CONTINUED FROM HERE - This is a newly rewritten story, involving "Privateer" - get to know him....
"Yes, ma'm," said the electrician as he stepped out into the hallway.
"Are you through yet?" the woman called from the bottom of the stairs.
"One more thing," he said, coming down the steps. He walked by her and opened the cellar door. "All the wiring is done," he told her. "I just have to make sure the fusebox is okay."
He went into the basement, tightened the loose fuse, and immediately came back to the kitchen. "There," he said. "All finished."
He gave her the bill, which was surprisingly reasonable, and said to be sure to call him if she ever had any more trouble. Then he was gone.
The woman tapped her hair absentmindedly, taking a glance at her disappointing reflection in the kitchen window. Her time of distracting the electricians of the world was over, she sadly admitted to herself. That talent had passed on to her daughter. Maybe she would be strong enough to weather whatever slings and arrows life hurled her way, and not let her body go to pot during, and after, a bad marriage.
Oh well, the woman thought, her mind lingering on the image of her daughter. Well, at least there she was lucky. Her daughter was a good kid, with only the most unaffected behavior. Sure, she was a handful sometimes, but she was never malicious or guileful, and seemed perfectly comfortable with her really quite extraordinary body and face.
The woman almost called up to her daughter then, but stopped herself, not wanting to disturb her during homework. Instead, she puttered around downstairs and watched television until it was nearly nine. Only then did she head up.
The girl's door was slightly open. Her mother paused in her own doorway, then decided to see why her daughter's lights were out. She quietly pushed open the door a few more inches and looked in.
Her daughter was in bed, under the covers, on her side, facing away from the door.
Isn't that cute, her mother thought. Being unable to turn on the lights while the electrician was here, she had gotten tired in the gathering dusk and decided to take a nap that had gotten away from her.
Her mother smiled to herself. Well, she thought, I guess she's really in for the night. The woman shook her head, backed away, and went to her own room.
Of course, had she looked closer, she might have seen the remnants of the wire marks on her daughter's wrists, or the cum stains across her face where he had ejaculated on her while knocking her out, or maybe even the fact that the clothes she had been wearing that day were missing from her room....
He was smelling them now, the minidress pressed against his face, as he watched the house intently from down the street. He had driven his electrician's van home and switched to his nondescript car. The panties were on the seat beside him, the sandals on the passenger side floor.
He waited until all the lights in the house had gone out, then he waited some more. He waited until it was deep in the night and he was fairly sure the woman had fallen asleep. Then he drove as quietly as possible into their driveway with his headlights off.
He waited some more to see if there was any reaction, or undue traffic, on the quiet street. When the night was not disturbed by even so much as a curtain being pulled back, he got out (his car's overhead light switched off) and went to the back door, completely out of sight of the street.
He used one of his many pass keys to get in, then silently moved up the stairs, and over to the girl's room. He felt a surge of excitement when he heard her stirring. He had made it just in time. He felt, once again, that his decision was fated, as he slid into the darkness and closed her door noiselessly behind him.
The girl was beginning to turn over in the bed, her eyes moving faster and faster under her closed lids. She was, indeed, coming out of it. He rushed forward as she settled on her back and her eyes opened. Then he was on her, his left forearm tight on her throat and up against her jaw as he clamped the sodden cloth in his right hand over her nose and mouth.
The girl had only a millisecond to comprehend it. She was naked under the covers. He was dressed in black over the covers. Her arms were down, his knees hemming them in. The bedcovers were tucked tight, trapping her feet and legs. And something sickly sweet was crawling up her nostrils and down her throat....
She heaved upwards like a hooked marlin, her head going back, and a sound coming from her sounded like a pony falling backwards off a cliff. But he was like a tick affixed on her, the thick wet pad over her lower face like a wad of glue.
"That's it, baby doll," he hissed, riding her. "Breathe...breathe real deep."
No, she tried to cry. No, not again! ... but then the pungent aroma was in her head, smothering her senses one by one. Her legs started to feel heavy. Her arms became weak. She couldn't think straight any more -- stabbing visions of him raping her like bolts of lightning in her mind's eye. Her bright eyes grew cloudy, then rolled back. Her delicate eyelids started to flutter.
"Good," he whispered as she stilled. No more chances with the tazer. This time he wanted to be sure she'd stay quiet until he was done. He quickly and quietly went through her closet and drawers. For such a pretty girl with such a sexy body, she didn't have a lot of sexy clothes. But, he realized, anything would look good on her.
He pulled down the bedclothes and tossed some underwear atop her, following it with an old junior high school uniform, a nice green velvet gown for choir concerts, a dance recital costume, a simple black minidress, and some bathing suits. The sexiest shoes she had were the pumps that went along with the choir gown, but they had only two inch heels, so he left them where they were.
He opened the big, empty duffel bag he had brought with him, placed it beside her on the bed, and started padding it with her clothes. Then he carefully lifted her off the mattress and into the bag. Taking a last look, he fought the desire to either tit-fuck her or tie and gag her there and then.
Instead he closed the zipper over her, hefted the bag over his shoulder, and headed for the back door.
He let the car roll out the driveway, and didn't start the engine until he was halfway down the street. Then he didn't turn on the headlights until he was well away from the neighborhood. Stopping behind a deserted minimall, he went to work.
By the time he broke into the small, rural, lingerie shop five towns away, she was lying in the darkness of the front seat, barely covered by the simple, black, scoop-necked, stretch cotton minidress -- her wrists and elbows cinched behind her with the rubber-coated wire, her knees and ankles likewise fastened, and the underwear she had worn earlier in the day balled in her retaped mouth.
He took what he wanted from the store, then gave it an electrical fire. The light of the growing flames wasn't even illuminating the shop's front window when he drove away, the drugged girl's head resting on his lap, his hand slipping under her dress' neckline....
His place was a tall, narrow brownstone on a side street on the outskirts of the small college city next to her town. He parked in his alley-slash-driveway, and carried the hundred pound duffel in through the back door. Just inside, in the darkness of the kitchen, he dragged her out.
TO BE CONTINUED