The Sandusky Twins

You glanced through the binoculars about a block away from the nondescript house in the nondescript neighborhood where the twins lived. You had kept tabs on them due to their unpredictability. A jogger lay bound and gagged in the backseat as you took another swig of whisky to keep the demons at bay. She was the first woman you saw when pulling up, and after an uneventful rape, her broken body in the backseat was enough to keep onlookers from inquiring why you were here. They would just assume you were here to rape.

The twins, Martin and Martha Kingsley were once a pair of wide-eyed high school kids you came across during your hobo days, before college. You were in Sandusky, Ohio, living off the land. And by land, you mean homes you broke into while raping housewives. It was here you fucked Mrs. Kingsley - you could not recall her first name - while the twins were at school. Mr. Kingsley came home during the act, but of course wasn't surprised or upset at witnessing this. Together, the two parents helped you tackle young Martha when she arrived from school, and you still fondly remembered the fake sweat and realistic play-acting from Martha as you ripped her virginity away. You lived with them for a year, staying in Martha's room and sleeping with the beautiful angel every night until her pregnancy turned you off.

Martin was a peculiar fellow. The entire family were devout Jehovah's Witnesses, but you had forced them to stray from their faith to see to your needs. Martin never had sex until you forced his sister to fuck him one bored evening, but he took to it like a champ. You were pretty sure they began fucking each other on the side before you left, but that was not your concern. Martha had been fucked by her mother, father, and brother all on your personal orders. Men generally did not always follow instructions, but the Kingsleys could be very helpful in assisting your rapes. It was probably a year or two after shacking up with the Kingsleys that the twins showed up on your doorstep and...

Shit. You spot a tall, redhead man walking fastly up the street. Straight to your beat-up old car. A thinning mustache, almost as thin as his hair. Rimmed glasses magnifying his eyes as he glared at you. He has a build to him that hides an inherent strength people don't see coming until it hits them. Your old partner-in-rapes, Thomas Kincaide. You grab your pistol from under the seat and secrete it away from the window as Kincaide rushes towards it apparently unarmed.

"What's shaking, Tom-Tom?" you say from a crack in your window, trying to hide any fear in your voice. He glares at you, looks at the naked jogger in the backseat and back toward you.

"Let me in." He glances at the nondescript house. "I can help."

Tom caresses the tit of the bound woman who visibly recoils from his grip, as he sits in the passenger seat. "Why'd you rape my family?" he asks, his eyes towards the recoiling beauty.

"I was working on a hunch. You never said you had a daughter."

"Because I knew you'd fuck her, eventually."

"Unlike you."

"I don't touch family. Motherfucker."

"You know it," you took another swig, as Tom-Tom seemed occupied with his groping. "I had to eliminate you as a suspect, after what happened last time."

"Suspect of what? That bridal store massacre? I only kill harlots. You know that. The unclean. And my raping days are over." He quickly removed his hand and turned towards you. "You seemed to have picked up the slack since my retirement."

"Retirement? I've been researching you, Tom-Tom. There's been six unsolved rapes in your congregation the last year alone. And one murder."

"It's just Tom, motherfucker. And that wasn't me. My wife keeps me on the straight and narrow. I very rarely stray."

"How do you do it?"

"She's very devout. There's a thing called spousal rape, and she doesn't believe it exists." He smiled wide at a fond, sick memory of his.

You nodded. Rapists and their excuses.

"So, the twins are behind all this? They've upgraded to murder?"

"I don't know. I'm pretty sure they murdered before." You pondered his statement that he wasn't behind the six rapes at his congregation. Could someone be trying to frame Tom? They were doing a piss-poor job of it, with the Sunday mistakes. "You're not upset about me taking your daughter's virginity?"

Kincaide shrugged. "It happens."

"Is your daughter okay?" your eyes narrowed.

"Let me worry about my daughter."

You just sighed, as you and Tom watched from a distance, Tom taking every opportunity to grope the poor woman in the backseat. Suddenly, movement.

"What's going on?" Tom asks, surprisingly noticing your attention being drawn. You watch as a crying woman, topless but attempting to cover up quickly, leaves the house.

"A prostitute," you say, noting her slutty apparel made strictly for advertising her sexual wares, "but crying. Probably abused. It's their usual MO."

Tom nodded. "So, the twins order a whore. Or, Martin orders the whore, then Martha bursts out and ass-rapes her with the dildo as they take turns abusing her."

Probably, but you added, "Then they'd tied her up and fuck each other. The abuse usually gets them into a frenzy." You had pushed them into an incestuous relationship back in the day, now they had little use for anything else.

"We need an inside man..." you ponder at loud. "Er, uh, woman." You look at the backseat. She won't do. You could probably talk a woman into posing as a prostitute for you, if you're really nice, but the jig would be up two seconds after Martha starts dildo-whipping them.

"Nasir's?" asks Tom, referring to your Iranian smuggler friend and his collection of sex slaves.

You shook your head. A sex slave would give you up even faster than a regular cunt. You needed someone who would play the part without question. Someone trustworthy and uncoerced. You knew where you had to go.

"Buckle in, if you're going to stay, Tom. I'm heading to Ruby's".

"D-do you mind if I jump in the backseat?"

You glared at him. But you do him for raping his family.

You pulled into a clearing near the park and smoked a cigarette as Tom violently raped the jogger. "No blood in the car!" you yell over his guttural moans and grunts. The sun was peaking through the clouds as you notice a familiar sound. You look back to see him choking the bitch out. "Knock it off!" you say, as you slap him on the ass. "Finish up and keep her the fuck alive!"

He does, and she breathes heavily as he collapses on top of her after spraying her insides. Tom is half asleep as you cut open the woman's bindings and yank off the duct tape. "Did I do good? Is that what you wanted, sir?" she said, hopefully, as her face is reddened with tears from the near-death experience.

"Yeah..." you say with a thousand-yard stare. She just squeezes out from alongside Tom and relaces her shoes. She smiles back at you as you toss her a bag of clothes. Most are stretched beyond repair, but she pulls them on and goes jogging into the night, her day ruined but not really.

As the sun sets, you pull into Ruby's, the strip club, and the one woman you know that will not have to be coerced into doing sexual favors for you.