Cautionary Tales (8 page)

In fact, she just might be Militia. If so, this would be a night to remember. For Militia was a serial rapist who was female, notorious in sexual circles. She would be the ultimate in conquests. Newton fit the profile of her preferred victims. He had baited his trap, hoping she would come while knowing that the odds were against it.

Luck was with him. That evening he watched as she systematically nullified each guardian camera, not destroying them, merely turning them off briefly so that her passage was not recorded. It was possible to do that with less sophisticated equipment. She figured him for a typical patsy: a prominent wealthy bachelor who figured nothing like this could ever happen to him. Little did she know.

In due course she nulled the last one and achieved the house proper. Maria was gone, and of course the intruder was aware of it, knowing him now to be alone. The perfect target. That was why she had come in now. She always caught her men alone.

He dimmed the screen and lay back in his bed as if sleeping. She would find him soon enough. Then they would see.

She was so quiet in the darkness that he wasn't even aware of her presence until he felt her lips on his. It was an electrifying kiss that both delighted and numbed his mouth with its potency.

He moved his head, as if waking, trying to clear his face. But she had hold of his head and kept her mouth on his, maintaining the kiss for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds. His tongue involuntarily tried to penetrate between her lips to titillate her mouth, but that was tightly sealed. This was a strange kind of passion.

Then at last she pulled back. “Wake, lover,” she murmured.

He pretended confusion. “Who—?”

“I am Militia,” she said, confirming his hope. “I trust you have heard of me.”

“I have,” he said. “But never expected to encounter you.” That much was true.

“Your wet dream has been granted,” she said. “Let's have some light.” She moved away from him, found the switch by the door, and illuminated the bedroom.

There she stood, even more lovely than the screen had indicated. Hourglass figure, starlet face, long dark reddish hair. And a prominent tattoo on her forehead: M. For Militia, of course.

“You look great,” he said, affecting hesitancy. “But I'm not sure I, er, want to be on TV.”

“You don't have a choice, Mister Oswald.” She opened a small suitcase he hadn't noticed before and took out three small battery powered TV cameras. She set them on floor, table, and bed stand, all focusing on the bed. Their little action lights came on.

That made him wince. He didn't like having his real name used in this connection, and those cameras were dangerous. “Of course I have a choice!” he protested. “Such exposure would ruin my reputation.”

She was slowly undressing. “Let me explain something to you, Newton.” Now she was using his first name too. It was an indication of her certainty of power over him. “I am a businesswoman. I learned that as a prostitute I could make several hundred dollars a night. That did not suffice. So I found a better way. Now I make several tens of thousands of dollars a night. It varies directly with the prominence of the man I seduce. So naturally I don't leave it to chance. The man is not given a choice. He performs, the video is made, and I receive my cut. I am in the process of becoming rich by being a serial female rapist. Tonight it will be your privilege to contribute.” Her blouse and bra were off, and her full, firm, sculpted breasts showed to considerable advantage. “Relax, as they say, and enjoy it.”

“But it's impossible!” he said, his eyes fixed on those twin orbs. What a treat they were! “A woman can't rape a man.”

“Of course she can, Newton. She just can't do it as crudely as a man rapes a woman. But with a little preparation she is more than able. Maybe you could say I am doing my bit to help liberate women from their outdated notions of inferiority.” Now she dropped her skirt and stood before him in lacy panties. The loss of her clothing detracted nothing from her appearance.

“I don't believe it.” He was playing a role, because he knew she could and did rape men.

She lifted one leg and then the other to remove her panties. This, too, was an evocative sight. “It is merely a matter of technique. A man can use brute force to rape an unconscious woman. The man, generally speaking, needs to be conscious for the woman to address him. Apart from that it becomes an almost meaningless distinction.”

“Well, you're not going to rape me.” Please don't throw me in that brier patch!

She came and put her hands on his pajama top. “We shall see, Newton.”

“Hey.” He tried to resist, but she pushed his hands aside and pulled off the top. He seemed to be powerless to resist. Then she pushed him back on the bed and took hold of his pajama bottoms. He tried to clamp his legs together, but she put her hands on his knees and readily wedged them apart. In a moment she had his groin clear, his erection showing.

“You see, it is the man's greater physical strength that facilitates his power over the woman,” she said. “But now my strength is equivalently greater than yours. You can't resist me, literally.” She tweaked his hard penis. “I must say, this is a nice one.”

“You can't do it,” he said.

“First, I will do my little dance. That may make you not only willing but eager. I like eagerness.”

“I'll bet. How did you drug me?”

“It was the kiss. The drug is painted on my lips, over a sealant that prevents it from reaching me. Didn't you notice how long I held it? I had to be sure you received a sufficient dose. It will wear off after an hour or so, but by then I'll be gone.”

“Clever,” he said sourly.

“Now pay attention. The drug weakens your muscles, but not your genital anatomy. You can get an excellent erection, if you try.”

He was silent, as it was obvious that he already had a fully sufficient exhibit.

She donned what looked like a small grass skirt, and a tasseled sort of halter, and danced. It was quickly apparent that these concealed nothing, and enormously enhanced what they showed. The skirt offered a provocative illusion of concealment, the flapping strands calling attention to the flesh beneath. The halter played similarly with the breasts. Her buttocks flashed and her breasts bounced teasingly.

“New fashion?” he inquired. It was in his mind that if he could engage her in dialogue long enough, it might give the drug time to wear off. A faint chance, but better than nothing. Not that he would let her know if it did. He wanted the sex. He just preferred to be in control. Regardless, her display was excruciatingly sexy, by no coincidence.

“No, this is an old fashion. It existed for at least twenty thousand years, as mankind spread across the globe from Africa. Marriageable girls wore it to advertise their availability and attract men. It has never been improved on.”

He believed it. “Then why did they give it up?”

“That is one of the mysteries of the ages. My guess is that as people ranged into colder climes they had to wear more clothing, reducing opportunities for incidental seductions. That was unfortunate.”

He had to agree.

Then she unbound her hair. Her long tresses swirled around her shoulders and the upper surfaces of her breasts, adding another element of seduction. She was one supremely beautiful creature.

He couldn't help it: his erection swelled almost painfully. He did desire her, regardless of the circumstances.

“I think you are ready,” she said, concluding her dance. “But I must take precautions, just in case.” She produced what looked like dentures. “Open your mouth.”

“What the hell?”

“Do it,” she snapped, poking her fingers into the corners of his jaw on either side so that the pain caused his mouth to open. Then she inserted the device. “It's a tooth guard, to prevent you from biting. And these are gloves, to prevent you from scratching.” She put them on his hands, and he lacked the strength to resist.

She picked up one of the cameras and held it in her right hand, playing its lens up and down his body. Then she bore him back on the bed and straddled him, her solid thighs spread outside his. She played with his penis a moment with her left hand, making sure it was sufficiently rigid. Then slowly, carefully, she set it to her cleft and lowered her torso onto him, taking in his member inch by inch. She held the camera almost touchingly close, its lens orienting on that careful penetration, missing no detail. If he had had any doubt about the business nature of her effort, this abolished it. She cared more about the recording she was making than about any incidental pleasure he might be having. She jogged slightly, ensuring that the fit was exactly as she wanted it. He was all the way into her.

Satisfied, she set the camera back on the table and stretched out on him, her breasts pressing against his chest. “I think you want it,” she murmured, kissing his locked open mouth. “But if you don't, it makes no difference. I will have my will of you regardless. Now you may cooperate by thrusting vigorously, or you may resist by lying passive, forcing me to evoke your emission. If I have to do it, I will withdraw at the last moment and cause you to jettison into air for the edification of the camera. I suspect you would rather spew into my core. Choose.”

He tried to lie still, to win a moral victory. But she squeezed him internally, and he knew he was going to ejaculate regardless. He bucked, thrusting as hard as he could.

“Good for you, Newton,” she purred, smoothly riding him. “You have earned your reward: I am staying on you.”

She did, and he had a powerful climax, spurting repeatedly into her. She lay on him, stroking his face with her hands, and kissing all around his blocked mouth.

“Now wasn't that fun?” she asked as she removed the tooth guard and gloves. “Admit it: you were not completely unwilling.”

“I'll buy the tapes,” he said, playing his role of a man desperate to avoid the embarrassment of such a video. “Leave the cameras here. How much?”

She shook her head. “I think you don't completely understand, Newton. It isn't just the money. It's the power. I am amassing a collection of experiences that will put me in the record books. I need to have those tapes viewed, so that everyone knows that Militia has conquered another prominent man. You naturally prefer anonymity, but I prefer notoriety. In this instance, my will governs.”

“The police will run you down. Even if you fuzz out your face, your body will identify you.”

“Understand this, Newton: this is my identity. It is my mundane persona that is masked. There is no record of that. It has no forehead tattoo. I am Militia, complete and seductive. When I depart, so will my existence. Only when I send in the films will it even be known I was here.”

“No one knows you're here?”

“That is correct. I am trackless.”

“Still, the police might find some physical evidence.”

“They will find Militia, the serial rapist, not the anonymous mundane.” Her mouth quirked. “I am not an amateur, you know.”

Or so she supposed. His trap was about to spring.

She got off him, did a quick cleanup in his bathroom, dressed, and collected her cameras, fitting them back into the suitcase. “It has been nice, Newton. I must be off. I doubt we shall meet again.” She lifted one hand in a stylized little wave. “Toodle-oo.”

He watched as she left the room, carrying her suitcase. He heard her take the elevator down. He smiled.

He got back into his pajamas and lay back, feeling his strength returning. Militia had timed it nicely, knowing exactly how long she had. He adjusted the image on the screen, tuning in on the furnished chamber in the sub-cellar, the one Maria called the cage. The one the elevator went to automatically when descending.

Sure enough, soon Militia entered it. In a moment, realizing that this was not the exit, she turned around to return to the elevator. She pushed the button. It did not respond.

He turned off the screen and closed his eyes for sleep. The lovely fly had indeed walked into the spider's lair. The elevator button operated only for a person with a special key. Maria had a key. Militia did not. Militia was not going anywhere. No one would come to find her, as no one knew where she was. She would simply disappear from the scene.

There was a certain poetic justice to it: the serial rapist fallen victim to a more professional serial rapist.

Satisfied, he slept.

Maria returned in the morning. “I home, Master,” she said on the intercom. “How things work out?”

“We have a guest in the cage. Treat her carefully, as she is dangerous. See that she has what she needs, apart from freedom.”

There was a pause. Maria was activating the screen to view the cage. “Master, you must not keep her. She too much for you.”

“Perhaps.”

“I come up talk to you.”

Soon she appeared in his bedroom, fetchingly dressed and coiffed. She had treated herself to a new hairdo. He remained in his pajamas, knowing what to expect. Maria was much concerned for his welfare, and always alert for any chance to seduce him. The same fire that had made her such a good victim now made her an apt assistant.

“Master, she too pretty,” she said earnestly. “She make of you what you make of me: love slave.”

“That's not the half of it,” he said. “She's a professional serial rapist called Militia. She drugs prominent men, has sex with them, films it, and sells the films for tens of thousands of dollars. She is very good at what she does.”

Maria stared at him. “You let her drug you!”

“I needed to understand her
modus operandi
in detail. She has the drug on her lips, and delivers it via an impassioned kiss. It makes the man weak, but able to perform sexually. It was a considerable experience.”

“I give you experience,” she protested. “You safe with me. Not with her.” She opened her blouse. She never wore a bra.