The Predator

We paid, with her credit card of course, and loaded the bags into the back seat.

She surprised me when she took me by the hand and said, “walk me around the block, David, please.”

I grinned. “Want to show off your new look?” I asked.

She blushed and said, “I think you may have made me crazy.”

I thought for a few seconds, trying to picture the movies I had seen when a pimp walked his hooker, trawling for a customer. I crooked my left arm and she smiled and laid her hand on it. Then I started walking, intending to circle the block clockwise, which would put her walking on the street side of our couple. I seemed to recall from somewhere in a checkered past that these positions signaled that she was for sale. Well, for rent anyway.

“Tell me I’m pretty.” she said and I patted her hand, laying on my arm, and said, “you are stunning.”

Which, of course, was precisely true while sidestepping her request. She was stunning in an over-made up, over-the-hill fat woman way, kind of a two-dollar for a blowjob streetwalker.

I enjoyed walking with her. She was obviously enjoying herself and her smile gave her a look that I found attractive. And I did love the appearance she was showing off.

I heard the subtle sounds of a car pulling to the curb and then pacing us for a few feet before the short toot of a horn.

I turned to look and the passenger side window was winding down so I walked over and bent down to look in.

“Is she for sale?” the driver asked. He was “mature,” says 50-something, and had the prosperous look of someone who has made it far enough up the career ladder to no longer worry about money. His grey hair was carefully barbered, the shirt had one of those flaps across the back that suggested designer labels with price tags to go with it, his hands were clean with nails that were carefully manicured, and his glasses screamed “designer” and I guessed them at somewhere north of $1,000. The car, a Cadillac CTS, sealed the image.

“Are you a cop?” I asked. I had read somewhere that if he said “no” then we were proof from arrest. Who knew, it might even be true. I was playing a part, not being a pimp.

“No,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well then, everything is for sale at the right price,” I replied, “what do you have in mind?”

He grinned, carefully whitened teeth gleaming, and said, “I thought it might be fun to spank a fat girl.”

“Wellllll,” I said, drawing out the consonant, “that gets you into ‘extras’ territory.”

“Extras?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “base rate is $1,000 a night and that includes unlimited vaginal and oral sex. But to spank her is another $500.”

He smiled, shook his head, said, “too rich for my blood,” and pulled away.

“What was that?” she asked when I had her back on my arm and we started walking again.

“He thought you were a whore and wanted to know how much,” I said.

I had to laugh when she stumbled.

“And what did you tell him?” she asked, and she was suddenly flushed, her eyes shiny with a look I recognized. She was excited.

“I said yes,” I said, enjoying her little gasp.

It was an interesting three steps as her face sort of fell.

“But he wasn’t interested then?” she said, and she was obviously disappointed.

“Oh, he was interested all right,” I said, patting her hand possessively, “but he couldn’t afford you.”

She giggled then.

“How much am I worth, then?” she asked.

“I told him a thousand dollars, plus the extras he wanted,” I said.

She drew in a breath.

“You really think someone would pay that much for me?” she asked and now her face was flushed and her breath was catching.

“Plus extras,” I said.

“Extras?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, and stopped to turn and face her, enjoying the look on her face as she looked up at me, eyes shiny and bright, “he wanted to spank you and I told him that was an extra $500.”

Things changed, as sometimes they do, and even though there was traffic on the street, and the occasional pedestrian walking by, we were alone in a little bubble.

“Would you have let him?” she asked, “if he had peeled off fifteen one hundred dollar bills?”

“Would you have wanted me to?” I replied.

“Quit deflecting,” she said, squeezing my hand, “would you have sold me? Rented me? Whatever the proper term is?”

“Yes,” I said, holding her eyes with mine, covering her hand.

She drew in a deep breath.

“Did you do that to your mother?” she asked, her eyes locked on mine, doing that little flicking thing as her focus switched between my right and left eye, something she did when she was concentrating hard.

“Yes,” I said, suddenly hard, the memory of delivering mom to a cabin in the mountains where a dozen cars were parked in the yard, picking her up the next day when she was covered in dried semen, and then tending to her black eye, fat lip, and the cigarette burns on her tits.

She got to her knees, right there on the middle of the sidewalk, took my hands, looked up, and said, “make me a whore, David, please.”

I laughed and pulled her to her feet.

“It’s a big step,” I said.

“David,” she said, “you just can’t imagine how exciting it is, for a fat girl like me, to think a man might be willing to pay.”

She stopped and looked me in the eye.

“Oh God,” she said, and her eyes overflowed and her nose started running, “you’ll hate me.”

I slapped her. Hell, she needed it, the bruise was fading a little. Then I waited for her eyes to focus on mine again.

“I won’t hate you, Doris,” I said, “I’ll be proud, too, that men want my wife enough to pay for her.”

She smiled then and I thought how much fun it was to manipulate a woman’s emotions like this.

“Will you, then?” she asked.

“When we get home we’ll work up some advertising materials,” I said.

That stopped her.

“Advertising materials?” she asked.

“Sure. I’m pretty good with the cell phone camera, and the internet is a visual medium. We’ll put you out there and wait for the phone to ring,” I said.

She sort of moaned and I could tell that if I reached down the front of her diaper right then I’d find her slick. But I decided to make her wait.

We completed our circumnavigation of the block without any more potential customers stopping us and I could tell she was disappointed.

The ride back up the canyon was fun, as it always is, the little car running good, the CD playing my favorite doo-wop music, and a woman beside me primed for sex. Life is good, I thought more than once.

We stopped at Canon City for lunch, at a restaurant we had found downtown. It was interesting, watching the reaction of the others in the place as we walked to our table. I noticed a distinct sexual divide here. Women, primarily wives sitting at couple’s tables, tended to scowl or otherwise look disapproving. I wondered how many of them secretly had nice discrete Depends on under their skirts or their jeans. Men looked, often sidelong looks, presumably hoping wives wouldn’t notice. And the word “speculative” describes those looks.

“Does it bother you,” I asked when we were seated and our orders had been placed, “that everybody is looking at you?”

“No,” she said simply, “and if that makes me crazy, well, fuck it.”

I laughed.

“Slut,” I said.

“Whore if I’m lucky,” she giggled.

Except for that, lunch was uneventful, and then it was back to Salida.

At the house, she wrapped me in an embrace, molding her body to mine, nuzzling my neck, and offering herself.

“Spank me,” she said in a desperate, breathy voice, “I haven’t been able to think of anything since you told me that man wanted to do it.”

“It’s not a spanking if it doesn’t hurt and you don’t cry,” I reminded her.

She didn’t say anything to that, just walked into the kitchen and came back with one of her sturdy kitchen chairs. She sat it in the middle of the floor and said, “sit, baby, please.”

So I sat and watched, figuring this was her show.

She pulled her skirt up and pushed her Depends down, just far enough to expose her big ass and then laid across my lap in the classic over-the-knees position.

“I’m going to count,” I said, “and if you reach back to cover yourself, or if you roll off, then the count restarts at 1 and will continue until I get at LEAST back to where I was. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice a little strained from the pressures of the way she was laying.

I know how to spank a woman, how to make it last, and I used all of my skills. I started by lightly caressing her ass, enjoying the feeling of the cellulite dimples under my hand. When I lifted my hand I could see her muscles clench in an automatic attempt to protect herself. When she relaxed I struck, barely a pat, certainly nothing that could be called a spank.

I repeated that process, trying to strike exactly the same spot with each stroke, and making each stroke slightly harder than the last one.

By fifteen the strokes landed with an audible “smack” sound and her ass was starting to show a red color. I could feel it, warm under my hand.

By twenty-five, the strokes were hard enough that I could see a ripple run up the softness of her ass and down her thighs. Two bright red circles marked where my strokes were landing.

At thirty-five she was crying out with each stroke, her legs were scissoring, and I could feel her body shuddering as she sobbed.

At fifty I was striking just about as hard as I could. Each stroke was an audible SMACK with her crying out in response.

On stroke fifty-four her bladder control failed and my hand splashed through fifty-five and fifty-six.

Fifty-seven brought her first orgasm of the spanking, her back arched and she screamed her release.

But I wasn’t done. She wanted a spanking and I wanted her to have the full experience.

At eighty-eight her bowels cut loose and by ninety-five her ass was completely covered with shit as I continued the spanking.

I ended the spanking at an even hundred, kind of proud that she had not reached back to stop me.

She was a mess, of course, when I had her stand. Tears and snot were running. Tears dripped onto her tits and a thick sheet of snot hung from her chin.

“Get on all fours, Doris,” I said and watched as she did.

I pushed my pants down just far enough to free my erection and took her anally then, my shit-covered hand twisting in her hair, forcing her to arch her back the way I wanted her or to lose some hair.

“Do you like it like this, whore?” I snapped.

“I LOVE it like this,” she yelled.

“Say it,” I snapped, slamming into her ass.

“I LOVE IT!” she yelled, “I LOVE WHEN YOU SPANK ME! I LOVE WHEN YOU FUCK ME UP THE ASS! I LOVE BEING YOU WHORE.”

“Good girl,” I said and finished, cumming deep in her ass.

When I softened and slipped out I sat in her mess, got my shoes and socks off, peeled my wet jeans off, stood, and said, “come on, let’s go to bed.”

She was sitting there, looking around, kind of dazed, “I need to clean up,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” I said and held out my hand.

When she stood I peeled her shirt off and then the whore skirt and Depends and walked her, naked, to bed.

We slept the sleep of the sleep of the exhausted.