Disclaimer: This story contains content that should not be read by people
underneath the age of 21. It is 100% fiction and has no bearing on reality
whatsoever. 100% fiction means real life rape is WRONG. The author does not
condone illegal and immoral actions described. If you feel rape in the real
world is a good thing, bend over in a prison and whistle dixie. While I'm
disclaiming, racism, homophobia and other bigotry of any kind are also really
fucking stupid. I don't own any of the many intellectual property holders'
characters and make no profit from this story. Please read the story codes
above to ensure that you are not going to be offended by, or otherwise
dislike, the content.

Additional Credit: The plot of this story came from Phantom on the CSSA
forums where I lurk. I contacted Phantom through email to discuss many
aspects of this story and gained a lot of useful input as well as the main
plot from his forum post. Quite frankly, without phantom this story would
not exist.

Description: The ultimate hunter comes to Earth to hunt, defeat, rape and
take skull trophies from five of Earth's greatest female warriors in a single
night: Deadly Little Miho, Natalie Cook, Beatrix Kiddo, Lara Croft and Agent
Paris Hilton. Can he succeed?

Content Codes: FF, ncon, bond, toys, celeb

Predator: Five Women. One Night. Part 3 - Paris Hilton Interlude
by JD ([email protected])

There were a couple of fine old bottles of wine that, if pulled off of
the rack at the same time, caused an otherwise undetectable section of
wine-cellar floor to slide sideways. This revealed well-lit concrete steps
going down into a sub-basement. It was a little too spy-movie-kitsch for her
tastes, but Paris had gotten used to it. She pulled the bottles, waited for
the floor to slide open and walked down the steps.

At the bottom of the steps is a corridor with very solid doors off each side
along its length, and one door at the far end. None of the doors have signs;
Paris knew the entire sub-basement complex like the back of her black-leather
gloved hands. The floor slowly slid back at the top of the stairs as she
strode meaningfully down the corridor to the sixth door. Her phone beeped as
she received a text message; there was a booster to get the signal into the
basement. She ignored it.

The lock was electronic; she tapped in a twelve-digit code, listened for
the click, and pushed the door open. The soundproofing was so good that the
corridor went from quiet to loud instantly. Despairing female groans and a
heavy scent filled the air. In the centre of the room Ann Coulter was set in
concrete. Forced to her hands and knees in a shallow pit - with forearms and
lower legs flat against the floor - liquid concrete had been poured in and
allowed to set hard until only her thighs and upper arms stuck out,
supporting her body in painful doggy-position.

She turned her head as the door opened and pleaded in vowels around the thick
metal ring that forced her mouth to remain constantly open. Ann's chin was
thick slick drooled saliva. She was naked except a silver chain and cross
around her neck and for the harness strapped around her crotch.

Made of red leather and strapped tightly enough to bite into her tanned skin,
it secured twin fourteen inch vibrating dildos - moulded from real donkey
cocks - deep inside Coulter's stuffed ass and stretched out cunt. Ann had
never had anything bigger than four inches inside her before, and her has had
been totally virginal and very tight. A cable and tubes emerged from the back
of the harness; one supplied the dildos with electricity and kept them
vibrating fast, another was a catheter lodged into Ann's urethra to drain off
her piss and the last went through the core of the ass-dildo and slowly
sucked out Ann's shit to a storage tank.

Ann stank of sweat and arousal, forced orgasms and desperation.

Paris had set it all up the previous evening when Ann was still mostly out
of it from tranquillisers, but this was her first opportunity to come back
and check on her captive. While enjoying them immensely, she appeared to
ignore Ann's frantic incomprehensible pleadings and got down to examine the
stickyness of her thighs. It looked like she'd been cumming near constantly
for 24 hours; Paris ran a gloved finger up the inside of Ann's thigh and
then slurped the skanky mixture of sweat and pussy juice into her mouth.

"That's hot," she whispered, as the sweat soaked woman shuddered through
another forced climax.

Paris unbuttoned her short silk skirt and let it fall to the floor. Her own
cunt was dripped wet as she ran her fingers into the older woman's thick
mane of blonde hair and pulled back. Even exhausted from being locked in the
muscle-aching position and forced to cum over and over by painfully large
vibrating dildos, Ann recognised the sight of raw animal lust in Paris's

"My boss is faking up a video of you being kidnapped and held by Al Quaeda
sympathisers. In three weeks time they'll need footage of you, that's you in
physically awful condition about weeks of neglect and abuse, losing your
head," Paris reached down with her other hand and pulled up Ann's cross. She
waved it before her eye, and then dropped it, "Try prayer. Maybe God will
save you."

Ann's voice rose, though Paris still couldn't make out what the hell she was
frantically babbling around the ring. Paris guessed it was along the lines of
`Why me, you crazy bitch?' but she didn't feel like keying Ann in on the
politics behind it. Instead she bent her legs and rubbed her shaved pussy
around Ann's mouth. Ann hated gays, lesbians & bisexuals with every ounce of
her far-right `soul,' but she was completely helpless as the young heiress
ground her dripping snatch against her face.

Paris loved the disgusted look in Ann's eyes and hot breath on her pussy. She
humped against Ann's face, getting more and more aroused thinking about what
she had in store for the bitch. Piercing Ann's fat nipples and clit was a
real priority, breaking the concrete and hanging her until she was almost
dead, whippings, brandings a little red hot metal against tender spots. Paris
was going to use her latest fucktoy hard before it was time to pull the

"Stick your tongue, Ann-slut. Stick your fucking tongue out and lick me or
I'll cut off your fucking clit!"

Terrified, wondering if this was some kind of sick joke, or initiation into
the inner-reaches of the Republican party (everyone had heard the stories),
Ann complied. She pushed her tongue out as far as it would go from her aching
jaw and tasted Paris's swollen labia. Paris groaned, tightening her grip on
Ann's head. She moaned loudly, getting off on the sights, sounds and smells
as much as from Ann's inexpert tonguing. Still, she taunted Ann.

"You're real good, Ann! How many cunts have you eaten? You're even better
than Lohan!"

Ann felt like all of her fears about lesbianism were coming true at once,
although the thought was derailed by another strength-sapping orgasm. After
so many Ann was starting to fear the pleasure. Paris started to groan and
then exploded, splashing Ann's face and forced-open mouth heavily with hot
girlcum. She came a real gusher, until her cunt juices were dripping heavily
down Ann's face to the floor.

She was about to start round two when her cell phone rang. Ringtone six.
The boss. Paris got on the floor and fumbled in her discarded skirt with one
hand, while using the other to pull Ann's sticky face into the valley of her
boobs. Ann, despairing of release, started to lick the sweaty tit-meat. The
phone beeped twice to indicate the line was securely encrypted.

"Hey Boss. I'm kinda busy right now."

"New priority. We have a Class Six ET hunting in LA. We've got bits of six
bodies so far - nobody worth a damn to us. You're the highest rated combat
specialist available for three thousand miles. We can't pull anyone else onto
it. A dossier with everything the police have so far and relevant background
material has been sent to your mailbox. You have full authorisation to call
on any department resources, human or otherwise, you need to bring this thing
in - alive if possible, dead if necessary. Retaining cover is official low
priority. Good Luck."

The line went dead. Paris stared at her cell phone in shock; the Boss never
said good luck. He almost never explained as much either.

What the fuck was a Class Six anyway?

Next: Predator vs Beatrix Kiddo

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