Meanwhile, in the city...

The night was dark and full of promise. He walked down the alleyway, boots clomping along the street, footsteps echoing off the bricks of nearby buildings. He barely saw the dumpster on the corner, hardly heard the drone of traffic off the nearby highway. The smell of days old garbage didn't even register in his nose.

His body was thrumming. It always started this way. Just a little spark, an electric current that began in his gut. Then, before he knew it, that spark had lit a fire, roaring through him, demanding to be fed, begging to be put out.

He breathed deep, and his cock pulsed in his pants.

* * *

She was some kind of Latina. Mexican, maybe. It didn't matter. She was an older woman, her hair white, her dark skin showing the first sign of wrinkles. That didn't matter either.

She was female. She was ripe. She had three holes to ravage. And he was horny.

That was all that mattered.

He surprised her on her doorstep. She was scared, it was easy to see, unnerved no doubt by stories of a "Furious Facefucker" roaming the streets, attacking the fair women of GirlsVille. She glanced up and down her block while she fumbled for her keys, fighting with the lock. She sighed in relief when the lock clicked, the door swinging open on her comfortable little home.

She never saw him, a huge shadow in the night, materializing out of the darkness like the boogeyman himself. All she knew were hands, powerful hands on her shoulders, spinning her like a top. An impression of size, of strength, of anger, of power. Then she was on her knees, her workshirt torn open, her breasts cold in the night, and her mouth opened first to gasp, then to scream.

But neither came. The man was there already, his pants around his ankles, his cock steel-hard and demanding as his hands found her hair. She squealed around him when he plugged her mouth, the noise turning into a muffled glurk when he kept thrusting into her gullet. She heaved around him, body lifting as drool cascaded from her lips, trying desperately to get away.

He just tightened his grip, and pounded her hole harder.

She took pride in her appearance, her makeup carefully applied, her hair in an elegant bouffant ponytail, hanging down her back. He took pride in ruining her, **** her on his cock until her tears smeared her makeup into running black rivers, smudging along her high cheekbones, while he jerked her back and forth on his dick by her hair until her painstaking hairstyle came undone.

He preferred his women, especially the classy ones, to look more befitting their place in his world. He preferred them to look like whores.

When she gasped, and sputtered, and cried, she looked the part to perfection. He would ensure she would play it even better.

* * *

Later, once he was done with her and she lay sprawled out on her front porch, her face painted as white as her hair, murmuring incoherently, he stood over her, zipping up his pants. He stared down at her, listening to her mumbled speech.

"Useless fuck," he growled, then bent down and spat in her face. She winced and fresh tears leaked down her cheeks, lost in the sea of cum that adorned her.

He smirked and turned away, walking down the street. The police would come soon, and see again what he had done. They would run their stories, and make their reports, and post their warnings to every three-holed slut they could find.

Good.

Let them.

That way they would all know:

The women in this city were nothing but playthings in his world, his universe.

He felt a little spark in his gut, and he grinned, sharklike in the darkness.