The Predator

Chapter Fourteen

“I want that,” she said, her eyes very shiny now, her lips parted, her breathing ragged.

I can’t say I was surprised. The sort of women I’m attracted to find that story exciting. But I made her say the words to confirm our relationship. To confirm, on that level below any chance of changing her mind, my claim, my ownership of her.

“Tell me,” I said very softly, “tell me what you want.”

“I want it all,” she said, her face flushed, and I could smell her excitement.

I brushed her hair back, my fingertips very light on her forehead, bent forward, kissed her cheek very softly, brushed her ear with my lips, and breathed softly into her ear, “say the words.”

“I want it all, David,” she said, “you’ve already given me the face. Now I want the tits and the pussy and the ass and the feet and EVERYTHING else you gave her.”

“I haven’t told you everything,” I said.

She smiled, a delightfully girlish smile, and said, “I didn’t think you had.”

She kissed me then, a soft, gentle, yes, a loving kiss.

“I trust you,” she said.

I kissed her back, thinking, “you silly fucking idiot.”

I took her to bed then, smiling as I undressed, liking the anticipation on her face.

I thought for a second and went into the bathroom and retrieved the loofah sponge she kept by the tub.

“It’s not all pain,” I said, “that would make you crazy. There are some delightfully sensuous things that are pure pleasure too.”

I took her hands in mine and pulled them, gently, not forcing, guiding, until I could pin them on the pillow above her head. Then I started with the loofah, slowly brushing down the inside of her left arm, her armpit, and down to the side of her breast.

It was slow and sensuous, gently abrading the surface layers of her skin. I liked the way the color changed, from that pale beige of a middle-aged white woman’s skin to pink. She would squirm and giggle with each slow pass, the sponge stiff against the skin, very soft and pink.

I kept it up until the skin was developing a red tinge. A few more strokes with the sponge and I knew I would start to see tiny drops of blood forming.

But I stopped and gave her a minute to relax while I kissed her softly.

When I slowly drug my finger down the pink skin I had just been brushing with the loofah she squealed and jerked away, almost getting her wrist free from where I had her caught in my hand.

I did it a second time and she was thrashing around, trying to escape, laughing so hard she was actually crying.

“Tickles, doesn’t it?” I said.

“Yes,” and she squealed again as my finger tickled, “God YESSSSSSS, please,” she was writhing, laughing, and crying.

When I ran my fingernail down her armpit the fourth time she jerked so hard she did manage to get her arm free and hug it to herself, protecting where she was so sensitive.

I finally let her rest, giggling myself, and snuggling against her.

“You are mine,” I said softly as I snuggled against her back, my hand gently holding the lowest roll of her belly.

“All yours,” she said softly.

I was on top as we made love that night. It was gentle and sweet and when I played with the skin I had exfoliated with the loofah sponge she would giggle like a schoolgirl.

The next morning she woke me with her mouth again.

She was getting VERY good with her mouth. I just laid back and let her do the work.

When she scooted around and swung her leg over to assume the classic 69 position with her on top I liked the faint scent of urine mixing with her aroused womanscent. My hands found her hips, grabbed a double handful of saddlebags, and squeezed. I liked her soft groan.

We were learning each other pretty well, and took our time. When I felt that sweet tension in her thighs and her belly where it lay on my chest I slowed, making out lovemaking linger. The first thick, warm dollop of her nectar was salty and a bit tangy and I swallowed it greedily, nursing at her soft, fatty lips greedily. She was doing the same for me, slowing and easing her pressure as that pressure, deep in my belly started building. She was getting VERY good at waking me.

When she came, the salty tang of her carried the bitter taste of urine. I drank her pleasure greedily.

When I came she swallowed noisily and kept sucking as I came, making my own pleasure linger.

She squirmed around then, ponderous in her size, and straddled me, sitting on my hips, her belly big enough now to sort of lay on mine, looking sexy with her hair a mess and a thick white string of semen wobbling off of her chin.

“I am yours,” she said and bent to kiss me.

I liked the way her soft warmth sort of enveloped me.

She move, oddly quickly, and caught my wrists in her hands, leaning forward, her weight pinning me to the bed. Oh, I could have escaped but not without hurting her and I didn’t really think there was any danger here.

“Promise me,” she said, that thick white string still hanging from her chin.

“Promise you what?” I asked although I was pretty sure I knew what she meant.

She started doing that thing only a woman can do, somehow moving her body in that oddly undulating way that pressed her to me in a wave up my body.

“Promise you’ll give me everything you gave her,” she said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

She started to answer but I shushed her.

“Doris,” I said, leaving the “you knothead” unsaid, “I’ve been honest with you,” (sure you have, I thought) “and you need to understand what you’re asking. By the time she died, mom was completely broken. All that was left of her was her pussy and her tits and her mouth and her asshole and anything else that could give me pleasure. We had gone WAY too far, but neither of us knew how to stop.”

“Please,” was all she said to that.

Fortunately for her, although she didn’t know it, I was already moving on in my mind and she would not wind up like my mother, a broken thing begging for cock from anyone I happened to bring over.

I kissed her then, and said, softly, “then you shall have it. But first, tomorrow night, you debut as the new Queen of the Dance.”

She giggled at that and said, “well, Victoria may have something to say about that.”

I laughed and said, “before I’m done with her, the only thing she’ll be saying is ‘more please’.”

“God, I think I just came again,” she said, “will I be able to mark her?”

“You’ll be able to do any goddam thing you want to her,” I said, “I don’t like her and I’ll enjoy watching.”

She sort of groaned at that.

The next morning she woke me with her mouth again and I felt a mild regret realizing this would be the last time. Oh well, shit happens.

We showered and then I loaded her into my little car and we headed for Pueblo.

There was a store I knew, in the sketchy part of town, that specialized in, well, let’s just say “extreme” wear.

As always, she looked like a teenager as we drove down the Arkansas River canyon, her hair blowing with the top down.

When we got to the place she had a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look. It was a pretty grubby part of town. The aptly named “Sluts-R-Us” was sandwiched between a pawn shop and a used furniture store that, when you looked at the stuff on display, made you kind of want to scratch an itch.

We went into the store and were greeted by a woman, I presume she was a woman anyway, she had a midriff top on and seemed to have tits, who said, just as if we had walked into Penney’s, “can I help you.”

She was really striking in an anorexic, if-you-fuck-this-run-to-the-emergency-room kind of way, with the sleeve of tattoos up both arms, the barbed wire tattoo around her neck, and tattooed vines working up her legs.

Her nametag, to my surprise, said, simply, “Beverly.”

“Beverly,” I said, “I want to show off my beautiful lady tonight at a dance. I turn her over to you and I’ll be back in about an hour to see what you all have worked up.”

She grinned at that and said, simply, “budget?”

I handed her Doris’ credit card and said, “as long as this clears we’re good.”

Beverly positively beamed and said, “come with me dear,” taking Doris’ hand and leading her into the bowels of the store.

I went to a more respectable store, Penney’s if it matters, and used Doris’ other credit card, the one she didn’t know I had, to replenish my wardrobe. I didn’t go terribly extravagant or anything, but I did get a couple of pairs of Levi’s, a couple of new shirts, some underwear, and a new pair of sneakers.

Then I stopped into one of the bars I had frequented for my four months living in this town to check on my previous girl, the one whose son had chased me out of town. The bartender, amazingly actually named Joe meaning, of course, that a hundred times a night you’d hear someone say, “set ‘em up Joe, I know you’re getting tired, and ready to go” to the tune of the Frank Sinatra song, and I had always been friendly and I had offered him the lady’s services, her name was Nancy if it matters, from time to time after I had her well broken in.

“How is Nancy?” I asked, over the single draft beer I allowed myself.

“She’s gone a bit wild, if you want to know the truth of it,” he said. Grinning.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yeah, the bartender always knows,” he said, “and she rarely takes the same man home more than once and never the same man twice in a row.”

“Well good for her,” I said, offering my glass in a toast.

“Annddd,” he added, returning my toast, “she’s still a world-class cocksucker. That mouth of hers is a pearl to be treasured.”

I patted myself on the back, blew on my nails, and buffed them on an imaginary vest.

That had killed my hour so I headed back to “Sluts-R-Us.”

I walked in and looked around. I chuckled and thought it would have been better named “Hookers-R-Us.” The place was rank after rank of stuff you would expect to see on a streetwalker.

“Come on back,” the lovely Beverly called, “and let us know what you like.”

I followed her voice to the back of the building where there were a couple of doors, presumably to fitting rooms.

“Okay honey,” she said, knocking lightly on one of the two doors to the fitting rooms, “let’s show you off.”

She opened the door to the room and Doris stepped out.

And damn, she looked hot.

It wasn’t just the clothes. Beverly was a genius with the hairbrush and makeup kit. Doris’ hair was up in a styling I hadn’t seen before, and her makeup gave her a very exotic look. She would have been at home in a James Bond movie as the villainess intent on controlling the world after she castrated and killed Bond.

But the clothes were good too. She was in a wraparound skirt, held up by one button, and when she moved it was clear that the wrap-around didn’t have much overlap. Each move would expose her entire leg and all the way to the button, showing that Beverly had put her into a true adult diaper, not the relatively inconspicuous Depends she normally wore. The two tabs, one right at the bottom, where the diaper was held tightly sealed against her thighs and one at the top where it was held against her belly, showed up very white, a contrast to the black skirt and the black top.

The top itself was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was, basically, two titsacks with a drawstring pulled very tight against her chest forcing her mammary glands forward, and a cord looped around her neck, holding her breasts up.

“Wow,” I said, and whistled.

Doris did a slow turn, making the skirt flare a bit and incidentally showing off the diaper even more. She looked great, her soft white belly and dimpled soft arms a wonderful contrast to the blackness of the skirt and titsacks.

“Next one,” Beverly said.

While Doris was in the changing room Beverly came over and sat next to me.

“You know she’s in love with you, right?” she asked.

“I think she’s more in love with what I’ve given her,” I said.

“Well,” she said, “I’m just saying, I’d be careful if I was you. Girls like that fall hard and if you break her heart she could get violent.”

“Violent?” I said, the question mark clear in my voice although I knew damn well what she meant.

“Yes, Roger,” she said, “violent or suicidal. Violence against you or herself. Just, well, be careful.”

I smiled and patted her knee and said, “I’m always careful.”

The door swung open and she stepped out and I stared.

This one was bright yellow and even more revealing than the black skirt top combination. The pants were skin-tight, literally skin tight. You could see cellulite dimples in the material that clung. They were low cut, “hip huggers” was the phrase that sprung to mind. They were cut low enough that the top tab on her diaper was on display. Her breasts were in titsacks, these very sheer yellow, and the band at the base of her tits was two inches wide and obviously of a much heavier material. It was pulled tight enough that her breasts looked like grapefruits at the end of a thick stalk, held up by the yellow ribbon that looped around her neck, holding them up. The band was so tight I could see that her breasts were already darkening. She sort of tottered as she walked since the matching yellow shoes were ridiculously high-heeled stilettos with ankle straps, what we call “fuck me shoes.”

I whistled again.

“Next,” Beverly called and Doris giggled and went back into the changing room.

“She really is special,” she said to me.

“I know, and I’m going to marry her,” I said, the lie flowing easily from my lips.

The third outfit was red. It was so red that if you stared at it for very long and looked away, things had a green halo around them. It was like a modern take on bib overalls done in some soft flowing material. The straps over her shoulders doubled as supports for her tits, again suspended by a thick band at the base, very tight, forcing her mammary glands forward with enough pressure to distend her nipples. The nipples were visible through the sheer red material covering them, and her breasts were dark from the pressure. A single button, just above the line of her diaper, left both of the tabs on the sides exposed. When she turned it was completely backless, the soft rolls of her back on display all the way to the heavy plastic top of her diaper. Red boots completed the image.

Yes, I whistled again.

“One more,” Beverly called.

The last time was her swimsuit. It was far and away the most modest thing she had shown. The bottom was a conservative pair of black panties, and you had to look closely to realize that it was a diaper. For those in the know, the thick pad between her leg along with the very tight closures around her legs was a tipoff, but if you didn’t know what to look for, it was just a tight pair of panties. Similarly, the top, well, a pair of titsacks was opaque. The only thing immodest was the stretches of her pale, cellulite dimpled skin on display, and there was a lot of it.

But I whistled again, although this time more out of duty than appreciation.

“Okay, honey,” Beverly called, “traveling clothes.”

This time Beverly went into the changing room with her and the delay was quite a bit longer.

When she stepped out of the changing room with a bit of a theatrical flourish I whistled in pure appreciation. Her “traveling clothes” were white tennis shoes with a bit of a high-heeled platform sole, a plaid flannel halter top with an interesting tie system that kept her big tits pushed out, and the briefest pair of Daisy Dukes I could imagine on her. They were cut from hip hugger style jeans, and so short that the white of her diaper peeked out from the bottoms and the top tab was on display at the top. Makeup heavier than she usually wore with dramatic green eyeshadow and big gold hoop earrings completed the look. When she did a slow turn some sort of abstract design, a classic “tramp stamp” started low on her back and disappeared under her diaper.

She looked good enough that I revised my plans on the spot and decided I’d spend at least a few more days in Salida.