The Adventures of Robert Teasdale Easy-Peasy

The Adventures of Robert Teasdale

Easy-Peasy

 

Casey’s night out turns into a nightmare as Robert stalks, hungry & unyielding

 

R.R. Ryan

 

© Copyright 2026 by R.R. Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Easy-Peasy

 

For now, since we don’t know each other, you can call me Robert Teasdale. This is a name I’ve used often. By the way, not that it matters, I’m a rapist. A serial rapist, actually. Call it my avocation, I make my living from an internet business.

 

I’m six feet seven inches tall and 250 pounds of toned muscle. Women never stand a chance once I decide to take them.

 

One night, I wedge my frame into the back corner of the bar. With my legs open, shoulders hunched, arms hanging from the edge of a sticky table, an animal on its haunches. All eyes land on me when I walk in, some cocktail of respect and primal terror.

 

That’s the effect of six-seven with a neck like a construction pillar, skin mapped by veins and ancient scars. The old men at the pool table shrink. The bartender clocks my order before I open my mouth.

 

“Double rye, neat,” she says, and I nod.

 

Once the drink sat in front of me, voices carve through Friday night’s mush. I flash a smile to the pretty waitress when she walks by, flashing too many teeth. My interest makes her, how shall I say it, uncomfortable.

 

Someday I’d win her over, well, take her and abuse her.

 

The hunger returns, and I scan the room. The regulars orbit the tap, faces crumpled from years of bad luck and cheap cigarettes. The crowd thickens near the band, filled with a lot of nervous, skinny energy. All young adults, aged 21 to 24, paired up for mating.

 

Ignoring the noise, I tune it out, cut through the pulse of bass and chatter.

 

There she is, my focus pins itself on the end of the bar, a woman. Probably late twenties, dressed like she wants to forget herself. Jeans too tight, shirt two buttons past decency.

 

The makeup job screams office cubicle by day, someone else’s regret by night. Ruby red lips that speak of sin and surrender. Glancing at her phone, the bitch slumps over a gin and tonic like it’s a lifeline, scrolling with dead eyes.

 

Third drink, I keep count.

 

Now she’s not ugly. Not beautiful, either. Ordinary enough to pass under the radar, unless you know how to look. The desperation leaks out of her. Sticky and sweet, a wounded animal’s scent. Either she’s getting nothing, or what she gets doesn’t do the job.

 

The redheaded pussy sits there, making love to her drink.

 

Each time her hand trembles, the ice clinks a code. And her hand trembles often. Her gaze darts to the door, back to the glass. She’s waiting for someone. So, I take a slow sip, savor the whiskey burn.

 

After an hour, three drinks, and ten thousand glances at the door, it becomes obvious. Yeah, the bitch’s been stood up. So, Mr. Nobody’s coming for her tonight.

 

Time passes, and I let the scene play out. Every detail, every micro-flinch. She doesn’t notice me—nobody ever does at first. The bartender does, though. The age estimate is wrong.

 

Late twenties, I thought, but no, fortysomething. She’s older, brittle, and gives me an expression like she’s seen this movie before. I wink, hold up two fingers.

 

“Double for the lady.”

 

The glass lands in front of my target before she can protest.

 

With a startle, she jerks her head my way. Blue eyes, red-rimmed, ringed with mascara. Lifting her glass, she forces a tight smile.

 

“Thanks.” The voice tremors. Not fear, more of a resignation.

 

“My pleasure.” Rising, I drag my stool three inches closer, letting the wood groan under me. No invitation necessary. I dominate the space between us.

 

Out of nowhere, the cute, crazy bitch tries to hide in her phone.

 

Drawing out the sound, I laugh, low and slow.

 

“Tough night?” I ask. Small talk, enough to let her know I’m listening, enough to remind her of my size.

 

Still not afraid, she blinks.

 

“Ah-huh, you could say that.” Shrugs one shoulder and pulls on a loose thread in her sleeve.

 

“Boyfriend trouble?” Leaning in, my elbows on the bar. My shadow swallows her.

 

She hesitates and nods.

 

“Yeah, you could say that, too.”

 

Nodding like I give a shit. “Well, he doesn’t deserve you.”

 

“Nobody does.” And she lets out a dry, hollow laugh.

 

I like her more for that. There’s a flavor of bitterness I haven’t tasted in a while. Pressing the advantage, I draw it out.

 

“What’s your name?” I ask.

 

For a moment, she considers lying. I can see the wheels turning, the instinct for self-preservation clashing with the need to be known.

 

“Casey.” Finally, the cunt gives an inch.

 

“Robert,” I say, and watch the name land like a fist. The question is, has she heard of me from one of these bitches?

 

At that point, we settle into a rhythm. I ask questions, Casey deflects, deflates, tries to keep the wall up. I scale it with ease. Every answer, every glance, every tightening of her jaw registers as points on a scoreboard only I can see.

 

When she drinks faster, I slow down. See, I want this to stretch, want her to feel the weight of my presence growing until it presses all the air out of her lungs.

 

And I talk about nothing: sports, news, the city’s slow decay. For her part, she listens, because she has nothing else.

 

With great pleasure, I watch her body betray her. She straightens in the seat, crosses and uncrosses her legs, fingers working the glass, a worry stone. Sweat beads at her hairline, traces down her temple.

 

The bartender checks in once, twice, but keeps her distance. The next step is inevitable, and she knows the end.

 

The band takes five. The crowd thins, smokes, and shuffles outside. Waiting for the moment when the staff starts stacking chairs and shutting off the lights, I count the minutes until closing. As the net closes, I want Casey to feel the clock running out.

 

“I should go,” she says at last, voice small.

 

“Where’s home?” I ask. The words slide out easier than the booze slides down.

 

She shrugs.

 

“A few blocks.”

 

“I’ll walk you,” I say. No hesitation. But Casey hesitates for both of us. Pulling a pill from my pocket, I pop it into my mouth and wash it down with my drink. It isn’t that I need it; I want to be able to stay up for hours. It’s Stendra, the fastest-acting hard-on pill on the market.

 

“What I mean is, my car is a few blocks.” Correcting herself or deflecting, but that doesn’t deter me.

 

“I’ll escort you to your car.”

 

A few seconds tick by.

 

“That’s not necessary.” But her protest collapses before she can finish. It’s certain, she knows what happens to women who say no to men like me. When she stands, wobbles, and grabs the bar for balance. At that instant, I put my hand on her shoulder. Light, but firm.

 

“I insist.”

 

“Fine.” The woman lets out a painful sigh.

 

Well, now she’s pissed me off. However, my expression doesn’t give away the anger.

 

The bartender locks eyes with me as I leave, mouth set in a grim line. So, I flash another smile, let her know I’ll tip well. Always do. Plopping down the money, she takes it and counts, staring me in the eye. Smashing my fist into my palm three times, the bartender lifts her eyebrows three times. And I know she wants to watch, but not this time.