It had been several weeks since my lakeside ordeal with Mr. Smythe. That sick fuck, he was going to regret ever having spotted the young, innocent girl lying quietly by the lake. I had been a quiet, modest virgin enjoying a day free of my parents' watchful eyes, which as a 13 year old girl I rarely got. I was different now. After the physical pain and mental panic and the feeling of helplessness wore off, I began to feel a confidence I had never before known.
I don't know where it came from, but from some deep, resilient core within my soul I radiated assuredness. And so I started to plot my revenge. At first, I contemplated telling my father, who would confront Mr. Smythe. But I had to be realistic, my father was a normal-sized man, middle-aged. He was strong from years of farm work but by no means the size of Mr.
Smythe; and though he had much social importance in our town, I felt certain that Mr. Smythe would not think twice about killing him if he thought my father would go to the local sherif. And then where would my mother and I be?
No,I would have to do it myself. Over the days I weaved an increasingly intricate plot for revenge. My plans had turned into a lengthy booby-trap consisting of branch-covered holes dug in his yard, trick-mirrors and wires across doorways. But then I realized, I didn't need all that. Mr. Smythe was a bully, used to getting his way because he was big and loud and burly. All I needed to be was sure-footed, and I could get him.
And so, one full-moon night, I took a small, but long and sharp knife that my mother used to clean out chickens and pigs and set off to Mr. Smythe's wood cabin. The trail to Mr. Smythe's was hardly walkable and even with the light of the full moon I had trouble finding my way. But I was born and raised in the woods, and, guided by the stars, I eventually came upon the dark shadow that was this man's house. I walked to the front door and peered in the window.
Mr. Smythe's form lay asleep, probably drunk, on a large wooden chair. By the light of the dying embers in the fireplace his sharp features seemed exaggerated and fierce. Second thoughts began pushing their way into my brain. Who was I kidding?
I was just a little girl, there was no way I could overpower this gigantic man. All he had to do was hit me once and that was it for me. I took a step back from the window and a twig snapped under my foot. He turned his head and grunted. He didn't wake, but with his face in the light he didn't look so formidable anymore.
He was sleeping, almost childlike. I took a deep breath, tucked the knife into the back of my underpants and knocked on the door. I leaned and peeked through the window, and saw Mr. Smythe looking around him, disoriented. I knocked again and he looked at the door, got up, ran his hand through his hair and started to walk. I had practised the face I would make in the mirror, and, lifting my eyebrows and pouting my lower lip, I know that I looked forlorn, small and sad.
He opened the door and looked down at me, uncomprehending for a moment. Then recognition crossed his face. "Sophie! What are you doing here, little girl?" He said, his voice still rough and uneven from sleep. "Well, Mr. Smythe, I had to come. I've been thinking about you so much, and it makes me too excited. Every night I touch myself. I play with my clit and put my fingers in my cunt until I cum.
But I need you, I want your cum all over me." I said in my best little-girl voice, the one my father could never resist when I asked for candy. "Then why don't you come on inside, Sophie, out of the cold. I think we can arrange what you want, pretty girl," he sneered, his soft voice belying his hard, cold eyes.
I knew he didn't want to "make love" to me. Oh no, he wanted to hold me down and make me hurt again. But I nodded quietly and stepped into the shack, that stank of uncleanliness and old beer.
As soon as he closed the door, he stepped over to me and stood over me, staring at my tits. I thought he would have taken more time if I had come so willingly, and was momentarily frightened.
But I got a grip of myself and started to unbotton my dress. "Oh no, Sophie. Like this," he said as he tore my dress. I was startled, and stood there with the top of my dress flapping around my waist and my small tits exposed, nipples hardened in the cold draft.
Without another word Mr.
Smythe pushed me onto the rug and began to tear at my dress. He got down to my underwear. I had forgotten about the knife I brought until I saw it gleaming a few feet from my eyes, where he had tossed a handful of fabric. But he didn't notice, and I quietly brought it closer to me, within easy reach.
I let him tear off my panties, and I spread my smooth, pale legs. I wiggled my hips at him and arched my back, and felt my cunt start to moisten. He sat up to take off his pants, and I winced as I saw his huge cock straining towards me.
The purplish head quivered as he lowered himself between my legs. "No, Mr. Smythe.
I want you to lick my clit," I said to him, quietly but forcefully. He stopped moving towards me and a smile crept onto his lips. "What did you say, Sophie?" he said. It was almost a threat. "I said, Charles," I said, almost spitting out his name, "I want you to get between my legs and lick my cunt until I cum on your face.
Then, I might let you fuck me. Or I might just go home." He laughed, a sour, mean laugh. Without bothering to answer, he put his hand on my neck, pushed me back into the rug and plunged his hard, giant cock into my soaking cunt. This was what I was counting on, his cruelty and arrogance. I took a moment to recover from the pain of his monster dick tearing open the wounds he had caused the first time he had fucked me, and grabbed the knife.
I put it to his throat and pushed it in, just a little, so a small streak of blood ran down his neck and he stopped, gasped, and froze. For the first time, I saw pain and uncomprehending fear in his eyes as he saw the handle of the knife in my hand. "What. what are you doing, Sophie? Get that the fuck away from me," he stammered. His stupid attempt at confidence made me laugh. "Shut up, Charles. Get between my legs and lick my cunt! If I feel you move the wrong way, Charles, I'm going to stab this knife into your neck.
So you better lick me right you stupid fuck." I said, lips retracted from my teeth. He hesitated and I snarled at him, pushing the tip of the knife in deeper. I didn't want him to die from this stab, but I wanted him to bleed.
I needed him weak for what I was going to do. He lowered between my legs and I sat up so I could keep the knife pressed into his neck. As he fumbled with my clit, sucking on it softly and twirling it with his tongue, I took on a softer tone: "Now Charles, you can do better than that.
Maybe if you do real good, I'll suck your cock after." I gasped and he sucked harder. "Put your finger in me you motherfucker!" I screamed. It was hard to keep the knife firmly in place as he put his finger in my cunt and licked at my cunt.
I moaned louder and pushed my pelvis against his face. As I cried out, "Faster, faster!" I felt him try to move away. That stupid fuck, he thought he could get away?
Did he think I was enjoying this so much that I wouldn't notice?
I quickly stabbed the knife deep into his upper arm. He stopped and winced, his eyes started to water, and I heard him wimper. The coward. "Don't you stop, Charles, don't you stop licking my clit," I ordered. He followed my orders like a charm, poking his tongue in my cunt and spitting on my clit and sucking my folds. I squealed and moaned and spurted on his face until I was worn out. The knife was still in his arm and I twisted it. "Get away from me, Charles.
You did good, puppy dog, so I'll suck your dick. Go sit on that chair," I commanded. I worried he may try to fight me here, so as he walked, I stood behind him with my arm around his middle, the knife tip stabbing his abdomen. But it didn't matter, he wanted his dick sucked like any man. As he sat down, I reached for a rope I saw on the floor and tied his hands to the big chair. His head lolled a little from blood loss diziness, so I slapped his face. "Don't you pass out on me, Charles, I want your dick hard when it's inside me." I told him.
He perked up immediately. "Oh no, Sophie, I'll be good and hard." I couldn't believe it! There was pleading in his voice. I knew what was going on his head; he wanted to fuck my soft little cunt, but he must have had inkling I would cut him up instead. I guess he decided to take his chances with my sweet pussy. With his hands tied, I felt safe to set down the knife, and I leaned over his crotch.
His cock had softened, but as I teased the head of his dick with my tongue he hardened up and became the huge, pulsing organ that had hurt me so much those few weeks ago.
I took his cock as far as I could in my mouth and sucked hard. I pulled back and spit on his dick, rubbed my hands up and down the hot shaft. He was really enjoying it. But I didn't want him to cum. Oh no, I had other plans. So I stood up, took my time straddling him and pushed my cunt onto his hard, wet dick. I wiggled around, twitched my hips and clenched my cunt on his dick.
I heard him gasping and grunting as I moved up and down on his cock. Finally, I lowered myself all the way down and ground my pelvis, feeling his cock pushing into me as deep as it could go.
He was close to cumming, and as he started to grunt louder I stood up, took the knife and plunged it into his cock. He froze, staring at me, his mouth open wide, his eyes uncomprending as the blood flowed to the floor from the huge gash in his now flacid cock. Anger started to flare in his eyes but he was too dizzy and disoriented and in pain to move away. This was my one chance. If I left him now, someone would find him tomorrow, and he would come to kill me when he recovered.
Or he would bleed to death. But I did not want to kill him. On the contrary, I wanted him to live in misery. So I pulled out the knife and stabbed his right eye.
I felt momentary regret. I stood back and paused, watching him wimper and weakly try to free his arms from the rope. I saw his sliced dick flapping about and remembered it when it was hard and purple and stabbing my cunt, tearing up my skin as he held me down and grabbed blindly at my tits, bruising my flesh.
The pity I had been feeling left me, as I imagined all the other little girls and the women he had hurt or taken advantage of. I stepped back over, stabbed his other eye and leaned to whisper in his ear as he cried and wimpered: "see, Charles, this is what happens to people who rape little girls.
I hope you rot in Hell, but until then, you can grope your way around, blind and dickless." I turned, found a few usable bits of my dress to wear home and walked with renewed confidence through the doorway.
I dropped the bloody knife in the doorway and walked home as the sun began to rise.