A Predator Like Me
Copyright© 2026 by Tom Garb
Chapter 3
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Neil wasn’t really a rapist. Not like Vivian and her “art.” He was an opportunist who spread pleasure. She came from traumatizing her victims. Vivian was an intriguing woman that Neil had to have, even if it meant reshaping himself in her image – and forcing her to take his cock in her lesbian cunt. She fought him every step of the way to becoming his fucktoy… until she didn’t. Amidst their struggle, each faced a loneliness they’d been trying to ignore, and the solution staring them in the face.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mind Control Heterosexual Fiction MaleDom Humiliation Rough Black Female White Male Oral Sex Foot Fetish
“That’s ... quite a story, isn’t it?” Neil managed. “The photo, the lighting, the composition, even someone like me who doesn’t know much about art can tell it’s technically brilliant. But the story behind it is ... unsettling.”
Vivian’s smile widened. “The fucking point of art is to be unsettling. Its fucking raison d’être is to confront the viewer with something that challenges their understanding of the world, not to coddle their delicate sensibilities. Art should make you fucking feel something.” Her eyes flicked down to his painfully hard cock straining against his pants, evaluating his response to her art, and back up to his face. “What are you feeling, Neil?”
Revulsion? Yes, but he didn’t want to admit that to her when he was so obviously aroused. Horny? Admitting that would be even worse. Either would be acknowledging that he found her cruelty exciting and suggest that his own appetites were distasteful. So he stuck to talking about the photo.
“I’m really feeling the shock, if that makes sense?” he said, gesturing to the photograph. “Especially on the mom’s face. Jessa. The way you caught that moment of horror when it all dawned on her ... it’s powerful. It’s not just betrayal, is it? It’s confusion, and the realization that this is her fault.”
Vivian’s face lit up. “Exactly!” she said, stepping closer to the photo, and perhaps incidentally, closer to him. “The dumb cunt is looking at me, at what I’m doing to her daughter, and in that moment she’s dissecting her entire relationship with me, looking for the signs she missed. She’s asking herself, ‘How could I have let this happen?’ and excoriating herself for being a bad mother. She brought me into her home and introduced me to her child. She’s complicit in her daughter’s violation. She’s realizing the ‘love’ she felt for me is a grotesque lie, and recognizing that she was just as vulnerable and foolish as her daughter. That’s what makes it so exquisite. The pain is layered.”
Vivian tapped on the photo, and Neil followed her finger to Eden’s face staring out from the life-sized print. “And look at this little twat. She’s also feeling betrayed, compounded with the shame of being caught and sudden revulsion towards her own body and her own pleasure. Her mom just saw her cum. All that adolescent insecurity and shame, twisted up into one perfect moment of agony.” She pressed the heel of her hand against her cunt. “Fuck, I’m wet again just talking about it.” She took a step towards Neil, crowding him. Her gaze was intense, predatory. “But you’re avoiding the question. I asked what you are feeling.”
He took a half-step back, and bumped into the wall behind him. “I’m ... processing. It’s a lot to take in.” He felt trapped, pinned by her black eyes and the raw, unapologetic malice she exuded.
It was hard for Neil to think past the roaring need in his cock that was urging him to rip off Vivian’s dress off fuck her against the wall. He turned around, as much to escape her magnetic pull as to get a better look at the photograph. More than anything, Eden looked vulnerable. Her face was frozen in a moment of bliss and horror, and her body was exposed, her tits and cunt displayed for the viewer. The photo was an intimate violation that was repeated every time her pain and shame were consumed by strangers. And he was party to it, intruding on a stolen moment of profound emotional agony, discussing the details of her torment with the woman who had engineered it.
“Guilt, I suppose?” he said, still studying Eden’s face. “Like I’m contributing to her violation somehow, just by looking at it. Sadness that you put this poor girl through hell for a piece of art. Though not even for art, really. Just because it made you wet, right? And I’m confused that despite my empathy for her, I find myself getting hard from your story.”
He’d had his own adventures deflowering teenagers, of feeling their tight, inexperienced cunts clamp down around his cock as he took something from them they could never get back. But that was different. They probably wouldn’t have chosen on their own to lose their virginity to a stranger, but in the moment, they’d wanted it, and he liked to think he’d left them with a treasured, sexy memory of their ‘first time,’ not a lifetime of trauma. He was an enabler of pleasure. Vivian was a sculptor of pain.
“I want to understand,” Neil said, taking a step closer to Vivian. “Why? What’s the point, beyond the cruelty? What are you trying to say with this?”
“My photos have no profound didactic intent.” Vivian shrugged, and the motion made her small tits jiggle under her dress. “People always want to believe that artists hide deep meaning in their work, but often, art is a justification for gratifying their fucking base impulses. Art museums are fucking full of naked women. Tits and ass everywhere you look. Do you think all those male painters and sculptors from centuries past were creating profound statements about the human condition? Fucking nonsense. They were creating a fucking excuse to hang a pair of naked tits on a horny rich man’s wall.”
Neil wasn’t sure he bought that. The entirety of art history was an excuse to look at naked women? It was too reductive. He was no art expert, but he’d seen art that had moved him with its beauty, or made him see the world differently. Still, he could see her point, even if it was overstated. It reminded him of a piece he’d seen which pointed out that art museums displayed more paintings of naked women than paintings by women. Maybe the art was less about beauty or profound statements and more about what society, or at least the men who ran it, valued.
Vivian shrugged. “I’m continuing the venerable tradition of artists who create beautiful images that make their dick hard, or, in my case, make my cunt feel tingly. It makes me wet to see pretty girls cry. So I capture moments of profound emotional pain that I know I’ll cum to later.” She gestured around the room. “This whole show is part of my spank bank. I have a good eye for lighting and composition, and I know how to take a fucking good photo, but my primary motivation is to get my pussy wet. It’s fortuitous that other people find them aesthetically pleasing and I can make a good living from it. But the reason I create my art is that it makes my pussy happy. Nothing, abso-fucking-lutely nothing, makes me cum harder than a beautiful woman in soul-shattering agony.”
Neil took another step closer, closing the distance between them. He reached out, pretending to study the glossy surface of the photograph, and brushed his fingers against her wrist.
Time stopped, and a curtain of shiny colored orbs unrolled across his field of vision. Each orb represented an emotion, a preference, or a desire. Nearly two decades of practice and the intuition that came with his gift allowed him to easily identify each one. There were the typical ones like hunger, a dull, throbbing brown; curiosity, a shimmering silver; ambition, a rich, dark purple.
Neil’s mental fingers closed around the orb in the center of the shimmering constellation, pulsing in bright red, that represented Vivian’s lust. He gave it a slight squeeze, and it shattered into a new curtain of orbs that displaced the previous one, a more detailed tapestry of her sexual desires. These orbs were a riot of vibrant colors, but two of them, in particular, glowed brighter than the rest. One was the color of fresh blood, a seething, angry crimson sphere of malicious sadism. The other was deep, pure violet lust for women. Not love. Not one of the aspects of her sexuality was tinged with gold affection. Her cunt, not her heart, drove her, and her sexuality was inextricably linked to the suffering of others. She needed tears as much as she needed tits, and pain as much as she needed pussy. She didn’t want to make love to women, she wanted to use them, to hurt them, to make them cry, and then get off on their anguish.
The lesbianism he could work with. Few people were completely one thing or the other. His gift allowed him to find the tiniest sliver of curiosity even in women who were strictly gay, and amplify that flicker of interest until they were eager to try a cock “just this once.” He made them feel that he was safe to experiment with, and they remembered it fondly as a one-time thing that, while fun to try, ultimately confirmed that they preferred women.
That wouldn’t work for Vivian. He could amplify the infinitesimally tiny part of her that was attracted to men easily enough, but attraction alone wouldn’t get her into bed. His usual gently seductive approach, with it’s focus on mutual pleasure, would be repulsive to her. It was the antithesis of everything she found erotic. He could make her want his dick, but she already liked pussy, and she was only interested in fucking a woman when she was also hurting her. He had no interest in being her victim in order to get her pussy wet.
What to do? He couldn’t just amplify a flicker of desire and then be the nice guy who “let” her experiment with him. He needed a new approach. Something like ... well, something like what she did. An approach that used her sadism against her. He had to upend his usual subtle methods, and become as unapologetically predatory as she was. Make it so she was fully, consciously aware of what he was doing to her. He would force her to be a spectator to her own violation, and make her to enjoy it the same way she enjoyed violating other women.
It took him a few minutes to figure out the mechanics of it. He was used to performing a a well-practiced routine of quick, subtle manipulations that he could run through in seconds. He would amplify a woman’s desire for him, heighten her physical sensitivity, and mute her inhibitions. The whole process was a smooth, efficient operation that usually had a woman ready to drop her panties for him after a handshake. Vivian required an entirely different set of mental manipulations and a much greater degree of finesse.
First, he had to keep her aware. He found the pulsing orb that represented her consciousness, her sense of self, and sharpened it, making it hyper-aware. He wanted her to know what was happening to her, and that she was powerless to stop it. He wanted her to feel violated by what her own desires forced her to do. Unlike his usual encounters where the women experienced sex with him as a joyous, passionate act of their own free will, Vivian would be fully aware that she was being compelled. She would experience being raped, and get off on her own degradation.
Next, he had to address the lesbianism. He couldn’t just temporarily suppress it, the way he had done with other lesbians he had wanted to fuck. He needed to make the violation of her sexuality part of her humiliation. He amplified her nearly-nonexistent flicker of curiosity about men into a throbbing, desperate hunger for cock and wove it around her deep violet love of cunt like a parasitic vine wrapped around a tree. He wanted her to be disgusted with herself for craving a man’s dick, even as her cunt grew slick with the need for it.
Then came the key component. He had to turn her sadism in on itself. He reached into her mind and found that seething, angry crimson orb of her cruelty. He massaged it, elongated it like a sculptor working with clay, and turned it back on itself until it was ring, an ouroboros of pain feeding on itself. She would feel the same way she felt watching a pretty girl being raped, even when the woman being raped was her. Her own humiliation, helplessness, and suffering would become a source of intense arousal. She would become the woman she loved to hurt, and she would cum to her own agony.
He let go, and the curtain of orbs receded.
He was still standing in front of the photograph, his fingers resting lightly on her wrist. He lowered his hand, and she did the same, her arm falling back to her side.
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