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Old 12-09-2019, 05:29 AM   #1
Runesmith
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Join Date: Jan 2013
Location: Stuttgart, Germany
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Default The Palace on the Beach

This is a sequel to my story "The Cabin in the Woods." You don't need to read the first part to enjoy this, but it helps.

Warning 18+: This is a fictional story that contains graphic descriptions of humiliation, degradation and non-consensual sex. If these topics offend you, or if you are under the age of 18, hit that back button now.

Trigger warning: contains explicit rape situations

Trigger warning: this story contains references to foreign countries and cultures, so if you are a Trump voter who knows all about the world because you were at the Epcot resort once, and gets offended by names of foreign places, stay clear. If you are offended by being intentionally offended, don't read this warning, because it intentionally offends some people.

The characters in this story are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, including maybe the royalty of some misbegotten, backwards TPLAC (with the A standing for "Asian" in this instance), is purely coincidental.
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T minus Zero

Foggy, rainy days are not the best kind of days to be driving down the Autobahn in a Neunelfer (the German term for an Porsche 911), and Ingrid wasn't actually enjoying the freedom of tearing down the asphalt at ludicrous speed. It's not that she didn't like fast cars - as a little girl growing up, sharing her dad's interest in cars was one way she could mitigate his clear disappointment at her not being born as a boy. Her interest in cars was what had gotten her her first job, as an intern at Arthur Bechtel's in Böblingen, where she met that customer who would seduce her, and then become her rapist, her lover, her agent, her pimp, her jailer, her torturer, her owner. The man from whom she was keeping a secret that could get her killed if he found out. The man with whom she shared dark secrets that would put them both in jail for life. But if she had learnt anything from her mom, who would serve dinner with a smile to her father after getting a black eye from him, it was that acting was not just a career, it was a survival technique.

Growing up, Ingrid had vowed never to become a porn actress, after coming across evidence of her mother's acting career. Watching the woman who raised her, and whom she used to adore, being used and abused, swallowing semen by the mouthful, oozing creampies, and worst of all - taking cock after cock in anal gangbangs while being heavily pregnant with Ingrid - still made her gag. And when a high school nerd discovered her mother's porn career in an internet archive, she had been forced at the age of 15 to give up her virginity to him (and probably take his) to keep it a secret. For a whole year, until his family moved to Bremen, he had made her practically his sex slave, doing the most disgusting things to her, while making her watch her mother's porn.

And yet, a porn actress was what Alexander had turned her in to.

Part of her irritation stemmed from the fact that her drive to Bochum had been in vain. Alex had got a call from someone claiming to be a casting agent for GGG (German Goo Girls - a bukkake studio), and she had driven 450km for a casting. Arriving in Bochum, she had discovered that the office building whose address she had been given was full of furniture shops and kitchen showrooms. She had driven to several similar sounding addresses with no success, after the "casting agent's" phone didn't answer her calls. Finally, she had called Alex and he had been furious, as if it had been her fault. Too tired to drive back and face his anger, she had spent the night at a hotel and hit the Autobahn early to avoid the traffic.

She wasn't in the mood to enjoy the picturesque valley bridges along the A45, because some fucktard in wimpy little Renault with Dutch plates was hogging the left lane at 130km/h. With the righteous fury that a German driver reserves for showing a foreigner what's "in Ordnung", Ingrid furiously flashed her headlights at him while tailgating at high-speed, until he finally got the message and moved over.

But that wasn't the end of her annoyances. After she had merged in to the A5 heading towards Frankfurt, she noticed a grey car tailgating her in the heavy traffic. The driver of the car would get very close and then move back, and repeat the annoying pattern. So, it was probably a Fat Forties Fuckboy, having noticed that it was a woman behind the wheel, and trying to attract attention. She ignored the car as it followed her all the way south to Darmstadt. She took the exit to A67, and noticed to her irritation that the grey car was still behind her.

Traffic was thin on A67, and once they had passed Darmstadt area, that delightful white road sign with a circle crossed out by three diagonal slashes came in to view, indicating they were entering an area of the Autobahn with no speed limit. Ingrid glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw that the grey car was still taunting her. Time to let the fuckboy dine on her dust.

With a grin, Ingrid floored the perforated metal accelerator pedal with a sneaker-clad foot, with the twin turbos roaring delightedly in response. With deft taps on the paddle shifter, she brought the 911 from a sedate 150km/h to the take-off speed of a Gulfstream jet within just a few seconds, feeling the sweet acceleration pressing her in to the bucket seat.

Throwing a quick glance in to the rearview mirror, she was shocked to see that, instead of being a dwindling speck, the grey sedan was effortlessly keeping pace with her, just about 30 meters from her bumper. Ahead, a series of blinking lights and speed limit signs indicated another annoying stretch of roadworks, and she was forced to reduce speed to a crawl. That gave her a chance to take a better look at the car behind her.

The iconic inverted triangle grill indicated that the car was a latest model Alfa Romeo Guilia. To keep up with her 911, it must be one of those sheep-in-wolf's-clothing Quadrifolgio models with the insane 500 HP Ferrari engine under the hood. That put the fuckboy theory in a bit of a spin. The favored mode of transport for a Fat Forties Fuckboy was, of course, a BMW 3 or 5 series (preferably with a matte paint job). A 150,000 Euro Alfa would be a bit out of reach for a run of the mill fuckboy. Probably a divorced banker fresh from a show-off session at Nurburgring then. The license plate started with an "S" indicating it was registered in Stuttgart. Well, not too unusual in this area, but a strange coincidence. Could it be someone she knew?

The next two letters (which are selectable by the car owner during registration) of the license plate were "EX". Yeah, shouldn't discount the fuckboy theory just yet. The numbers that came after were 346 - a license plate vulgarity, which, when pronounced in German, sounds like an invitation to a threesome. So - a rich fuckboy then.

Realizing that she would be unable to shake the car from her tail, Ingrid decided to do what any German woman harassed by a fuckboy on the Autobahn would do. She took the exit to the next rest area, west of Forsch. She had to pee in any case, and grabbing a coffee wasn't a bad idea either.

As she parked in front of the Serways restaurant, the Alfa rolled in to the vacant parking lot next to her. The passenger door of the Alfa opened and a petite, strikingly beautiful Asian woman, dressed elegantly in a black turtleneck and black leather pants stepped out, casually slinging a tan lambskin Chloe bag over her shoulder, her perfectly styled raven hair blowing in the wind. The fuckboy would have to be very rich afford that kind of girlfriend.

As Ingrid was turning away, trying to avoid the fuckboy, the driver's door opened and the driver stepped out. It was a woman. She was of medium height, slim but with narrow waist, wide hips, large breasts, and nose ring, dressed in a black World of Warcraft T-shirt with "Blood and Thunder" emblazoned in red text, and a pair of stressed jeans. Her pale blue eyes under heavy mascara and dark eye shadow locked in on Ingrid with an expression of pure hate, before the Asian woman walked around the car, took her by the hand and led her towards the restaurant. There was something familiar about the pink-haired woman, but at the same time, Ingrid was quite sure she had never met her before - maybe a minor TV personality perhaps. Well, not a Fat Forties Fuckboy but a Butch Emo-punk Drama-Barbie then. She must have pissed her off on the Autobahn somehow.

Coming out of the stinky, temporary toilet (the usual ones were under repair), Ingrid walked over to the counter and bought an over-priced Latte Macchiato and a Chocolate croissant. She took a bench seat in a vacant corner booth and started reading the angry messages from Alex on her phone.

Suddenly there was a movement to her side, and the Asian woman from the Alfa slid in next to her, trapping her in, while the drama-barbie slid in to the bench seat opposite. Before Ingrid could even begin to voice her annoyance at the intrusion, the drama-barbie slammed a piece of paper in front of her. As her gaze fell on the word written under the crudely drawn symbol on the paper, Ingrid felt the blood draining from her face and her legs going numb. Looking up at the pink haired woman, whose light blue irises had a thin brown border, indicating she was wearing coloured contacts over brown eyes, Ingrid felt the shock of recognition running through her like a jolt of electricity, paralyzing her with raw fear.


To be continued...
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Runesmith's Forgiveness thread - you're gonna need this


My stories:
Non-consensual Roleplay With a Stranger
The Cabin in The Woods
The Shanghai Girl
Palace on The Beach

My poems (yeah, poems):
The Winter

Last edited by Runesmith; 12-09-2019 at 09:37 AM. Reason: Corrected an embarrassing plot disconnect... before anyone caught on...hopefully.
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