A housecall

Thomas Kincaide was an old associate of yours, and quite the sick fuck. About five years younger, he fancied himself your sidekick for a time, and you took him on a number of rapes, back in the day. Including one where he thought it'd be fun to shoot the heiress to the post-it fortune in the back of the head.

Supposedly, he had retired from the rape game, but you had your doubts. This was not a hobby that one could give up so easily. He was the first in mind when looking for this serial rapist, given his penchant for murder occasionally.

He was living under his real name still, so his house was simply a Zillow search away. Not even six miles seperated it from your office. Still frequenting the old haunts you assume.

B&E was a specialty of yours, and could always be explained away as simply looking for women to fuck. So you broke into the Kincaide home and rummaged around. He had a wife and daughter. Judging by the photo, she was around the same age as your own kid, maybe a year or two younger. Huh. She would've been a little girl when you and Tom were raping and pillaging around Tinseltown. He never mentioned a daughter, or any kind of family. It was all about rape with him.

"Who- who are you?" said Mrs. Kincaide, shocked to find a man in her living room.

You had to keep up appearances, so you of course overpowered her easily, stripped her down and handcuffed her to the railing. The rape was uncomfortable, more so for her, but it always helped clear your mind after cumming into an unwilling receptacle.

"So," you said, cleaning your dark sunglasses after the deed was done. "You're Tom-Tom's wife?"

"Yes?" she said, through a busted lip and tearful face. "My husband is out of town for business this weekend. Did-did you need something from him?"

"You been married long?"

"Nineteen years."

"He never mentioned you, or your quite fetching daughter." You were holding a graduation photo, tracing her ample curves even apparent in a high school gown. Dad the rapist and Mom the woman-you-just-raped looked quite normal in this photo.

"Do you know Thomas?"

"Me and him used to rape around town."

"I believe you are mistaken, sir," she coughed up a little blood from a tooth you had loosened in the struggle. "Raping might be a fun pastime for you, but Thomas is a deacon. He would never engage in such an activity."

It's true, he was a biblical sort, always going on about "giving harlots what they deserve". To each their own, you assume. Alot of these sick fucks had to justify their sick fucks.

"I see. You say he's out for the weekend on business... but he's a deacon. Won't he be missed at church?"

"I- uh," she was clearly lying about something, and you prepared for another round of sexualized torture when the front door opened. "Mom, I'm home!"

"Why don't you help me with little Miss Sunshine," you say as you uncuff Mrs. Kincaide. She rubs her wrists and nods at you as she leaves to fetch her daughter.

You look at the graduation photo once more, and adjust yourself so that things can go smoothly for the next rape. A picture of Jesus overlooks the room and you smile at the man who resembles you in your college days. Maybe that's why you picked up so many religious followers. Perhaps you should stop shaving again.

Mrs. Kincaide returned, dragging in her scared daughter. "Shut up, bitch!" she said, play acting for your benefit. She looked at you for approval as you nodded. Molly Kincaide was slapped to the ground by her own mother, and struggled to get up. Your boot on her back held her in place.

"Any idea where your father is, Miss?"

"He's not home yet?" You look angrily at Mrs. Kincaide who looks down sheepishly regarding her lie earlier.

"Not yet, but he's going to find a nice surprise when he gets home."

Molly was a virgin, you realized, as you tore through her maidenhead. So, Tom-Tom hadn't been fucking his daughter. Interesting. Maybe he was the rare rapist who could separate his family life from his lifestyle. You certainly couldn't. Your family had been raped more times than the residents of Nanking.

Molly's mother held her down as you finished your penetrations, still deep in thought. You ejaculated within the teenage girl, and wiped off the excess cum on her thigh. Wait...

"Was Tom-Tom in church two Sundays ago?"

The mother shook her head to your question. "At Mary Magdalene's Church. They-they do a livestream and you can confirm."

Damn. The rapist had broken into a high-end bridal shop and massacred all the employees there that Sunday. It couldn't have been Thomas. Oh well.

You tied up the women in their own bedsheets for Tom to find and do with as he pleases. You took a few photos for your scrapbook, and Mrs. Kincaide's wedding ring, of course, and tossed on your trenchcoat, as you exited into the dreary day, trying to conceive of some sort of lead into this rapist's identity.