced Shirley to down the medication with a couple of coughs. I
smashed the paper cup and put it in my pocket and carefully wiped off
the bottle.
	''Don't worry,'' I said. ''Maximum allowable dosage. First,
you're going to get cleaned up, then you're going to get a good night
of sleep. Won't be anymore than an erotic dream when you wake up.''
	I waited 20 minutes until Shirley's tear-stained, red eyes
began to glaze over. Then, after putting on my third pair of gloves
and holding her arms firmly, but not viciously behind her back, I
escorted her to the bathroom, where I seated her on the edge of the
	As she watched with defeat, I retrieved the device I found on
my previous foray: a shower hose with two attachments, one for a
douche and one for an enema. I made another discovery: two containers
and another length of hose that I figured were meant to deliver the
douche and the soap with a degree of force.
	It didn't take long to set up the shower for the douche.
Shirley tried three times to rise and flee, but never made it beyond
two stumbles. I simply lifted her up and placed her under the shower
and turned on the water. 
''Shirley, it's all ready. I want you to thoroughly douche,'' I said.
	I expected a fight and was ready for a face-full of the
cleansing liquid, but Shirley apparently was ready to expel my rape,
whether it took out evidence or not. She spread her legs wide apart
and as a reduced flow of water fell on her head, worked the nozzle
fully up inside of her. The cleanser ran down her legs and into the
drain, taking with it part one of her rape.
	I shut off the hose and took it from her. She wiped her face
with the resulting cascade of water that shot down as I exchanged
containers, mixed the enema soap and switched nozzles.
Again, I handed it to her. 
''You know what to do,'' I said.
	Using her left hand to spread apart her cheeks, she worked the
nozzle into her anus, grimacing at the pain my intrusion had left
behind. She moaned quietly, making me realize that I probably had
discovered one of her secret pleasures.
''Shirley, I think you've done this before,'' I said as her abdomen
began extending.
''You bastard,'' she slurred.
	Obviously filled to the brim, she withdrew the hose after the
container emptied. I quickly grabbed it from her, although she was too
addled to think about trying to hit me in the face with the flow.
''You need to hold it a few minutes,'' I said, wishing now that I had
started the evening this way.
''I can't,'' she protested.
I waved the knife. ''Shirley, you will.''
	She did, although the cramping caused her to move around a bit
too much. Twice, she almost lost her footing as the shower ran full
blast on her. With quick motions, I got no more than a bit damp.
	''OK,'' I finally said. With both hands, she spread her cheeks
apart and with a violent gush, emptied herself of the enema. As the
second part of the rape went down the drain, she let out a loud sigh
that under other circumstances, could have been labeled ecstasy.
	Now, came the hard part. For that, I had brought the bags.
Simple oxygen starvation and she would never tell a soul about the
evening. Still naked, I jogged into the bedroom and retrieved one of
the sacks. 
	A sudden crash came from the bathroom. Shirley was trying to
escape. Knife upraised, I ran back.
	Shirley was lying face down in the tub, a trickle of blood
coming from around her right temple. As she fell, her body had hit the
drain switch. The shower was now filling the vessel. 
	Unable to move I watched. One minute, two minutes, five
minutes. Her body never moved as it slowly floated up with the water.
For a bit, some bubbles rose from around her submerged mouth and nose,
but soon ceased. After ten minutes, with Shirley about to float out of
the tub, I turned off the water and flipped over her head. 
	Shirley's eyes were wide open and turned to the back of her
head. Her body was quickly turning blue. 
	A large release of urine made it official. Shirley had fallen
in the shower and died.
	I spent a half hour covering up. I gathered and accounted for
all the equipment. The sheets and pillow cases, along with the towel
went into an empty washing machine with a few garments I had found
scattered. The clothes she had been wearing that night were neatly
arranged on the chair, as if she planned to hang them after her
	In a closet, I found another set of sheets and pillow cases,
probably bound for the laundry. I put them on the bed and left them
drawn back, as if she had been getting ready for bed.
	Then I saw it. On the mattress sheet was the unmistakable sign
of dried semen.
	I returned to the bathroom, still gloved and turned the shower
on again. After all, a dead person doesn't turn off the water. Between
the sheets and the bathroom, the cops would have a doozy.
	At the door, ready to evacuate, I remembered the computer.
	The server was still connected. A closed window said "Message
In Composition and Unsaved.'' I opened it.

	Dear Kris:
	Well, after the other night, I am finally rid of Ken. You were
absolutely right. There is no point in waiting for a married man. In
fact, I'm not going to wait for any man any longer.
	It makes me glad that I've known Bob for eons now the way I
have. Sex would have ruined that just like it ruins everything. I hope
you find the right guy in your young life. But if you don't, I hope
you have a friend like Bob. He's the best man I've ever known (without
the Biblical sense, ha-ha). It's great to know he cares and they'll at
least be one male at my funeral who is truly sad to see me go – for
the right reasons.
	Hey, somebody's at the door. Guess who? It's Bob. 

	I froze. One wrong move and I could send my own death warrant
to Shirley's daughter. I carefully checked her sent mail. Nothing was
there. Then I checked her read mail. She had emptied that also.   
	Then I carefully cut and deleted the paragraph about me and
the last line. 
	Typing with gloved hands, I wrote: Speaking of the devil. Ken
is at the friggin' door now. Let me get rid of him.
	I pushed the send button before escaping. On the way home, I
took a slightly longer route, avoiding the one that went by the
	I figured Shirley's body would be found the next day. But, as
it turned out, she had planned to take Friday off and was not missed
until Kris returned from a trip Sunday night, found the e-mail and was
unable to contact her. It took the cops until late Monday morning,
after Shirley failed to show for work, to break down the door, find
the largely flooded house and the body.
	The coroner ruled the death an accident, probably brought on
by the sedatives she had taken in obvious anticipation of bed.
	Kris contacted me by telephone at work to inform me of her
mother's death. Since the whole event had created an unreal quality, I
had no trouble feigning shock and sadness. Kris told me that her mom
had spoken highly of me often and invited me to the funeral. 
	I accepted. Not to do so might arose suspicions. But I knew
the cops often inventoried who showed up, believing that a perpetrator
would want to see the final bit of his handiwork.
	Hey, I had an alibi. Kris had invited me. No problem.
	After the simple outdoor service, pelted by a light downpour
of rain, I went over and introduced myself to Kris, who gave me a
grateful hug. After that, we talked for 20 minutes under the tent,
with Shirley's flower-draped casket still in place, about how we had
known each other, what a great lady she was and how tragic it was for
me and Kris to finally talk under these circumstances.
	I was sincere throughout, although a few details were
naturally left out.
	Suddenly, Kris wiped away her tears. Her face turned red with
anger, which set off her naturally blonde hair that must have come
from her father.
	''Bob, did Mom ever mention a man named Ken?''
	I thought for a moment. ''Maybe so. We didn't talk much about
our personal lives. It wasn't that kind of friendship.''
	Kris nodded.  ''Ken was a boyfriend she had trouble getting
rid of. I'm going to confide in you. The night she died she sent me an
e-mail. He knocked on the door. She put it on the note and sent it to
	''Do you think …''
	''He killed her? Either, directly or indirectly, yes. She did
fall in the shower. But the cops found … lovemaking on the bed. It
matched Ken's.''
	''Why isn't he in jail?''
	''His wife gave him an alibi.'' Kris blushed at the
revelation. ''I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you all of this.''
	''That's OK,'' I said. ''A person's business is his
	''I think he drugged her, raped her and made her go to the
shower. In that state, he could have thrown her down. Or he drugged
her, had sex with her and just left her. Or they had sex, she took a
sedative and had an accident. Any way possible, he was involved. But I
think he knew she was dead when he left.''
	''The e-mail arrived to my server at about midnight. It
doesn't take any time for us to send mail to each other. The bastard
sent it to me after he got finished, knowing they wouldn't be able to
prove anything.''
	''What did the cops say?''
	Kris shrugged. ''They agreed it was possible, but there was no
evidence, nothing, to show he had been there. He drove a Jaguar. The
neighbors said they didn't see anything that night.''
	I thought about my Camry sitting in the parking lot. I hope
nothing meant nothing.
	Kris rose and hugged me again. ''Thanks for listening, Bob.''
	''What about this bastard Ken?''
	''The bastard that killed Mom will get his, rest assured.''
	Kris' parting words haunted me for weeks, then months. One
could assume the bastard she referred to was Ken. But then again, did
she know? Had she been playing with me?
	I slept fitfully though I still treasured two memories, both
of which I missed: Shirley's friendship and, somewhat distressingly,
the night of her rape. Deep down, there were conflicts: I was sorry
that I had gone through with the fantasy, but yet glad it had
	I had known there would be no relief until I had sex with
Shirley, be it love or rape. Now, there would be no relief from the
lost friendship.
	Unless, of course, old Sparky caught up to me.
	Ken's body was found in a ravine about five miles from
Shirley's house. Stripped naked, he had been tortured in various ways
the coroner sealed from the public. When Kris went on trial for his
murder, it was revealed that a pair of pliers, full of the man's
public hair, had been found in her car. Ken had been dragged by the
penis to the site where he was shot in the head.
	I went to Kris' trial as much as possible. The cops she had
complained to became the state's key witnesses against her. A criminal
she was not. Beside the pliers, a .38-caliber revolver, the death
weapon, had been found in a field about 10 miles away, covered in her
	On the front row, the victim's widow, accompanied on
appropriate days by the couple's two teen-age children, sat.
	Kris' own testimony was a mess of accusations and fantasy. Her
court-appointed defense attorney tried not guilty by reason of
	I knew the look on Kris' face by heart when the jury foreman
read the verdict: "Your honor, we find the defendant, Krystal Jane
Sharpe, guilty of first-degree murder.''  
	He paused before finishing:
	''With the death sentence.''
	Kris' face held the same expression Shirley's had when I told
her that I was going to be her rapist.
	Death sentence appeals usually take years. But as I tried to
put the whole scenario out of my mind, Kris quickly ran out of court
dates because the case against her was so ironclad. Two short years
later, the state was ready to execute its first woman in 100 years –
and in modern record time.
	Three days before the death date, I received a telegram from
the state prison authorities. Kris wanted me to be her family witness.
Her father had refused to come and she had no one else.
	I agreed.
	For two years, Kris had been kept in isolation at the state
correctional institute for women, but was brought the day before the
execution, handcuffed and in shackles to the home of Old Sparky, the
Rollings State Prison  I had driven by on my way to rape Shirley, but
had avoided on the escape route.
	The execution was set for just after midnight. I was allowed
to visit with her briefly, at her request, at 10 p.m., behind a thick
wire mesh.
	We didn't talk about her crime. We just talked about Shirley.
By the time we finished, we were both in tears. As they led Kris away,
the warden asked me if I wanted to stay.
	I told her that I had promised Kris that I would.
	As the news accounts said later, Kris couldn't eat her final
meal, a rare steak with baked potato, salad and cheesecake. At 11
p.m., they took her into a small cell that contained a barber's chair.
Her formerly long blonde hair, which had been chopped short at prison
admittance time, was cut even shorter, first by a pair of shears, then
an electric razor. Shaving cream and a razor made her bald-headed. Her
legs also had been shaven, with special attention to the right calf.
	At 11:45 p.m., I was seated in the witness room. Through a
thick glass sat old Sparky, the straps thrown to the sides as an open
invitation to his next guest. I knew it should be me about to take a
	Behind were the prosecuting attorney and a cop who had both
testified. The victim's family had declined to attend. Wonder why?
	''I don't know,'' I heard the cop say. ''Maybe her mother was
raped and killed.''
	''Wouldn't make any difference,'' the prosecutor said. ''You
can't prosecute without evidence. And you can't let what this woman
did go unpunished with anything less than this. She kidnapped the guy,
tortured him and shot him like a dog. Suppose his wife is right. He
was at home. The evidence points that way. She killed an innocent man.
But if he'd had been guilty as hell, I would still think we ought to
be sitting right where we are now. Tell you what, Earl. This is what
happens when you start fucking around with a married woman.''
	The cop snorted.
	They were right. I could confess, now, to Shirley's death.
Under the circumstances, We The People, would have called it murder
committed in the course of rape. First-degree murder. By waving
appeals, I could be sitting in Old Sparky within a year.
	But it would not spare Kris.
	At 12:01, a side bar gate opened and Kris shuffled in,
bald-headed, crying and wearing a barber's smock. Underneath, she had
been forced to put on an adult diaper. Just in case, Old Sparky had
holes in the seat and a pan underneath. 
	She turned and faced us. The look on her face was exactly as
her mother's after I tranquilized her. She had been given pills to
help get her to the execution chamber.
	The warden, a fat-faced, suit-clad career prison civil servant
asked her if she had any final words. Numbly, she shook her head.
	Four women guards quickly seated her in the electric chair as
the tears flowed. Straps quickly immobilized her legs slightly apart.
Smaller straps tightly meshed her arms with that of Old Sparky.
Another strap encircled her below her drooping, braless breasts and
was tied behind her.
	Wide-eyed, she watched as a guard put a conducting solution on
her right calf, and tied down a metal ring from which a long cable
extended out of sight. Then, with a sponge, her bald head was covered
with the thick, shiny liquid. 
	Kris' eyes suddenly focused on me. Again, the warden asked if
she had anything to say. Her mouth opened as a stare of hatred came my
way. Behind me, I felt the prosecutor and the cop move around their
chairs uncomfortably. They thought it was aimed at them.
	I knew it was aimed at me. Any moment now, and the truth would
come out.
	But Kris' death house realization was cut off by a guard who
pushed a soft sponge, attached to straps, in her mouth. As the leather
was tied around the back of the chair, immobilizing her head, inhuman
noises came out.
	She was trying to tell them. It was Bob. It was Bob.
	As she continued to cry and try to speak, the head piece was
attached and tied around her chin. The guard then plugged in another
long cable. 
	Kris was still staring at me, trying to get someone to listen
when the black hood was placed over her head and tied around the
	I looked down. Her right forefinger was pointed straight at
me. I was the only one who seemed to notice.
	The finger never wavered as the generator started up with a
loud roar and the fan over the electric chair clicked on to suck away
the stench of burning flesh. The warden nodded. Somewhere close, but
unseen to us, the executioner, whoever he or she was, pulled a switch.
	Kris rose slightly in the chair. Through the glass, I could
hear what appeared to be a loud, crackling sound. During the full
minute that Old Sparky carried out the court's sentence by passing
20,000 volts of electricity through Kris, the finger never moved.
	It finally fell limp when the current was shut down. Five
minutes later, after the body had cooled off, Kristal Jane Sharpe, was
pronounced dead and executed under the laws of the state.
	Kris' father had the body shipped out of state for a funeral
no one locally attended. Time passed, but my conscience seldom gave me
a break. I doubt it ever will.
	No, I have not raped again. I don't go out much, fearing
perhaps I will meet another woman like Shirley who I will allow to
entice myself into real-life fantasy. Too late, I realize I was the
teaser, not her.
	The feeling of ecstasy I waited for 10 years, I cannot
remember, even in my attempts to gain relief through repeating the
fantasy with myself. I have since given that up. 
	My images of Shirley, awake or asleep, start with memories of
the friendship we shared and end with her lifeless face in the
bathtub, nothing in-between. Yes, I loved Shirley. And I betrayed that
love in the worst way imaginable. I have largely blacked out Kris'
execution – except for the finger that points at me when it pleases.
The finger knew then and knows now.
	Not to worry, though. Case closed. I'm home free.
	Just three victims: Shirley, her daughter, and a poor bastard
that got something, but not what he deserved. 
	No, there's a fourth victim, too. Me, myself and I.
	And I got away with it.
	Total perfection.



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