INTRODUCTION

 

I call myself "The Roper." I refer to myself this way because I am very good with ropes. I learned about all sorts of knots just a few years ago, when I was in the Navy. As a result, I know how and when to apply them for the best results.

I am 35 years old, six feet tall, and weigh a hundred and ninety solid pounds. I have my own business and my own hours. I am strong and good-looking, and I live alone in a comfortable condominium in Winter Park, Florida. I am heterosexual and have never been married. I love women and love looking at them. I also love touching them and fucking them.

However, I do not care to live with them. I did that several times when I was younger and ended up hating them and vowing never to do it again. Living with a woman interferes with a guy's privacy and forces him into situations he doesn't want to be in. I don't like hookers because I don't want to get diseases or find myself in the wrong section of town. I don't want a long-term commitment because I've never been interested in dealing with the same woman for very long. I don't like one-night stands because you never know what you're dealing with, and if the woman has mental issues, she'll make your life a living hell when she turns into a stalker.

After years of mistakes and torment, I'm confident that I've created a solution to this dilemma. It'll be fulfilling and exciting, and I won't have to worry about depression or hard feelings afterward. I've been working on this plan for the last five years and have managed to put my act together to bring it into fruition.

My plan begins tonight, after work.

I am excited about the whole thing and intend to record every single detail of it in my new journal.

 

Chapter 1

 

THE FIRST OFFICIAL HUNT

 

Friday 6/8. 6:26 p.m.

 

Tonight, I will spend the time to pick a good section of town for my weekend activities.

The dives in downtown Orlando were okay for a while, but it's been getting more and more difficult to find good quality women. The longer I stick to the same area, the quicker the cops will find out something has been going on and will start sniffing around. Once this happens, I'll have to lay low for a while or try a different area. St. Cloud, perhaps. Or Cocoa. I don't mind the long drive, but it does make for a long night. And when you've got a gorgeous babe all bundled up in the back of your vehicle, you don't want to spend half the night driving around, looking for the perfect spot to have your fun.

But I do have to be careful. I can't have the cops sniffing after me.

Cops are okay when they're not bugging you. Once they start showing some interest, that's when they stop being okay.

Friday night in Central Florida. The best time for hunting babes. Tonight, I'll try the area just east of Winter Park. I like this area. Plenty of traffic, eateries, and bars. Not too many hookers or porno shops, so there won't be too many cops. Semoran Boulevard really rocks on Friday nights. Constant traffic, people everywhere. The eateries are filled till around ten, the bars till well past midnight. This is good. Bigger crowds, more confusion. I can move around easier in crowds and confusion.

Tonight, it'll be La Normandie's, on Aloma. The place is elegant, accessible, and always crowded on Friday nights. It's got rooms--which makes things even better. Tourists prefer places with rooms, and I prefer places with tourists. Tourists tend to fuck up the natural order of things and cause confusion. Tourists get on the wrong roads and fuck up traffic, then wander around like zombies, trying to discover something interesting. They piss off the locals and cause accidents. They ask for directions and turn people right off.

Yep, tourists make things better.

Maybe I'll find a couple of them to provide a smoke screen when I decide who to pick for my Friday night party in the back of my van.

 

7:08 p.m. La Normandie's

 

Bar's cool, dim, and crowded. A good deal.

The juke just finished Elton John's "Your Song" and moved on to George Michael. Usual crowd of tourists and locals chattering away at the bar. Barman's about fifty with a receding hairline. He's got some shoulders and arms. I'll say former Marine, or maybe Navy. Patrick, his nametag says. He mixes the drinks, asks no questions, and nods occasionally. Good. I like a barman who minds his own business and keeps his mind on his work. He notices things but probably won't let himself get involved in anything risky if he doesn't have to.

Heroes tend to be meddlesome assholes.

A potential number perched on a barstool a few down from the end, slowly draining a martini glass. The suits flanking her try getting closer, but right now she's ignoring them. Maybe after two more drinks, she'll be slightly friendlier.

I figure on fifteen minutes-thirty, tops, if I decide to move in.

Sweet face, fine-featured, innocent looking. A genuine ball-buster. A number like her hasn't been innocent since she was twelve.

Babe looks familiar, now that I'm watching her. I've seen her at one of the Central Florida banks my company stocks. Probably the big one on Orange Blossom Trail, north of Sand Lake Road. I believe that's the one because it's a big operation, with a ton of hot babes wandering around.

Tanya? Tonya? I seem to remember one of those names on her nametag.

She came to me a couple of weeks ago to ask why her favorite chocolate bar wasn't in the machine. She loves Kit Kat. Tried to explain how my operation works. My vendor's license deals with certain fluctuations in supply and demand. She didn't care. Only that she couldn't wrap those luscious lips around her favorite chocolate bar. I tried telling her that since I'd had other requests for it, I'd be getting it in soon, but she'd already walked away. Just flipped her hair back over her shoulder, brushed a hand lightly over her left tit to make sure I saw that she could touch them whenever she liked, and marched away on those mile-high pumps.

Bitch. She would soon be in a position where she couldn't walk away.

Several positions, actually. And those lips would be wrapped around something much larger than a Kit Kat.

At the bank, she wears business attire. Pricey looking, fitting her like a glove, but not so flashy. Possibly bank policy. She probably has to look professional. Even so, she shows a lot of thigh and calf, and two small brown moles in the tanned area above her tits.

Obviously knows how to drink. She isn't showing any outward signs. Isn't sloppy, loud, or awkward, isn't leaning on anyone, and isn't having any trouble keeping her firm butt on the bar stool. Not even clingy--as many babes get after a couple of strong drinks.

At the bar, she stands out like a glittering gem. The tight, low-cut black evening gown makes everything clear and simple. She sits cross-legged, the long side slit showing off her toned right thigh as well as her left calf. Her heavy, shiny black mane turns every passing head. A tall, portly guy in a baggy Hawaiian shirt stands close, sniffing her neck whenever she turns to pick up her glass from the counter.

Definitely one of those babes that looks good, knows she looks good, and uses it to her advantage. Her rich tan suggests long hours of sunbathing, and I'd bet a week's pay she does it naked. The gold around her neck and dangling from her wrists shows everyone she pampers herself and has no problem getting what she wants. The rocks on her slender fingers complement the picture of a babe who is seriously high-maintenance and damned proud of it.

She's all flash and eye candy. I can't wait to see her naked, spread out, and strapped down.

 

7:30 p.m.

 

The skinny red-headed waitress comes over to check on me.

Knowing it will be my last, I order another white wine. I usually drink only two during a hunt. The first glass relaxes and clears my mind. The second helps me concentrate more to assess the situation. Three would be too much. Three would slow me down and make me lazy--two actions that would surely get me in trouble with the cops or send me back to my place empty-handed. I need to be alert and quick. Razor-sharp reflexes, as well as my uncanny sixth sense running on overdrive, are essential for doing the job properly. Anything less would ruin the evening. I'd be forced to work on a totally different method of proceeding with the hunt. Or scrapping it forever.

Once I select my victim, I don't change my mind unless I'm forced to.

After the waitress brings me my drink, I continue assessing the situation. On a hunt, you need to consider all problems and trouble spots.

The most obvious: The setting itself, twenty feet straight ahead. My babe is up to her lovely neck in drunk, salivating men. This is bad. Because of how she looks and what she's wearing, she'll be closely watched.

I suspect another possible problem. During the last half-hour, this babe has already downed two martinis. At this rate, she'll probably have two more--possibly three--in the next half-hour. That adds up to five. Even a serious drinker can end up unconscious after five martinis in just over an hour.

This will force me to step up my plan. A collapse or just an accidental fall from the barstool would ruin everything. I can't jump in and haul her out of here with everyone watching. A hot-looking woman like her will have an army of Samaritans waiting in line to scoop her up from the floor just to cop a feel. Only a doctor or paramedic could pull a single-handed rescue without raising suspicion.

I'm neither and, as a result, will have to address this from a different angle. As in the past, I can do this effectively only if no one actually sees me. No witnesses-that's written in stone. Up to now, I've been lucky. More than a dozen of these hunts in the past without serious ramifications. Several with close calls, but nothing that destroyed the end result.

This job would be tricky. So many prying eyes will make anonymity impossible. The margin for error in this case will be non-existent. And the obvious tactic-waiting for her to pass out, then rescue her with a crowd of twenty or more watching-will be the one with the least probability of success.

I've come prepared as always, the tools of my trade neatly compartmentalized in my jacket pockets. Everything else awaits me in the back of the van. My tools are my staples and have served me well. I seldom need anything else. In this case, the knockout juice will have to be used sparingly. Since she'd been drinking heavily, she will only need a small dose of the juice--just a few seconds with the cloth held tightly over her face. Once she's in the back of the van, the hood and duct tape will keep her secure and clueless until I drive her back to the lot to start the evening's festivities.

But the big problem will be getting her outside without anyone seeing me do it.

My disguise will definitely ensure anonymity. Thick brown wig pushed down over my own short red hair, Buffalo Bill mustache, and large wire-framed glasses with a light red tint, hiding my small, light-blue eyes. I can't do anything about my broad shoulders, but the expensive leather slip-ons with the two-inch heels will do much to alter my six-foot height. And the dark suit, selected one size too large, makes me appear as if I've recently lost weight, and will confuse most eyewitnesses if something happens to bring in the cops.

As always, I am confident I can pull off this job successfully, and unless someone does something silly or stupid, I should expect no surprises. The crowd will continue drinking, listening to the juke, and struggling to stay on its feet. Most of the gawkers will eventually tire of the raven-haired princess staring down at them from her throne and wrinkling her nose at them. They'll sense her silent rejection and begin scanning the room, where tables of older, less attractive females sit in their tight clothing, chattering away.

At the bar, the portly dude in the Hawaiian shirt sniffs the back of my babe's neck. When she turns, he says something to her and giggles. She pushes her hair over one shoulder and shrugs. He says something else and giggles again. She turns away and frowns.

I don't like this at all. The horny jerk will complicate this hunt and drag it out. Horny jerks always present a problem. They get in the way, then turn belligerent and sloppy whenever someone gets between them and their prey. Although this boy has absolutely no chance of scoring, he won't give up. I know this babe's type. She'll never just blow anyone off. She'll lead them on until she tires of them, or spots someone more interesting. It's a game. She'll use this guy to buy her a drink. In gratitude, she'll talk sexy to him, shift her position on the stool, uncross her legs, arch her back, play with her hair, and show him some flesh. She might even touch his thigh to get his balls in an uproar. Then she'll simply get up, slide down from her stool, and head for the john.

Hopefully, my assessment will, as always, be on track.

I just hope the process won't talk much longer. I find that I can hardly wait to get this bitch all bundled up in the back of my van.