The Jogger
I wasn’t doing anything unusual. I went jogging 3 or 4 times every week. I always followed one of three routes I used. I was wearing the same lycra shorts and baggy t-shirt I always wore. I had my hair tied tightly in a ponytail just like normal. Nothing was unusual. When I rounded the corner and almost banged into the young guy riding a mountain bike, I apologised, just like I always would. Then it got unusual.
“You have a great body – you look like you’d be a fantastic fuck” he said. Okay, I’ve been hit on and had crude comments before, even wearing the unflattering clothes I wore for jogging, some guys just can’t help themselves. The unusual thing was, though, his lips never moved.
“You should follow me and let me have some fun with that fit body of yours” he said, his lips motionless as he smiled and his blue eyes twinkled. I was about to voice my outrage and give him a piece of my mind, when he pushed hard and pedalled away. Well, that’s that, I thought. Loser, I thought. I took a swig from my water bottle and continued jogging. I had gone about a quarter of a mile before I even realised I wasn’t jogging my usual route, but was running along 20 yards behind the bike.
“Keep up – I’d hate to lose you before I’ve given you a good fucking” he said, loud and clear from 20 yards in front of me. From the lack of reactions of other passers-by, no-one else heard it. I kept jogging, this weird bastard wasn’t going to spoil my work-out, I’ll turn left at the next corner and head back onto my normal route. I turned right just as the bicycle in front had done, and as the bike accelerated, I picked up my pace to keep up. As the bike slowed down, I eased back. The bike accelerated again and I broke into a sprint. As the bike slipped down a narrow alley, I followed, and was relieved that the bike had already disappeared from view when I got to the other end. Without hesitation, I went to the blue door and opened it without knocking. I shut it behind me and stood there, sipping water, sweating and gasping for breath.
Looking around, wondering what the hell I was doing here, I saw the open door to my right so went through it. There he was, in an armchair smiling at me. I was livid. I needed to give him a piece of my mind. Yes, that’s it. I’d obviously followed him to tell him what I thought of his crude comments and sexist attitude. He smiled, my blood boiled. Right, now I was going to tell him a few home truths.
I didn’t get a chance. He obviously saw the venom in my stare, and his motionless mouth said “If you don’t want to be here, why don’t you run away and continue your jog? Go on – off you go”. I didn’t need to be told twice, I turned and fled. Flinging the door wide open, I pounded back down the alleyway, turned left and went down the street like an olympic runner. I almost vaulted the fence to the park at the end of the street and fled at top speed past the dog walkers and young mothers. I stormed out of the gate onto the high street and turned right, swerving past commuters as I fled. I cut through a gap between two shops, bustled through a gap in the fence and headed down a narrow alleyway. I threw myself through the blue door, slamming it behind me, headed right into the living room and stood, knees bent, hands on thighs, breathless as he sat there smiling at me and said “welcome back” without moving his lips. What the hell? How did I end up back here?
“You look hot, take off your t-shirt”. Damn, why couldn’t I see his lips move when he spoke? And how dare he? Still, I was very hot after that furious sprint. I pulled my t-shirt up over my head and dropped it beside me.
“That’s bra’s not very sexy is it? Take it off”. He smiled. His lips remained motionless. I was indignant. Sure, my sports bra was a little off white nowadays, and the smooth rounded cups were there for function, not titillation. I am so going to read him the riot act, I thought, as the bra fell to the floor.
“Your nipples look a bit pathetic love, you really need to make them perk up a bit” he said without speaking. What a fucking attitude, how dare he? As soon as I finished pinching and pulling my nipples, I was really going to tear into him. When my nipples were standing proud and erect from my modest 34C’s I was going to tell him exactly what I thought of him, the vile little prick. And just wait until I told my husband, this loser was dead. And how did he keep speaking without moving his lips? He was doing it again now.
“Turn around and bend over, slut. Put your hands on the floor, keep your legs straight”. Right, that’s enough. I’m walking out of here right now. I flashed him a look of pure hatred and turned my back on him. I’m leaving. Immediately after I bend forward and brace my hands against the floor, my feet shoulder-width apart and legs straight. After all, it’s sensible to warm-down after a long jog.
I felt rather than heard him coming. If he touches me I will kick his balls right up to his throat. If he dares to weigh my breasts in his hands like he’s doing now, I will scream. And sliding one hand between my legs like that, pushing the lycra of my shorts into my slit, well that’s just too much. I’m having this bastard locked up forever. He tells me I’m getting wet. Well that’s all he knows, there is no way I’m going to get aroused in this situa…
Well, yeah okay, I’m a little wet…a bit tingly….but that just from the physical exercise, that’s often a bit arousing. It has nothing to do with him relentlessly slipping his hand back and forth over my lycra-covered crotch, nor his kneading and pulling of my breasts like I’m some bloody milk cow.
Then, he has the damned cheek to tell me I’m sweaty and need a shower. He tells me to stand, and I do – not because he told me to but because my legs ache and I stand up when I choose to stand up. He flashes his blue eyes and smiles and his lips don’t move once as he tells me where the bathroom is, and tells me there are towels out. They don’t move as he tells me which room to go to after my shower, and that there will be some fun things to wear waiting for me. I need a shower, and there is no way he’s going to stop me showering. And after my shower, I am going to go straight to the police and have him arrested.
The shower was hot and relaxing. Who did that loser on the bike think he was? Probably some pathetic sad prick who’s never been laid in his life, and has to get off on ogling female joggers. I don’t know what he thought he was playing at saying that stuff to me. Even if I wasn’t happily married, I am so totally out of his league. Even at, I guessed, 10 years older than him, my looks and body were totally out of his reach. He’s a three, and I’m at least an eight. No way a pathetic loser who rated 3 could hope to be with an 8, not even in his wildest wet dreams. As I towelled myself dry, I resolved that he was probably just lonely. Getting him arrested was probably a bit over the top, I would just tell him what I thought of him, and threaten him that if he ever came near me again I would get my husband to come around and break his legs.
Dropping the towel, I walked naked to the bedroom across the hallway, my mind still full of the home truths I was going to dish out to this worm. I prepared my speech over and over as I slipped on the silk thong, the half-cup bra which left my still-hard nipples exposed, the sheer black stockings and fine lace suspender belt. As I slipped into the 4-inch patent leather high-heels, I decided I would tell him my husband was an ex-marine (which was a lie but he was a big strong hunk, not like Sammy Sad here) and that he could kill with his bare hands. I played this speech over and over as I teetered downstairs to find him sitting in the same armchair.
His blue eyes seemed even more intense as he told me to let him see me properly. I replayed my speech, ready to tear into him as I slowly spun around and around, posing and adjusting my body so he could see everything. I stopped rotating and he smiled, and without speaking told me I had made him hard. Like I cared. He probably gets hard looking at swimwear catalogues, damned loser. And when he told me I should come over and suck his cock, well, that was too much. My husband won’t need to kill him, I thought, I’ll do it myself. I walked towards him with murder in my mind, and as I dropped to my knees I knew no court would convict me for what I was going to do to this pervert. I leaned towards him, deciding to cause him the most possible pain before he died, and my whole face burned with hatred as I unzipped his fly, extracted his hard cock and leaned over to slip it in my mouth.
This is rape, I though, as my head bobbed up and down. He’ll get life for this, I rationalised as his cock head hit the back of my throat (deeper than I’d ever taken Paul, my husband). With a sickening realisation, I remembered he had not touched me, had not forced me to do any of this, he had just told me. How would that look in court? How would Paul react to my claims of being raped and describing how I sucked off a stranger without being hurt or even threatened? Even as the thought struck me, he came hard. I heard the word “swallow” and I swallowed his vile cum. Just as I thought I would surely vomit, he said “It tastes wonderful doesn’t it? You want more, don’t you?” and I realised he was right. It did taste good. Much better tasting than Paul’s, which I normally spat out (what can I say? Not all women are like those in porn movies, right girls?). I did want more. I kept sucking, squeezing every drop out of him until I felt him start to get hard again. And all the time, I was planning what I would do to him to make him pay for this.
Despite the fact I wanted to taste more of that yummy spunk, when he was hard he told me to stand up. He smiled. His eyes sparkled. His lips didn’t move. He told me to turn around and bend over. I turned around and bent over. I was completely outraged when he pulled the thong aside and plunged his cock unceremoniously into my pussy, the first cock I had felt in there for over 10 years besides Paul’s. He wasn’t very big, certainly not as big as Paul, but nevertheless I still let out a gasp of pain and discomfort as he invaded my unprepared pussy. As he began fucking me in a smooth rhythm, he told me he was the biggest I had ever had. I felt my pussy filled to stretching. I felt his cock-head batter my uterus over and over. He told me I loved him fucking me, and my pussy got wetter and wetter. He told me my cunt loved to milk his cock. My cunt (yes, that’s what it was) began to contract around him and massage his huge wonderful cock. He told me this was the best sex I had ever had. My whole body shook with my first orgasm, and by the time the fourth hit me I was a gibbering wreck, my cunt squeezing and relaxing over and over as he held my hips and impaled me on his cock. When I felt him unload his spunk in my cunt, I came again, and when he let go of my hips, I collapsed in a heap on the floor with cum oozing out of me.
He stood and smiled, and as he directed me without moving his lips I entered pose after pose as he took dozens of pictures with his little digital camera. He had me scoop cum from my cunt and suck my fingers. He had me play with my breasts. He had me spread wide and let him photograph my sopping cunt as I held my thong to one side. And not once did his lips move. Then he was hard again and he had me kneel in front of him.
I hated him, and I would make sure he paid for this. He told me this would feel wonderful and not hurt at all, and as for the very first time in my life I felt a cock rammed up my asshole, I realised he was right. Over and over he pounded me, and I felt not a bit of pain. Instead, he told me I would have orgasm after orgasm, and I did. And when he pulled out of my ass only to plunge his cock back in my cunt, I had another one. And as another load of his spunk jetted into my cunt, the orgasm kept going. He told me the pleasure was so intense I would pass out.
When I woke, I was back in my jogging clothes. I looked around the empty room and quickly got to my feet (my legs were shaky) and staggered out through the blue door. Shaking my head, as if trying to clear some bad dream, I began jogging down the alleyway and out into the busier street.
Twenty minutes later I was home, I showered and tried to remember what had happened. It took weeks for me to piece it all together, and even now I don’t understand it. I just found out I am 9 weeks pregnant (which is a problem, as Paul had a vasectomy before we met). I still jog three or four times a week, and sooner or later I will bump into that sick pervert on the mountain bike. And then I will give him a piece of my mind. Then I’ll tell him what I think of him. Damn right I will.