Caspar, The Friendly Neighbourhood – Celebrities & Fan Fiction

Casper, the Friendly Neighbourhood Rapist.

Hi everybody. My name is Casper Ware. If I may, I have a tale I’d like to distribute with you. Over the last year, I’ve become the rapist of five and the lover of eight women living in my neighbourhood. All are stay-at-home mums with asshole husbands. Well, all, except for the first one I took as my lover.

Her, as you will see, I didn’t really rape. But the sex was pretty damned wild!

It all started with Peg Bundy. Peg is just so beautiful. She’s tall and thin, with gigantic tits and incredibly long legs. Peg typically wears either clinging trousers that show off her shapely ass or midi-skirts that cling to her and display her long-toned legs deliciously.

Under these items, Peg at all times wears 7-inch stiletto heels. Her heels make her beautiful butt and calves pop like corn in a microwave oven.

Her tops at all times show plenty of Peg’s generous cleavage and mould to her shapely shoulders and flat stomach.

Her husband, Al, is a pig, you know? This asshole is at all times down the pub drinking beer with his mates or bowling with his league team. In conversation, all Al ever does is put her down. He insults her ‘fat’ ass when it’s gorgeously round or disparages how big her tits are, calling them udders. If he’s not doing that, he’s insulting her intelligence or complaining about her attitude. Why Peg stays with him is beyond me.

I’ve met Peg socially a few times, and I think she’s the hottest mother in the suburb. Her daughter, Kelly, is gorgeous, too. But even though Kelly has turned eighteen, she’s too young for my tastes.

During the Bundy’s last Christmas party, I flirted with Peg. I figured she wasn’t getting any at home, so she might like a bit of stray on the side. But she turned me down, flat. Don’t get me wrong; she was polite. But she told me in no uncertain terms that she loved her asshole of a husband and wouldn’t be fooling around on him.

Peg and Al were married straight out of high college because Peg was pregnant with Kelly. So I’m guessing Al and Peg were each other’s first and, probably, only lover.

My dick throbbing with unrequited lust, I smiled and accepted her refusal, even though it burnt. However, I knew if I could get Peg in the sack, I could show her a level of sexual bliss she’d never before experienced. Then, we could treat her ass of a husband how he deserved by fucking behind his back.

Going home, I fantasised about how to lure Peg into the sack. Many plans were considered and rejected over the next few weeks before I realised that there was only one way. I’d have to take her by force and then make sure she enjoyed it so much that she would want me to do it again.

There would be plenty of opportunities because Al left for his sales job early in the morning, and her kids were off to college from around 8.00 am. Therefore, Peg would be alone in the house until the kids returned after 3.30 pm.

I began casing the Bundy’s home. Every morning, at about the time her kids headed for college, I’d take my morning walk past their home. I wanted to ensure that Peg and all her neighbours were accustomed to seeing me in the area. To aid this sham, I greeted every other walker or jogger politely and courteously and said hi, or good morning to any resident I saw outside on my walk.

All of the curtains at the Bundy house were open whenever I walked by, so I could see a little bit of what was happening inside. As I walked past on the outward part of my walk, Peg often sat at the kitchen table in what appeared to be a short diaphanous robe and not much else. But, some twenty minutes later, as I made the return journey, Peg was usually not to be seen.

The door to her bedroom’s en suite was often closed. I figured Peg was most likely showering; therefore, it would be easy to slip inside the house and take her.

Four weeks drifted into five and then six, and I was still too scared to follow through on my plan to take Peg forcibly and make her enjoy it. I was afraid that Al was right and that Peg was a cold fish who didn’t enjoy sex. If that were the case, then I was a rapist and would be in jail.

But if, as I suspected or perhaps yearned, Peg had suppressed her libido so as not to irritate her jackass of a husband, then making love to her as I stimulated her erogenous zones would release her inner desires, and she would enjoy me fucking her. Maybe then, we could become illicit lovers.

Making my daily walks around the Bundy neighbourhood, I began familiarising myself with the people living there. Especially the stay-at-home mums. The first one I noticed was Marge Simpson. Marge is tall. Not even tall for a woman, just tall. Over the six-foot mark, I guessed, and very slender to go with it. With her long, slim legs, high small titties, tight ass, and clinging dresses, Marge captivated me almost as much as Peg did.

Often, as I walked past the Simpson house, I heard Marge castigating her husband for something or another stupid thing he’d done. Homer was continually investing what little savings Marge had managed to gather into one or another crackpot scheme and losing it all.

He doesn’t seem to yell at her, but he is a whinger and a moaner. You can hear his flat whine clearly from the street as he tries to justify his actions. Homer is overweight, and because of how red his face is mowing the lawns, I assume he has high blood pressure. So, I figured Marge was another wife in the area who wasn’t getting much.

‘Hmm, I wonder if Mrs Simpson would like a roll in the hay.’ I wondered.

At the next street party, I sidled up to her and tried some subtle and not-so-subtle moves.

After about ten minutes of flirting, Marge looked me in the eyes and said, “Mr Ware, you’re a handsome man, and I appreciate that you find me attractive. But you must know I’m married to Homer, and I’m faithful to him. So, please stop flirting with me, or I’ll have to tell my husband.”

Shot down in flames again, I apologised and walked off. And that was when I saw her, Lois Griffin. My goodness, was she sexy! Unlike my other two fantasy women, Lois is only tiny. Standing barely over the five-foot mark (152 cm), Lois is slim but with curves in all the right places. She has firm 34C titties and a tightly-toned ass. Bright red hair falls down to her shapely shoulders and emphasises her pretty face.

Smiling to myself, I walked over to see if I could pick her up. Introducing myself, I said, “Hello, there. I’m Casper Ware. I haven’t seen you here before. Have you recently moved to the area?”

“Hello, Mr Ware, Lois Griffin. My husband Peter and I have recently moved here from Quahog.” Then, turning to a man who was busy stuffing his fat face at the buffet table, she said, “Peter. Meet Mr Ware. He’s a very handsome local.”

Fuck!’ I wondered. ‘What’s with all these hot middle-aged women living with pigs? Surely that ass cannot get it up anymore at his age and weight?’

Peter has an even more annoying voice than Homer. It is a perpetual whine, and it seems like nothing makes him happy, not even being married to one of the hottest chicks around.

I immediately added Lois to my list of women I wanted to fuck and thought if she liked a bit of rough in the bedroom. I hoped she did because there is a definite sense of ‘dirty-girl wanting to let loose’ about her.

After introducing her husband, Lois grabbed a pretty blonde woman by the arm, “Mr Ware…”

“I interrupted her, “Casper, please. Whenever I hear ‘Mr Ware’, I look for my father.”

Nodding, Lois said, “Casper, have you met the other new family in the neighbourhood? Francine, this handsome fellow, is one of our neighbours. Casper, this is Francine Smith and her husband, Stan.”

‘At least Stan looks after himself,’ I thought.

But when I talked to him, OMG, what a pompous git! To hear Stan tell it, the only reason we still have a democratic government in the good ole US of A is because Stan has single-handedly taken down every terrorist organisation in it.

‘I’m certain Stan’s compensating for something, but what?’ I thought. ‘Small dick, perhaps?’

That isn’t a problem I have. I’m not in the shape I was when competing at an all-state level in swimming, but I’m still toned and fit. I’m tall, wide-shouldered and deep-chested. Women often compliment me on my looks and physique. Added to this, I have a thick, 7-inch cut cock.

Looking back through this, it seems like I might be saying that I have a problem getting women. Let me assure you that I don’t. I have money, good looks, charm, and a big dick. Getting women is easy. It’s finding the few who aren’t social climbers or only into me for the money that I have a problem with. Besides, fucking married women is so much fun. It’s such a rush to take sexually repressed suburban house mums and turn them into ‘hot wives’!

There was one more surprise for me that night. Just as I considered chatting up one of the single mums there, Marge Simpson brought another newcomer over to meet me.

“Mr Ware, this is my cousin Leela.” Then with a not-so-subtle dig at my flirting with her, she added, “Leela has recently left the marines, and she’s currently single.”

I turned to the pretty woman holding Marge’s arm, “Hello, Leela. Casper Ware. Marines, huh? Wow! You must be one of the few female ones?”

“Hello, My Ware,” Leela returned, checking me out as obviously as I was checking her.

Trying not to stare rudely, I tried to ignore the eyepatch over Leela’s left eye. Unfortunately, the eyepatch only partly covered what must’ve been a horrific scar. But Leela is tall, muscular and stacked, and I was immediately attracted to her. Wearing army trousers over black boots with a white singlet that barely covered her generous D-cup breasts, Leela looked every inch the rough and tough marine she was.

Smiling broadly, I said, “We may as well get the obvious lame joke out of the way first. How many methods do you know to kill me if I come onto you inappropriately?”

Leela has the deepest, most seductive laugh I’ve ever heard. Chuckling, she said, “Well, why don’t you try coming onto me inappropriately, and we’ll figure out.”

Laughing, I said, “Is that an invitation, or are you just flirting with me?”

“Maybe a little bit of both, Mr Ware. But find out this, for any man to have a chance with me, he has to be able to out-drink me, then out-wrestle me, and then carry me to his bed. You up for it?”

“The drinking bit is easy, the wrestling, hmmm, you seem a little petite to be wanting to fight me, but I have a bad back; you might need to walk yourself to the bed!”

“Challenge accepted, Mr Ware. What’s your poison?”

“Scotch?” I suggested.

Yelling, “Shots!” Leela grabbed a full, 1-litre bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey and two shot glasses. Then, snaffling a kitchen chair before turning it backwards and sitting at one of the camp tables, she poured two shots and held them up with her eyebrow raised, “Well, Mr Ware? Or are you chickening out already?”

Laughing, I accepted one of the glasses before purloining the other. Then, swallowing them both quickly before sitting the same way as Leela but across the table from her, I said, “You’re two behind already.”

A competitive scowl crossed Leela’s face as she quickly refilled both glasses and skolled them down.

“Not consecutively, Mister, concurrently. The first to throw up or refuse a shot loses.”

Under current definitions, I’m an alcoholic, as I like a drink or three every night with my meal. But I’m a control freak. I don’t like being drunk and hate being stoned even more. Plus, I’m huge, over 6-ft. tall and weighing 200 lbs (90 kg); I wasn’t afraid of a drinking game, not even with a US Army Marine.

“Are you pouring, or am I?” I politely asked.

Ever competitive, Leela responded, “We’ll take turns. That way, neither of us can underpour our own drink.”

The first bottle of Jameson’s disappeared within the first half-hour, the second less than forty-five minutes after that. To my surprise, Leela was rock-steady at the table. I felt a slight buzz at my temples but wasn’t even close to being done. The problem was we were out of scotch.

Picking up a bottle of Absolut Vodka, Leela asked, “Had enough, Mr Ware? You’ve done well to last two bottles with me, but a change is as good as a rest, they say.”

Breaking the seal at my head shake, Leela poured two shots, “One, two, three, down the hatch with me,” she sang.

Vodka isn’t as smooth as Irish whiskey, so it took us almost an hour to empty the bottle. By then, the party was over. Leela and I were virtually the only two left, “I have another two full bottles of Jameson’s at home, Miss Leela. Unless you’ve had enough and want to go home?”

“Not on your life,” she slurred before getting her mind back together. “Show me the way, Mister. Times a wasting here, and I’m just getting thirsty.”

It was a good bluff; I’ll give Leela that. But she needed my support to walk the half-mile (800m) to my residence. Then, helping her to a seat on the sofa, I opened my liquor cabinet and brought out the first of the unopened scotch bottles. Finding two shot glasses, I filled them and returned to where Leela sat.

I thought Leela had passed out as I got the drinks because her eye was closed, and she breathed slowly and deeply. But as I neared, Leela’s eye flew open, and she launched across the room at me.

Warding off her first few blows, I laughed, “I guess I won the drinking round, as you’ve just refused a shot. Do you want to fight me, or do you want to go straight to the ‘walking yourself to bed’ part?”

Snarling almost ferally, Leela responded, “I’m gonna kick your ass, then piss on your face.”

With that, Leela rained blows at me. In the beginning, the punches were almost as feral as her snarl, but then her training kicked in. I admit I was impressed, but when my swimming career ended, I needed an outlet for the competitive juices still flowing through me. So, because I felt a lack of self-discipline negatively affected my swimming, I took up martial arts.

A Muay Thai gym is only a short walk from my home. Nine months of intensive training later, my gym master thought I was ready for my first fight. I won that one easily but lost the next three.

“You’re not mentally tough enough, Casper,” Brian (my trainer) told me. “You’re technically proficient enough to win all these fights, but unless you develop some mongrel, you’ll lose more than you win.”

I still attend the gym three times a week but only spar. I don’t fight competitively anymore.

Leela’s initial all-out attack had been relatively easy to avoid, but when her muscle-memory instincts calmed her down, and she began attacking with controlled aggression, I struggled to keep her out.

Twice, I narrowly avoided disabling blows to my balls, but stopping those, cost me a bloody lip and a cut above my eye. I knew if I didn’t calm myself down and remember my training, I’d wake to find Leela’s tight buns over my face as she urinated on me. Not that looking up at that seemed like too much of a chore.

Moving to the side, I took two quick steps back to give myself time and space to centre myself. Then, placing one fist in the flat palm of the other, I bowed and said, “Honourable, Miss Leela. If you insist on doing this, I will be forced to kick your ass. After I’ve done that, I will strip you naked, put you over my shoulder, and spank your ass. Then, I will carry you to bed and fuck you senseless.”

“I wondered you had a bad back?” Leela teased.

“I might have been lying.”

“Then, go for it, big boy,” Leela taunted. “If you’re good enough.”

Other than dropping my hands, I didn’t move until Leela did. Then, turning with her as she circled me, I waited for her to attack. Breathing calmly and deeply as I turned, I saw the doubt creep into Leela’s eyes. If you’ve fought enough times, when you face another, you almost instinctively know which of you is the better fighter.

I’ve seen many Martial Arts Masters face each other, almost without moving, before one bowed, apologised, and moved away from the mat. They didn’t need to fight to know who would win. True Masters need to fight to find a winner only when they are very close in skill and expertise.

Unfortunately for her, Leela attacked. Yelling, “HIIIIIIIIIIIYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!” She swung a massive roundhouse kick at my head.

It was an all-or-nothing move. If it succeeded, I was out for the count. Probably with a concussion and a broken jaw. I saw it coming, however. Her moment of self-doubt caused her to hesitate, and the foot shift as she paused, telegraphed the kick.

Moving two quick steps forward, I lifted my arm and deflected her kick downward onto my chest. My move cost me a cracked rib by the snapping sound, but now I held Leela’s foot trapped in my armpit. Then, grabbing her singlet’s front, I viciously pulled Leela towards me.

In a street fight, I would have met her face with my forehead. However, I didn’t want to hurt or mark her any worse than she was, so I moved my left fist in front of my face and clipped the point of her jaw.

Leela’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed into my arms. So, doing as I told her I would, I stripped her fit and toned body bare, hoisted her over my shoulder, and carried her up the stairs to my bedroom.

About halfway up the stairs, Leela came to, “Oi! Where’s my ass spanking, big fella!” She demanded. “You’re not gonna disappoint a girl, are you?”

Laughing, I responded, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Leela,” as I spanked and stroked her tight buns.

Making a fist, I forced my hand between Leela’s thighs. She willingly parted her legs and let me run my fingers over and around her starfish, along her perineum and onto the entrance to her pussy. OMG, was she wet! So, I slipped two fingers inside her.

Leela braced herself on my hips, then bit my ass, “Hurry up, Casper,” she demanded. “I need a dick inside me, like, right now!”

Almost running, I raced to the bedroom before dumping her on the bed. Then I stripped off. My erect, thick 7-inch cock bounced into view.

Leela moaned as it throbbed into her sight. Then, lying on her back, Leela spread her arms and legs to the corners of the bed, “You must have some rope to tie me helpless with, Casper, aye? Maybe an ‘O’ ring for my mouth? I don’t want you to make love to me, Mister. I want you to skull fuck me until my eye pops out of my head.”

Who was I to object? Taking some soft silk rope from my play kit, I swiftly tied Leela to the four corners. Ignoring her demands that I ‘skull fuck her’, I knelt on the bed and stroked and played with her pebbled with arousal nipples. Then, sliding my hand down her toned stomach, I stroked through Leela’s hairy bush and found her clitoris.

As my hand found her most sensitive outer pleasure node, Leela’s hips rose to meet my fingers, “Oh, Gawd, Casper! Please fuck me. I need it so badly,” she moaned.

Instead, I leaned in to kiss her. But as I did, Leela turned her head aside and muttered, “Monster. One-eyed freak of a monster.”

Leela needed to know she was still a seriously attractive and desirable woman. The eye patch and scar added to her beauty, and it didn’t subtract at all. So, I pulled the eyepatch off and threw it aside. Then holding her head forcefully to stop her from turning away, I kissed her lips, nose, and forehead.

“You’re the best-looking woman I’ve ever had in my bed, Miss Leela,” I told her. “Your scars are you, and you, my girl, are beautiful.”

Then I kissed lightly all over the puckered scar tissue where shrapnel from an IED almost killed her before returning to kissing her sexily full lips. Moving lower, I kissed and suckled her magnificent breasts before sinking onto Leela’s pubic area, spreading her pussy lips and tonguing her clitoris and labia.

I could feel Leela was very close to orgasm, but it seemed she didn’t want to cum on my tongue.

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