Our physical difference was striking.
I'm a brute—at least I look like one. Over six feet, with broad shoulders and thick legs, I dwarfed her barely five foot frame. Where I loom, all burliness and beard and full, round ass, she receded, her thin arms and legs topped by a spindly bottom and slightly sunken cheeks that were the most obvious sign of her fifty-nine years. Seen together, we'd look like a mother and her overgrown son—someone in the building trade, perhaps. But we were never seen by other people—our entire relationship was founded on secrets, from the world and from each other.
We met online, of course, that invaluable place of secret lives and secret desires for people who needed them. You're on the site now, so you know—anyone can find a match, no matter what the stipulations. For me, it wasn't overly specific. I slotted myself in the "dom" check-box but explained further how open I was to others' needs. I suppose I'm not unusual in this world—a lonely man in middle age, looking for furtive contact to numb the pain of a life turned sour and painful.
Her needs were more focused. While she, too, has picked a box (the "sub" and her age piqued my interest, as did her location, a mere half hour drive from my Portland apartment), she, too, had more to say about what she wanted. Her description hinted at such—but in oblique terms with the promise of more should prospective suitors ask, and answer, the right questions. After a month of intermittent and escalating messages, I passed the test. Somehow. As I said—secrets.
When she decided—and up 'til a specific point in each encounter, she decided most things—we bypassed much of the online safety protocols everyone advises you to follow. She was no-nonsense like that—once she decided what she wanted to happen, she didn't waste time. As for me—nursing a broken heart, a constant hangover, and mounting depression—I just didn't much care what happened to me.
She cared more about her safety—and her secrecy—but she was also pragmatic about the risks involved in arranging to meet a strange man for...what she wanted. Plus, there were elements to her needs that could only be fulfilled by allowing that stranger (me) to invade her life to a dangerous degree. And so she told me where she lived.
She told me the layout of her yard, her home, her bedroom. She enumerated potential obstacles to my ingress, and possible dangers to being spotted. She didn't tell me much about herself—except that she lived alone in that small, cozy house with the concealing hedge. And I didn't press her for more—I knew what was expected of me, and that was a lot to take in. The controlled terseness of her emails didn't invite further probing and, in fact, carried the implicit admonition that such curiosity would queer the arrangement before it began. And so I held my tongue.
When the day came, we finalized our carefully agreed-upon conditions and limits (most were hers, as made sense). We set the time, and both printed out our agreement. I took the precaution of saving her messages in a separate email as well—her fears were real, but so were mine—and then I waited for the appointed hour. Late—midnight. Her decision as well. And then we did what we had agreed upon.
I knocked on her back door. She answered it, with a convincingly assumed sleepy wariness. I forced my way in past the crack she'd allowed to see through and then I simply overwhelmed her tiny body, my bulk and assurance and—yes—brutality having her on her back on her kitchen floor in an instant. My hand on her mouth replaced immediately with the soft, cloth gag I'd been instructed to use and tied behind her grey-blonde hair tightly once I'd flipped her roughly onto her stomach. Her pale, thin legs kicked frailly from under the terrycloth robe she wore, her blameless white nightgown revealed in her struggles. I stripped the soft cloth belt from the rope and bound her skinny wrists behind her, wrenching them and wrenching a shocked cry of pain from inside her gagged mouth. Then her ankles, pinned against the floor and bound together with a strip of cloth conveniently left draped over a kitchen chair. I flipped her over—hard—onto her back again then and let her see my face—for the first time. No blindfold, she'd ordered, and when our eyes met, her look of fear and undignified helplessness was real enough to make me falter, just for a moment.
But everything was just as we had planned—to the last detail—so it continued.
I had her draped struggling over my shoulder in an instant—I must have outweighed her by a hundred pounds of more. And then I strode purposefully to where I knew her bedroom to be and threw her down on her clean, made bed, hard on her back. The knife then—unfolded to reveal a long, partly-serrated blade. Bought to her specifications. Denuding her was a hacking, brutal affair—fast, and crude, shredding her robe, her gown, the grey, unassuming panties in irregular pieces, stripped away in chunks, leaving jagged strips hanging from beneath the bonds of her wrists and ankles. She struggled throughout, subdued only by the implied threat of the knife, her mewling cries of outrage and anger steady and insistent. Once she was stripped to tatters, I stood, and surveyed my captive.
She was—a nearly sixty year old woman. Pale, thin-looking flesh, puckered with a lifetime's surgical scars and spots. Small tits slid down slackly into her armpits, her movements making their deflated little form shake piteously. Her pussy was a sparse, uncombed thatch of dingy brown. Small blue veins pulsed at her throat, her thighs. Puckers and moles, and wrinkles. I stood, stunned and as hard as I'd ever been in my life.
