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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
_________________________________________
WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE CLOSE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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Copyright 2004. As the author, I claim all rights under
international copyright laws. This work is not intended
for sale, but please feel free to post it to other
archives or news groups, keeping the header and text
intact. Any commercial use of this work is expressly
forbidden without the written permission of the author.
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Eight-balled
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
A college freshman finds herself at the hands of a
serial rapist. She is tied to her own bed, threatened
with rape or the rape of her two closest girl friends.
Or is she? A story about video game technology run
amok. (MF, nc, bd, mc, sci-fi)
***
Author Note: This is a work of fiction and is not meant
to portray any person living or dead, nor any known
situation. It is meant for adults only and is not to be
read by person's under the age of 18, or the legal age
in the county/state/country in which the reader
resides.
This story is not what you think. But it's also not for
the light-hearted. The girl described is never injured
and never sexually assaulted. She is traumatized,
however, and so should we all.
***
EIGHT-BALLED
by Marcia R. Hopper
(marciar26@aol.com)
She had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, a flawless
complexion, delicate white-girl features, a teenager's
narrow waist and curvaceous hips. She had slender
thighs and even more slender calves. Her feet were
precious. I'm partial to precious feet. Especially
little white-girl's feet.
"How you doin', honey?" I asked.
Little White Girl wailed and shuddered. She was doing a
lot of that. She was tied to her bed in her own room,
no clothes on, her wrists and ankles in leather cuffs
chained to the bedframe. I had used her panties and bra
as a makeshift blindfold; her mouth was held open by a
mouth-ring.
"You know what's this for?" I taunted, tapping the ring
in her mouth. She wailed some more. "Thas' right," I
said. "Keep on you' cryin', honey."
I had picked her out last week, shopping at Wal-Mart.
She was with her mom. Mom was a looker herself, forty
to forty-five years old. Little White Girl here had her
hair and her eyes. A real momma's girl, ya know.
I ran my finger down the center of her chest to her
belly-button. I laughed at her comic shuddering and her
moaning. She'd give just anything--anything in the
whole wide world--not to be here right now. Maybe I'd
give her that chance.
"Little white girl?" I said.
"Wahhh," she wailed pathetically. Her tongue wagged
behind the mouth-ring, wet and slug-like. I leaned
close and blew on her tongue. She recoiled.
"Listen to me, now," I said. "I'm gonna take this whoo-
jiggy outa you' mouth. You behave or it goes right back
in. Ya understand me, girl?"
She nodded miserably. I undid the strap from behind her
head and took out the mouth-ring. Spit had run down her
cheeks and into her hair. Her nose had run. She started
blubbering right away: "Please!" "Leave me alone!"
"Don't hurt me, mister!" "Let me go!" All fit in
between miserable little sobs.
I grabbed her chin. "Little white girl! You're not
listening to me!"
She caterwauled: "Let me go!" and I put the mouth-ring
back in.
* * *
She was a college girl. She came home at four o'clock
most days, got outta her car and went directly into her
townhouse. Her momma's townhouse. Sometimes she checked
the mail. Today I started the van and drove down into
her court and parked in front of her place. The van
read Hughes Cable on the side. I had done the lettering
and the paint job myself. It was outfitted so's a cable
repairman--much less a cop--couldn't tell the
difference.
I opened the door and went around back, swung open the
panel doors, and just as natural as you please grabbed
out a coil-box of wire. Carrying the coil-box and a
tool belt over my shoulder, I approached the front
door. The front door opened.
"Oh!" she said, blinking and stepping back. She looked
all around, the way white girls do faced with a black
man. "Um, what do you want?" she said, then excused
herself for her rudeness.
"No problem," I said in my educated black man's voice.
"Didn't mean to scare you. Are you Mrs. Vanders?"
She looked around again, then shook her head. "She's my
mother," she said. "I'm Jessica."
"Well, Jessica, are you alone? More importantly, are
you twenty-one?"
She shook her head again.
"Well," I said, "if you're alone and you're not twenty-
one, I can't come in." I pulled out a fake work order.
"It's a service upgrade, so I'll have to come back
later."
She looked fretful now. "Couldn't you, like, do it on
the outside or something?"
I shook my head. I smiled patiently at her. "An upgrade
means fishing cable up through the floor and into the
bedroom walls." I held out my box of cable.
Now she looked confused. "I already have cable in my
bedroom," she said.
"The upgrade is for digital. You have digital cable,
Jessica?"
"Well, no," she admitted. "I don't think so."
I explained digital would let her see what was playing
on the different channels, give her a dozen or more
movie-channels she didn't have, let her start an On
Demand movie and then pause it to leave the room, or--
and this really got her attention--pause it to answer
the telephone.
Really?" she said.
"Really."
She looked around one last time, then stood aside.
"I can't," I said, "Unless you're twenty-one."
"Pretend that I am," she said.
I walked in.
* * *
"Ready to try again?"
She made mewling sounds and yanked at the cuffs. "Eease
eh ee oh!"
"I'll let you go when I'm ready," I said. "Not before."
I pulled up my chair and sat down next to her. I said
to her clearly, "Listen now. Nod if you understand me.
Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"Are you going to listen to me?"
She nodded again.
"You gonna be quiet?"
Another nod.
"I'm taking it out again. If you make trouble or start
bawling--" I slid my hand beneath her rear end for
emphasis. "--I'll turn you over on this bed, take off
my belt and beat you until you bleed. Understand that,
little white girl?"
She sucked in air and blew it out, then nodded again. I
took out the mouth-ring.
"What's your name?"
"W-what?
"What's your fuckin' name?"
"Jessica Vanders."
"Where do you live?"
"At--you know where I live!" she wailed. Then, "Sorry!
I'm sorry! Please don't put that in my mouth again."
I repeated: "Where do you live?"
"1804 Wyoming Court."
"What city?"
"T-Tavenner," she said.
"Tell me your number."
"307-926--my telephone number?" she wailed in panic.
"Yes," I said, grinning.
"926-1081."
"Where are you now?"
"In my bedroom?"
"Good," I said, having calmed her down. "Now listen to
my proposition."
* * *
"I can't!" she wailed, terrified again.
"Why not?"
She began to bawl. "Please! Please let me go! I won't
tell anyone. I prom--"
I grabbed her by the nose.
"Owwwwww!" she squalled at me.
"Gonna stop?"
"Yes! Let me go! Please!"
I let go her nose and wiped my fingers on her bed
sheets. What I had offered her was this: Get her best
two friends on the telephone, invite them over, watch
me tie them up and rape them. Simple.
"No!" she pleaded again.
"You can do it," I told her.
"I can't!"
"Stupid bitch."
I picked up her backpack, emptied it on the bed between
her legs and looked through the stuff.
"What are you doing?" she sobbed.
I found a designer-purple electronic organizer with
pink flowers on the case. Perfect for a fifth grader, I
thought; the girl was nineteen. I thumbed the On button
and looked inside.
"What are you doing?" she sobbed again.
Her list of friends was eighty-five names long, the
organizer's limit. I scrolled through each entry,
picking the two most likely based on comments she'd
made--Forever, next to Kelley Otstott; The Best, next
to Bonnie Meekins. I said their names out loud.
"No!" she pleaded. "You can't do this to me!"
I said roughly to her: "It's five o'clock now. Momma
gets home at six. We either do you now, or we do you're
friends later on. Make your decision, little girl."
She yanked at her restraints, wailed and shook her head
back and forth. "No!" she began to howl. I forced the
mouth-ring back in her mouth, secured the ends behind
her head and told her, "Then let's rock and roll,
baby."
She began to scream.
* * *
She began to scream.
I jumped up and yanked the headset off her ears and
stood back. She looked wild-eyed around the room,
sucked in air and screamed again.
"Easy," I said, trying not to fall on my ass. "You're
home, Jess, safe. No one's going to get you."
She stared frightfully at me a moment, then with
dawning horror, then with outrage. "You son of a
bitch!" she hollered. "How could you do that to me!"
I sat down on the chair. I took off my headset. "I
warned you, babe. I told you not to do it. You wouldn't
listen to me, would you?"
She sputtered unintelligently at me a moment, examined
her wrists and ankles, sat up and flipped me the bird.
"You prick. You son of a bitch. You moron! How could
you do that to me?"
I began to laugh.
"Jeffrey!"
"Jess--"
"You were raping me!"
"No one was raping you," I said. "It's only a program."
She looked daggers at me, then at the computer, then
flipped the computer the bird. "I am never," she said,
getting up with a huff and stomping toward the
bathroom, "having sex with you again."
* * *
I'm despicable. Low-down. A dog. But in the tradition
of the best horror films, the heroine got away clean.
What more can you hope for in a horror flick?
"You made this for them?" she demanded. Her head stuck
out the bathroom door. She shook all over. I shrugged
and she hissed, "You're more despicable than they are,"
and slammed the door again.
Who is Jess? My girlfriend. Who am I? Not a cable
repairman, I can tell you that. I develop computer
software for the government. What Jess experienced was
the latest interrogation method of . . . well, not the
CIA. They're too civilized, the CIA. The people I work
for don't exist.
In 2001, I helped put online a super-secret, super-
expensive simulation program for the DOD. The
simulation ran on the most sophisticated super-computer
ever built, comprising a real-time simulation populace.
Like the denizens of The Thirteenth Floor, the sims
suspected nothing. They went about their daily
electronic business, polishing their electronic apples,
screwing their electronic partners, not suspecting for
a moment what comprised them was electrons. A test
population on which anything could be run. That was
three years ago. I have made it better since then. I
made it interactive. I made it available to the People
Who Don't Exist.
She came out of the bathroom again. Her hands were
clenched. Color had returned to her cheeks. "You
miserable bastard," she said and stomped back into the
bathroom again.
All things considered, I shouldn't have done it. Never
thought it up, not proposed it to my boss, never pushed
my agenda. I should never have let Jessica peek at the
interactive version, but as she said: I'm a miserable
bastard.
* * *
Today it's just a story. Our kids are safe from psycho-
mayhem at the hands of hacker-rapists. Tomorrow, once
the technology hits the street, once the game
developers package it and sell it and put it in the
neighborhood outlets: Best Buy, Comp-USA . . . Wal-Mart
. . little stands between us and the scenario described
above.
Think it won't happen?
Think again.
THE END
This short story is based on the movie The Thirteenth
Floor, or at least the scenario I envision coming from
it. Sorry if I offended anyone.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 32