You might not know it unless you live near good waves, but there are surfers out nearly all the time. Dedicated bastard rapist surfers, riding along the waves on their boards, and none of them suspect what I’m going to do. So even though it’s early, there’s a chance I’ll dick a man quickly. And maybe in record time.

As many of you know, picking the right spot is the difference between destroying a man and a long day of frustration. I always choose a men’s room. Men are vulnerable there. Luckily there are a few public restrooms along this stretch of beach. Normally it’s too big a risk to wait out in a beach restroom, but rain makes men sloppy, and gives them a major urge to piss. And the rain drives away the crowds. It’s almost certain I’ll be able to pick out a loner while it’s raining.

I see a good restroom down the road – a good beach restroom has a door between the beach and the urinals; you might be surprised how many of them just have an open air entrance. It also helps if there’s a shower outside – that means the walls have to be thicker for the extra gear, and that there will be fewer people hanging out in the restroom because they can wash off outside it.

Not that I’d mind a good indoor shower. If I were going to dick two guys at once, that’s the best place to do it. But that’s perhaps for later in the day.

Even better news than the door on the men’s room with the outdoor shower is that there are a couple rapist surfer dudes out on the waves this morning. I may not have a long wait, after all. I park a half-mile away from the beach – some tourist photographing your car’s plate outside the restroom where you’ve cut a bastard is a good way to get caught. I add an umbrella to my other gear in my bag, pull down the raincoat hoody, and jog over to the men’s room.

Nobody even looks my way as I walk into the men’s room on the beach. Even if they did, all they’d probably notice is my big raincoat, and maybe my sneakers. If any of those womanizing bastards saw a woman go into their “clubhouse” they’d hold me down and rape me all day long. Soon, very soon, one of them won’t be able to any more.

No one is inside the men’s room when I close the door behind me. The stench of the place hits me hard, but is also a mixed blessing. Even dirty bastard men don’t like spending a long time in a stink filled concrete bunker, so they piss in a rush. Makes ‘em sloppy. But the smell of old urine and decomposing man-crap doesn’t endear me to the place, either. I hope one of the surfer guys gets his fill of the morning waves and heads in to piss and lose his dick soon.

The restroom has four urinals, two stalls that face the urinals (a very good set up for me), a bench along the wall opposite the door, and a sink next to the door. There’s a drain in the center of the concrete floor, which is sloped so that the water and dirty dick urine that doesn’t go in the urinal flows down to the drain. The place is murky and dark – it only has one light bulb in the ceiling. All in all, a good place to hunt dirty rapist dicks. I move into one of the two stalls and start my wait.

I take inventory, moving the recently sharpened knife from the sport bag to the pocket of my raincoat. My mechanical stopwatch is around my neck, hanging loose and ready to start ticking. The hand restraints are in the bag along with my umbrella and the stun gun, which I take out and hold ready in my hand. Of my many tools, the stopwatch is most important for my game, because without it I wouldn’t know how much better I was getting.

After I take inventory, I like to think back on how much better I’ve gotten. The first man I dicked was Three Minutes and Twenty-Nine Seconds. He was a short guy, around twenty-five, and kind of pudgy dressed in a tweed business suit with a four-and-a-half inch dick I made a big mess of because I was slashing at it instead of cutting it right off. Almost castrated the dirty fucker while I was taking his dick. I was using a pistol then, made the guys handcuff themselves to the urinal by pressing the pistol against their heads like I was robbing them. Took forever and didn’t set them up to be dicked quick. I was also out of a set of handcuffs each time, and buying too many handcuffs is a good way to get caught.

I’ve improved a lot since then. I nabbed Fifty-Nine Seconds about a month ago at a roadside interstate rest stop. I’d gotten the hang of things by then: surprise, stun, cut, destroy, and leave. Cutting’s harder than you’d think, and Fifty-Nine Seconds was no different, since his dirty, evil, rapist tool was the thickest I’ve ever dicked. Fifty-Nine had a kind of boy-next-door quality to him: muscular, but with some fat on his body, almost tall at about six feet, and blonde under his green John Deere cap. He had six inches before he lost them all, but it was like chopping through a thick garden hose. Lucky for me I’d had a short run of thick dicked men and had learned that a steady pressure was the quickest way to make sure they wouldn’t ever rape a woman again.

I’ve been getting sloppy recently, so I really need to focus again. A couple of weeks ago was One-Minute, Fifteen Seconds, a rapist bastard with little balls and a hard body who was named Sean. He died in a men’s room in the physics building of a small college a few states away when I chopped off all eight inches of his thin piss tube and cut it into little pieces in front of him. It’s funny how the media always focus on how they’re star runners, or the “brutality” of what I do, and don’t pay any attention at all to how many girls they’ve had in the back of their cars against their wills or how many lives they’ve destroyed with their sick, twisted lust.

I’m shocked out of my reverie by the door opening. I listen close, and can tell by the padding of his feet on the concrete that this one is all alone. Some guy’s about to lose his cock! I’ve learned to give a little cough to let the man know there’s someone else around, and so as not to be surprised by the morons who try to enter my stall with me, but I’m so excited it comes out almost like a squeal. I make a mental note to calm fucking down next time.

The guy stops in his tracks and mumbles something like, “Hey dude, how you doing?” before continuing along to the urinals. I hear the wet boardshorts sliding off his hips, and that’s when I know I’ve scored a surfer. My stopwatch starts tick tick ticking. I exit the stall trying for a record time.

I almost trip over myself when I see him. He’s a giant of muscle and masculinity: nearly six foot-eight and probably two-hundred and ten pounds of tanned and sculpted muscle. He’s beach blond and beautiful. Even in the dim light I can make out the veins of his legs and arms, his right hand against the wall as he leans into the urinal. His left hand is busy aiming his package – I can’t wait to see this one – and his flow has just started.

I’ve got to remember he’s a dirty bastard surfer man, probably raped dozens of women like me, but he’s also the hottest man I’ve ever seen. If I could feel pity for a man, I might feel it for him.

But straight to business. As he kind of turns to look my way, I turn on the stun gun, smiling to myself when I hear its popping, and take aim at his well-muscled back, just above the shoulders. He’s not wearing a shirt, so I can see he’s got amazing definition back there. He must work out a lot. It occurs to me while he’s screaming, “FUUUUUCK!” and spasming that if I broke tradition, I could totally ruin him by taking his bastard nuts in addition to his dick. I weigh the choice to deball him against the possibility of getting a record time. I have a few seconds to make my choice, he isn’t going anywhere.

The stun gun does its job well, and without it I’d be in trouble, because this tanned, herculean Adonis could crush me like a little bug. After just a few seconds of full power he collapses in a quivering heap of clenching muscles. I’m reminded of how appropriate the adage about “the bigger they all the harder they fall” is in this situation, as all his work in the gym becomes his downfall when he loses control of the very muscles he’s spent countless hours working on.

I get a good luck at the front of him now. He’s just as sickeningly perfect from this angle, too. Golden skin, perky nipples on top of a well-defined chest, massive six-pack abs with a thin trail of brownish-blonde hair that leads me straight to what I’m after. His seven-inch, olive-skinned, cut cock has a plump purple head and has several veins. Seven inches, and he just got out of the water! I shift the stun gun to my left hand and grab my knife from the pocket I stored it in. The cold ocean current has done more than shrink this rapist surfer’s cock, it’s also thickened it, but this plays to my favor, too, because, oddly, it’s almost absurdly easy to push the knife all the way through from the very base of where his sack meets his cock through to the other side next to the golden skin of his abs.

His whole package seems to fall over, and I’m like some lumberjack cutting down a tree as it lands with an orgasmic thawp against his rock hard groin. He’s thrashing around and bleeding while scream-mumbling something like “Hrm, fuuuuck, hrrrm!” as I pocket the stun gun and pick his cock off his abs with the point of my knife. I handle the bastard’s perfect rapist dick carefully as I push the knife all the way through the middle and make one cut down the entire length of the severed organ, perfectly halving it in my hand. Then I quarter it, drop three of the four destroyed pieces of flesh on the metal drain and stomp on them, turning the drain into a penis grater, as his blood starts pooling around him. Quickly, I gather up the knife, remove the stun gun from the pocket of the raincoat, and then take off the raincoat itself, tossing it into the garbage as he moans, destroyed and ruined.

I click the ticking stopwatch, throw all my tools plus the one quarter of his former glory into my bag, and take a final look at him before I leave him there.

Recently a god, this rapist surfer bastard is now writhing in his own blood next to a dirty urinal, his eyes bloodshot and bugging out with his boardshorts around his knees as his hands clutch the empty hole I’ve left him that his once mighty cock sprang out of. I turn from the worthless waste of pointless muscles and glance down at my stopwatch. Forty-Three Seconds. It has been a good day.

When I get back to my car, I use a temporary cell phone to do him a favor by calling an ambulance for him. I owe him that much, at least, for my best time and my first trophy: a quarter of his hung cock. It makes me smile that I’m not really doing him a favor at all, since I’ve just doomed him to a life of his rapist lusts with no way to bring an end to his torment as a dickless gimp.