The Predator

Chapter Five

I opened my little Google Chromebook while she made some more iced tea, and went to my Amazon Prime account. I looked quickly at her Visa card and entered the numbers into my account. Then I scrolled through Adult Diapers and ordered a big box (100-count) in XL. I wanted to put her into a diaper, for one thing, a more embarrassing and degrading thing than her relatively benign Depends. But also, the Depends were just a pain in the ass to get on and off of her. The diaper would be easier on me and I am, after all, very fucking lazy.

I lingered over my tea and then over our chat.

She was fascinated, after she got over the initial shock, about how I would get the pictures I had promised.

"Oh hell," I said, leaning back in my chair, "I know her type. She'll LOVE posing and I, of course, will tell her those pictures will never be seen by another."

Her eyes were shiny.

"You're liking this, aren't you?" I said.

She blushed prettily.

"I'm just picturing her face when I show her the pictures," she said.

"Don't you worry," I said, "before we're done," making sure to include her in my little program by using the plural, "you'll have a complete collection of that whole crew at the table where I first asked you to dance."

"Hadn't you better get going?" she said, "you said an hour."

I laughed, and said, "let her wait. It'll do her narcissistic ass good."

She giggled and blushed at that.

"It's like you already know her," she said.

"I do," I said, not mentioning that I knew Doris too, or at least her type, the poor thing.

We talked a bit more, but she was too, well, "excited" is probably as good a word as any, to be much of a conversationalist.

"Okay," I said, "I'll put on some old clothes and see what darling Darla has on tap."

I pulled on my old jeans, an old T-shirt, this one from a visit to a state park in Michigan, my old tennis shoes.

Back downstairs I kissed Doris lightly, said, "I'll be home in time to take you out to dinner."

She smiled at that, stood, and kissed me lingeringly.

As I opened the door I turned and said, very casually, "love you, babe."

Her eyes were big as I let the door shut behind me.

I plugged the address into my Google Maps and it led me, faithful guide as always, across town. As I drove I had to adjust my role from smitten swain to predator. It wasn't hard at all.

When I pulled up I got my small bag of tools out of the trunk of the car. I actually am a competent handyman, something I learned from my dad.

I walked up to the front door, looking quite professional I thought.

I didn't have to knock, she opened the door.

And I knew Doris was right. This bitch was a real whore.

I guessed her at maybe pushing 60. She was a very pretty woman in the round-faced soft way that some plump women achieve once menopause strikes. Her cheeks were full, just a hint of thin jowl lines offsetting her round face. Very clear blue eyes looked out from under a curly fringe of strawberry blonde hair. It was obvious she had it tended to a bare minimum of once a week, maybe more. Her makeup was perfect as well. She was one of those lucky women with eyelids that, while soft and slightly wrinkled, were full and the pale blue shadow on them was the perfect color for her eyes. They gave her a slightly mysterious look. Very light eyeliner and carefully arched eyebrows set off her face. Her nose was a little button. Her mouth was small but full, with full red lips, carefully outlined with very red lipstick.

It was her clothes that made her obvious though.

She was in a light T-shirt, the sleeves cut off showing plump, very smooth arms. She had cut the neck out of it showing an interesting display of cleavage. Her designer jeans were made by someone who understood that women and men are built differently. She had on open-toed, high-heeled sandals. Her toenails and her fingernails were bright red.

To describe her in one word, she was "gaudy." It wasn't just the hair or the face or the jeans or the shirt or the nails. It was the package. She was greeting the handyman, for Christ's sake, with dangling earrings, rhinestones I assumed but they might have been diamonds, she seemed like that kind of a woman. A gold chain on her neck added to the image as did the simple gold ring in the middle toe of her right foot.

All in all, she was one hell of an attractive woman.

Her teeth, when she smiled, were very white, but they were all hers. I knew I would not find a denture cup or Depends in her bathroom.

I was very glad she had been the first, among Doris's crew, to call.

Her hand, when we shook, was strong, the grip firm.

"Come on in," she said. Her voice was husky, she made me think of Barbra Stanwyck from an old movie I had seen once. I figured if she didn't smoke now she had in the past. Maybe some whisky in that tone too.

"So," I said, "whattya got?"

She chuckled, a deep throaty sound, and said, "whattya want?"

I laughed, pretending not to notice.

"You said something about a leaky faucet?" I said.

She frowned at that, a literal frown with the corners of her mouth turning down, making some interesting new lines in her pretty face. Then she turned on her heel. "Come along, David," she said over her shoulder.

She had a good ass too. Those tight jeans did good things for her. She wasn't a lightweight, never had been. I could see her as the buxom 18-year-old cheerleader nailing the running back after the big game (the quarterback would, of course, have been Victoria's). But she looked damn good as I followed her. And she was obviously aware of me behind her, her hips giving a delightful little twitch with each step.

Sure enough, her kitchen sink gave a steady drip. I twisted the handle and it was tight. I didn't say anything, just put my trusty tool bag on the kitchen table, got the little TacLite out, a very bright flashlight, and opened the under sink doors, looking for a shutoff.

I sighed, theatrically.

"What?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"There's no shut off," I said, then rolled my eyes and added, "of course. So, do you know where the main water shut off is?"

The look of puzzlement on her face made me chuckle.

"The what?" she asked.

"I need to shut off the water so I can fix this," I said. "Do you have a basement?"

She stood absolutely still.

"Darla?" I said.

Her eyes refocused.

"This is an easy fix, but I need to turn off the water," I said, "do you know where the cutoff is?"

She just sort of stared at me.

"It'll either be in the basement or outside," I said.

She didn't move, didn't say anything.

I snapped my fingers a couple of times in front of her face.

"Earth to Darla," I said.

I waited a few more seconds and then said, "fuck it," picked up my little bag, and started down the hall.

"Wait," she said in that rough voice.

I turned and said, "Darla, I don't know what's going on but either shit or get off the pot."

She giggled at that.

"Oh my God," she said, "I haven't heard that since my grandfather died.'

I chuckled and said, "yeah, I learned it from my grandMOTHER, but I know what you mean."

I held her eyes for a few seconds and then said, "what is it, Darla?"

I could see her thinking and then reaching a decision. She took a deep breath, in through the nose in a long hiss, and then out through pursed lips, not quite whistling, like someone who has had some kind of extensive athletic training.

"It's in the basement," she said.

I smiled, stepped closer, my hands on her shoulders, admiring how soft and, well, flawless her skin was. She was truly pink, unlike most of us "whites," who are actually kind of beige.

"Sooooo," I said, deliberately drawing out the vowel, "show me."

Another of those deep, in-through-the-nose out-through-pursed-lips breath, and she moved to a door in the little hallway leading to the kitchen.

She turned and said, "I haven't been down there in a while. Wait a minute."

She went to one of her kitchen cabinet drawers and came back with a key that she used to unlock the deadbolt. I didn't think much about that. Lots of people lock their basement doors.

She took another of those deep breaths, obviously composing herself, and opened the door.

She flipped on the light and started down the steps. I followed a few steps behind.

At the bottom of the steps, we stood in kind of a pool of light cast by the single lightbulb hanging naked from a cord.

I heard her take another one of those deep breaths, her exhalation almost a whistle. When she flipped another switch, for the first time in years I was absolutely speechless.

It was a dungeon.

I had a bit of experience with that lifestyle with a woman I had lived with for a few months in New Albany, Indiana, across the Ohio River from Louisville, Kentucky. But that had been nothing compared to this. Her basement could have served as the set for a Hollywood production of some medieval tale about torture.

When I had first discovered Steven King I had actually researched torture devices once, and I recognized most of the things I saw.

She was looking at me as I did a slow turn, taking it all in.

"So now you know," she said softly in that husky voice.

I met her eyes and asked the obvious question, "Which side were you on?"

She held my eyes for a few seconds and then, quite slowly and deliberately reached down and did the crossed-arms-in-front thing that only women seem to be able to pull off, peeled off her T-shirt, and turned her back to me. It was a good back. Good shoulders. A distinct waistline.

And it was crisscrossed with scars that had to be from a whip. Hell, her back looked like something out of a movie about slaves and whipping posts and all.

Damn, but it was sexy.

And it hit me.

I brushed my fingers lightly across one of the scars and said, in my softest voice, "that's what happened to your voice, isn't it? You were screaming so hard you tore it up permanently."

"Yes, David," she said softly, not turning to look at me, "my husband made sure this is a very soundproof room."

"So show me," I said.

"David, I," she started but I talked over her.

"Show me," I said again.

She sort of moaned, but walked over to a cabinet against the wall and brought out a very professional-looking set of wrist cuffs, the kind of thing you see in hospital shows when a patient needs to be restrained. They were leather, about three inches wide, with heavy sheep's wool as a cushion. There were heavy buckles and heavy D rings sewn into them. She brought them to me and said, "here David, put them on my wrists."

She held out her arms and so I did, drawing the buckles tight.

She went back to that same cabinet and came back with a leather belt with small carabiners on each end.

"Hook them in," she said, which I thought was funny because she could obviously do it herself, but I was captivated now so I did as she asked.

She led me to a post, pretty near the exact center of the basement, her feet quiet on the packed earth floor. There was no concrete or wood or anything but the dirt was flat and had obviously been well tamped.

"This was his whipping post," she said, "hook the belt over that hook."

I saw a heavy hook screwed into the post, I thought it was probably a hook to hang a bicycle or something on in another life. In order to hook the belt over it, I had to pull her arms straight over her head until she was barely on her tiptoes. Once I got the belt over the upright part of the hook she still couldn't quite stand flat-footed. In that position, I could see why the scars were like they were.

With her arms straight up like that, there was a distinct trough between the big muscles of her back, running down her spine. The scars were distinct on the high parts but the whip or belt or whatever he had used didn't get into the deep ravine.

"Would you like me to whip you?" I asked softly into her ear.

"Yesssssssss, noooooooo, God David, I don't know," she said, her voice a bit muffled in that position with her face against the post.

I reached up and lifted the belt free.

"Show me more," I said.

She reached around and pushed a button and I heard an electric motor whine and a chrome hook started coming down from a pulley on a crossbeam.

I crooked my finger and beckoned her. She came.

"He suspended you here, didn't he?" I said.

She just nodded.

I hooked the belt in the hook coming down from the beam, went over, found the button, and pushed it. The motor whined again and the hook started up. It took her up to tiptoes, her arms straight up over her head now, and then higher until she was a few inches off of the floor.

I slapped her ass, not too hard, and liked the way she spun slowly.

She moaned softly.

"How long would he leave you like that, Darla," I asked.

"Sometimes hours," she said in that same low, husky voice.

I pushed the button to let her down.

"Show me the rest," I said, releasing her from the hook.

She went to a stock, looking for all the world like something from a scene out of the Salem Witch trials. When she laid her neck and her hands in the appropriate scooped out sections I couldn't resist lowering the top bar, locking her into it. Her back was bent and her ass stuck out, I wondered how long she could hold that position before muscles started to cramp.

"How long would he leave you in this?" I asked.

"Four days was the longest," she said, "he had to carry me up to the bed and I couldn't walk for two days."

"Jesus," I whispered.

There was an actual rack although electric winches replaced old hand-operated systems. There was a gibbet. On a rack was an assortment of dildoes, probes, and inflatables of obvious uses.

One construction of pipes and thumbscrews defeated me. I couldn't tell what it was for. So I released her from the stock and walked her over to it.

"What's this?" I asked.

She giggled, a throaty sound, and said, "that is his all-purpose device."

She crawled into it, and then I could see how it would work. If I moved this bar down I would force her to arch her back painfully. This bar up and her hips would be forced up. This bar and her head would be locked in place. I could see switches and knobs and how it could be electrified or heated or chilled, how water could be sprayed. It was quite an ingenious device really.

I liked it.

I loosened the bars I had tightened and helped her out of it.

She looked oddly innocent when she stood, the very white material of her bra, a good sturdy garment much to my surprise a contrast against her very pink skin.

I took my camera out of my pocket, touched the little camera lens icon, said smile, and took the first of what would be many pictures of her.

She actually smiled.

"Take off your clothes," I said, standing with the cell phone camera pointed at her.

She didn't hesitate. She showed no modesty at all as she reached behind herself to unhook the bra and then let it fall. Her breasts were large, as I knew they would be, with large dark nipples and areolas. They showed her age as they sagged dramatically, but her nipples pointed straight forward. She simply let the bra fall to the dirt floor.

They hung interestingly as she bent over, doing that awkward little one-foot balancing act as she untied first one shoe then the other, and then peeled off her socks. The soles of her feet were oddly sexy as they had gotten dirty immediately when they hit that dirt floor.

She wasn't making it a striptease or anything like that. She was simply undressing as she had been told.

As she pushed her jeans down I was surprised that her panties, like her bra, were almost workmanlike granny panties.

When she stepped out of the jeans and then pushed down the panties she stood, shoulders back, head up, proud, as the camera made that little clicking noise.

She was SO pink. And she was, or at least had been, a natural blonde. Her pubic hair was closely trimmed to a small delta, pointing down at the slit that was formed by her plump labia. She had an interesting mass of stretch marks on the soft pouch of her belly. Her thighs were heavy but smooth. In many ways, I imagined she looked very much at 60, now, as she had looked as that 18-year-old cheerleader.

I held my arm out, forefinger pointed down, and twirled it, the universal signal to turn around.

God DAMN she looked good.

As she turned, slowly, head high, I could see the scars on her back ran all the way down to the tops of her thighs.

When she had completed the turn I crooked my finger, beckoning her, and she came.

"Who scarred your back?" I asked in a soft low voice.

"John, my husband," she said.

"Only him," I asked in that same soft low voice.

For the first time, her resolve broke and she looked down. "No," she said.

"How many?" I asked.

Her eyes were on the floor now as she said, "over the years, a dozen I guess."

"Locals?" I asked.

"A few," she said, her voice very soft now.

"Darla, look at me," I said.

Her eyes came up, slowly, and met mine.

"Do any of the women in your posse know?" I asked.

She hesitated so I slapped her face, hard enough to make her head snap around.

"Do any of the women in your posse know?" I asked again.

I'll give her this, she didn't reach up and grab her cheek or tell me I couldn't get away with it or anything like that. Tears were running down her cheeks when she said, "Rene."

I reached down, grabbed the strap between her wrists, and led her to the middle of the room where that hook hung down. I pulled the strap and hooked her there, her arms up, but her feet still on the ground.

I walked around the perimeter of the basement then until I found the one-inch pipe coming in. Obviously there had been work done on this house. It was a copper pipe and, amazingly enough, had a ball valve built-in.

I walked over and tapped the button that operated the winch, raising her until her toes were on the ground, but barely. I was being kind, actually, and figured that would give her some relief from the pressure on her shoulder joint.

I had thought about just suspending her. As I say, I was being kind.

"Okay," I said, "I found the valve so I can get your faucet fixed. Don't go away now," I finished, patting her ass and going upstairs.

"David," her voice followed me.

I ignored it, flipped the light off, and closed the door.

I stood there, grinning. This was beyond my hopes. Salida was going to be one hell of a lot of fun after all.