Hostage Horror On Halloween

Marilyn lived in fear the whole year. Except to shop for food and leave the house to take her self-defense classes and practice her shooting at the gun range, she seldom left her house anymore. Understandably, she didn't care much for Halloween, after what happened to her last year.

If it wasn't for her cat, she'd get a dog, a big dog, a big, mean dog. Living all her life in a neighborhood where no one locked their doors, she had an alarm system installed and security lights wired that lit up her property in the way that an extraterrestrial spaceship would light up the ground beneath it for landing. The alarm that automatically called the police made her feel safer when sleeping. Only, she always had this unnerving feeling that she was being watched. She could just feel or imagine she felt them out there waiting for their chance to attack her again.

Always looking forward to seeing the neighborhood children in costume coming to her door for candy, now she hated the holiday. Dreading the arrival of this night for weeks, listening to every sound and reacting to every shadow, she hid in the dark behind her closed and locked front door, while watching the clock, counting off the minutes, and waiting for the kids to finally go home and Halloween to end for another year. Tick, tick, tick, the time that past for this holiday to end was excruciatingly slow. Tick, tick, tick, she was going to go away for the weekend, but for the fear that she might find someone hiding in the house waiting for her to return.

"Trick or treat," they'd say banging at her door.

"Go away, there's no one home," she'd softly say, too soft for them to hear her, while sipping her wine and sitting hidden in the darkness of her living room with her cat curled on her lap.

A nervous wreck with an upset stomach, jumping at the sound of every child, who knocked at her front door and/or rang her doorbell, she sipped her wine with trembling hand, while waiting for the alcohol to weave its magic and work to calm her nerves. From her repositioned chair moved to the far, dark corner of the living room that now faced the front, bay windows, she watched the procession of children come and go. With the exterior street light on and all of her interior lights off in her house, but for the new outside security lights that came on like automobile high beam headlights, she could see them, but they couldn't see her. Their shadows loomed outside her windows as big as her imagined worst fears.

Never having reported the sexual assault to the police, her attackers were still out there, somewhere, and they knew where she lived. Driving herself crazy with worry, she figured she was now an even easier target for not reporting the incident to the police. She was sure that they viewed her as a victim, ripe for the taking, again. Yet, she lived in a small town and people talked and she didn't want them talking about her. It was none of their business what happened to her last Halloween night.

Only, now, she figured her sexual assaulters thought she wouldn't report them if they returned, yet, again. Having had their hot fun with her last year, she imagined they were thinking, why not have more fun with her again this year. Maybe, she thought, those bastards actually believed she enjoyed what they did to her. Going with her hunch, she had a foreboding feeling that they'd return again this year. Setting the alarm on silent, not wanting the alarm to automatically alert the security agency, who'd surely call the police, she watched the panel from her living room chair for the warning of the blinking red light to alert her to an intruder.

"Trick a treat," she imagined they'd say before barging in and pushing past her, as they did last year.

Only, she had the advantage, now. Suspecting and expecting their return, prepared for it in mind and in body, it'd be different this time. She'd never be taken by surprise again, A year of private, hands-on martial arts training insured she'd be ready, focused, and confident, should they return.

She now possessed the lethal skills of a street fighter. With the quickness of a cat and the rage of someone who had been sexually abused, she wanted revenge. It was her turn to take control. If they overpowered her in hand to hand combat, this time, with a loaded handgun within her reach and others hidden around the house, unafraid to use them, after her year of firearm instruction and practice at the gun range, she'd be ready for them if they dared return. For what they did to her, she didn't care if she bloodied her carpet. She'd shoot to kill.

More children came hoping for candy and more children went disappointed that she didn't open her front door. She felt bad that she didn't pass out candy, but she couldn't. Ignoring her neighbors and friends, pretending she wasn't at home, she was frozen with fear that she'd be taken by surprise again, should she open her door like the victim she was last year.

After what happened to her last year, she couldn't, she vowed she wouldn't, and true to her pledge, she didn't open her front door to anyone. The only way anyone was getting in her house was to break in and God help them if they did. An open and shut case of self defense, no judge would convict her for what they did to her and for what she'd do to them. Aiming to kill, she'd put three bullets in their chest before putting one in their head.

"Trick or treat," they'd say knocking at her door.

"Go away. Scram. Beat it," she'd say under her breath.

"Trick or treat," they'd say ringing her doorbell.

"Leave me alone. Just leave me alone," she'd say under her breath to the next group of children that came knocking and ringing and before taking a big sip of her wine to reinforce her courage and fortify her fortitude.

Last year, it was a Halloween night much like this one, only this one had a full moon that added an appropriate dramatic eeriness to the holiday. It was late, after the rush of the little kids, but there were always the stragglers, the teenagers, who were a bit too old to go trick or treating, but who just did it to get some free candy. She opened her door for the fiftieth time with candy in hand, when three masked men burst inside, closed and locked her door, and turned off her light.

All in a blur, it happened in an instant. Without time to react, frozen with fear, she dropped the candy and stood stunned. She couldn't believe this was happening to her, not here in her safe little town. This wasn't the big city, nothing ever happens here and, especially, wasn't supposed to happen to her. She's a good person. Attending church every Sunday, she teaches Sunday school and volunteers at the hospital.

Putting one hand across her mouth with another hand feeling her bra covered breast through her blouse, the biggest man, a black man, wearing a scary monster mask, pushed her up against her reception hall wall. She looked down at his big, black hand groping her breasts. Already, he had gotten further than the date she had last week with John from the hardware store.

"I'll hurt you, if you scream."

His words assaulted her as much as his big hand that groped her breasts. Through the opening of her buttons, she felt his big fingers explore her soft skin and her meaty breasts that poured out over the top of her bra. With tears welling up in her eyes, she nodded her promise not to scream. In one quick movement, as if she was a sack of potatoes or a side of beef and he was a longshoreman carrying his cargo or a caveman claiming his woman, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her upstairs to her bedroom. The other two men were already upstairs and waiting for them on the landing.

Thick with muscle, built like a brick shithouse monster man stood at least 6'2". With her body draped over his shoulder and her hands pushing against his muscled chest, she felt his big hand move slowly up the back of her thigh to feel, cup, and caress her panty clad ass beneath her skirt. The touch of his hand sickened her and, already, she felt violated. It had been a long time, since before her husband died, that anyone had touched her there beneath her skirt. He felt her panty and cupped her ass with his hand, while his long stiff fingers touched her in between her legs, in the way her husband used to touch her, when in the mood.

Once alone with her on her bed was when their impromptu Halloween Masquerade party took a turn for the worse. Now it was real and, not to be denied, they were incensed. They filled her small room and there was no escaping them.

"Don't scream and we won't hurt you," said monster man again placing her gently on her bed, as a sign of his word not to hurt her, no doubt.

"No please, can we do this in the guest bedroom? If you assault me here, I'll never again be able to sleep in my own bed," she said through her tears and pointing to the guest bedroom down the hall. "Please, I beg you."

"Go search the room for weapons," ordered one of the men, a tall, thin man wearing a clown mask, with a snap of his fingers and a point of his index finger.

Immediately, the man wearing a Bill Clinton mask walked to the guest bedroom. Marilyn heard the closet door open and close and her dresser drawers being opened and slammed shut. After her possessions had been sufficiently rifled through, he returned.

"It's clean. There's nothing in there but clothes and bedding."

Monster man took her hand, dragged her off the bed, and pulled her along to the guestroom.

"Cooperate, show us a good time, and we'll let you live," said the second man, a much smaller man, wearing the Bill Clinton mask and showing her a knife he held in his hand. Already unbuckling and unzipping his pants in preparation of their sexual assault of her, he had a heavy accent that sounded Hispanic.

"Okay, okay," she said trying to compose herself enough to remember every detail of their person in hopes of identifying them later in a police lineup.

"Take off your clothes," said clown man.

She was shaking. She was crying. She was frightened. She was trying to stay focused and alert enough to save herself should this attack escalate from bad to worse.

"I'll do whatever you want. I have money and jewelry," she said knowing full well that it was not her money or jewelry they wanted. They wanted her.

Then, she regretted telling them that she had money and jewelry. Why give them her money and jewelry, too? Why give them any more than they wanted, if they were intent on taking just her? Just her, she couldn't believe she thought that. She couldn't believe she thought so little of herself to think that. She made the sexual assault of her seem so insignificant, as if she was worth less than her money and jewelry.

Even if they let her live, she may never recover from this attack, she thought. Years of therapy, of anger, and of depression, she tried to think of a way out of this, but there was just no way. They were determined to have their way with her. She was a pretty woman and they were intent on satisfying their sexual lust for her by taking it. There were three of them and without her having a weapon, she was powerless to fight them. Her only option was to give them what they wanted and hope to God they'd let her live.

"We don't want your money and we don't want your jewelry, lady. We want you," said Clinton masked man.

There was a third man, tall and slender, and in the way the other two perceived him and denoted him, he appeared to be in charge of this little group. He wore a clown mask. Especially since those horror movies that highlighted evil, murderous clowns, she hated clowns. Her psychologist told her she had coulrophobia, the fear of clowns. Never again could she attend another circus or a children's birthday party, where they had clowns blowing up balloons without having anxiety and panic attacks then, and nightmares later.

Once in the guest bedroom, they pushed her on the bed and when they did, her skirt nearly went up to her waist and she flashed them her white panties. It's funny the things she thought. About to be stripped naked, she was suddenly more concerned with fluffing down her skirt and keeping her legs closed to deny them a look between her legs of her underwear. Now, sitting up helplessly on the bed and surrounded by three men intent on having their way with her, she was panicked out of her mind. This is it, no more stalling, it was happening.

As if watching him in slow motion, she watched clown face reach out his hand and touch her breasts through her blouse, while the other two men watched intently.

"There's something about blondes that makes me hot", he said. "I like blondes and you're the prettiest blonde I've ever seen. Are you a real blonde or are you a bottle blonde."

"I was born a blonde," she said.

"Well, we'll soon find out how blonde you are. We shall see if your carpet matches your drapes," he said with a laugh. "What's your name?"

"Marilyn," she said.

"Your parents must have been fans of Marilyn Monroe, you with your long, blonde hair and big boobs" he said reaching out to touch her hair and feel her boobs, "to have named you Marilyn. That's a perfect name for you. You look a little like her."

Her heart sunk when he gave her the thought that they were going to strip her and see her naked. Except for the time that her cousin entered her bedroom and got a quick look of her tits and pussy, while she was pulling up her bathing suit, no one has seen her naked, except for her husband. Now these three animals will see her without her clothes.

He groped her tits through her bra and once her nipples made an appearance, he coaxed them out further with the skillful play of his fingertips. She figured he'd think she was aroused now that her nipples were erect. Just the opposite, she was, as sickened as she was, frightened. Then, he lowered his face to her breasts and sucked her nipples through her blouse and bra, first one and then the other. Throwing up in her mouth a little, she thought she was going to vomit on his head, but she controlled the urge for fear that he'd beat her if she did. Now, she had two big wet stains on the front of her white blouse.

In one quick pull of her silk blouse, he ripped it wide open exposing her bra and abundant cleavage. Then, he lifted her skirt nearly above her waist exposing her white panties and pried open her knees with his hands. Never had she been so exposed since the time she had the car accident and they cut her clothes off. She had forgotten about that and with good reason. Her husband hadn't survived. She thought it had been only her cousin and husband who had seen her naked, but God knows how many men had seen her naked the day of the accident, from the police officers at the scene, to the fireman and the EMT's, to the doctors and male nurses in the emergency room. Now, as she did then, she used that emotionally traumatic experience as her reason to hide.

Unable to escape them physically, his violent action gave her the reason to withdraw herself, the only way she knew how, mentally. Taking a step closer and putting a knee on her bed, he cupped her tit and felt the weight of her ample breasts in each hand. Oblivious to his touch, sitting motionlessly in the middle of her bed and staring off somewhere behind him, she was already in shock. Then, he felt her between her legs and cupped her pussy through her panty.

She felt his finger trace the area of her slit and immediately, she felt a warm rush. She was moist. She was aroused. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her there. It had been a long time she had sex. She was hot. She was horny. She was afraid.

She missed the touch of a man. She missed the feel of a cock, when deep inside her and with her arms and legs wrapped around her lover, while kissing him. She missed her husband, dead before his time, killed in a tragic car accident, an accident that was her fault. She had been driving drunk. And now this. Hasn't she had enough misery?

Yet, these weren't the men she wanted. Only, she couldn't control what her body felt and what her body wanted. She had no control over what she needed and what she needed and wanted now was to feel a cock. She had denied herself from being with anyone for so long and, now, she was ready to fuck, even these three men. Their touch had reawakened something in her she thought had died when her husband died, and now she was angry that these men made her feel so helpless. It was then that she was determined to never feel helpless again.

The reality that now seemed surreal gave her the ability to disappear from her bedroom and from him. Safe from their harm, she hid herself somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind. Only, she worried, what if she didn't come back? Besides, even though it disgusted her, it felt good when he cupped her pussy through her panty with his palm and traced her slit with his stiff finger. She figured he'd want her to suck his cock and she would. She was horny enough. Going back and forth from horniness to fright, her body played games with her emotions.

Fortunately, she couldn't afford the luxury of hiding herself somewhere too deep in her mind. She needed to be there in the room with her assailants. Looking for tattoos, scars, molds, anything that will help her in the identification of them, she needed to be able to pick them out of a lineup and identify these asses to the police later. She needed to take her revenge by putting them all behind bars for the rest of their lives for what they were about to do to her.

Marilyn was always proud of her tits. She did have nice ones. She had a rack. She had the kind of boobs that women would pay thousands of dollars to a plastic surgeon to get. She had firm C cups breasts that were still as high up as they day she got them when she developed boobs, as a pre-teen, and the few men she had shared her body with always complimented her and commented that she had the best breasts they've ever seen, felt, and sucked. Because they were so perfect, a few even asked if they were real and they were. Genetically blessed, her mother had similar breasts that looked much the same in her seventies, as they did in her thirties. Now, wanting to deny them their fun, she wished she was flat-chested.

"Wait, please don't tear my clothes. I'll take them off, if this is what you really want. Only, please reconsider. If you stop now, nothing has happened. You can still leave and I won't even call the police," she said taking the opportunity to look from one intruder to another, while making note of their approximate heights and weights. "Only, don't hurt me. I have a son. He's living with his dad. We're divorced."

"I don't give a shit about your personal life, Marilyn, just get them clothes off," said the third man, the Caucasian man, wearing a President Clinton mask.

Marilyn stood from her sitting position on her bed. Like spectators standing at a carnival exhibition or in front of a stage in a strip tease club, the men excitedly watched her undress.

"That's right, baby," said the big, black man wearing a monster mask. "Give us a little strip tease show. Wiggle that ass. Show me that booty."

She shed her blouse and reached down and unzipped her skirt allowing it to fall in a wrinkled mess at the foot of her bed. Unable to look at the masked men, she looked down taking not of their footwear, black Reeboks on monster man, blue Nikes on clown face, and green Adidas on Clinton head. Still with her eyes averted from theirs, she paused before reaching around behind her to unhook her bra. Just as she unhooked it, the man wearing the clown mask reached his hand and pulled it off her. Out of reflex more than anything else, even embarrassment, she covered her breasts with her hands.

"Show us them tits, baby," said the man wearing the monster mask. "Put your hands down by your side." Now standing before the men topless, Marilyn obeyed. "Wow! Those are the best boobs I've ever seen."