The Predator

Chapter Thirteen

"Was all of that true?" she asked as soon as the door was shut.

"Yes," I said, "and more to the point, that was only part of it."

You could almost see the wheels turning in her mind.

"Part of it?" she asked, doing the two-hands-on-the-arm thing again.

I grinned down at her.

"You want all the gory details?" I asked.

She giggled and blushed and said, "you know I do."

"You're sure?" I asked.

"Okay," I said, "but first things first," I said, taking her by her hand and leading her back to the chair I had been sitting in.

She had that semi-excited, semi-frightened, deer-in-the-headlights look she got when she knew I was going to start a new lesson for her.

I sat in the chair and unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, liking the way her belly spring free. I pushed the jeans, and the Depends, down until they were just above her knees, exposing her ass and effectively hobbling her. Then I scooted the chair around until she stood, teetering a bit, at my right. I pulled her across my lap in the classic over-the-knee spanking position.

"There is one true way to spank a woman," I said, lightly caressing the roundness of her ass with my palm, "and it's time you learned it."

She was giggling a little.

I kept caressing her ass until she relaxed and then lifted my hand.

It was automatic, the way she clenched her ass, trying to protect herself.

"Now if you reach back to cover your ass," I said, quietly, conversationally, "the count resets to zero and it doesn't stop until I get back to at least that point."

I watched, and when she relaxed I delivered the first stroke.

Very light. Barely a pat.

"One," I said.

And then I started caressing.

"You see," I went on, "a proper warm-up means you can accept a much deeper, much more meaningful," and I chuckled a bit, "much more painful spanking."

I lifted my hand again. She clenched again.

I waited. The key to doing it right is patience, something mom had taught me.

When she relaxed I delivered the second stroke. Slightly harder. In precisely the same spot on her other cheek, trying to strike exactly where she sat.

"Two," I said.

And so it went. Stroke. Caress. Wait. Strike. Each strike slightly harder than the last, alternating ass cheeks, hitting the same spot each time.

And counting as a reminder.

It wasn't even an audible slap until I got to, "twenty."

By "forty" her ass was developing two very nice red circles where I was hitting her, each individual slap was loud, and the softness of her ass and back rippled.

She was crying by "fifty," her breathing a little ragged. Her body tried to kick, almost an autonomous reaction I knew, but the way she was hobbled meant it came out more like an awkward dolphin kick. Her hands formed claws and fists and I knew she was fighting the urge to reach back to protect herself.

She didn't cum until "eighty-eight."

It was spectacular. She went beyond "squirting." She sprayed. At first, I thought she had lost bladder control again the way her watery release spattered on the floor making a line that ran four feet. The scent was pure excitement, pure womanscent with just a hint of urine and a whiff of bowel. The sound was almost a whistle it was so high-pitched. Her entire body was rigid and trembling.

When she relaxed I started again, but no pause between.

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

And she came again, almost as spectacularly. She screamed loud enough that I covered her mouth with my hand and wondered if some neighbor would be calling 911.

This time I kept spanking her as she came. Her body would shudder and she would scream into my palm.

And her control failed completely. Her bladder and her bowels both let go. She threw up, filling my hand with puke where I was trying to keep her quiet.

And I KEPT spanking her. My left hand covered her mouth again smearing puke on her face, my right coming down, over and over on her ass, allowing her no rest. It was messy and it stank.

I liked it.

Finally, she just collapsed, limp across my knees, whimpering, spent, beautiful in that way of a completely satisfied woman.

Christ, it was a mess. Her ass and my palm were covered in shit. It was spattered where I had kept spanking her, up her back and down her thighs. When I looked over to my left I could see the mess where she had thrown up.

"Okay honey," I said, rubbing her back lightly, smearing shit in the process, "it's over. Relax."

She was whimpering softly. I could see the thick strings of snot and mucus-thick saliva hanging from her face.

"You wanted to know," I said, chuckling.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and then squirmed around to get on her knees in front of me. She looked up, snot and drool hanging from her chin, mascara streaking her face, and reached for my belt.

"Please," she said simply.

I chuckled, patted her head, and said, "sure."

Her fingers were trembling badly when she started on my belt. She was having trouble getting it undone but I did nothing to help her. She got it out of the loop but was having difficulty getting the prong, the little bar that goes through the holes in the belt, loose. I watched as her tongue peeked out of the corner of her mouth with her concentration.

She finally got the belt loose and then had just as much trouble with the button. I guess her tears were making it blurry and her uncontrolled trembling was making it hard to hang on. I still did nothing to help.

Eventually, she got my zipper down and my cock out. She stared at it for a long moment before she took it in her mouth. Her mouth was slick with snot and mucus-laden saliva. It was a VERY good blow job and she smiled absolutely delightedly up at me as I came, my semen making thick white ropes on her forehead and in her hair, across her face, and hanging from her chin.

It was a good look for her.

"All right," I said, standing, "help me clean up this mess, and then I'll tell all."

I got up, pulled my pants back up and buttoned them, and went into the laundry room for a mop.

It really was a mess but what the hell. I had been through basic training and little really got to me anymore.

So I mopped while she grabbed a handful of rags and cleaned up where things had spattered on, well, everything. She kicked off her clothes. I liked the way she was obviously comfortable when naked with me. I liked the way she looked too. Even shit and puke smeared I wanted her.

Once we had the front room presentable I threw her sodden clothes into the laundry room and led her into the master bathroom. I kicked off my shoes and undressed quickly and then walked her into the shower. I used the handheld showerhead to hose her down first and then did my normal face-hair-ass sequence to clean her up. She did me then. It's always sensual showering with another, but we were both too spent for sexual. I did like the way she would flinch whenever I would touch her ass. I figured she'd be eating standing up for at least a few days.

In bed, she leaned up and propped her chin on her hand, and said, "tell me all of it."

I laid back, my hands laced behind my head, and let my mind roll back a dozen years.

"She was crazy, of course," I said and then added, "well, I suppose we both were. For her, it was a combination of things. The alcohol was already killing her, destroying her liver, and I imagine her blood chemistry was a regular witch's brew. But she was an addict to sex besides alcohol. And I was 18 so all I thought of was sex."

I stopped to organize my thoughts.

"She was killing herself with the alcohol and, I suppose I was killing her too. I thought it was fun to get her stumbling, falling down, puke-on-your-shoes drunk. And although she was the one who generally started a new sexual adventure I damn sure didn't do anything to stop her."

I chuckled as I remembered.

"About a week after that first night I got home from class, it was a Friday and she was home early but that wasn't unusual. As I say, she was a very high functioning drunk and the nursing home was running smoothly. She could get out early on Fridays without a problem. I found her in the bedroom, standing in front of the mirror, her hand on her bruised cheek.

She turned to me when I walked in and said, 'it's fading.' Then she slapped herself but it wasn't very effective. 'Do you want me to, what?' I asked, 'renew it?'

She looked up at me and said, very direct, holding my eyes, 'please.' So I did. No warning. No preparation. I slapped her hard enough to make her head snap around. I did it three times and then took her into my arms, holding her while she cried and said, 'thank you.'"

I took a deep breath then. These were powerful memories.

"For the next three years, she always had that bruise on her face. It became part of our Friday night, date night preparation," I said and reached up and brushed Doris's cheek and added, "something I think you can understand."

She giggled.

"But it went FAR beyond that," I resumed. "She was addicted to the sex, to the pain, to the submission but she kept needing more. In part, I suppose it was just that like any other addict she just needed more. In part, I imagine her failing body was losing sensation and she really NEEDED more to feel anything. It started with spankings and we worked out the proper way to administer a spanking to a woman, as I just showed you. But it went WAY beyond that.

It was gradual, hell, so gradual I'm not sure either one of us was quite aware of just how fucking far we were taking it. Here's one example," I said.

I took a deep breath, remembering.

"She made what she called a pussy paddle. She started with a paint stir stick for a five-gallon bucket. Kind of like a stir stick you've probably got around her, but this one a couple of feet long made of much heavier wood. She had dipped it in white paint, over and over, until there were several ounces of weight right on the end. And she had sanded it smooth between coats. Hell, it looked like a car finish.

And she told me what she wanted.

It was truly a pussy paddle and I used it with abandon. I got her clothes off and laid her on the bed. Then I had her pull her knees up until they touched her nipples with her elbows on the inside of her knees, holding herself in that position. Then I used a pair of her nylons (she never wore pantyhose) to tie her in that position, her elbows tied inside of her knees.

Then I started using the pussy paddle. I used the same technique I just used on you. Very light touches at first, slowly getting harder. I was almost clinical, watching as her labia were swelling, how she got shiny with her natural lubricant, how it started running down the crack of her ass, how there started to be audible splashes with each stroke. When it got too bad she screamed so I went into the dirty clothes, found one of my socks, and stuffed it into her mouth, watching to make sure she could breathe okay since her sinuses were swollen. She was blowing snot bubbles but breathing okay so I went back to what I was doing.

I didn't count but when she came it was spectacular. I was on my knees in front of her as I used the paddle and when she came she sprayed my chest. She came four more times before she just passed out, fainted, something. That kind of scared me so I yanked the sock out of her mouth but she was breathing okay, just unconscious.

Her pussy was bruised very darkly, it's an area with a lot of blood vessels, and swollen so much I couldn't get into her when I tried. So I fucked her in the ass since all of her natural lubricant made it easy. It was fun in a necrophilic way since she was still passed out.

When her eyes opened I asked if she was okay and she said 'yes.' Then I asked if she wanted more and she said 'yes.' Then I asked if I needed to stuff my sock in her mouth and she said 'no." So I started back with the paddle.

She came twice more, not as spectacularly, but obviously, before she finally said, 'please baby, enough.'"

I took a deep breath and met Doris's eyes. They were shiny and her lips were parted a bit, thin threads of saliva connecting the upper and lower lip. I could smell her arousal.

"Heard enough?" I asked.

"Tell me more," she said, a little breathlessly.

"Okay," I said, and paused for a second, getting my thoughts together again.

"She had other uses for that paddle in mind. For two weeks after that first pussy paddling we were limited to other forms of sex, not that that was a problem. I had her mouth and her ass and her hand and she held her tits together for a titty fuck. We were very creative.

One evening, not a date night or anything, just, you know, like a Wednesday, she said, 'I think I know how to make titty fucking better.' 'Oh?' I said, always interested in her new ideas. 'Yes,' she said and got up and took my hand.

She had me sit on the couch and then disappeared. When she came back she had her jeans on, no top, and the pussy paddle she had made in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. She handed me the paddle, scooted the coffee table closer to my knees, took a big drink from her screwdriver, got to her knees on the other side of the coffee table, opposite me, and then laid her tits on it.

She took another big drink from her screwdriver, met my eyes, and said, 'tenderize them.'

I know I must have looked like a crazy person the way I was grinning as I touched each of those big, fallen, blue-veined tits with the paddle.

'Do I need to get a sock?' I asked," and that made Doris giggle.

I chuckled. "I told you," I said, "we were both crazy."

I took a deep breath and went on.

"'You're sure,' I asked and she took another big drink and said, 'I think so.'

So I started on her tits the same way I had on her pussy. Very light, almost touching rather than slapping, at first. I guess in my imagination, breasts, with the big glands there, were more akin to my balls than her pussy which got used pretty hard during the course of much of our sex.

Anyway, I started with very soft touches. But as the color rose, red circles at first, and I could smell her arousal, my inhibitions slipped away. She would flinch a little after the first twenty strokes or so, a sharp little intake of breath, but that was all. So I kept making each strike harder. Her breasts were visibly swelling soon. The glands, just inside of the nipples, were clearly swelling. The red circles were turning into bruises.

I suppose I had delivered about 50 strokes when she said, 'just a moment, baby,' and got up, picked up her glass, and went into the kitchen. She came back with a fresh screwdriver and a beer for me. Her breasts were dramatically different as she walked. The swollen glands pulled them even lower, but they were dramatically fuller. And the bruise covered the full circumference.

She surprised me by getting back to her knees and laying them on the coffee table again.

'I'm ready,' she said.

In the second round, I did count. At sixty-three she threw her head back, her fingers gripping the edge of the coffee table, and the smell told me she had cum.

At seventy-two she came again, this time crying out, not screaming, just that satisfied aaaaaaaaiiiiiiiieeeeeee sound of her climax.

At eighty she came for the final time that session, this time pulling back, her head thrown back, crying that aaaaaaiiiiiiieeeeee sound again, and cradling her breasts in her arms.

'Enough, baby,' she said, her voice a little bubbly because she was crying now.

'Stand up,' I said.

When she stood, her hands to her side, she was completely changed. Well, her tits were. She had pancake boobs before, still big but almost flat. Now they were full. Hell, she looked like some of the busty college girls I saw at the swimming pool. Except for the fact that they were bruised a very dark purple of course."

I chuckled at my own silly little joke at that.

"I shoved the coffee table away with my foot, stood, kicked off my shoes, took off my pants, and sat on the edge of the couch.

'You said something about making it better or me,' I said. So let's see.

She smiled, a bit of a snotty smile since she was crying a bit and her nose was running, and came over and knelt between my legs. Her tits were swollen, very darkly bruised, and very sexy. She winced a bit when she lifted them and pushed them together, but she was smiling up at me.

It WAS better. They were warm and firm and my body started responding almost instantly when she started lifting them, using them to masturbate me. And the look, how darkly bruised they were, leaving her nipples almost invisible, helped. She was smiling up at me as she continued, unconcerned with the way her nose kept running leaving silvery strings of snot connecting her chin and her tits, lubricating what she was doing.

I was stroking her hair and caressing her cheek while she kept doing what she was doing.

When I came that oversized prostate did its job. I pumped thick white semen into her hair, onto her face, and, of course, onto her tits. It was good sex."

Doris hadn't moved, she was still propped on her palm, looking at me, wide-eyed. Her lips were still parted and she was obviously excited.

"Heard enough?" I asked.

"More," she said, almost breathless.

I chuckled and thought for a few seconds.

"Okay, you greedy sadistic bitch, one more," I said.

"I did my own studying. We had been together for a year or so when I discovered the word 'bastinade.' And I thought it would fit well with our new life. So I prepared well. I went to the local Lowe's and bought a steel rod, a quarter-inch in diameter, and three feet long, especially for the purpose. I fashioned a handle for it out of a big dowel.

It was a Friday again, which seemed to have become the day when we got creative since she would get home early and we had the weekend without interruption. By then I had smartened up some and was in junior college where I had some control over my schedules so I tended to have Friday afternoon off myself.

When she got home I had everything ready.

I handed her a screwdriver, then the joint after she had her first drink. When she breathed out I said, 'ready for something new?' She grinned at that and said, 'always.'

I took her into the bedroom and she looked at what I had laid out. I figured she really had no idea what I had in mind and I made no effort to explain. Laying on a table at the foot of the bed were the lengths of strong, soft nylon ropes we used in our bondage play, a three-foot-long piece of 4X4 fence post, a pair of her panties, a damp washcloth, and the rod I had prepared.

She didn't say anything, just kissed me and waited.

I undressed her, slowly, enjoying it. I used the damp washcloth to clean the makeup off of her cheek. I admired her breasts, bruised and full since that first time. I renewed them, along with her cheek, on a weekly basis. Her pussy was completely smooth since we had started visiting the wax emporium and then I had learned to wax her myself. I liked the look. She wasn't swollen and bruised down there. That was a treat we saved for occasions.

I helped her onto the bed, let her take another drink and another hit on the joint, before using the nylon rope to secure first her right wrist to the headboard and then her left, using the special knot I had developed to pull it taut, forcing her arms to be stretched out straight. I gave her another hit of the joint. She looked good like that. Her breasts stood proudly and her nipples were hard on puckered areolas.

I moved to the foot of the bed and tugged her legs until her feet hung over the edge. Then I fashioned two loops of the nylon cord through the holes I had drilled near the ends of the 4X4, and looped them over her feet. She grunted a little as the weight of the heavy wood post pulled down on the tendons at the tops of her ankles.