 |
|||
|
|
Extremities (1986) the movie. Starring - Farrah Fawcett.
Revised Ending.
The following is an actual plot review of the movie from when it was first released in 1986. These are not my words but are those of the reviewer.
"An intended rape victim manages to escape from her attacker but leaves her purse behind. Worried that he may visit her house and finish what he has started, she contacts the police but they are unable to help, saying that she has no proof. "If he calls, let us know and we'll send a man round!" A fat load of good that would be. Her worst fears are realised when, alone one day in the house, her attacker visits and attempts again to rape her. Circumstances allow her not only to resist the attack but to turn the tables and lock him away. And that is where her dilemma really starts. Does she release him and risk another attack? Does she go to the police and risk being called a liar? Or does she kill him - and become as low as him?"
I have collected some unusual pictures, of the victims in this story, and posted them on two sites for interested readers to view.
1.) Posted on Myspace (you will have to register, no charge, and log on.)
http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewAlbums2&friendID=248156692&view=true
2.) Posted on Facebook (you will have to register, no charge, and log on.)
http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?id=598643450
In the context of visualizing what happens to whom, take a peek.
Also, let me know what you think of the visual aids. Are they a waste of time or a turn on?
BofE
Page 1-1.
Extremities, the nineteen eighty-six film, starring Farrah Fawcett as the potential rape victim who turns the tables on her attacker and captures him, has moments of brilliance, even greatness from a rape fan's perspective.
I know it may seem ridiculous to equate Farrah Fawcett with anything so lofty in terms of her acting, but in this case, she has moments that are any rape hound's wet dreams come true. Before she flaked out and became somewhat of a screen joke, Fawcett was a pretty decent piece of cunt. Of course, now she's dead but that's irrelevant and after the matter. Facially beautiful, with a taut, killer body, that nipple poster of her probably got more jerk-off play, for the time, than even the Playboy stuff. As far as I'm concerned, she was a fabulous looking woman, at that point in her life. The role she played often had her showing a good portion of her body and, of course, had her in the perilous circumstances that many a rape fan would love to re-create.
So enough of the mystery. What's the big scene, the portrayal that Fawcett should have won the Oscar for? The bedroom scene, in her bedroom, the utterly perfect dynamics on her bed.
He's (James Russo) has gained control of her and has her in her bedroom. He isn't ready to rape her yet. He wants to savour the anticipation, built her fear. He understands the dynamics of instilling fear and dread, of making her go against her instincts (in order to survive). To force her to do what repulses her. That's the control and the power. Those factors are as much fun, often even more so, than the cunt or sphincter penetrations.
She's just come from the shower so she's naked under her bathrobe.
In the scene, he wants her to change from her robe into a black negligee top he's fished out of her underwear drawer and also he has a pair of her undies in his sweaty hands. He's gone into her closet for a tight black bottom. He sniffs the crotch fabric. (Hell, he should have put on one of the bras and panties, right in front of her, and asked her what she thought of that?)
Page 1-2.
Naturally, she doesn't want to change in front of him, which brings me to a bit of an aside.
The really good looking ones, with the great bodies, they all want to keep their tits in their bras and their bras under their sweaters or blouses and, of course, their cunts in their panties under their jeans or skirts. I mean, you'd think they were the King's jewels or half as good as balls and a dick, the way they try to keep them hidden, keep their panties on and everything private, and away from hungry eyes and prying dicks. Who do they think they are? That they're entitled to their sanctity and privacy?
It never occurs to them, that at some point in their lives they'd be tied spread-eagled to a bed with a fucking sadistic pervert examining their clits with a magnifying glass. You can count the hairs (before they're shaved) with a strong enough magnifier (like a jeweler's) and I'll swear sometimes you can pick out the G spot, sort of the nipple of the clitoris, which is what hat pins and tweezers were really intended for. Sort of the highest and best uses for them. To borrow a real estate axiom, location, location, location.
Back to the bitch Fawcett and her predicament in her bedroom. He wants her to put the top on and she doesn't want to. (Too bad he didn't have my BB gun in the movie or even a sling shot.) He orders her to stand up on the bed while she changes. She's reluctant but he is sufficiently menacing that she slowly climbs up to stand on the bed. Fuck, just under her robe, her bare cunt is almost at his eye and teeth level. She goes right to the top of the bed, as far away from him as possible, which isn't very far at all really.
He orders her again to change and she really balks even though she's slowly starting to comply. He isn't angry or fierce, just determined and unrelenting. It's sort of like negotiating except it all has to be his way eventually. She knows she's not going to get out of it. She still balks and is squirming.
Obviously, to put the new clothes on, her robe has to come off and he's intent on watching every move and second of the exchange. No, she doesn't want her robe to come off in front of him. When she put it on after the shower, she never dreamt she'd be forced to remove it in front of his leering, salivating and anticipating red face and his bulging pants.
Page 1-3.
It is here that Fawcett gets the Oscar.
First she picks up the undies. She wriggles into them sliding them on under her robe. Her legs are long and thin and he near spunks himself at just that sight of her. Of course, much more and better is soon to come.
She trembles, sort of gives a shy, self-conscious whimper and cowers even though she's standing up, as she starts to remove the robe, to drop her privacy, her protection from the predator and violator. The wolf was inside her door, inside her bedroom, by her side. Fawcett magically captures the true emotions and movements and the fears and behaviors that beautiful women, in those circumstances exhibit. How I've seen them behave and what they reveal of themselves. She portrays it as if it was revealed, not acted. As if it was for real. Of course, that's what a good actress would do. Immerse herself into the role, so far, so deeply, until she becomes the role, so it's pretty safe to assume that if Fawcett had, in real life, been faced with the situation, she would have behaved just the same.
How could she behave differently?
She is a woman portraying the woman and had to draw on her own vision for her actions. How she thought she would respond.
Her whimpers and reluctance and fears, her fucking almost naked vulnerability, as she stands there in her panties, with her long slender legs sort of squeezed together at the top, to make her crotch more hidden and less accessible and her tight ass full to his reddened face, all are rings of truth. He is agog. He can hardly believe his good fortune and comes out with the redundant, or at least obvious line, "Christ, you are so beautiful."
She's a two hundred percent, living breathing fuck bitch, under his control, who is also gorgeous. As he devours her shape and features and her fear, anticipating how he's going to bind her with her legs full spread and penetrate her slowly from front and behind, all measured and controlled and deliberate and how her nipples are going to scream for him to stop, he is pretty well giddy, ecstatic. He's hit the cunt jack pot, the bitch jack pot, clean and tight with legs he can whip and tits he can fuck, not large, but hard and pert.
Holy shit, how did he get so lucky, when he failed to bust her the first time and she got away, but he got her wallet that showed where she lived? Now he was so glad he hadn't succeeded the first time. That was in her car, this was in her fucking house, in her bedroom where he could take all the time he wanted and as many times too. It was just meant to be, as far as his cock was concerned.
Like lucky dick destiny.
Page 1-4.
Once her robe was dropped, she scurried and hurried to get herself covered again, as if that would make a bit of difference then. He hadn't seen her naked, but almost. Now he knew when her peered into her cunt, with her legs tied apart and his knife point to her labia, that her clit would be as beautiful and vulnerable as the rest of her.
Beautiful women have beautiful cunts.
It just seems to be the rule.
He knew she would be the best fuck of his entire life and most likely was starting to try to figure out how to arrange to keep her so he could go at her again and again, beyond what he could do at her house. Like kidnapping her. I mean, one fuck was like one candy, you couldn't eat just one, and eating her out once, would never be enough. He wanted to feast and it would have to unfold like a surprise and somewhere else safer and remote.
And of course, according to the plot, things go awry. She gets the better of him, even though he violently slugs her and drags her around by the hair. He should have cunt kicked her right off, split her labia, to bring her down and tit punched her for extra good measure.
He could still have fucked her even though she was ruptured.
But he didn't. He missed his opportunity, had his chance and she managed to turn the tables by getting the spray can of bug stuff for wasps, into his eyes and slugging him with the hot kettle, twice, and binding him with the phone cord and stuffing him into the fireplace, confining him behind the steel bed stead she retrieved from the yard, where she taunts him and strikes out at him with the poker and vents her hatred and anger at him. It's as if she comes to like doing it, likes to torment him. Likes the power to smash his balls, if she chooses. See how he likes it, and she becomes the hunter rather than the prey. The tormenter, rather than the victim.
She wanted his pecker off and was thinking to retrieve a carving knife from the kitchen when her housemates, and friends returned home...
For the next, and subsequent instalments, I'm going to alter the drama, the ending. I'm going to assume the role, his role, in the first person, and Fawcett will be beyond sorry she ever overpowered me. So will her two bitch girlfriends, who I'll make as good looking as Fawcett.
Let's put it this way, Fawcett gets fucked, regular and otherwise and eventually she begs for it, rather than worse, and she walks funny and her bra doesn't fit the same anymore, sort of half empty.
Involuntary breast reduction, a new felony or just a new sport?
And so the new, improved story begins..
|
|
|