Games Some People Play Ch 07

"Whoa! I love this hot cunt! Mrs. Lorraine, you're the Dom!'

It was either sheer bravado... Or who the hell knows? I couldn't believe that Butch was still conscious! This massive woman, naked, hung from a rope that yanked up her arms behind her, then ran over a beam in the ceiling, so her body was forced to bend almost double, her breasts like half-soccer balls on her chest pointing down, tipped with the stiff thumbs of her nipples, and her face, with the short dark hair slicked back dripping blood. And she was crowing in exultation!

She gushed, "A gang of skinheads in Fresno had me just like this once, when I was 18! They hung a five-pound dumbbell from each of my tits! And then, about a dozen of them fucked me in the ass almost nonstop for like 12 hours. New guys kept coming in the room. And they never gave me a drink! By the end, I was just croaking, 'Water! Water!' I passed out I don't know how many times, and they hosed me down with ice cold water! Thank god someone stopped those lunatics from sticking the nozzle up my pussy or my asshole!"

Poor Sandra had accomplished this mostly alone, except that I had snapped-to with the rope to help her tie one hand, as the thrashing sea lion fought to rise. We got the one hand tied just in time and used the rope over the beam in the ceiling to drag her up, both of us hanging on the rope, so she hung by that one arm, suspended, blood almost blinding her. Only then could both of us force her other arm behind her and tie it, too.

I say, "Poor Sandra," because now she looked, appalled, at the huge bully who had sought to dominate her. All of us were naked, of course, and Sandra, chest heaving with the exertion, approached the strung-up woman and said, accusingly, "Why do you have to bully everyone? We're all hot bitches."

Quite a statement from my mother-in-law. She looked at her captive and her expression was bewilderment. More bravado from Butch. Lifting her head, with the bloody mouth, she said, "Come over here, I'll suck your pussy for you, if you want! You rock!"

Sandra shook her head, distractedly, scrutinizing the obvious problem. She turned to her daughter. "Stephanie?" Stephanie stepped forward, but she looked as bewildered as Sandra. In a sudden burst of anger, face suddenly bright red, Sandra spit out: "Where the fuck is your sister, Susan? Let her deal with this!" (Gesturing at Butch's massive, twisted, naked body.)

Sandra looked around at us and said, "How about we all leave on vacation, right now, and leave this"—Moby Butch, I thought, as Sandra gestured at her—for Susan to find?"

She added, "Where is that girl?"

"I want to do her." The voice was sweet and demure. Angelina had taken a tentative step toward Butch. She held the electric prod in her long, slender hands.

Butch wrenched up her face, smeared with blood. She said, "Yeah! Do it, Sundance!"

Sandra turned to the nude Joan Baez avatar. "She's done me," said Angelina.

Sandra shook her head, eyes half closed, and said, wearily, "Not what we're looking for, right now."

"You want it, Butch?" asked Angelina.

"Give it to me!"

"Even up your asshole?"

The round, not un-pretty face, straining to look up at us from the Inquisition tie-up, actually showed a moment of fear. "No one gets it there, Sundance," she said quickly. "No one can take it, up there."

"I want to see if you can."

"No, don't." Butch's voice was quavering. She craned her neck to look at us. "Don't let her, do it, Mommy."

That jab at Sandra, coming from the bully she had beaten and bound, seemed to rub her the wrong way. I watched as Sandra looked at Angelina, shrugged, looked at me, and said, "Let's get some more wine, Tommy."

I hesitated, nodding toward Angelina. "You know what she's going to do when we leave?"

Sandra shrugged. "It's their relationship, Tommy." And she walked past me toward the kitchen. I followed.

Had I gotten used to being naked with my luscious mother-in-law? Yes, in a way. And no, because I had to be on alert every moment, monitoring myself to forestall another screaming hard-on. Stephanie followed us into the kitchen, leaving Butch and her "submissive" alone, with roles reversed.

I was pouring, Sandra was holding up her glass, with her most gracious smile, and Stephanie was mostly silent, brooding.

"Are you okay, Steph?" asked Sandra.

Stephanie looked up from her glass of wine. "Oh, yeah," she said, dully. "Is there a life after this? Is this how I have to live because my shitty clit can never get enough?"

Sandra turned to look at her. Stephanie stared right back: "Ever! Never get enough! Clit, clit, clit! I'm a freak, Mom!"

Sandra studied her daughter with an expression that I can compare only to lines in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner": "This soul has been alone/On a wide, wide sea." Without a word, Sandra embraced her daughter, her body against hers, her cheek pressed against Stephanie's, and, after a few moments, she murmured, "I don't know. I don't know every answer, baby, but I love you."

The cry was inhuman. We started as at a whistle blast from an oncoming locomotive. Then came the manic shriek: "No! Not in my asshole, you fucking moron! My ass..."

And came the scream that went on, and on, and on.

With one impulse, we surged toward the living room. The big naked woman was flopping in her bonds like a gaffed tuna. Flipping to dangle by her wrenched wrists, the huge but shapely legs wildly pumping air. The gigantic ass, the monumental tits, shook in agony. Her big round face was scarlet. Angelina's svelte dark body bent over her, the wand of the ghastly "electric zapper" thrust up Butch's ass. We could hear the frying sizzle of electricity as we rounded the corner into the living room.

I leaped forward first, tearing the "zapper" from Angelina's hand, yanking it out of Butch's rectum. Was it too late? The huge body, which I had compared to a sea mammal, hung in its bonds utterly unconscious. The agony had overwhelmed even her heroic stoicism. She dangled there, more a crumpled package of flesh than a woman's body.

"Oh, God!" said Sandra. "I shouldn't have left them!"

Well, yeah! I guessed that was obvious. Sandra bent and lifted Butch's face. Blood ran down her chin and we saw that she had bitten through her lower lip in her frantic pain.

Sandra turned to me. "We have to get her down!"

"And then what?"

"This is torture!" said Sandra, her voice rising to panic. "How did I get into this? And where the fuck is Susan?"

Angelina spoke softly, not looking at us. "It's what Butch likes. She says she doesn't, but..."

Sandra stared at her for a long moment. She asked, with a semblance of calm, "So what comes next in these things? You bury her in the backyard?"

"Put her to bed," said Angelina, with the same lilting voice. "She'll wake up and cry like a little girl and say weird things I can't understand. It's awful to listen to her. Then, she'll get up and be just the same. She'll probably do a 'hell night" on me with her friends."

After a moment, Sandra nodded. "Okay. Do it. Can you do it alone?"

"Sure, I do it all the time. I do that."

We retired, as they say, to the kitchen. Just Sandra, Stephanie, and me. That last thing on our minds was that we were all stark naked. Been there, done that. We poured another round.

I said, with remarkable sobriety—I mean, it has been only a few glasses of chardonnay—"We need to get them out of here, soon, and end this."

Stephanie was nodding. "Where the hell is Susan?"

"Forget it," I said. "We're on our own. We've got to end this."

"Butch is sleeping it off," said Sandra.

"Angelina is passive," said Stephanie. "We can move her like a furniture."

"You're their hostess," said Sandra, suddenly the CEO, again. "You know, daughter..." She caught herself. "Never mind," she muttered.

"I know, Mom," said Stephanie. "They're psychos. I know. But with them, it's fucking all the time and never routine. That's what I need. Why is my life about nothing but my fucking clit?"

"Let's keep focus," I said as calmly as I could. "What do we do with them, now?"

"They have a house trailer," said Stephanie, abruptly. "Some kind of mobile home they pull with a truck. They live in it." She added, as though reluctantly, "It will be parked in the driveway."

I didn't even bother to dress. It was the driveway; no one could see from the street. I returned and said, "Yes, it's there. Wow! How did they rate that?"

Stephanie shrugged. "Some Hollywood producer guy. Butch let him take Angelina away for a weekend." She shook her head, not looking at us. "When he brought her back, Butch told him she was calling the police. Angelina looked as though Apaches had captured her. For a week, she couldn't even bear to put on a bra. The house trailer and truck, and some cash, I think-that was the payoff."

"Let's move!" said Sandra. Then, she began, "Stephanie..." but stopped herself. "Let's move!" she snapped, again.

About 20 minutes later, after some threatening, plus pushing, hauling, and even rolling, we had Butch in the trailer, still out, but now snoring peacefully, and Angelina, in a tie-and-dye dress, in the truck's driver's seat. She looked like a Country-Western gal straight from the Saturday night barn dance.

We stood there, the three of us, looking in the window. Angelina turned that forlorn, soulful face, to us. She said, "I have no idea where to go."

After a moment, Sandra said, "Hold it," ran into the house (we hadn't bothered to dress), and returned. She handed Angelina what looked like a wad of twenty dollar bills. Angelia took it. She smiled and said, "Okay, it's a deal. We can keep driving and stopping at trailer parks until we get to the Ozarks. Butch will come around and be just the same. We like the Ozarks. Got guys there who'll fuck you from now to Sunday, and then stuff a wad of bills inside your panties." She added, dreamily, "They're all boys in the Ozarks and all they think about is beer and their boners."

"Bye," said Stephanie.

"See you again?" asked Angelina.

"I don't think so. Don't look for me."

"Love you," said Angelina. She started the truck.

"And you," said Stephanie.

Back in the house, we actually cleaned up the place, wiped up the blood, shoved the rope in the garage, and washed the wine glasses and put them away. No one seemed to think about dressing. I couldn't help it; I had intimations of another erection. We three stood in the kitchen, the long summer day surrendering, at last. We could have switched on the lights, but we didn't.

The ever-nurturing Sandra glanced down and asked me: "Is that for me, for Stephanie, for our departed friends, or for Susan?" She added: "Your wife-remember?"

Stephanie said with a sigh, all the weariness of endless hypocrisy in her voice. "It's for you, Mom."

Sandra turned to me, the serious, mature woman. "Is it, Tommy?"

How should I know? My dick had a mind of its own.

"Am I supposed to do something?" asked Sandra reasonably.

It was Stephanie who spoke. "Do you really need some coaching on this, Mom?"

"I need someone else to take responsibility, for a change."

"Okay," said Stephanie. "Here, Mom, bend way over—right—and now put your hands on the kitchen counter. All of you has to be accessible, especially your breasts."

Stephanie said, contemplating the result. "Good, Mom, but spread your legs wider."

I was looking at Sandra, bent forward at the waist, elbows on the kitchen counter, face down, legs widely spread, her ass on offer, mature boobs dangling, and, pouching back between her legs, the well-haired, prominent slit. Stephanie, with all the rueful sadness in the world, gestured at the spectacle, inviting me to do the obvious.

I glanced down. Not quite ready. I had been distracted. Stephanie's gaze followed mine and she emitted a long sigh. She said, "Hold it right there, Mom, I have to facilitate Tommy."

From Sandra, bent over: "I can wait. He's not boned up?"

"Not quite." Squatting before me, she had grabbed my ass cheeks with her hands, as though to steady them, taken my cock with her thumb and forefinger, and popped it in her mouth. Her wet tongue did the rest, racing round and round the throbbing head of my dick. In about a minute, it was as though she sucked an iron rod.

With a pop, such released me, staring for a moment at the result. She said, "Good to go, Tommy. Fuck Mom into unconsciousness."

"Gee thanks," said Sandra, submissively bent over, waiting. She made a sound of derision. "I've been promised that more than once, you know. I bet he comes before I come, never mind before I pass out! What is it like to be fucked into unconsciousness?"

"Butch told you," said Stephanie.

"Yeah," said Sandra. "I was hoping to forget that."

"I talk that way when I need it bad," said Stephanie. "Then, I come, and I never can remember why I thought I needed a pile driver in my cunt to satisfy me. All I needed was to come. Jerk off or whatever."

"Are you hot, too?""

"He wants you, Mom."

My curtain call. I stepped up to the lusciously rounded ass and seized handfuls of either haunch, feeling the cool smooth skin, and squinted down at the target. She had a pussy thickly haired in sandy fur, a wide slit between rather dark lips that curled up at their apex to her full-sized clit. Without ceremony, I reached down, spread aside her fur, positioned my aching cock, and drove it in, doing what I had wanted to do to my wife's mom for about 10 years.

I drove it hard, so she gave a soft grunt of pleasure, and I realized that this senior cunt could take much more than I could deliver if I played Ram Bone. Instead, I moved slowly, watching my own slicked cock bury itself and withdraw in long strokes. Slowly. I had wanted this for 10 years, why shoot off in 10 seconds?

"Hey," said Sandra, "who's playing with my tits?"

"I am, Mom" said Stephanie, and sure enough, her nervous slender fingers were diddling the nipples on Sandra's full pendant breasts. She already had them half-an-inch long. "Is it okay?"

"Loving it," sighed Sandra. "I had begun to think that my nipples were obsolescent."

Stephanie said, breathing hard, "My other hand is madly flicking my own. I'm crazy sensitive, there."

A grunt from Sandra. As I pistoned in and out, enjoying every inch, I reached down around her hips to locate her clit. Quite a stamen! My fingertips circled the swollen button, traced up and down its long stem. From the wiggling of Sandra's hips, I concluded I had the right place. Besides, it was soaking wet down there.

As I worked on her clit and fucked her, and as Stephanie went at her tits, Sandra lost her inhibitions. It poured forth: "Oh! My fucking clit! Rip me! Oh, Jesus! Fuck me, Tommy! Fuck the shit out of me! Tear off my titties, steph!"

And then, suddenly, "I can't stand it! Stop! Stop! Stop!"

Of course, we didn't stop. I thrust brutally, seizing fistfuls of her hips, slapped her against me, slamming into her over and over, as Stephanie was twisting and dragging and yanking her nipples without mercy. Sandra screamed incoherently, babbling for us to stop, but also to do it, do it, do it to me! I came in her, delirious, unnecessarily driving her against the kitchen counter. She was a good sport. She wiggled her ass invitingly, making sounds of ecstasy, until my very last wrenching spasm of pleasure.

"Was it good, Tommy?" she asked curiously, still bent over the kitchen counter. And she added, "It's the only one you're going to get, you know."

I said nothing. Sandra asked, "What about you, Steph? You were making cruel love to my boobs."

"I'm fine, Mom. I was jerking myself off while I was trying to pull off your nipples. I came with both of you. I feel great." But she sounded sad.

Sandra straighten up, cautiously, as if with an aching back—or concern for whom she was dislodging from her tunnel of love. She looked at Stephanie, then me, with what seemed unqualified contentment. What was there to say?

"Hey!" came an impatient yell from the screen door in the living room. "Hey! Who the hell locked this door?"

Stephanie and I flashed looks at each other with the beginnings of full-blown panic. But Sandra said only "That sounds like Susan, doesn't it."