****** A Goth Grrrl's Screams by darkness ******
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A Goth Grrrl's Screams


I'd never been like this before, but I'd never been so far removed from an
object of a maddening desire. Ever since I was a boy, I'd had intense fantasies
about the girls who fell prey to Dracula or some other demon. It was the
classical style of dress, the pale beauty, the delicate nature of her
femininity.

Then came the Goth grrrls. They varied from the dominatrix in black, to the
vampiress, to the spellbinding enchantress, to the black-vinyled siren, all of
which held a certain fascination. But there was also the tragic romantic
heroine, a modern day embodiment of the pale goddesses I'd seen ravished at the
hands of evil.

I would see these girls, engrossed in books of verse or a tale of horror. I
wanted so badly to reach out to these girls, to mingle my passion with their
delicate flesh. Yet, I knew it could never be. The desire was there, but I had
none of the style, none of the flair to ensnare their esoteric tastes.

I was in my thirties and married. Too old to try to adapt to their complex
subculture; I would look like a ridiculous poseur. Worse yet, my true identity
-- a thirty-something married man who just wanted to make love to a beautiful
young Goth -- would be seen and rejected totally. As the desire became more and
more intense, it became more and more obvious how desperate a hope it was.

That's when I stumbled across the little one. She was no more than a teenager,
and she was a tiny waif, perhaps not even five feet tall. She worked at a
bookstore I rarely visited, due to it being terribly small and in a section of
town which was mainly old stores converted into fashion boutiques and second-
hand shops. I had only begun swinging through this part of town because of the
number of Goth girls who shopped the second-hand stores.

I saw her behind the counter the second I stepped into the store. She had pale
skin and big blue eyes, shadowed with a blend of colors. Her hair, which seemed
to have been straightened, fell to about shoulder length. It was black, with
one lock in a striking purple. Her dress was black, of a simple cloth, and had
an outer corset which seemed to be mostly decorative. It cut off straight
across her chest, and showed just the tiniest bit of cleavage between her small
breasts.

What really knocked me back though, was her sensuous and expressive mouth. She
wore a dark purple lipstick, and it made her lips look full and delicious, but
there was also something sad and wistful about the way she nearly smiled. It
was if she believed that this was one pleasant moment in a life she knew was to
become tragic and trying. There seemed to be an acceptance of the inevitable
somewhere in her, and that made her a genuine tragic heroine. But what evil was
to befall this innocent at her comfortable bookstore?

Then and there, I realized I was to be that very evil. It is a strange thing,
and not nearly as disturbing as you might think, to realize that the monster
hiding in the closet and under the bed has always been the subhuman part of
your own psyche. The part that tells you that you are the stronger beast, and
that this creature before you is the prey.

It was nearly closing time. The owner, a short and round woman in her forties,
had gone into the back room to do the books or something. The girl was alone
out front. I bought a classical music CD and then meandered out the door,
noting the layout. I sat out in my car and played the CD. As I predicted, the
girl locked the door and turned out the lights before walking into the back.
Ten minutes later, they both emerged from the back door of the store into the
alleyway. This could be done.

My plan was that I was going to hide in the back, and chloroform the owner.
Then, I would grab the girl when she came back after having locked the front
and turned out the lights. I realized of course, that I had no idea where to
find chloroform, and wouldn't know where to buy it without sounding like a
kidnapper or rapist. So, I came up with an even simpler plan.

Three weeks later, I wandered my forgettable self into the store. I had on a
bulky winter jacket, as fit the climate, and I was able to smuggle in my
"supplies" with no one thinking anything of it. There was no spark of
recognition in the girl's eyes and the boss was eyeing up some teenage boys who
were too near the adult literature. As she began to move them along, no one's
eyes were on me, and I simply slipped into the back room.

Ten minutes later, as I stood behind the door, attired especially for the
occasion, I held a hefty RIVERSIDE SHAKESPEARE in my hand. As I had hoped, the
owner strolled right in and walked past me in the darkened room. The complete
works of Shakespeare worked completely as one swift shot with the spine of the
volume put her out cold. I caught her before she fell, and the noise was
minimal. I was fortunate. Mine was not the plan of an experienced violator, and
any number of things could have gone wrong already.

I tied her up with plastic tie-downs, gagged her, and placed one of those big
canvas book bags over her head. I secured that with tape from her own desk. I
stuffed her round little form into the corner. I returned to waiting behind the
door. I was hard to see back there, even if you looked right at me. I had worn
black jeans and dark shoes. I had untucked the homemade black cloak from my
belt, and let it hang down past my waist. I had also pulled up the attached
hood, and pulled it down to my eyebrows. All of this was easily concealed
underneath my bulky jacket, as had been the tie-downs and the cloth for the
gag. The Shakespeare, the store had provided.

My prey repeated the procedure I had begun to realize I had only seen once.
Fortunately, born victims are creatures of habit. She walked through the door
and began to call out to the owner.

"Doroth-" she got half the name out before I grabbed her around the mouth and
nose. I am not a big man, but it was easy for me to cover both with one hand
while pinning her tiny limbs down at her sides with one arm wrapped around her.

"Listen!" I spoke coldly in my deepest voice, trapping it into a hoarse whisper
at the top of my throat. "You are in the clutches of an attacker you cannot
defeat. You will submit, or you and your boss will die. Do you understand?"

She wasn't struggling to get her arms free, because I was smothering her with
my hand. She nodded emphatically and desperately. She had terror coursing
through her body, but her sense of resolution to the inevitable seemed to
prevent that terror from manifesting itself as physical resistance. She was
going to allow my violation of her.

Somewhere in me, there was a tiny hint of protest as I stood on the brink of a
dehumanizing act of desecration. But there was too much of the evil in my
heart, and it demanded satisfaction.

Now, those who tell you that there is no sexual aspect of rape, that it is
merely violence, understand neither rape nor sex. Sex is a form of expression.
It can be an expression of love or of anger or even simply an expression of
sexual desire itself. Rape is sexual. Otherwise, it would merely be assault. I
had no real desire to assault this waif who now stood trembling before me. I
merely wanted to possess her sexuality utterly.

Tonight she wore a perfect costume for her own desecration. It had a flowing
design, almost like it was made of loose black and gray veils. It was delicate,
yet dark. It clung to her tiny pale frame in just enough places to reveal her
femininity, but not in enough to impress you that she wanted to share it. It
spoke of virginity and vulnerability. I let my hand off of her mouth, and spun
her to face me. Her head barely topped out at my chin.

I pulled her black and purple hair back roughly, but not painfully -- well not
particularly so. I could see her terror grow as she saw a cloaked and hooded
figure of darkness standing over her. "You will not scream!" I hissed. She
nodded, and found that she could not look away from the hood and the darkness.
"You will be devoured." I was swept away by my own dark fantasy now. I was a
demon, a profaner of souls.

I buried my face into her fair neck and kissed it with passion and lust. I
squeezed her little body so hard that she gasped for air. I lifted her with one
hand on her ass. She strained to help me in order to alleviate the pressure my
hair-pull was causing. When she could move her neck, she tried to curl it
underneath my chin to avoid exposing it to my hungry mouth. I allowed it as I
now had her off of the ground. I took a step over and laid her on top of
several piled boxes of books. Her body was delicate and soft, and the emotion
of the moment made it terrifically hot. Haven't you ever noticed how warm
women's bodies are when they are crying? This one had begun to weep openly.

"Cry, little one. Cry. The profaner will pity you. He will not spare you his
darkness, but he will pity you." My hands were strengthened by the adrenaline
rush of broken rules and forgotten decency. I tore the dress to shreds. She
cried aloud, but did not scream. She was in only a short loose black slip and
black nylons now. No bra or support was needed for such tender little breasts.
The slip was gone in one swift motion, and I could tell that the tearing of the
fabric against her alabaster skin was hurting her. I pitied the poor child, but
there was no swaying me from my purpose.

The nylons tore delightfully, and she actually emitted a little squeal as she
realized that she was absolutely naked before the beast. She writhed a little
and tried to cover up, but I was on her, and my knees were soon inside hers,
and my lips were smearing her dark lipstick as I greedily sucked at her mouth.
She seemed to know that I would not be slaked until she opened her mouth, and
my tongue was inside it. She knew better than to bite, and it was exhilarating
to control her so utterly. I would command her actions now.

I placed one of her hands on my jeans. "Open them," I said coldly.

Her blue eyes looked pleadingly into my hooded face, and she saw no eyes there
to plead to. She reached out and unzipped my black jeans. I am only average in
size, but it was clear to me she had never seen an adult penis before. She
gasped as it came free.

"No," she whispered between sobs. "Please, no."

"It will hurt you," I whispered in a detached voice. "A great deal, most
likely."

She cried wordlessly and lay back, always too ready to accept evil. She
expected a dark world; she received one.

I almost bent trying to get in her tight little hole. I still drove it in, not
pausing, but driving through her hymen and stopping only when my own pubic hair
ground into the wispy black hair above her little now-impaled vagina.

She screamed. It was not horrifically loud, but I shot up for a second. The
walls were packed with books, and we were adjacent to a deserted alley. An
unexpected bonus! The sound would carry to no one. I winced in dark pleasure.
She would be ravished as she screamed and pleaded and begged, and it would not
avail her.

I bit down on her puffy little left nipple. It was hard enough to cause pain,
but not to injure. She groaned and screamed. I bit on the other, and she
whimpered. I began to pump myself into her furiously. I was bouncing us up and
down on top of the boxes. When she could breathe, she cried out in pain. I
slowed down and went deep inside her in slow strokes. She begged me to stop. I
continued. Finally, she fell completely silent. I wasn't satisfied with that.

I slapped her in the face. It was a cruel and needless act against a dominated
teenage girl, but she was to be the tragic heroine, and it demanded her abuse.
She began to cry again, asking me, "Why? Why?"

"Because it is the order of things," I grunted as I continued to thrust into
her. She wept softly, and I was pleased with it. I continued for several more
strokes before I felt the pulling in the underside of my penis. I was going to
cum into this darling little girl who had done nothing but look Goth and cross
the bad man's path. I began to pump furiously, ready to blow my demon seed into
her tiny womb. Perhaps some Satan spawn would come of it. Perhaps it was a
demon all along, using my body to impregnate HIS chosen victim. Bullshit. I was
the one who came into this little one. I was the one who wanted it that way.

I pulled out of her and worked my way up to straddling her chest. She knew to
lick me clean without being told. When she stopped, I slapped her again. She
began to work timidly on my glans, knowing that she was raising from the dead
the same monster that had ravished her before. When it was hard, I rolled her
onto her stomach.

It took me several tries to get into her ass. She was actually quite pliable;
her muscles were soft and underdeveloped. The difficulty came in the tiny size
of her anus. Finally I was inside her, thrusting cruelly as she found the voice
to scream again. Not being terribly young, it was taking me a long time to
build to a second orgasm. I passed the time as I humped her roughly by playing
with her purple-tinged hair and by making her answer my questions. You can add
the whimpers to her answers.

"Your real name, full name?"

"Sara Torn."

"What's your Goth name?"

"Bellenoir."

"Beautiful darkness. Fitting. Why are you Goth?"

"I love the look."

"More!"

"And -- and I always read horror novels."

"The ones where women get ravaged?"

She did not answer.

I pinned her down with my hips. "Answer!" I hissed, holding myself deep inside
her until she spoke.

"Yes."

"You wanted to feel the ravaging, didn't you?"

No answer. I slapped her on the back of the head.

"Yes! Yes! I fantasized about being taken."

"Do you like it?"

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Tell me the truth, little Sara, and I might stop hurting you -- for good. Lie
and I'll stay here all night."

"I hate it. I hate it...." she broke down.

I stopped. I took her into my arms, and she actually let me stroke her purple
and black hair as I held her naked body close while she cried on my shoulder.
She was utterly broken, and I was nearly satisfied. I placed her hand on my
cock, and she pumped it for a few minutes as she lay hunched up in my lap. I
finally came all over her. She looked up, pleading that I would let her go at
this. My darkness was losing its grasp on my soul. I told her to go sit next to
her boss.

The boss had been conscious for most of the time I raped her little helper. She
was crying in the corner, the way timid people always do. Little Sara sat
beside her and whispered to the little round woman hooded by the bookbag.

"Sara, Dorothy," I was struggling to maintain the gravel voice of terror I had
used so easily before. "You must understand that I have no intention of ever
coming here again. I have done what I came to do. Sara's corruption was my only
mission." They huddled together, crying. "I will walk away forever -- UNLESS -
- I see or hear one word of this evening anywhere. Then, I will not hesitate to
kill you both." This was a lie. I had no stomach to kill. "I know where you
work -- I can easily find where you live. I am not a person to be taken
lightly. I can achieve the dark purposes I set out to achieve. Do you believe
me?"

They both nodded emphatically. I gathered my things and went to the door. I was
about to slip out when I turned to the naked Sara sitting huddled before me. I
stepped to her and took her chin in my hand. I gazed into her blue eyes and
traced her sensuous lips with a lazy finger. I kissed her deeply. She woodenly
accepted it. "You will not understand for a long time, maybe never, but I love
you, and all this was a testament to your unattainable beauty. Be well,
Bellenoir. Be well." With that I left her battered body and tattered soul lying
naked on the floor. I never saw or heard of her again.

I will always tell myself that it was a maddening love that drove me to that
night of unspeakable violation of such a sweet little one. But I know better.
It was the monster that hid under my bed. It was the bogeyman in the shadow of
my room. It was me all along.

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