Shanking Shaw 8 (Patreon)

The old man didn’t seem to notice or even care that Emma had rebuffed him. He shifted over to one side of his bench, patting the newly opened space beside himself in invitation. Emma forced a poker face to her expression. Why did he keep bothering her? Even without Scott’s edict to obey, did he really think he had a chance with her?

He rattled the bag of popcorn at her. “Want some?”

“No,” she said, even more disturbed by the thought of eating whatever this man felt was fit for street birds.

What made him fixate on her out of the crowd of people visiting the park? Because she was the best, of course. Emma could have her pick of any man or woman among them—were it not for Scott’s orders.

Now, her beauty cut both ways. She couldn’t enjoy it, but even a slob like this could. He might even masturbate to the thought of her later. Something denied to Emma. She might as well wear a burqa; that way, at least no one else could be pleasured by her appearance.

“Nice day?” the old man said, edging closer to her across the wooden bench, close enough to block out some of the bright summer sun from reaching Emma’s body.

Emma sat back against the bench, the breeze blowing her whitely golden hair about her shoulders. “It’s rotten, and not improved by meeting you.”

The old man slid the rest of the way over to her, throwing a bony arm around her shoulders. “Ah, don’t be that way! I can make your day a lot better!”

Emma was paralyzed with shock and disgust, giving only a muffled cry as the old man unzipped his pants. He reached inside, bringing out the shaft of his semi-rigid erection, then taking out his fairly shriveled balls as well.

“See that?” the old man babbled. “It’s real! Have a feel…”

He grabbed Emma’s hand and forced it to his growing erection. She felt the blood rushing into it, swelling the flesh all the faster with her touch added to his obvious, zealous arousal. His cock felt thick and hot and hard, throbbing under her reluctant fingers like a caged animal about to burst free.

Vaguely, Emma imagined herself pleading rapine to Scott. ‘It’s not that I wanted to have sex, Mr. Summers, but the man had his way with me. What could I do?’

No. Just because Scott Summers had managed to wrest control away from her didn’t mean she was the whole world’s bitch. With her trademark wintery disdain falling into place, replacing any revulsion or fright in her mien, Emma took hold of the man’s mind and easily unshaped it of its present lust, as well as any autonomy whatsoever.

“Please go castrate yourself now,” she told the flasher. “Then wait a day and blind yourself. After that, be a dear and think of some other painful ways to discipline yourself. You’ve taken up too much of my time already and I can’t be bothered to think up any further punishment for you.”

She left him to his mutilation without a backward glance. Once, Emma might’ve taken considerable pleasure in orchestrating such a man’s torturous removal from the annoyance of every woman he met, but it was all such empty calories in the absence of Scott.

How could she care about dealing with petty thugs when such a grand villain ran rampant over her? She wasn’t one of those silly superheroes who could beat up a mugger and call it a day. She needed to actually accomplish something before she was satisfied with herself.