Loading...I am a burglar by trade. It’s not a bad job. You pick your hours, working as little or as much as you like. No boss to tell you what to do and, as long as your careful, no hassles.
Mind you, I have more sense than to put down burglar on my tax returns. I’m a registered second-hand dealer and I do a lot of buying and selling over the internet. As long as I pay my taxes no-one bothers me.
Now while I’m a big man, I’m not violent. God, no. That sort of thing leads to trouble, with cops wanting answers to questions and things like that. What I do is slip into an empty house or apartment, remove a few choice items that won’t be missed for a while and then slip quietly away. Do it properly and people don’t even know that I’ve been and gone. They just find themselves scratching their head and wondering where their camera disappeared to, trying to recall if they lent it to someone.
Being very good with locks I can unlock a door and walk in faster than most people can using the correct key. (Digital locks are a bastard. I just skip those places.) If by some mischance I’ve made an error and someone is home I’m all humble apologies. Sorry. Come to the wrong place. I was expected and your door was unlocked so I just walked in. I say all that while quickly backing out. It always works. Who’s going to try to stop a very large man who is all apologies and leaving anyway. They prefer to think it was an honest mistake and they left the door unlocked. They promptly forget about it.
There’s only one instance that I can think of where I came slightly unstuck when hitting a place. I’d picked the lock and walked in bold as brass. I turned into the first room I came to. It was the lounge room, and a young woman was in it, walking across the room towards me. We both sort of stopped and looked at each other.
What she saw was a very large rough looking man of about thirty.
What I saw was a luscious little blonde of about twenty. She had that really white hair, you know the sort I mean. Add a pair of big blue eyes and cherry red lips and a very short diaphanous nightie that did nothing to hide a quite sensational figure. Man, oh, man! She was really something.
I didn’t even get a chance to start my humble apologies. I was too stunned by what I was seeing. She recovered first, which is not surprising, my ugly mug not having anything like the stopping power her body did.
She gave a small scream and bolted. At least, I think she intended to bolt. What happened was that she managed to trip over her own feet, winding up flat on her back, looking slightly stunned.
Slightly stunned was how I was feeling, too. That miniature excuse for a nightie flew up when she went down, giving me ample proof that her blondeness was entirely natural.
Being naturally worried that the poor woman had hurt herself when she fell I bent over her to make sure she was OK. She was just lying there, blinking, more from the shock of the fall than from any hurt. I was greatly relieved. She was much too cute to be allowed to be hurt. I inhaled with relief, catching the clean woman scent of her.
I swear, what happened next took me completely by surprise. I hadn’t even realised that I’d unzipped until I found my cock was in position and driving quite forcefully into her.
Her mouth open in surprise and her eyes popped wide open. She looked absolutely astonished that I was doing this to her which was fair enough, because that was the way I felt.
Now as you can see, I just didn’t think that apologising and backing away was going to quite cut it this time. The only thing I could think of to do was to make the best of things. I pulled back and gave her another vigorous stroke.
It turned out that my day of shocks hadn’t ended. As I was driving in with that second stroke I found little Blondie pushing up forcefully to meet me. There was a look of consternation on her face as though her own actions surprised her as much as they surprised me. To make sure that it had happened I gave another powerful thrust, watching her face as I did so.
Sure enough, her hips flexed and she pushed firmly up to meet me, the consternation on her face being replaced by a momentary look of pure lust, then hastily straightening to a smooth blandness.
Another thrust, which she also met and I gave a mental shrug. I reached for her nightie where it touched on her breasts and with one heave I split it, uncovering her breasts. She gave a small squeak at that and I slapped my hands down onto her breasts.
Yes, I said slapped. I didn’t gently fondle them or cup them or stroke them. I slapped my hands down, glomming onto them. Her reaction to this was to squeal and buck her hips upwards as though I’d given her another thrust.
I’d heard of women who are hot to trot, but this verged on the ridiculous. Still, as she wasn’t protesting, I set to work. That’s not to say she never got around to protesting at all. She finally managed to come up with a few faux protests, rather undermined by the way she was reacting, bucking fiercely beneath me.
Quite frankly, I rode her hard, and she responded, obviously enjoying being driven. I wasn’t giving her any consideration as I took her, just driving in hard and often while my hands made merry with her breasts, as did my mouth, biting down on her and sucking on her breasts and nipples.
I bounced on her and she reacted strongly, pushing up to meet me, apparently relishing every moment, her excitement coming out in little gasps and squeals, a feeble protest escaping every once in a while.
I rode hard and long and when I hit the final gallop I was feeling rather smug to find that she was climaxing right along with me. It was a real relief to just let go inside her, thumping away with complete abandon.
For a while there I just lay on her, savouring the feel of her body under me. When I did finally disengage and roll off her I didn’t get dressed and do a runner. I politely waited, wanting to make sure she was OK and not going to get all hysterical and do something stupid.
She finally seemed to be getting things together. She stretched then abruptly sat up, looking me.
“You raped me,” she accused, and there was so much smug satisfaction in her voice I felt like slapping her. “How could you?”
Quite easily, as it turned out.
Then she started her little tirade.
“You break in here,” she began, but I interrupted.
“Ah, walked through the door, actually. You should keep it locked.”
“It was locked,” she retorted.
“Sorry, it wasn’t,” I lied.
She glared at me and continued.
“You come barging in and knock me down. . .”
“Ah, you tripped over your own feet and fell. I didn’t touch you.”
She ignored that.
“Then you tore my nightie off and raped me.”
“No,” I corrected. “I actually stuck my cock in first. I didn’t tear your nightie until we were already in action.”
“Whatever,” she says. “It still comes down to the fact that you raped me.”
There was that smugness again, and I really had to do something about that.
“Twice. You can’t seem to get anything straight,” I murmured.
“What?” she said, blinking and looking puzzled.
“Twice,” I repeated. “You know, the second time makes it twice.”
“But you didn’t rape me twice.”
“Yes, well waiting for you to recover and then listening to you talking about it so much I’ve had a chance to recharge. And the way you keep saying rape me is just plain making me horny. Now be a good girl and get on your hands and knees, I’m ready for seconds.”
This time she did protest and the protest even sounded real. It didn’t help her much. I made her roll over onto her tummy and hump her bottom up into the air. Then I knelt behind her, placed my cock so it was pressing against her pussy, and waited.
I played a little game with myself, trying to estimate how long she’d wait before saying anything. I was way off. She didn’t even make it to the five second mark.
“Well? What are you waiting for, you rapist?” she demanded when I didn’t immediately push home.
“I was having a philosophical moment,” I told her. “I mean, is this really the way to get acquainted with a lovely young lady? Shouldn’t I be treating her with more respect? How does she feel about this sort of behaviour?”
“You have got to be kidding me,” she said, enunciating every word slowly and clearly.
“Yeah, I am,” I said and drove fiercely in, grinning when she squealed with the shock of it.
Having recently, ah, unloaded, I was able to take a less frenetic approach this time. I was still driving in hard, arms wrapped around her and playing with her breasts, but I wasn’t in such a hurry, taking more time between each stroke. This sort of approach can really extend your efforts, letting the pleasure drag on.
It soon became apparent that my little blonde friend wasn’t used to this approach. She was squirming under me, pushing back hard against me, trying to make me go faster. I ignored her petty complaints. What I was doing felt good to me.
Well, being a gentleman, I didn’t totally ignore her complaints.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “You’ll get there. They say getting there is half the fun, anyway.”
She gave a groan and persisted in her efforts. Why can’t women be satisfied with what they’re getting instead of always wanting more? I just continued on my merry way, enjoying myself, knowing I was bringing pleasure to her no matter what she was saying. She was just being greedy. A typical now, now, now, person of the younger generation.
She was almost crying before I decided that I was ready to hurry things up. She was making these funny little noises, seeming to indicate that she thought I was being incredibly selfish for not attending to her immediate needs. I drew back, paused, and then drove in really strongly.
Man, it turned out she was more on the edge than I had thought. With that first hard thrust she just went up in flames, shrieking her silly head of and shuddering under me. I had to give another half dozen good hard strokes before I came, each stroke seeming to incite her climax to even greater heights.
This time my climax had been almost gentle, a nice refreshing easing of my tensions. I felt fit and victorious. A real winner. She was just oozing down onto the carpet, head resting on her crossed arms, bum still stuck in the air.
I didn’t wait for her to get her act together this time. I thought she’d be fine and I didn’t really want to have to listen to her describing everything I’d done to her. Why should I? I was there and knew what I’d done. I gave a parting spank to her bottom, seeing it was sticking up and departed, making sure the door was locked behind me. After all, she wouldn’t want intruders while she was like that. And you will be pleased to note that I behaved myself. I didn’t take a thing, even though her purse was in plain sight.
– – –
There was an odd aftermath to this little incident. Normally I don’t give a second thought to those people who have inadvertently contributed to my life style, but I will admit that I recalled my time with Blondie with some pleasure.
A couple of weeks after the little episode I was strolling through a park. Now this part of the city was new to me. I’d been out for a drive, not going anywhere in particular, just taking a break. I’d seen the park and decided to take a stroll and so there I was. Blondie, I’ll have you know, didn’t even cross my mind. She lived on the other side of the city.
So when I see this sweet young thing walking towards me I just gave her a look of honest appreciation. Unfortunately, so did some young punks that were lounging around, taking up space that could be better put to use by almost anything else. They came lounging forward, putting the hard word on the young woman.
She just kept walking, trying to ignore them, and then one of them snatched at her bag. Idiots, the lot of them. Fancy trying that in a park in front of witnesses. Especially a witness like me who was right there. I gave the chief idiot a clout alongside his ear which sent him staggering away. A couple of the other idiots promptly drew knives and turned towards me, and I just laughed at them.
They looked at me, standing there laughing, looked at each other, then backed off, warning me volubly about what would happen if I crossed them again.
The sweet young thing was stammering her thanks and I turned towards her, nodding and smiling. She promptly stopped trying to thank me and snarled at me.
“You,” she snapped. “You’re the man who raped me.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said, scandalised. Really, how could she just up and accuse a complete stranger of something like that.
“I mean, really, Miss. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Ha. Perhaps you don’t remember me now that I have clothes on. It was you.”
Of course I bloody recognised her. That blonde hair (platinum blonde – I looked up that shade of white afterwards) and those big blue eyes were stained in my memory.
“You’re mistaken, I assure you. There’s no way I’d forget a woman as lovely as you,” I said. “As for assaulting you, god forbid. Only a swine would do such a thing.”
“Then that makes you a pig,” she snapped. “You knocked me down and ravished me.”
“I did not knock you down,” I snapped. “You tripped. I mean you probably tripped when it happened because no gentleman would dream of knocking you down.”
“Ha!” she snorted. “Even if I did trip, which I doubt, you’re still the man who raped me. Twice.”
“Thrice,” I snapped.
“What?”
“Thrice. Haven’t you ever heard the word. Once, twice, thrice. The same as one, two, three. Once on your back, once doggy style and once behind those bushes.”
With that I had my hand on her back and was escorting her firmly towards the bushes I’d indicated. She was protesting, but not running.
“You can’t do that. It’s the middle of the day and we’re in a public park. You wouldn’t dare assault me here. Get your hand off me. I’m not going with you.”
She did, though, walking in front of me and around behind the bushes, still protesting.
They were quite nice bushes, hiding us from public view.
“This looks like a very nice spot,” I told her. “Now please lower your panties, bend over and put your hands on your knees.”
“You can’t do this,” she protested.
“I damn well can if you’ll just shut up and do as you’re told,” I pointed out. “Now stop stuffing around and get ready to be stuffed.”
“You are crude,” she snapped at me.
“I know,” I said, unzipping and letting her see what was coming, “and I’m about to be a lot cruder.”
Her eyes didn’t leave my cock while she lifted her skirt and started pushing her panties down. When her panties were at about knee level she turned slowly around, bending over to put her hands on her knees, head turned to look behind her to see what I was doing.
What I was doing was moving up behind her. I pushed her skirt up, leaving her bottom shining nice and white in the sunshine. A hand between her legs to help position myself and I started pushing in.
I’ll swear that this woman was born ready. She was already wet and, although she swayed a little under that first firm thrust, I slid full length into her with no problems. With that I placed a hand on each hip and went to work.
The reason for my hands on her hips were twofold. I didn’t want to knock her over when I banged into her, and that was a distinct possibility seeing she had nothing to brace herself against. The other reason was so that I could pull her towards me while I thrust, as she would have trouble doing it herself.
I don’t know why I bothered. She started gyrating around on my cock almost before I had it in her. I hadn’t appreciated how versatile and athletic a young woman could be. She was practically doing a dance without moving her feet, while my cock slid in and out, an integral part of her dance.
I gave up any semblance of controlling what was happening. I just happily banged away, giving my all, while her bottom seemed to bounce and twirl, managing to take me deep within her every time I drove forward.
Through all this performance she was silent, breathing strongly with her exertions but, other than that, not a peep. I, I can assure you, was also breathing strongly from my exertions. I was putting a lot of effort into this, driving in as hard as I could as often as I could, doing my best to remember that I was raping her, not the other way round.
Maybe it was the position that helped me hold off my climax. There again, maybe it was because I was unused to a woman actually dancing while my cock was in her. Whatever it was, I seemed to be able to go on for quite a while, enjoying the unexpected exercise.
Finally I knew that I was going to have to call finish. I delivered a nice round swat to her bottom, telling her to hold still for a moment. (I’d been wanting to do that right from the word go, but had held off. After all, who am I to tell a woman how to act when she’s being ravished in a public park.)
She froze when my hand landed and I got to work. I drove in hard, moving right into it, eager to finish off. I was busy squirting her when she suddenly gasped and started shuddering and shaking as her own climax swept silently through her.
Not wanting her to fall flat on her face on the grass I held her afterwards, holding her against me. After a while she shook her head to clear it and looked at me. She promptly pushed me away and yanked up her panties.
“Brute,” she snapped. “How could you do that to me? I hope I never have the misfortune to see you again.”
“I’ll make myself scarce,” I murmured. “Before I go, could you answer one little question?”
“What’s that?”
“How often do you get raped? I’m curious.”
She glared at me. “You’re the only one who has ever dared to brutalise me like that,” she snapped. “I normally go out with gentlemen.”
“Hey, I’m a gentleman,” I protested. “What you meant to say is that you normally go out with wimps. Anyway give me your phone number. I’ll take you out somewhere.”
“Oh, yes, I can see that. Dinner and a show and a rape.”
“Don’t be silly,” I chided her. “There’s nothing to say I can’t rape you before I take you out to dinner. Now give me your number.”