Copyright© 2004 by Kien Reti
Rape is our business.
We're the Balancers, a select group of professionals who balance the scales of justice. Our clients are victims, the victims of rape: the coed date raped by a classmate, the secretary physically coerced into sex by her supervisor, the housewife overpowered by a drunken brother-in-law, the woman minding her own business assaulted by a stranger.
Calling in the Authorities in such cases is often counterproductive, if not downright futile. Rape is difficult to prove in a court of law -- it's your word against his, after all -- and even when a conviction results, the victim's reputation is systematically dismantled by defense lawyers, not to mention the press.
Obviously, we don't advertise our services. It's unnecessary. Word of mouth brings in more work than we can handle, and we're continually hiring new associates to help us handle the overload.
Here I must confess that I enjoy the "down and dirty" stuff. Sure, I could make like a supervisor and content myself with shuffling papers and setting policy, and delegate "finalizing the deal" -- the actual act of physically penetrating the rapist -- to lower level employees. As it happens, though, I like fucking men -- fucking them in the ass, that is. Especially Alpha men, the aggressive top-dog types who have been used to getting their own way all their life and taking, by force if necessary, what they want from others. Men accustomed to compelling others do their bidding. Men who give orders. Men who dominate. Even more satisfying than the friction on my hard cock as it forces open their anal sphincter is the astonished look on their face when they realize what's being done to them.
Take, for example, the job we handled last month. The perp was a biker, a real gem of a human being. He was a six-foot-four, 280-pound bruiser who was quite adept with knives, brass knucks, and chains. The guy had a rap sheet as long as your arm -- rape, robbery, aggravated assault, and various other flavors of mayhem. A real sweetheart.
It seems that he and his buddies had gotten drunk and rowdy on a Saturday night, an unremarkable occurrence in their milieu. But on this one particular night, it was the misfortune of our client, a certain Marianne G., to cross paths with this fine specimen of humanity. She was a single parent working weekend evenings at a second job in order to make ends meet. The walk home was only three blocks, and it was through what was considered a safe neighborhood. Unfortunately, Barabbas "Monk" Monkton, leader of the Satan's Swordsmen Riding Association, happened to be tooling down that same street on his iron steed.
He brutally raped and sodomized Marianne and might have done even worse had not neighbors, alerted by her screams, called the police. Based on her description, Monkton was arrested all right, but ten of his fellow gang members adamantly insisted that he was sitting next to them on a barstool chugalugging a bottle of Ripple at the time of the incident. The best the local DA could do was to plea bargain the case down to disorderly conduct, and Monkton served all of three days jail time. Justice.
Monkton got drunk to celebrate his release from the county jail, and that made it easy for our organization to take him into custody. No one gets unduly concerned if scumbags and lowlifes "disappear" for a week or so. In any case, we generally have an arrangement with the local authorities in most jurisdictions, and this lets us operate with impunity as long as we stay reasonably discreet.
Monkton regained consciousness in a sensory deprivation chamber. He would still be feeling muzzy from the tranquilizer dart that had knocked him out, and this would boost the perception of floating in nothingness, of being in a state somewhere between alive nor dead. He was, in fact, submerged in a tank of lukewarm water, with eyes and ears sealed shut, with breathing tubes in his nose and mouth, with IVs inserted in his veins and a catheter in his ureter.
Only those with a robust and stable sense of self can survive more than a few hours in a Blank Tank and emerge with their mind intact. Not being able to see, hear, or feel for extended periods is so terribly disorienting that it undermines and erodes the core ego structure. It puts the subject into a trance-like state of shock and suggestibility that makes possible personality restructuring, or what is popularly known as brainwashing.
A week in the Tank prepared Monkton for the next stage of his "rehabilitation." For the next several days, the drug cocktail pumped into his arms was altered to make him more receptive to suggestion. Every few hours, tiny sound transducers implanted in his ears softly intoned a prepared script designed to awaken in him the Anima, the hidden feminine/vulnerable side embedded in every masculine personality, no matter how polarized toward the macho end of the scale. Simultaneously, a specially trained therapist reached into the Tank and gently massaged Monkton's buttocks to enhance his sensitivity in his posterior regions. In later sessions, this massage treatment included electrical stimulation of his sphincter and the inner ring of his anus.
Monkton was now ready for the final stage. He had to be supported under both arms as he was led forth from the Tank and strapped bent over, face forward over a waist-high padded bench. Injection of a mild stimulant had brought him to a semi-conscious state of awareness.
"Attach the electrodes." This enhancement would, in fact, make the treatment pleasurable for the subject. Exquisitely pleasurable. Monkton would receive mild jolts of current directly into his brain's pleasure center at a critical moment.
"Spread his legs." As regional vice president in charge of operations, mine was the honor of the first insertion. I already had my penis ready and was in the process of lubing it.
"Turn on the mikes and zoom in the videocams." Of course, we keep a complete record of the proceedings, as is required by the operating rules.
I gently separated his buttocks. A tight "virgo intacta" orifice, it appeared. This rapist had never been taken anally. Now he would find out what it felt like to be on the receiving end.
"Open up for me, baby." I pressed a certain spot on his lower spine and his sphincter ring relaxed and dilated as I entered him.
There's nothing like the finely rippled texture of a virgin male rectum. It imparts a special sensation to the liquid friction of lubricated cock slowly moving in that tight, silky-smooth ass-cunt. A woman's pussy can't compare.
And his face! Variations of disbelief and utter astonishment crawled over Monkton's features before his face finally sagged into an idiot grin of cheerful, mindless rapture. Yes, my dear Monk, this is what it feels like to take it in the ass, to be well and truly fucked, to have someone else control you, use you, own you. And you'll never be a danger to women again... We've made damn certain of that.
It is generally assumed that a person's sexual orientation is set in stone by the time he reaches puberty. This may be true, so far as it goes, but underneath the hard crust of habit and memory a typical adult male is surprisingly malleable. Strip away the top layers of personality, whether by purely psychological means or by injection of RNA antagonists into the cerebral lobes, and the vulnerable raw psyche presents itself for editing and modification.
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