I really didn’t want my end to be as a chained-up rape-doll for Old McDonald. A shotgun blast to the face would have been a mercy.
I had no way out. I couldn’t move a fucking inch in his custom Rape-a-tron 3000, and he knew it. He was enjoying himself, savouring the moment, like a cat playing with its prey trapped and injured, maximising enjoyment from the kill.
“Well,” he breathed finally, his withered cock now worked to attention. Jesus, that sight alone will give me nightmares, with his low-hanging old man balls swinging below him. When he sat on the toilet, he’d have to hoist those fuckers up so they didn’t get wet in the bowl.
God, I need to stop describing his cock and balls, it sounds like I’m obsessed. But when they’re used as tools of fear and menace against you, they’re the kind of things that stick in your memory.
Rapey Santa got out of his dirty chair and then, in full fucking view of me, he scooped something out of a pot and started smearing it all over his dick, making sure I could see.
“Goose fat” he rasped, his voice like a rusty blade. “It’ll make things more comfortable for us both.”
Then he gave a deep throaty laugh like the sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
I am not ashamed to admit I started to fucking cry and plead. I removed all pretence at being a bad-ass then and straight up begged for him to desist, but those pleas fell on deaf ears. He disappeared from my sight and moved round behind me and let me tell you, that terror is worse than seeing him work his dick into a frenzy in front of you.
Now I couldn’t see shit, I had no method of escape, I was utterly fucked and about to be violated by a creepy Cheshire farmer. It didn’t matter that I wanted no part of it and to be honest, I think that was part of the thrill for him.
No matter how I thrashed, I couldn’t move. I was at his mercy and I almost threw up in terror as I felt his callused hands slip over my hips like coarse sandpaper, hearing his breathing shallow as his excitement intensified. Fucking hell, I feel sick just writing this shit. Thank fuck for what—or more precisely, who—came next.
I’ve never been one for prayer. I don’t believe in magic space fairies in the sky, but at that moment, I swore I would become a nun if something, someone, somewhere, just did something to stop Old McDonald with his grunt-grunt here and his grunt-grunt there. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the inevitable, tears streaming down my face.
“What the fuck?” came a gravelled voice.
It was a different voice to Old McRapey. It was harder, meaner, stronger. No cock smeared in goose fat invaded me and for that I was eternally grateful.
“This is private property,” said my captor. I heard him moving away, then the other voice spoke again.
If Farmer Rapey had been in my ass at that point, I’d have probably broke his cock in two. When the new guy spoke again, I swear on my ass virginity (which had remained intact), it was the most chilling fucking sound I ever heard, with just the barest hint of a Yorkshire accent. My whole body tightened as fear locked every muscle.
“One step closer to that shotgun, friend, and you’re a dead man.”
Nothing fancy. No flowery language. No flair.
Just a simple, cold promise of what came next. There was a finality to it, hard, and yet somehow regretful he was being forced down this path.
I believed him with every fibre of my being. That was a voice that knew the future and was saddened by what was to come. It was regret, but willing to see it through to the bitter end, no matter the pain.
It went quiet, like there was a stand-off, the two men staring at each other at an impasse. Then Old McRapey must have gone for his gun, but the gunshot that sounded wasn’t the tearing thunder of a shotgun. It was the crack of a semi-automatic handgun, and you don’t find many of them in England.
My ears were ringing, but I suddenly felt all the pressure at my ankles release, then a bit of fiddling and the stocks popped open and I sprang up and turned.
The newcomer also looked in his fifties, but unlike my intended rapist who was all flab and filth, this guy looked like he was cut from aged granite. He was physically fit with narrowed eyes, close cut hair and jaw like a brick. He gave a flick with his head, indicating where my pants had been discarded and I nodded, feeling much better once I was fully clothed again. New guy kept the gun in his hand, though, even though it was held loose. Loose, but ready.
Fair enough, he had no reason to trust me. At least he had the decency to turn his back while I clothed myself. I like the guy; old school values even though the world has gone to shit. I bet that’s fucking rare in these weird times.
“Not my best of days,” I said, trying to crack the tension. “Cheers mate, you literally saved my ass.”
I swear to fucking God, I was certain there was a flash of a smirk at one corner of his mouth, but his face remained pretty even. He did, however, seem to relax and slid the handgun into a holster at his hip.
“Lockey,” I said, thrusting out my hand. “Name’s Erin Locke, but my friends call me Lockey, and as you just stopped an unwanted invasion, you definitely fall into the friend category.”
He gave me this quizzical look and it’s one I’ve gotten used to over the years. I can almost see the words in a thought bubble above their head like a comic strip.
“Does this girl really talk like this all the time?”
Yes. Yes,
