kryptonite
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Jan 25, 2007
- Messages
- 112
- Points
- 0
Ann sat at the bar, wearing sun glasses even though the lighting in the smoke-filled dive was dim. She hoped no one would recognize her because she had an itch between her legs and wanted a swarthy man to scratch it. Publicly, she condemned the "diaperheads;" privately she desired them, a classic case of forbidden love. A tanned man with a sharp black mustache stood next to her. He ordered a soda water witha twist of lime. His spicy cologne penetrated Ann's nostrils, the odor making her wet. She turned toward him, crossed her skinny leg so that her red dress shifted and made most of her thigh visible.
"Hi, do you know who I am?"
Despite wanting to remain anonymous, she kind of half-wanted to impress him, perhaps intimidate him.
"A beautiful American woman," the man said, a wicked smile on his face.
Ann sipped her margarita, the alcohol already dulling her judgement.
"You're a real lady's man, aren't you?"
"I've satisfied my share."
His confidence excited her lower belly.
"Satisfy me."
He grabbed her hand and led her to the parking lot, the brisk air of the night chilling her to the bone. He got behind the wheel of his black Mercedes Benz and drove like a race car driver to his apartment several blocks away, but it still wasn't fast enough for Ann, she touched herself on the way, flicking her finger inside her soaked panty.
They rode the elevator up to the sixth floor apartment and on the way up Ann leaned on him, her drunk legs barely able to keep her body upright. She swayed and walked behind him down the hallway, feeling like his slave. He opened the door, and she followed him into the dark room. As soon as he shut the door, he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her toward a back room. Ann couldn't see, her eyes unable to adjust to the light, but she was excited, the man's aggressiveness, another turn-on. He shoved her against the wall, handcuffed her wrists, and hooked them to a bar over her head. Only then, did she become alarmed.
"I-I don't do this on the first date," she said.
He flipped the light on, revealing a sparse, yellow-carpeted room, reeking of urine and without furniture. Big blown up pictures of the twin towers collapsing decorated the room. The man took off his button down shirt. He wore a sleeveless undershirt that said Al Quaeda on it over a picture of bin Laden.
Ann panicked, thrashed uselessly.
"Let me go. Is this some kind of gag?"
"My name is Achmed. You humiliate my people, insult us, threaten to invade our country and force us to become Christians. Yet, you are but a weak woman."
Ann started yelling for help. He put his hands on the shoulders of her dress and ripped it off. He pulled her panty down to her ankles and lifted each leg up to free it, stopping to take a stiff sniff. He unhooked her bra and looked her over.
"Not bad for a skinny woman."
He cupped her pointy titty.
"You get your hands off me you...you beast."
Achmed laughed.
"Ah, but you were begging for it earlier."
"No, I never would go willingly with you. You abducted me, I'll tell everybody. Who will they believe: Ann Coulter or a terrorist?"
Achmed stood behind her, whispered in her ear.
"You're not telling the truth. You know how I can tell?"
He started caressing her neck. Ann feared, couldn't stand the feeling. She tried to act indignant.
"I'm not lying, you abducted me."
But he was persistent; she was ticklish. She let out an involuntary guffaw.
"See. You're laughing. That proves you're joking."
He tickled her lean buttocks with both hands; Ann jumped forward, strained desperately. She laughed--a shrill, shrieking giggle.
"No, no stop!"
Achmed mercilessly ticked her sides, her belly.
Ann's knees buckled, an out-of-breath hard laughter shooting from her lungs.
"Please, please, I'll do anything, just stop."
Achmed picked up one of her feet and bent it behind her till her heel touched her ass. He attacked the sole. Ann felt an even greater loss of control, her bladder burst, spraying the yellow carpet with a stream not unlike that made by a horse pissing. She kept giggling, nearly blacking out. Achmed started flicking her clitoris, he stuck three fingers up her vagina. She orgasmed, she trembled, she collapsed, only the cuffs holding her upright, her face hidden by her long blonde hair.
"Don't tickle me any more. I'll do anything," she mumbled.
"Oh, you don't have to change anything. Just keep saying the things you say. What propaganda fodder you provide our cause.
"Hi, do you know who I am?"
Despite wanting to remain anonymous, she kind of half-wanted to impress him, perhaps intimidate him.
"A beautiful American woman," the man said, a wicked smile on his face.
Ann sipped her margarita, the alcohol already dulling her judgement.
"You're a real lady's man, aren't you?"
"I've satisfied my share."
His confidence excited her lower belly.
"Satisfy me."
He grabbed her hand and led her to the parking lot, the brisk air of the night chilling her to the bone. He got behind the wheel of his black Mercedes Benz and drove like a race car driver to his apartment several blocks away, but it still wasn't fast enough for Ann, she touched herself on the way, flicking her finger inside her soaked panty.
They rode the elevator up to the sixth floor apartment and on the way up Ann leaned on him, her drunk legs barely able to keep her body upright. She swayed and walked behind him down the hallway, feeling like his slave. He opened the door, and she followed him into the dark room. As soon as he shut the door, he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her toward a back room. Ann couldn't see, her eyes unable to adjust to the light, but she was excited, the man's aggressiveness, another turn-on. He shoved her against the wall, handcuffed her wrists, and hooked them to a bar over her head. Only then, did she become alarmed.
"I-I don't do this on the first date," she said.
He flipped the light on, revealing a sparse, yellow-carpeted room, reeking of urine and without furniture. Big blown up pictures of the twin towers collapsing decorated the room. The man took off his button down shirt. He wore a sleeveless undershirt that said Al Quaeda on it over a picture of bin Laden.
Ann panicked, thrashed uselessly.
"Let me go. Is this some kind of gag?"
"My name is Achmed. You humiliate my people, insult us, threaten to invade our country and force us to become Christians. Yet, you are but a weak woman."
Ann started yelling for help. He put his hands on the shoulders of her dress and ripped it off. He pulled her panty down to her ankles and lifted each leg up to free it, stopping to take a stiff sniff. He unhooked her bra and looked her over.
"Not bad for a skinny woman."
He cupped her pointy titty.
"You get your hands off me you...you beast."
Achmed laughed.
"Ah, but you were begging for it earlier."
"No, I never would go willingly with you. You abducted me, I'll tell everybody. Who will they believe: Ann Coulter or a terrorist?"
Achmed stood behind her, whispered in her ear.
"You're not telling the truth. You know how I can tell?"
He started caressing her neck. Ann feared, couldn't stand the feeling. She tried to act indignant.
"I'm not lying, you abducted me."
But he was persistent; she was ticklish. She let out an involuntary guffaw.
"See. You're laughing. That proves you're joking."
He tickled her lean buttocks with both hands; Ann jumped forward, strained desperately. She laughed--a shrill, shrieking giggle.
"No, no stop!"
Achmed mercilessly ticked her sides, her belly.
Ann's knees buckled, an out-of-breath hard laughter shooting from her lungs.
"Please, please, I'll do anything, just stop."
Achmed picked up one of her feet and bent it behind her till her heel touched her ass. He attacked the sole. Ann felt an even greater loss of control, her bladder burst, spraying the yellow carpet with a stream not unlike that made by a horse pissing. She kept giggling, nearly blacking out. Achmed started flicking her clitoris, he stuck three fingers up her vagina. She orgasmed, she trembled, she collapsed, only the cuffs holding her upright, her face hidden by her long blonde hair.
"Don't tickle me any more. I'll do anything," she mumbled.
"Oh, you don't have to change anything. Just keep saying the things you say. What propaganda fodder you provide our cause.
You portrayed the secondary character stereotypically well, stereotypically in that you embraced the stereotype of a middle eastern male terrorist, not that your writing was stereotypical. 
