BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
- Posts
- 21,367
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They're confident they'll get away with it. Those Stacies convince themselves, "You know you want it." And if you were to report her to the police, ugh. Can you imagine that conversation?
"I like to report a rape." So a tall, muscular man donned in a tight black dri-fit shirt and faded slim-fit denim jeans tells the overweight desk cop sitting behind the ballistic bulletproof glass.
"Uh-huh. And who was raped?" The cop skeptically inquires through the stainless steel speak-thru mechanism.
"I was."
So the cop explained the procedure and paperwork and asked for a description of the assailant. The victim opens a picture on his phone. He then places it on the steel tray and closes the hatch. The cop retrieves it on his end. He sees a petite woman sticking her tongue out, displaying a devil's horns hand gesture, wearing a pink sports bra and matching spandex bottoms depicting a conspicuous camel toe. The cop raised a brow and looked at him with suspicion. Then back at her—back at him—back at her. Finally, he asks for more information. "You wouldn't by any chance have recorded this sexual assault?"
"Of course, I did. She insisted. A real troubled individual." He motioned for the phone back, and the cop obliged. He swipes a few times, then sends it back to him. Again, the cop sees a video with a screenshot of the same woman with a solemn expression, but this time, a closed fist aimed at the viewer wearing only a tank top, bottom revealed her vagina with a touch of garden. He hits play.
Several minutes later, the cop is intensely glued to that video. He shifts a few times in his chair. Then, finally, he stands up and says, "Hey buddy, I'll be right back. I gotta show the detectives this...um...um...horrible ordeal."
"Sure. I'll have a seat and wait."
Minutes thereon, the victim hears a commotion behind that window in the back of the station. He stands to appease his curiosity. He sees a gathering of cops in uniform and some regular attire standing around the desk cop viewing that video. He sees two cops recording his phone with theirs. A female cop keeps shaking her head, amazed at what she's witnessing—a raised brow here, awestruck there. She looks back to the front and notices the victim watching. She whispers to the others, and they too look at him. Finally, the desk cop returns with his phone.
"We'll have the DA look over this. It could take a week before you hear back from us." The cop explained.
"Ugh. But what if she comes back and rapes me again?"
"Record it! But when she does this again, perhaps, more dialog from you? You know, evidence. Ah, do you know anything about studio lighting, those umbrella softbox reflectors?"
"Ugh. Not a clue."
"Well, if you had brighter lighting, that would be better evidence. Perhaps next time, use multiple cameras at different angles. Close ups too! And where does this usually occur in your house?"
"Ugh. She'll rape me anywhere. The kitchen, shower, bedroom, car garage, once she snuck up on me when I was shaping wet clay into vases in my arts and crafts room. She unfastened her shorts, saying, "You're about to get Demi Moored, bitch boy. Whatever that meant."
"Damn." He said, shaking his head. "Okay! Change all the bulbs in your home to clear 100 watts."
"Ugh. Okie dokie, smokey." He extends his hand, but the cop is uncertain about returning his phone.
"I need to send this video as a group message." He said while fiddling with the victim's phone. "Is this the messaging app you use?" He flips the phone and then points to an SMS icon—the complainant nods. The cop dabbles some more, then transmits the message. Finally, he sends it back to him on the tray.
The victim waits a week, not a word from the DA nor the station. Two weeks, nothing. During this agonizing anticipation, the woman returned every other night raping him. Finally, he receives a phone call from a Hollywood area code. He answers with an ugh.
"How are you today, sir?" A cheerful man greets the victim.
"I'm not buying your bullshit, Indian conman." He replied, agitated.
"Ha ha ha ha. Funny. But I'm Paulie with Big Dicks production studio, and would you like to be sexually assaulted for money?"
"Ugh. How did you learn about my rape dealies?"
"Xhamster. Pornhub. Your videos are everywhere on the internet. And they are making money! You need an agent and a studio to put those dollars into your pocket!"
"Ugh. How bout you suck my dick and call me Sally?"
"That can be arranged!" As soon as Paulie said that, the victim hung up.
He lowered his head in defeat and spoke, "There's no country for big dick men." He went to his bedroom and fell face first on the OCD immaculate prepared bed. A noise startles him. He rolls over and sees his rapist standing in the doorway, angered. She was naked, holding testicle clamps in one hand and a butt plug in the other.
"I heard you went to the police. Tell me this isn't true."
"Ugh. I had to."
"Why?"
"To gloat. Ugh."
Walking to him, she ensured, "I saved two days worth of squirt. It's going on your face, snitch boy."
"Do what you gotta do."
"I like to report a rape." So a tall, muscular man donned in a tight black dri-fit shirt and faded slim-fit denim jeans tells the overweight desk cop sitting behind the ballistic bulletproof glass.
"Uh-huh. And who was raped?" The cop skeptically inquires through the stainless steel speak-thru mechanism.
"I was."
So the cop explained the procedure and paperwork and asked for a description of the assailant. The victim opens a picture on his phone. He then places it on the steel tray and closes the hatch. The cop retrieves it on his end. He sees a petite woman sticking her tongue out, displaying a devil's horns hand gesture, wearing a pink sports bra and matching spandex bottoms depicting a conspicuous camel toe. The cop raised a brow and looked at him with suspicion. Then back at her—back at him—back at her. Finally, he asks for more information. "You wouldn't by any chance have recorded this sexual assault?"
"Of course, I did. She insisted. A real troubled individual." He motioned for the phone back, and the cop obliged. He swipes a few times, then sends it back to him. Again, the cop sees a video with a screenshot of the same woman with a solemn expression, but this time, a closed fist aimed at the viewer wearing only a tank top, bottom revealed her vagina with a touch of garden. He hits play.
Several minutes later, the cop is intensely glued to that video. He shifts a few times in his chair. Then, finally, he stands up and says, "Hey buddy, I'll be right back. I gotta show the detectives this...um...um...horrible ordeal."
"Sure. I'll have a seat and wait."
Minutes thereon, the victim hears a commotion behind that window in the back of the station. He stands to appease his curiosity. He sees a gathering of cops in uniform and some regular attire standing around the desk cop viewing that video. He sees two cops recording his phone with theirs. A female cop keeps shaking her head, amazed at what she's witnessing—a raised brow here, awestruck there. She looks back to the front and notices the victim watching. She whispers to the others, and they too look at him. Finally, the desk cop returns with his phone.
"We'll have the DA look over this. It could take a week before you hear back from us." The cop explained.
"Ugh. But what if she comes back and rapes me again?"
"Record it! But when she does this again, perhaps, more dialog from you? You know, evidence. Ah, do you know anything about studio lighting, those umbrella softbox reflectors?"
"Ugh. Not a clue."
"Well, if you had brighter lighting, that would be better evidence. Perhaps next time, use multiple cameras at different angles. Close ups too! And where does this usually occur in your house?"
"Ugh. She'll rape me anywhere. The kitchen, shower, bedroom, car garage, once she snuck up on me when I was shaping wet clay into vases in my arts and crafts room. She unfastened her shorts, saying, "You're about to get Demi Moored, bitch boy. Whatever that meant."
"Damn." He said, shaking his head. "Okay! Change all the bulbs in your home to clear 100 watts."
"Ugh. Okie dokie, smokey." He extends his hand, but the cop is uncertain about returning his phone.
"I need to send this video as a group message." He said while fiddling with the victim's phone. "Is this the messaging app you use?" He flips the phone and then points to an SMS icon—the complainant nods. The cop dabbles some more, then transmits the message. Finally, he sends it back to him on the tray.
The victim waits a week, not a word from the DA nor the station. Two weeks, nothing. During this agonizing anticipation, the woman returned every other night raping him. Finally, he receives a phone call from a Hollywood area code. He answers with an ugh.
"How are you today, sir?" A cheerful man greets the victim.
"I'm not buying your bullshit, Indian conman." He replied, agitated.
"Ha ha ha ha. Funny. But I'm Paulie with Big Dicks production studio, and would you like to be sexually assaulted for money?"
"Ugh. How did you learn about my rape dealies?"
"Xhamster. Pornhub. Your videos are everywhere on the internet. And they are making money! You need an agent and a studio to put those dollars into your pocket!"
"Ugh. How bout you suck my dick and call me Sally?"
"That can be arranged!" As soon as Paulie said that, the victim hung up.
He lowered his head in defeat and spoke, "There's no country for big dick men." He went to his bedroom and fell face first on the OCD immaculate prepared bed. A noise startles him. He rolls over and sees his rapist standing in the doorway, angered. She was naked, holding testicle clamps in one hand and a butt plug in the other.
"I heard you went to the police. Tell me this isn't true."
"Ugh. I had to."
"Why?"
"To gloat. Ugh."
Walking to him, she ensured, "I saved two days worth of squirt. It's going on your face, snitch boy."
"Do what you gotta do."
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