THE LIBRARY: Ave De Rapina Part One

AVE DE RAPINA Part One 
{This story originally appeared on BDSMARTWORK - We thank them for letting us share it with you here}
He watched her as he had for weeks, months, years. Through the night vision glasses he saw her long, silky, chestnut hair bouncing in the wind around a lovely oval face. Eyes that shifted from verdant to violet. That smooth small chin. That straight nose. Those luscious lips over flawless white teeth. The exquisite throat. The elegant eyebrows. And a body that could not be denied, even in the sweater and long pleated skirt.
She didn't notice him. She never did, no matter whether she was at the greenhouse, in the library, or at church. No one did. He was just the man who tended the hedges, swept up after the services, or sat quietly in the reading room. He seemed to blend in with the falling autumn leaves in the late afternoon light of the quiet, winding, residential suburban street.
He had picked a perfect spot, as always, seemingly far removed from the simple colonial house where she lived with her parents, but with a clear view of the door and her window between several other houses, over two curves in the road, and beyond several grassy hills.
His car was nondescript with its windows mirrored from the outside. Everything was perfect. He saw to it. He had plenty of time to plan.


She went inside and closed the door behind her. He immediately shifted the high magnification goggles to her room where he knew exactly where the shade was bent, allowing an inch of opening. From even directly outside no one could have seen a thing, but with these military binoculars, a freckle could look like a planet.
His mouth dried as he saw her enter her room, unawares. She was smiling, serene and secure. Her room was like so many others. A wooden bed by the window, a matching armoire and mirror by the door. A closet beside that. Posters of sports and singing stars on the wall. A book case between the bed and the door, with a stereo system on top. There was jewelry, cosmetics, and perfumes on every surface.
She pulled off her sweater over her head. He found himself holding his breath as he always did, watching her white buttoned shirt swell around her perfect torso. Even after all this time she still made him dizzy. Five feet, six inches tall, a hundred and five pounds if she were an ounce. Dress size, two. Shoe size, seven. Then there was that body....
She started to unbutton her blouse. He stared at her chest in the white lace bra. Thirty-four D -- so rich, so round, so firm, so strong. He saw the belt of the plaid, pleated skirt embracing her waist. Twenty-two amazing inches. The wool dropped from her thirty-four inch hips and along her long legs. As usual, he stared, marveling, at the depression between her thigh and firm rear, revealed by her matching panties.
Oh, that skin. That smooth, not quite white, not quite tan skin. Those long, unblemished swaths of warm, firm, shapely flesh....
His reverie was interrupted by her favorite v-necked t-shirt -- the one with the tiny red cloth rose at the neck -- and worn, form-fitting jeans. She seemed completely unaware that these soft, dependable denims practically made a camel toe between her legs but they looked and felt so comfortable she neglected to notice.
Then on went the white boat shoes. She kept her simple earrings (little hearts) and necklace on, checked her short, lavender-lacquered nails, then bounded out the room. The light went off in her room. Seconds later another came on in the kitchen.
He lowered the glasses, his mouth dry. Even better than her mother, he thought. Much better than her mother, even when she had been her daughter's age. He was anxious, but controlled himself. He had waited this long, he could wait just a few more hours. He looked over his shoulder at the back seat.
The blanket was there. The pillows were there. The straps were there. Rolls of tape lay in the gutters between seats. White tape, black tape, duct tape -- both silver and blue. He checked the small leather bag beside him. The plastic bottle, pulpy cloth pad, pull-ties, bandages, and thinner tape were all there as well.
He checked himself. Dark blue pants and jacket, black walking shoes. He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror. He could have been anyone old enough to be her father, or even grandfather. No matter. He was young enough in every other way....
He sat and waited, knowing it would be worth it. Because tonight was the night. Anne Rutherford leaned down to pull the cookies out of the oven, humming to the song on the easy listening radio station. With this batch, she should have enough for the cake sale this weekend. Even without weekend babysitting to supplement her job at the florist shop, she should make enough so she wouldn't have to ask her folks for anything when they got back from their trip.
She placed the rack on the cutting board, closed the stove door, turned off the oven, stood straight and took a deep breath of the delicious aroma in the country kitchen. Odd.... There was a strange vinegary tang in the air, mixing with the scent of chocolate and sugar.
Her eyes just began to open, seeing her dim reflection in the small window over the sink. Just before she saw the shadow behind her, her world changed.
One wiry muscular limb clinched around her torso, trapping her arms, while the other went around her head, clamping the stitched, pulpy pad over her nose and mouth.
He felt her surge up, back, and against him, exulting in her shape, smell, and the way he was able to overwhelm her. Suddenly the back of her head was on his shoulder, her soft, smooth hands were clutching his arm, and her delectable body was writhing on his.
For a split second he had worried that her youthful strength might be too much for him, but then he felt how her face was swallowed by the specially prepared pad, and that her hundred pounds was no match for his two hundred, no matter how many years separated them.
Even surprise and panic couldn't feed her what she needed. He felt her struggle and heard her try to scream, but then all he saw was the way her chest thrust against her t-shirt, and suddenly his fingers were there, tearing down.
Her right, filled, bra cup fell out as they fell back against the fridge door. She tried to run forward but he lifted her easily off the floor, drawing her head even further back, her face buried beneath the pulpy cloth.

TO BE CONTINUED