Author's Note: "The Gooner" is a work of DARK FICTION told from the perspectives of both a disturbed sexual deviant and his victim. It contains graphic and detailed scenes of r*pe, stalking, nudity, mental illness, PTSD, and workplace harassment. This is not an endorsement of the behavior depicted—it is a psychological horror/dark erotica piece exploring the mind of a predator and the banality of real-world violence—as well as the long road to healing and recovery victims face.
I'm illustrating how anyone can commit such atrocities. How predators hide in plain sight. How monsters can camouflage as normal people. If you are a victim/survivor of sexual crimes, this story WILL trigger you—please do not read it. If you are uncomfortable at any point please stop reading. For anyone else: If this kind of work is your forte and you have the fortitude to read it in its proper context, enjoy!
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Steve
It is a warm Friday afternoon at work. It's been a slow day, so I get up to go to the break room and decompress. I can't stop thinking about her. I always obsess over everything. But with her it's different. She's young and petite. She looks Middle Eastern. Her name is Patra. She's always wearing colorful dresses and flat mules. She told me her name when I met her at a company event two weeks ago.
*
I was walking out of the break room where the event was taking place, having grabbed my food, and I saw her sitting in the couch, her legs crossed, shoes dangling, just doing something on her phone. My heart skipped a beat, my armpits felt like mud, and my dick was a raging bull goring its way through my pants. It looked like I had a flashlight in my pocket. I couldn't help myself, she was irresistible. I had never seen her on our floor before, so I tucked my shit in and approached her.
"Excuse me," I said.
She looked up at me with those beautiful brown eyes. I took a glance at her phone—she was listening to music. I felt bad for disturbing her, but she was receptive.
"Oh," she said, smiling, "hey!"
"Are you new?" I asked. "I've never seen you in this office before."
"Oh," she replied. "That's because I work on the first floor. I come up here for my breaks. It's the only floor that has windows."
"Is it really?" I asked. "Wow that sounds like torture!"
She laughed. I actually managed to make her laugh!
"My name is Steve," I say. "What's your name?"
"Patra," she said, offering her hand.
I shook her hand. It felt soft.
"How long have you been working here?" I asked.
"About two years," she replied.
"I've been here for about the same amount of time. The benefits are good, the work is straightforward. Can't complain."
"What do you do?" She asked.
"I'm a project assistant."
"Oh," she said. "I think I've seen your name on a few of our reports."
"Oh really? What do you do?"
"I'm one of the engineers. I came in as an intern, but they hired me after I graduated."
"Lucky!"
"Yeah I know right."
I looked at the time on the clock above her and realized that I'm stealing company time. My mind started racing, I collected myself.
"Ok Patra," I said, "it was nice meeting you! Gotta get back to work unfortunately."
"Ok," she said, "have a good day!"
*
That was how I met her. She's had a spell on me ever since. I can barely get work done because I'm constantly thinking about her. My mind is filled with fantasies of us fucking in every possible position—me needling her tiny little frame like a sewing machine on "high" setting, looking back and watching her pretty little toes curl.
I get up from my desk. I can't take it anymore. I go downstairs and walk around the first floor, hoping that I can see her again. I see her in the hallway. My heart flutters, my mouth gets dry, I freeze in place.
"Hey," I say to her.
"Oh hey," she says back. "How have you been?"
"I've been good! How's work treating you?"
"Same old same old. My boss dumping a bunch of work on me."
I don't give a fuck about her boss, but I have to pretend to, right? Just to build a rapport.
"Oh," I say, my tone as soft as silk. "Sorry to hear that. I hope things get better for you."
"It's okay, it keeps me busy." She looks down at the ground. "Well alright I have to go back."
She turns to walk away. I call to her.
"Wait," I say, the words come out of my mouth like cotton. She turns back around.
"You seem like a cool person, may I get your phone number? Maybe we can eat lunch sometime."
She looks nervous, terrified almost. But she smiles. That's my in.
"Umm, sure." I hand her my phone and she puts her number in. She hands it back to me and I save it before walking back to my desk.
The thoughts continue to pester me. They are so strong that my eyes begin to twitch the longer I resist. So, I go to the bathroom. I powerwalk straight to the soap dispenser, and push the trigger vigorously into my palm, the soap squirts out, and I lock the door. I whipped my wood out over the toilet, and I ran my soap-glazed palm up and down the length of it. I imagine it's how her pussy feels. The soap is slick and slimy just how I like. I stroke faster, hoping no one hears me. Luckily no one else is in the bathroom with me.
"Ggh!" I moan.
I feel blood rushing throughout my body. My face becomes wet with perspiration. And finally.
"Ugggh!" I release.
Most of it goes in the toilet. I grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe myself off, before flushing it down the toilet. I wash my hands, walk back to my desk, and I sit down.
It's exactly what I need to get back to work. I feel great, focused, able to go about through the day. My boss emails me about a report. I'm able to get right to it, finishing it in thirty minutes—a shorter time than I usually take.
It's 3:30pm. According to her schedule on Microsoft Teams, it's the time she gets off from work every day.
I get up and I go to the break room. It's a big room, surrounded by glass windows—constantly illuminated by natural daylight. It smells like tacos—the aroma radiating from the humming microwave oven. It's the most popular room in the building for good reason.
From this vantage point, I watch her walk out of the building, purse in hand. A black dress, with black sandals. Her hair is long, silky, and black as well. I see her walking to her car, a gray Honda Civic.
"Noted," I think to myself.
"Hey Steve!" someone says.
I turn around. It's Chloe. Someone from my department.
"Oh," I say sheepishly. "Hey."
"Were you able to finish that report."
"Yeah," I said. "I had a phone call. I just need to email it to Larry."
Larry is my boss.
That's my cue to get back to work. I walk briskly past her and back to my desk. After sending the report to Larry, I watch YouTube videos for the rest of my shift. Nothing else to do. When closing time hits, I pack my stuff and I walk out to my car.
I get to my apartment. I live by myself. I don't own much. Just my car, my smart TV, my couch. I don't have any stupid art hanging on my wall. Just what I need.
I lay down on the couch and turn on my smart tv. I go to the browser, and I type in "www.xvideos.com".
It's got all the smut I need to satisfy this tension in my bones. I look up "middle eastern porn" and click on the first video I see. I text Patra.
Me: "Hey, this is Steve!"
I watch until I fall asleep.
The next morning, I wake up. Still laying in my couch. Still in work clothes. I look at the clock. I'm due to be at work in an hour. The TV is still on. I grab the remote from the couch and I turn it off.
I don't even bother to shower, eat, or change clothes. I run to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I smell myself. I don't smell too bad, they say you don't need to shower every day anyway.
I run to my car to go to work. All I can think about is seeing Patra again. Before I start the car, I check my phone—no response from her.
I commute to work, taking my usual route on the expressway. Weaving in and out of traffic, hoping Patra and I get to work at the same time.
I get to work finally. As I pull in, I see Patra pull in too. She parks her car. I park maybe a few spots down from her. My windows are tinted so she can't see me, but I see her stepping out of her car. She's wearing a beige pantsuit with brown open-toe sandals. Her toenails are painted black.
I step out of my car and I call her name.
"Hey Patra!" I yell.
She turns around. As soon as she sees me her face turns white, and she turns back without saying a word.
"What happened?" I ask. "What did I do?"
She speed-walks into the building. I slow down so as not to make her uncomfortable. Finally, I get to the lobby. I don't see her. Good. Fuck her.
I walk to the elevator, and I ride it to the third floor. I get to my desk, and I log into my computer. I put my YubiKey into the USB port on the front of the desktop tower. I put my credentials in, and I check my email. I see one from Larry that catches my eye. I open it.
From: [email protected]
Subject: URGENT MEETING
Body:
Hello Steve,
You are requested to attend a meeting in Room 205 as soon as possible.
-Larry
"No!" I think to myself. "That bitch!"
I walk to the meeting. Larry my boss is in there reviewing paperwork, and Lisa—someone from HR—is in there too. I knew what time it was.
"Steve," Larry says. "We've received a sexual harassment complaint from another team member about you."
"I was just being friendly," I reply. "I didn't think she'd take it that way—"
"You know better!" Larry says. "Acme has zero tolerance of sexual harassment. So unfortunately we will have to terminate your employment."
I simply nod my head. I don't say anything. I get up and I walk to my desk. I quietly gather my things and walked out of the building. I couldn't believe she'd go that far. I was just fucking being nice to her!
Steve's Get-back
I sit in my car, and I wait. I put my seat back so she can't see me. I wait for the entire business day. I watch some Hijab porn on my phone to keep my wood nice and hard as well as pass the time.
The woman in the video looks just like Patra. The same long black hair, the same brown eyes, the petite build.
Finally, she comes out. She walks to her car and unlocks the door. I grab a face mask from my car, as well as a switchblade I keep in the cup holder on my driver side door. The switchblade is for my protection, but today I'll use it for something else. It's late in the afternoon, meaning most people have gone home. The coast is clear.
I put the face mask on, and I walk towards her car. She's already inside. The stupid bitch is on her phone as always, AirPods plugged in her ear, not even paying attention. I open the door and briskly sit down in the passenger seat. She turns to her right.
"Ahhhh!!!" she shrieks.
I immediately put the blade to her throat.
"Shut the fuck up!" I say.
"Steve what are you doing?! I know it's you!"
"I don't give a fuck. If you want to live you're going to do exactly what I say."
I can feel her neck shaking.
"Drive. Go somewhere quiet. Now!"
She puts the car in reverse and drives.
"Go to that park over there."
She does exactly as I tell her. Such a good girl.
She parks her car in the back where no one can see us.
"Steve what is this—"
"You thought you could get me fired and walk away?!"
"Steve you were making me uncomfortable—"
I put my hand over her mouth. She struggles, so I press the knife deeper against her skin. She calms down immediately.
"MMMMM!!!!" her screams are muffled. I step over the center console and I straddle myself on top of her.
She shakes her head violently, still screaming. I grab the bottom lever to push the seat back, then I recline the seat all the way to the back. I grab her by the waist, and I turn her around on her stomach.
"You don't have to do this!" she cries. "Please!"
"Don't say another word bitch!"
My dick is poking against her ass. The other hand holding the knife against her throat. I start unbuttoning her pants, she cries some more. But it made me even hornier. I pull her pants down to expose her sexy little ass. It looks about as nice as I'd imagine.
I unbutton my own pants and whip my thing out. Then, I lift her jacket up and I shove my pipe into her pussy from behind; she lets out the sexiest moan I've ever heard, muffled by my hand over her mouth.
I begin working her, slowly. I can feel her body quiver every time I go deep. She feels dry but after a few minutes she starts getting wet. As she gets wet, I start slamming my cock into her with fury, sweat dripping down my face and onto her hair and skin.
Her face is red, she screams. My left hand is over her mouth, wet from her tears and spit. My other hand has the knife over her throat.
"Scream again and I'll slit your throat," I calmly say as I rearrange her guts. No one can see us, she has nowhere to go.
As much as she pretends to be in pain, I can feel her tightening around me. As much as she tried to play hard-to-get, her body has been yearning for me. She could never say it, but it's okay. She never needed to.
I look back at her feet and I kick her sandals off so I can see what her toes look like.
They twist and curl just like I imagined, her legs twitch.
I look back at her face, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she feels every inch of me.
"Mmhm," I moan in her ear. "You know you like this shit."
She says nothing. She takes it like the good little girl she is. Her hands shake; her posture is stiff and awkward—just the way I want her.
As I pound her tight wet hole carnivorously, my groin smothering and pushing against her ass cheeks, I feel pressure from my stomach down to my balls. She feels it too, as she looks up at me—crying, whimpering, shaking her head.
"Please," she begs. "No!" Her screams still gagged by my hand.
She's still denying her feelings for me—so I begin pumping faster, harder, rougher. She screams louder. I feel it coming. The pressure grows, and then…
"Uggghhhhh!" I roar in her ear, as I deliver my load inside of her. She moans, her voice fluttering. I kiss her on her forehead and tell her how good her pussy is.
Her face turns pale, her eyelids slam shut—drenched in tears. She doesn't scream.
When I'm done, I sit in the passenger seat and button my pants back up. I slap her on the ass and tell her to drive me back to my car. She doesn't respond. So, I put the knife to her neck. She slowly spins around, adjusts her seat, puts her trousers back on, starts her car, and drives me back. Her eyes are blank as if she had never been fucked like that before. Neither of us say anything to each other. I step out and I drive home.
When I get to my apartment I park the car. I grab the switchblade, put it to my wrist, and…
Patra
It's been one day since it happened. The world has shrunk to the four walls of this room. A single window shows a gray sky I refuse to look at. The beeping of the IV machine beside my bed is the only rhythm I know now. My body aches, a deep pain—the pain of being turned into an object.
There are no bruises, no visible marks. The nurses keep commenting on it, telling me how lucky I was, but their words feel like a lie. There are scars, they just can't see them. My mind is a vast and silent ocean, still and numb.
A detective, a kind-faced woman, pulls a chair next to my bed. She is quiet for a long time, just watching me.
"Patra," she finally said, her voice soft. "I have some news. I wanted you to hear it from me."
I didn't respond. I just stared at a crack in the ceiling, a tiny imperfection in a blank white world.
"We found him," she continued. "The man who hurt you. Steve. He... he took his own life. At his apartment."
Her words hung in the air, but they felt distant, as if they belonged to a different story about a different person. Steve. The name was a hollow echo. It didn't make sense. He was a monster, a rage-filled face screaming in my ear, a knife at my throat. Monsters don't just... die.
"He's gone, Patra," the detective said, as if reading my thoughts. "It's over."
But the memory of him was too present, too heavy. A new memory pushed its way to the front of my mind: a cold conference room, a woman from HR, my boss. My voice had trembled, but I said the words:
"He makes me uncomfortable. He followed me downstairs. He asked for my number."
I had done what I was told to do. I had followed the rules.
"Are you okay?" the detective asked.
I just kept looking at the ceiling. How could I explain this to anyone? This wasn't some random attack. I knew him. He was the project assistant from the third floor. He was a person I saw every day.
He's also the guy I reported for sexual harassment.
I shouldn't have done that… right? Bad idea. How didn't I see it coming? How didn't I see him coming into my car? Why did I drive him to the park? Why didn't I wrestle the knife from him and kill him? He would have deserved it. He's rotting in Hell regardless, but I'm mad he killed himself because I would have liked to do it.
I would have liked to make him suffer. To torture him until he begged me to stop. To extinguish his worthless life—slowly, methodically, systematically, and painfully. I wanted him to grovel, to beg, to plead for my mercy.
Like he did to me.
I would have tied him to a chair, put jumper cables on his dick, and electrocuted him—all while telling him what a worthless piece of shit he is. How he will die as a rapist, and no one will remember him. That nothing he did mattered because I survived. Then, before I slit his throat, I would have whispered in his ear:
"You know you like this shit."
I would have taken a laser pointer and burned his eyes out while he was still alive.
I would have cut his dick off and shoved it in his mouth before setting him on fire.
No.
He should have gotten arrested. I would have wanted to see him in court and tell him that he ruined my life and that I hope he rots in Hell, you know the usual stuff victims say. To show him that I wasn't afraid of him anymore. Then, I would have paid some guys in jail to rape him, record it, and send me the video so I can watch it whenever I have a bad day.
But these are all fantasies.
Because the asshole drove the knife in even further and killed himself. Now, I'll never get any closure, any justice.
How could I have ever trusted him?
And now, how can I trust anyone?
Don't even get me started on Acme. How did no one see him? Why didn't anyone see him sitting in his car for hours after he was fired? Why wasn't he escorted out by security? Stupid ass company. Security, HR, damn them all. This is all their faults!
Why did they fire him? Why didn't they just let him off with a warning? They provoked him. They escalated the situation. I told them how creepy he was, I came to them because I didn't feel safe. I just wanted him to back off and leave me alone. Instead, they fired him—so he took it out on me. He raped me. He got everything he wanted: My body and his revenge. What do I get? Nightmares.
"The case is closed," the detective said, her voice full of what she probably thought was comfort. "He can't hurt you anymore."
But he could. He already had. The weirdo is gone, but he hasn't left. He's everywhere. Even now I still smell his breath, the stench of his armpits. I hear his cursed whispers in my ear. I feel him on top of me. In… side of me. I feel his blade at my neck. I feel his hand around my mouth. I feel his sweat dripping on my skin, his lips and teeth sucking on my neck.
I feel that kiss on my forehead.
How can I go back to work? How can I go back to any semblance of a normal life? I don't even know what that looks like anymore. The moment I walk out of this hospital bed, he'd be in the break room, in the elevator, in every office building, in my thoughts, in my nightmares. In my car. He was a face I used to know, and now, he's the reason my once safe world has fallen apart.
My face feels wet. Tears stream down my cheeks, but I don't make a sound because there is nothing left for me to feel. The tears just slide silently down my cheeks, a quiet grief for a future I no longer have, and a present that is now shattered into a million pieces.
How can I have sex ever again? How can I trust men ever again? How can I ever have a career, when the company I give forty hours of my life to every week couldn't even fucking protect me???!!!
I'll never tell anyone, not even my parents—it will destroy them.
It's just something I have to deal with myself.
I close my eyes, trying to go to sleep.
I see his face. Still. So I open my eyes again.
"Shut the fuck up bitch!" I hear his voice when I open my eyes.
"Ahhhh!" I scream. "Please… stop!" I roll around in my bed.
A nurse runs in. I'm shaking and crying.
"Patra what's wrong?" She asks. "Do you need anything."
"I just want it to stooop!" I shout, before I break down again.
She touches my shoulder, trying to console me. My entire body twitches and I shirk away.
Patra Two Months Later
The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater. I'm sitting on the edge of my couch, drinking a glass of brandy, fingers trembling slightly as I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. An email from HR. The subject line: "Return to Work?"
My breath catches. The company gave me two months of medical leave — time to recover, they said. Time to heal.
I finally mustered up the courage and told my family. They have been my biggest support system. They have showered me with so much love and care.
I expected my conservative Muslim father to blame me for what happened. I expected him to go on another diatribe about me not wearing a hijab, and how I need to stop dressing like American women.
We've always clashed.
Instead, he has loved on me, protected me, brought me food, and held me in his arms as I cried—telling me that I didn't deserve what happened to me.
I've spent time with friends. People I haven't seen in months because I was so consumed by my job, by making my parents proud, by proving my worth in the world. I haven't told any of them though, I never will. Maybe—in a weird way—this needed to happen so that I could see what's actually important. Not my job, not some company, but the people around me.
Even the most horrific and painful things in our lives work out for our good. I mean think about it: I've given so much of my life to my job, to Acme, and yet it was the very place where I was the most unsafe. I've felt the safest around my friends and family.
I have to go back there though. I've got to get back to reality. I have bills to pay, and I can't be on leave forever.
But recovery is a process. It's not neat. It doesn't always happen on our time. There will be bad days. That's what my therapist says anyway.
I glance around the room. The walls still hold the faded marks of where pictures once hung — empty spaces like memories I'm not ready to face. I couldn't even bare to look at my own pictures after what happened, so I took them all down. I'll put them back up someday. The quiet isn't peace. It's waiting.
My phone buzzes. A reminder for my next therapy appointment. I tap it off and lean back against the couch, closing my eyes briefly.
Therapy is hard. Every session peels back a layer I thought was sealed tight, and I break down again. I tell my therapist about the nightmares, the panic attacks, the way my hands sometimes shake so badly I can't even hold a fork. But there's no magic fix. Just slow stitches in a wound that might never fully close.
I think about the email again. Return to Acme?
My stomach twists, my heart pounds out of my chest. I imagine the office — the fluorescent lights that feel like they suck the air from my lungs, the hallways where I used to walk with confidence, now haunted by his shadow. The elevator where I pressed every button, hoping to escape but knowing there was nowhere to go.
"Don't say a word or I'll slit your throat!" There it goes again, another flashback.
I can picture him. My attacker. The project assistant with the nervous smile that turned into something else entirely. The man who ruined my world.
The man who… who…
Forget it.
I take another sip of the brandy.
Bad habit, I know, but it's the only thing that'll keep that demon out of my head.
I want to scream at the email. To tell them no. Not yet. Maybe never.
But I also feel the sharp edge of isolation. The absence of routine and structure. The walls pressing in. The friends, co-workers, and supervisors I haven't seen in months.
I swallow hard.
Two months is almost up.
The cursor blinks again, impatient.
I take a shaky breath, pick up my phone, and begin to type — not the answer to HR, but a message to my therapist:
I'm scared. What if I'm not ready?
Then I pause.
But maybe… maybe I don't have to be ready all at once.
Maybe healing isn't about being perfect or brave every day.
Maybe it's about showing up for myself—even when I'd rather off myself, even on days when I don't feel like showing up.
I could have killed myself like that cowardly piece of shit did. I'd be justified. But I'm choosing to exist. I'm choosing to be a survivor.
And today, and for as long as I'm still breathing, that's enough.
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Post-Story Note: This story was written to disturb, not to titillate. It is horror in the most raw and realistic sense.
Steve's POV is meant to make you uncomfortable—especially if you found yourself aroused. That discomfort is the point. This is psychological horror disguised as dark erotica—forcing readers to confront not only their own issues, but how predators justify themselves, and how culture often creates and enables them.
Steve isn't a caricature. He's disturbingly real—entitled, delusional, neurotic, and quietly violent. By immersing readers in his head, the story exposes how men like him think. Patra's POV is the gut-punch that brings it back to reality: Pain, destruction, trauma, rage, and survival.
This story was partly inspired by a youth pastor from my childhood who was arrested and exposed for being a child molester. Writing it was my way of confronting the hidden, predatory evil that can live behind trusted faces, behind "regular" everyday people like you and me.
It's also a commentary on how pornography can distort human intimacy—feeding obsession, detachment, and entitlement. This is not a story that glorifies violence. It's one that stares directly at it, to expose what too often stays hidden: the way fantasies, unchecked, can dehumanize others and destroy lives.
If you've read this far, thank you.
If you've survived something like this: I am sorry, and you're not alone.
If you felt complicit, disgusted, or ashamed—you should. Again, that's the point.
That's how horror works.
This isn't about glorifying violence.
It's about showing it for what it is—and refusing to look away.