He pulled his car to the side, parking in a small alley. Grabbing a stone, he knocked out the streetlight near the alley, leaving the area blanketed in darkness. And then he followed her, his legs quickly catching up the distance between them, the soft soles on his shoes camouflaging the sound of his footsteps. She didn’t hear him, she didn’t see him. She was easy prey. Five steps away from her, he took another look around, his grin breaking across his face, the smile like that of a jackal that scents a carcass left from some other predator. No cars, no people, a sweet little brunette walking late at night, not a care in the world. Four steps and he pulled out his gloves, slipping his hands into the warmth of black leather, smooth, fine grained. They left no marks upon either people or items. It was as if he’d never touched them when he wore these gloves. He was a ghost, a predator without peers, slipping in and never leaving a clue. Three steps and he pulled his jacket collar up. As the chains grew tighter, she began to moan softly. Another turn of the winch had her screaming. Alley was a soprano, and the agony brought out all the subtleties of her lovely voice. I stepped back to enjoy her screams, and to admire her suffering body.Impossibly, being stretched on the rack had made her even more beautiful. Every muscle in her was tight, tense, ready. Her stretched, tortured body had a deeply sexual energy to it. Best of all, the stretching action forced her to display her breasts in the most incredible way. The wooden surface of the rack was slightly concave--this was a woman's rack, after all, designed to bring out the best in the female form. It worked wonders on Alley, putting a slight and subtle arch into her back, forcing her to thrust her peerless breasts up and out. I had a strong temptation to torture those breasts. I longed to fill them with electric pain, to whip them until the nipples bled and burst. I resisted. I wanted Alley to experience the agony.
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