by --darkness--

I'd never been like this before, but I'd never been so far removed from an object of a maddening desire. Ever since I was a boy, I'd had intense fantasies about the girls who fell prey to Dracula or some other demon. It was the classical style of dress, the pale beauty, the delicate nature of her femininity.

Then came the Goth grrrls. They varied from the dominatrix in black, to the vampiress, to the spellbinding enchantress, to the black-vinyled siren, all of which held a certain fascination. But there was also the tragic romantic heroine, a modern day embodiment of the pale goddesses I'd seen ravished at the hands of evil.

I would see these girls, engrossed in books of verse or a tale of horror. I wanted so badly to reach out to these girls, to mingle my passion with their delicate flesh. Yet, I knew it could never be. The desire was there, but I had none of the style, none of the flair to ensnare their esoteric tastes.

I was in my thirties and married. Too old to try to adapt to their complex subculture; I would look like a ridiculous poseur. Worse yet, my true identity -- a thirty-something married man who just wanted to make love to a beautiful young Goth -- would be seen and rejected totally. As the desire became more and more intense, it became more and more obvious how desperate a hope it was.

That's when I stumbled across the little one. She was no more than a teenager, and she was a tiny waif, perhaps not even five feet tall. She worked at a bookstore I rarely visited, due to it being terribly small and in a section of town which was mainly old stores converted into fashion boutiques and second-hand shops. I had only begun swinging through this part of town because of the number of Goth girls who shopped the second-hand stores.

I saw her behind the counter the second I stepped into the store. She had pale skin and big blue eyes, shadowed with a blend of colors. Her hair, which seemed to have been straightened, fell to about shoulder length. It was black, with one lock in a striking purple. Her dress was black, of a simple cloth, and had an outer corset which seemed to be mostly decorative. It cut off straight across her chest, and showed just the tiniest bit of cleavage between her small breasts.

What really knocked me back though, was her sensuous and expressive mouth. She wore a dark purple lipstick, and it made her lips look full and delicious, but there was also something sad and wistful about the way she nearly smiled. It was if she believed that this was one pleasant moment in a life she knew was to become tragic and trying. There seemed to be an acceptance of the inevitable somewhere in her, and that made her a genuine tragic heroine. But what evil was to befall this innocent at her comfortable bookstore?

Then and there, I realized I was to be that very evil. It is a strange thing, and not nearly as disturbing as you might think, to realize that the monster hiding in the closet and under the bed has always been the subhuman part of your own psyche. The part that tells you that you are the stronger beast, and that this creature before you is the prey.

It was nearly closing time. The owner, a short and round woman in her forties, had gone into the back room to do the books or something. The girl was alone out front. I bought a classical music CD and then meandered out the door, noting the layout. I sat out in my car and played the CD. As I predicted, the girl locked the door and turned out the lights before walking into the back. Ten minutes later, they both emerged from the back door of the store into the alleyway. This could be done.

My plan was that I was going to hide in the back, and chloroform the owner. Then, I would grab the girl when she came back after having locked the front and turned out the lights. I realized of course, that I had no idea where to find chloroform, and wouldn't know where to buy it without sounding like a kidnapper or rapist. So, I came up with an even simpler plan.

Three weeks later, I wandered my forgettable self into the store. I had on a bulky winter jacket, as fit the climate, and I was able to smuggle in my "supplies" with no one thinking anything of it. There was no spark of recognition in the girl's eyes and the boss was eyeing up some teenage boys who were too near the adult literature. As she began to move them along, no one's eyes were on me, and I simply slipped into the back room.

Ten minutes later, as I stood behind the door, attired especially for the occasion, I held a hefty RIVERSIDE SHAKESPEARE in my hand. As I had hoped, the owner strolled right in and walked past me in the darkened room. The complete works of Shakespeare worked completely as one swift shot with the spine of the volume put her out cold. I caught her before she fell, and the noise was minimal. I was fortunate. Mine was not the plan of an experienced violator, and any number of things could have gone wrong already.

I tied her up with plastic tie-downs, gagged her, and placed one of those big canvas book bags over her head. I secured that with tape from her own desk. I stuffed her round little form into the corner. I returned to waiting behind the door. I was hard to see back there, even if you looked right at me. I had worn black jeans and dark shoes. I had untucked the homemade black cloak from my belt, and let it hang down past my waist. I had also pulled up the attached hood, and pulled it down to my eyebrows. All of this was easily concealed underneath my bulky jacket, as had been the tie-downs and the cloth for the gag. The Shakespeare, the store had provided.

My prey repeated the procedure I had begun to realize I had only seen once. Fortunately, born victims are creatures of habit. She walked through the door and began to call out to the owner.

"Doroth-" she got half the name out before I grabbed her around the mouth and nose. I am not a big man, but it was easy for me to cover both with one hand while pinning her tiny limbs down at her sides with one arm wrapped around her.

"Listen!" I spoke coldly in my deepest voice, trapping it into a hoarse whisper at the top of my throat. "You are in the clutches of an attacker you cannot defeat. You will submit, or you and your boss will die. Do you understand?"

She wasn't struggling to get her arms free, because I was smothering her with my hand. She nodded emphatically and desperately. She had terror coursing through her body, but her sense of resolution to the inevitable seemed to prevent that terror from manifesting itself as physical resistance. She was going to allow my violation of her.

Somewhere in me, there was a tiny hint of protest as I stood on the brink of a dehumanizing act of desecration. But there was too much of the evil in my heart, and it demanded satisfaction.

Now, those who tell you that there is no sexual aspect of rape, that it is merely violence, understand neither rape nor sex. Sex is a form of expression. It can be an expression of love or of anger or even simply an expression of sexual desire itself. Rape is sexual. Otherwise, it would merely be assault. I had no real desire to assault this waif who now stood trembling before me. I merely wanted to possess her sexuality utterly.

Tonight she wore a perfect costume for her own desecration. It had a flowing design, almost like it was made of loose black and gray veils. It was delicate, yet dark. It clung to her tiny pale frame in just enough places to reveal her femininity, but not in enough to impress you that she wanted to share it. It spoke of virginity and vulnerability. I let my hand off of her mouth, and spun her to face me. Her head barely topped out at my chin.

I pulled her black and purple hair back roughly, but not painfully -- well not particularly so. I could see her terror grow as she saw a cloaked and hooded figure of darkness standing over her. "You will not scream!" I hissed. She nodded, and found that she could not look away from the hood and the darkness. "You will be devoured." I was swept away by my own dark fantasy now. I was a demon, a profaner of souls.

I buried my face into her fair neck and kissed it with passion and lust. I squeezed her little body so hard that she gasped for air. I lifted her with one hand on her ass. She strained to help me in order to alleviate the pressure my hair-pull was causing. When she could move her neck, she tried to curl it underneath my chin to avoid exposing it to my hungry mouth. I allowed it as I now had her off of the ground. I took a step over and laid her on top of several piled boxes of books. Her body was delicate and soft, and the emotion of the moment made it terrifically hot. Haven't you ever noticed how warm women's bodies are when they are crying? This one had begun to weep openly.

"Cry, little one. Cry. The profaner will pity you. He will not spare you his darkness, but he will pity you." My hands were strengthened by the adrenaline rush of broken rules and forgotten decency. I tore the dress to shreds. She cried aloud, but did not scream. She was in only a short loose black slip and black nylons now. No bra or support was needed for such tender little breasts. The slip was gone in one swift motion, and I could tell that the tearing of the fabric against her alabaster skin was hurting her. I pitied the poor child, but there was no swaying me from my purpose.

The nylons tore delightfully, and she actually emitted a little squeal as she realized that she was absolutely naked before the beast. She writhed a little and tried to cover up, but I was on her, and my knees were soon inside hers, and my lips were smearing her dark lipstick as I greedily sucked at her mouth. She seemed to know that I would not be slaked until she opened her mouth, and my tongue was inside it. She knew better than to bite, and it was exhilarating to control her so utterly. I would command her actions now.

I placed one of her hands on my jeans. "Open them," I said coldly.

Her blue eyes looked pleadingly into my hooded face, and she saw no eyes there to plead to. She reached out and unzipped my black jeans. I am only average in size, but it was clear to me she had never seen an adult penis before. She gasped as it came free.

"No," she whispered between sobs. "Please, no."

"It will hurt you," I whispered in a detached voice. "A great deal, most likely."

She cried wordlessly and lay back, always too ready to accept evil. She expected a dark world; she received one.

I almost bent trying to get in her tight little hole. I still drove it in, not pausing, but driving through her hymen and stopping only when my own pubic hair ground into the wispy black hair above her little now-impaled vagina.

She screamed. It was not horrifically loud, but I shot up for a second. The walls were packed with books, and we were adjacent to a deserted alley. An unexpected bonus! The sound would carry to no one. I winced in dark pleasure. She would be ravished as she screamed and pleaded and begged, and it would not avail her.

I bit down on her puffy little left nipple. It was hard enough to cause pain, but not to injure. She groaned and screamed. I bit on the other, and she whimpered. I began to pump myself into her furiously. I was bouncing us up and down on top of the boxes. When she could breathe, she cried out in pain. I slowed down and went deep inside her in slow strokes. She begged me to stop. I continued. Finally, she fell completely silent. I wasn't satisfied with that.

I slapped her in the face. It was a cruel and needless act against a dominated teenage girl, but she was to be the tragic heroine, and it demanded her abuse. She began to cry again, asking me, "Why? Why?"

"Because it is the order of things," I grunted as I continued to thrust into her. She wept softly, and I was pleased with it. I continued for several more strokes before I felt the pulling in the underside of my penis. I was going to cum into this darling little girl who had done nothing but look Goth and cross the bad man's path. I began to pump furiously, ready to blow my demon seed into her tiny womb. Perhaps some Satan spawn would come of it. Perhaps it was a demon all along, using my body to impregnate HIS chosen victim. Bullshit. I was the one who came into this little one. I was the one who wanted it that way.

I pulled out of her and worked my way up to straddling her chest. She knew to lick me clean without being told. When she stopped, I slapped her again. She began to work timidly on my glans, knowing that she was raising from the dead the same monster that had ravished her before. When it was hard, I rolled her onto her stomach.

It took me several tries to get into her ass. She was actually quite pliable; her muscles were soft and underdeveloped. The difficulty came in the tiny size of her anus. Finally I was inside her, thrusting cruelly as she found the voice to scream again. Not being terribly young, it was taking me a long time to build to a second orgasm. I passed the time as I humped her roughly by playing with her purple-tinged hair and by making her answer my questions. You can add the whimpers to her answers.

"Your real name, full name?"

"Sara Torn."

"What's your Goth name?"

"Bellenoir."

"Beautiful darkness. Fitting. Why are you Goth?"

"I love the look."

"More!"

"And -- and I always read horror novels."

"The ones where women get ravaged?"

She did not answer.

I pinned her down with my hips. "Answer!" I hissed, holding myself deep inside her until she spoke.

"Yes."

"You wanted to feel the ravaging, didn't you?"

No answer. I slapped her on the back of the head.

"Yes! Yes! I fantasized about being taken."

"Do you like it?"

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Tell me the truth, little Sara, and I might stop hurting you -- for good. Lie and I'll stay here all night."

"I hate it. I hate it...." she broke down.

I stopped. I took her into my arms, and she actually let me stroke her purple and black hair as I held her naked body close while she cried on my shoulder. She was utterly broken, and I was nearly satisfied. I placed her hand on my cock, and she pumped it for a few minutes as she lay hunched up in my lap. I finally came all over her. She looked up, pleading that I would let her go at this. My darkness was losing its grasp on my soul. I told her to go sit next to her boss.

The boss had been conscious for most of the time I raped her little helper. She was crying in the corner, the way timid people always do. Little Sara sat beside her and whispered to the little round woman hooded by the bookbag.

"Sara, Dorothy," I was struggling to maintain the gravel voice of terror I had used so easily before. "You must understand that I have no intention of ever coming here again. I have done what I came to do. Sara's corruption was my only mission." They huddled together, crying. "I will walk away forever -- UNLESS -- I see or hear one word of this evening anywhere. Then, I will not hesitate to kill you both." This was a lie. I had no stomach to kill. "I know where you work -- I can easily find where you live. I am not a person to be taken lightly. I can achieve the dark purposes I set out to achieve. Do you believe me?"

They both nodded emphatically. I gathered my things and went to the door. I was about to slip out when I turned to the naked Sara sitting huddled before me. I stepped to her and took her chin in my hand. I gazed into her blue eyes and traced her sensuous lips with a lazy finger. I kissed her deeply. She woodenly accepted it. "You will not understand for a long time, maybe never, but I love you, and all this was a testament to your unattainable beauty. Be well, Bellenoir. Be well." With that I left her battered body and tattered soul lying naked on the floor. I never saw or heard of her again.

I will always tell myself that it was a maddening love that drove me to that night of unspeakable violation of such a sweet little one. But I know better. It was the monster that hid under my bed. It was the bogeyman in the shadow of my room. It was me all along.