12/98
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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o


Helena's Rape (MF, NC, rape)
by E.Z. Riter <ezriter@hotmail.com>


The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for
adults in locations in which it is legal.  If it is illegal in your
location, DO NOT read.  This is a copyrighted work.   Reposting or any
other use strictly prohibited without the express, written permission
of the copyright holder, except may by posted as part of a  review or
posted to free-access, non-commercial archive sights.

Copyright 1998 by E. Z. Riter.

Email address: ezriter@hotmail.com

Please! Give me comments.   


I wrote a story entitled "Winning Denver". Celeste's review (see
Celestial Reviews 277 - April 22, 1998) was disappointing but very
fair. This is a rewrite of that story. The character is now from the
capitol of Montana rather than Colorado. The verb has been changed for
reasons which shall be obvious when you read the story. 


RAPING HELENA

Las Vegas is America's adult amusement park.  I try to spend two or
three weeks a year there to gamble and enjoy the other festivities. I
am never a big winner or loser unless you consider $20,000 a trip big.
At thirty-seven, I was in my fifteenth year of Vegas trips, and over
the years, I was actually ahead by more than a hundred thousand.  

I always stay at the same place and gamble there much of the time. As
a regular, I get the freebies they offer to generate repeat business,
such as lunches, drinks or tickets to the shows. Each trip I find a
nice girl to share my bed a few times, which is part of the Vegas
appeal. No street walkers. Call girls. Pretty and clean.  

On the first night of a two-week stay, I gambled until five in the
morning.  When I called it a night, I was seventy thousand ahead,
which made for sweet dreams someone rudely interrupted by knocking at
my door.  As I stumbled to answer, the clock read ten thirty.  It was
Walt Simpson, the assistant security chief, who I had gotten to know
over the years.  A hard-nosed SOB with some old Mafia ties, he did a
fine job for the casino, handling all the tough problems while his
pretty boy boss looked good for the Gaming Commission. 

"Having a good trip, Dan?" he asked as I let him in. 

"So far, Walt. What the hell do you want at this hour?"

"Planning on utilizing any of the females this time?"

"Like always. Got anybody special in mind?"

"Yeah. I do. You know this is top secret, Dan."  That was Walt's code
for telling me if I mouthed this off, my legs got broken.

"Well, let me hear."

Walt told me an appealing story, a story I had heard other times but
always believed to be an urban myth. A young couple on their honeymoon
got caught up in the gambling and were down a total of $26,000 to
three different casinos.  Both husband and wife had gambled, but the
wife dropped ten grand at the crap tables in another casino. That
particular casino still had mob ties and was not a good place to leave
a bad marker.  Walt agreed to handle the collection for all three
places. Whether the couple knew it or not, they were better off with
Walt than with his counterparts.

"The woman has agreed to work it off, so to speak."    

I studied his face but found nothing there. The term poker face was
invented for Walt and guys like him. 

Suddenly, my cock came to attention. Walt, who never missed anything,
relaxed enough to let a twinkle come in his eye when he saw.  The idea
really intrigued me. But, why?  Was it the rape since she was being
leveraged into doing it? Her age and innocence?   Was it fucking
someone else's bride on their honeymoon, or, just fucking another
man's wife while he watched? 

I guess Walt knew I was thinking hard because he waited patiently as
thoughts, I must admit, sexy, even obscene, thoughts, bounced around
in my head.  Whatever the reason, I agreed to meet them. Walt waited
as I quickly dressed.  As we walked down the hall toward his office,
I made up my mind. "Walt, I will do it, if she is attractive."  He did
not change expressions when he said,  "She is a little small and lean
for my taste, but she is attractive."  

Subject to meeting her, I agreed to the deal.  I would get the woman
for the thirteen days remaining in my vacation on a twenty-four hour,
no questions asked, all orders followed happily basis.  They got the
bad guys off their back.  Walt and his friends got their money,
$26,000 to be taken from the bank I had on deposit with the casino's
cashier.

Her name was Helena, which she explained was because she was born
there, the love child of hippie parents.  She was twenty-one. His name
was Toby.  Scared to death since Walt and his boys had more than a few
long talks with them, they knew they were in very deep trouble with
very bad people. She had been crying, but now was deathly still and
quiet except for a few involuntary, intermittent shakes.  Toby was
catatonic.  As Walt sat back studying the unhappily married couple, I
addressed her. 

"Talk to me.  Tell me whether you understand what is going on here."  

Since I had arrived, she had not yet looked directly at me.   Still
looking at me only obliquely, her eyes flitted between her husband and
me, lighting but a second on either of us, continually moving in her
embarrassment. 

"He asked you a question," Toby said. I caught a glimpse of sexual
desire reflected in his voice which surprised me.  I wondered if
anyone else caught it. When I glanced at Walt, I knew he had heard
Toby the way I had.

"I will be a whore.  I..."

Her voice cracked and she began to sob, tiny, little gasps released
under great pressure as she fought to maintain her composure.  She was
so pathetic, at first I wanted to comfort her, but I did not.  It was
neither the time nor place for comfort. Had it been, it was Toby's
responsibility and he made no move toward her.  

But, that is not the reason I abstained from comforting her.  I was
enjoying her turmoil, her slide into the depths of despair.  I
realized my own deep desire which drove me to participate in this game
was her unwilling sexual submission . . .  her rape.  My cock was hard
as a rock and my heart was pounding at the thought.

Eventually,  she took a long, deep breath, and slowly it let it out.
Still, she had not looked at me. As if relating a tale of death in her
family, she spoke in a dark monotone.

"I know what I have to do and I will do it.  I will be a bride on her
honeymoon, being happy about having wild sex, doing anything the man
tells me to do, except the man will not be my husband."  Her voice
would break the heart of a statue, but it was so erotic, I thought I
would be spilt open. 

"Anything else?"

"No pain. They promised me no pain if I cooperated."

"Listen," Walt said, seizing our attention.  Mesmerized by him, we
listened in quiet horror as Walt related a story of a woman who tried
to negotiate her way out of having sex with the man who paid for her
losses.  At the instruction of the casino bosses, she was brutally
gang raped by seven men.  Walt was making it perfectly clear to Helena
cooperation with me was much better than the alternative, and making
me understand I was to complete my part in this drama. 

I was watching Toby and Helena as Walt spoke. Toby acted sexually
aroused and I wondered what the hell was going on.  At the end of
Walt's tale, Helena, for a second, looked at me directly for the first
time.  It was the expression a prisoner gives the hangman, or, was it
something more?

"Well?"  Walt asked. There was a long silence.   

"I can do this," Helena said very softly as if trying to convince
herself rather than communicate to us.  I hoped she could do it
because the fantasy of her being with me under these circumstances was
quickly growing in me. When she reached the point where she looked at
me openly, I knew she was ready for the next step.

"Helena? Do we have a deal?"

"Yes.  We have a deal," she whispered.   

Toby was a study in conflict. His eyes were wide, scared, but not
angry. I saw lust in them, and apprehension.  Was Toby getting off at
seeing his wife in this predicament?

"Toby, I suggest you leave Vegas.  Go back home.  We will send your
wife to you when we are finished with her."  Walt's voice left little
room for discussion, but Toby jumped to answer. 

"No. I want to see . . . "  He froze, sweat breaking out on his face.
She saw in his face what we all saw.  We all were beginning to
understand why he let her gamble, why he did not protect her as he
should have . . .  as he promised to do as he stood by her on the
altar just a few days ago.  Consciously or subconsciously, it really
makes no difference, he had set her up for a fall.  

She knew now what had happened.  She started to weave as if she might
faint, but fell into a straight chair.  We all waited as her ravaged
mind pieced together the puzzle of her life as it existed at this
moment.  "Go away, Toby.  Go home.  I will call you when they are
through with me.  We can talk then."

"Helena, I want . . . "  Walt stood, waving his arm to cut off Toby.
"You heard her.  The lady has decided."  

She accompanied me to my room, then put away her few clothes the
bellman brought in her luggage. She looked exhausted.  When I
suggested she take a nap, she mumbled a thanks and fell on the bed,
asleep before I left the room. 

The ball game was in progress on the television. I was sitting in my
boxers and T-shirt, reading the newspaper, sipping a chardonnay, as I
kept abreast of the televised action.   Some ironic broadcasting god
caused a public service announcement for Gamblers Anonymous to be
playing on the TV as the door to the bedroom opened.   

She looked dreadful in a beautiful, helpless, sensual way, which,
while seeming to be a contradiction, accurately describes her
appearance.  I could not understand but only empathize with the
feelings of betrayal and abandonment she must have felt when she
realized her husband maneuvered her into this situation. I could
sympathize with her feelings of helplessness and humiliation at what
lay ahead.  But, that empathy did not deter me from my part in this
play.  It made me want the play to continue.  I deeply desired what
was going to happen, without regard for the consequences to her.  

She watched me now, her down-turned eyes slipping up to mine from
under long lashes, then darting away again. Slowly, she walked to the
middle of the room, about four paces from me. 


"Where is Toby?"

"Gone. On a plane to the coast."

"May I sit down?"

I patted the couch by me.  She moved as if every muscle and bone in
her body ached before sitting primly, legs together, hands folded in
her lap, eyes always averted from me. 

"What is going to happen?"

"You know that. Don't pretend you do not understand."

"Please, don't do it to me," she begged, unable even to look at me,
turning to give me a three-quarter view of her face which was angled
down. But, her eyes flashed up at me once.  

"You heard Walt. You will cooperate!  Do I need to call him?  Do you
want seven men to fuck you instead of just one?"

She never responded.  She never moved. She was a lump, devoid of
emotion, dead inside.  It was I who spoke next.

"Go take a shower, change clothes. Wear something casual. I am
ordering in room service.  Would you like to eat?"  She nodded
imperceptibly as she fought to stand.  She struggled to walk to the
bedroom.  Soon, I heard the shower.  A suicide attempt by her crossed
my mind, but somehow I knew she was too tough for that.  Still, I
wondered if I was correctly reading all the signals she was sending
me.    

By the time the food arrived, she had showered and was sitting on the
couch in a pretty blouse and a skirt which came to about three inches
above her knee.  Dinner was a strange affair. Conversation attempts
fell flat.  We both ate a reasonable meal, however, with a bottle of
wine to wash it down.   The tension, so thick you could not cut it
with the steak knives room service delivered,  never eased.  

After dinner, she excused herself for a few minutes. When she
returned, she sat on the opposite side of the room in a straight chair
by the desk.  I sipped my wine, ostensibly watching the last of the
ball game, but really watching her from the corner of my eye. 

Helena again sat on the edge of the seat, back straight, hands folded
primly, knees together, a picture of demure womanhood. She never
looked my way unless she thought I was not watching her.  Then, I
would catch her staring at me with an expression I had trouble reading
because of the way I was watching her.  When the game was over, I
clicked off the tube, sat down my drink, and sat on the edge of the
couch, facing her. 

"Stand up and let me see you, Helena."

Helena's head popped up to stare at me, her eyes big and frightened.
She turned a scarlet red and shook her head 'no'.  My immutable stare
told her to proceed.  She stood, a tear coming to her eye as she began
unbuttoning her blouse.

There is something very erotic about forcing a woman sexually, about
taking her to or beyond her limits.   She seemed unaware her
hesitation, and the slow, rhythmic pace of her undressing increased
its erotic impact, as did the begging in her eyes.   

My mind flashed to Gina, a wild Italian I had dated before she hooked
a doctor.  Gina loved sex and was a master at building tension, of
making foreplay itself so special and unique, intercourse was almost
anticlimactic.  Gina knew how to make a man force her: how to maneuver
him into making her surrender to him, take her against her apparent
will.  She would surrender with elan. The eroticism that dance with
her generated fueled dreams for a lifetime. Now, Helena was generating
that kind of heat, all be it without intent and with consequences,
real or imagined, if she did not comply.   

Had she looked away, or looked angry or disgusted, the spell would
have been broken.   But, her eyes continually transmitted their
message of humbling and involuntary submission which the rhythm of her
hands reinforced.  It was a slow, desperate dance by one building
desire in another. 

Clad now only in a bra and panties, with her hips turned so her leg
blocked my frontal view and her arms covered her breasts modestly, she
finally verbalized what her eyes and body had been saying: "Please,
don't make me . . . "

I said nothing. I had no compunction about making her, forcing her to
submit to my demands, to bear my weight when I was ready. It was the
incredible, exquisite tension she was building I wished to continue
for as long as possible.  My cock had never been that hard.  I wanted
her to continue at her own pace, the pace which was driving me to
unprecedented levels of desire. 

I could see her back straighten as a hand slipped behind her to
release her bra. The bra fell loose, but not away, trapped against her
breasts by her arm.  She looked away and closed her eyes.  Slowly,
with one hand, she began to slip the panties off her hips and down her
legs.  She looked like "September Morn," her side to me, body curled
to hide her nudity, protecting herself as best she could with only her
hands and arms, panties trapped around one trim ankle like a white
flag of surrender.  

Did she realize how delicious she looked? How helpless, how feminine,
with her ass and legs so perfectly posed to arouse the animal in a
man?  Did she realize she was driving me wild with desire?  

Again, I neither moved nor spoke, letting her work her way through it,
giving her time to adjust.  When she finally looked at me again, she
stared openly, as if looking away was more than she could bear.
Looking into her big, doe eyes, I was stunned and excited by her
expression. It was sexual desire and a pleading for tenderness,  more
than a reflection of humiliation.  It was need as well as
embarrassment.  Or, was I mistaken, my own desire clouding my vision?
It made no difference. I was driven on.   

"Move your hands away and let me see you."

She sobbed audibly and quivered.  Tears, absent except for one lone
tear since we first began, rolled silently down her face.  Her hands
clenched, knuckles white, muscles in her arms corded, as she fought to
do what she knew she must.  She turned, like a steel bar being slowly
torqued to straightness, until she faced me, legs together, arms rigid
by her side, eyes clenched shut, her face a grimace.  

Who knows what in a woman appeal to a man?  What one man sees as
sexual and physical perfection, another finds only vaguely attractive.
Helena hit me right on target.

"You are magnificent."  

It was muted, said very unintentionally, just an honest comment
slipping out when not expected.  She looked very surprised, even
pleased,  I had said it, as a slow blush crawled up from her belly to
cover her face, a red glow to emphasize her sad, passive eyes. 

I waited until her hands fell open by her side and the tension lines
in her face slackened.   I walked to her slowly, watching her eyes
widen, tensions return as she stared unblinking, fear evident in her
frozen face. With the tip of a finger under her chin, I guided her
head upwards and held it there as I softly kissed her lips.  Her lips
were cool and clammy, evidence of her mental state. Once again, she
was rigid as she waited to be taken. But, did her eyes have a hint of
something?

Part of me, specifically the part sticking out like a tree desperate
to be planted, wanted to take her that instant.  But, the larger part
wished to continue the slow torture she had begun. I slowly walked
around her, dragging my left hand across her cool skin as I did. I
could feel her flesh moving under my fingertips. 

I stopped in front, leaning into her, letting my hard cock brush her
pubis through the protective layer of the boxer's cotton cloth, as I
kissed her again, feeling her lips part slightly. I half-expected her
to flee. She stood rooted in place. 

Now, I wished to bring my desire to fever pitch. All my movements were
slow, obvious, visible to her, so her reactions would reflect in her
face for me to see. I brought both hands up in her line of vision and
lowered them again to cup her breasts. She twitched as if jolted by
electricity,  as my hands closed on her high, firm breasts and my
thumbs found her nipples.  Anguish ruled her eyes, her lips curled in
terror, but her body, except for small tremors not controllable by
her, was still, letting me do as I wished. 

Did I misread again, or did desire flicker for an instant? Why were
her nipples so hot and hard in my hand, like the nipples of women who
wanted my hands there, not like a woman being raped? 

I continued to enjoy her body with my hands, enjoy her emotions with
my eyes, as I touched her, all of her, slowly, decadently.  I leaned
to kiss the tender cusp between neck and shoulder, where the
collarbone disappears, feeling the hot flesh under my lips.  Moving
slightly to stand to her left, I brought my left hand under her chin
as my right found the cheek of her ass.  She gasped as I squeezed,
digging my fingers into her flesh.  Fingers under her jawbone, I
lifted, forcing her on tip toes, feeling the hard ass-muscle tighten
in my hand.  She was stretching and the ass muscle spasmed under the
pressure of my grip, sending a jolt to my already overwrought cock. 

My right hand released. She shifted her weight foot to foot, trying to
balance.  The tension is my left arm made it spasm as I continued to
force her head in the air. The middle finger of my hand moved across
the furrow at the top of her ass where back and ass join, to the
divide, sliding down to rest on the puckered entrance, testing it.

"Please," she squeaked as my finger moved back and forth, and her ass
hole throbbed in response, tightening to repel penetration, then,
relaxing again.

"NO!"  She jumped, squealing as I swatted her ass cheek hard, trying
to flee but my hand was in her hair holding her close to me. Her lip
quivered as tears again started.  As she rubbed her ass with both
hands, she could not take her eyes from mine.  Her eyes begged me to
let her go, be gentle, to give her mercy.  

I had no mercy to give.  This rape, this taking of her, controlled me
as I controlled her . . .   without mercy, without humanity, with an
animal passion I had never felt. 

"Crawl into the bed, Helena."  

It did not even sound like me.  It was the voice of a lust-filled
madman. I watched the delightful sway of her ass as she crawled toward
the bed, relishing her subjugation and surrender as much as anything
sexual I had ever done.  As she crawled onto the bed, I pinned her
with a harsh hand on the back of her neck holding her against the
mattress.  My free hand dropped between her legs to pull at the dark
tuft, caress the curve of her ass, as she lay, half-on, half-off, the
bed with one knee and an extended foot supporting her weight. 

When I released her, she moved again to lie in the center. I watched
as she lay face down, then, rolled over to look at me, her lower body
still twisted, vainly seeking protection from that which was to
follow. 

As I knee walked beside her, her fists clenched as her arms came in
front of her chest.  Her hips turned, bringing her legs up in a
defensive fetal position, and those eyes never left mine. I swatted
her again, leaving the print of a palm and fingers in red on the white
of her thigh. Her eyes were cowed now. Slowly, her hands and legs
moved, fists still clenched as they slowly fell to lay by her head,
legs straight out on the bed, together and locked. 

"Open your legs so I can fuck you!"

One shake of her head saying 'no'.

I jammed my hard knee between her thighs, relishing the thrill of
driving them apart by brute strength, shifting my weight so my full
two hundred pounds were on the fulcrum.   She was strong, determined
to resist to the end. I could feel the muscles in her thighs quiver
and strain as they fought to keep me from between them.   

I saw a drop of red on her hand where a nail had spilt her own flesh
in a clench of emotional intensity. The sight of the blood exploded a
memory from the recesses of my subconscious.  

I was thirteen, with my father and uncle in the heavy brush of far
south Texas on a deer hunt.  I had shot my first deer, hitting a doe
in the shoulder with a flat shot from about eighty yards.  Ignoring my
father's yells to be careful with a loaded rifle, I ran toward the
deer, who was mortally wounded but struggling to flee.  I was panting,
gasping, as I stood beside her.  She was breathing rapidly and
raggedly, her struggling almost over, as she lay dying at my feet.

"You can't let her suffer, son," Dad said, his hand firm on my
shoulder.   "We need to put her out of her misery."  He told me how to
do it and gave me his hunting knife. 

In one swift, brutal stroke, I drove the blade of his hunting knife
into the doe's throat, severing the cartoroid artery. Blood flowed
from her neck as the light in her eyes flickered and died. The doe
shuddered violently, releasing air from her wounded lungs in the
rattle of death.  

It was those eyes . . .  of the doe in the last seconds of her life,
just before the uncomprehendable and overpowering knowledge of
imminent death vanished with life itself . . .  I saw in Helena's face
at that moment.  I felt her resistance end and the muscles in her legs
relax.

A hand on each knee, I pulled her legs up and apart, bending and
spreading them, opening her, rolling her hips up to give me the angle
I desired. Her fists relaxed, revealing the hole in her palm, the
blood oozing to form a red slash in mute acknowledgment of her
sacrifice. 

Bending her double, I lodged the tip of my cock between the lips of
her pussy. In that instant in which I was poised at her gates, I felt
her love juices thick around my cock head and the bloated fullness of
her lower lips. Yet, from the corner of my eye, I saw the blood in her
hand where her nail had penetrated her skin. I seized a wrist in each
hand, trapping her hands by her head, shifting my weight to power my
cock into her using my hands on her trapped wrists for balance. 

I saw her doe eyes flicker and change as I drove my cock into her in
one, swift, brutal stroke.

Time stood still as I froze, like a statue, my cock buried in her, my
eyes burning into hers.   I could feel her cervix against my cock
head.  I could feel her heat and slickness around my shaft, a spasm of
her pussy walls around me.  I could feel the inside of her thighs from
my rib cage to my crotch, and the front of her calves under my arms.
I could hear her ragged breathing, see the labored rise and fall of
her breasts. I could smell her heat, her fear, her desire.  

I could see her eyes: her soft, woman's eyes.  

Helena shuddered violently, releasing air in a hushed but unmistakable
murmur.

"Please. Don't stop."   -