The Beast In Control Ch 3

The story you are about to read is a continuing work of total and pure fiction. The names do not refer to any actual persons, living or deceased. As a work of fiction, the content is not intended to be considered, viewed or understood as an actual plan or attempt to commit the deeds described. This work is designed for the reading pleasure of consenting adults and should not be read if the idea of non-consensual sexual contacts offend.

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Having 'set the scene" at Miss Ramada's apartment, I needed to find another task to occupy my mind for the remainder of the day. She would not return from school until nearly 5:00pm and I wanted to be in position to observe everything but did not want to take up that position this early in the day.

I took a long run through the park (it has always amazed me at how effortlessly I can travel at a mile-crunching lope through meadow, field and woodland…I'd often wondered if there was something genetic involved here…the glimmer of a werewolf even passed through my mind more than once in my young life) and wound up near the basement entrance to the building in which Dr. and Mrs. Whitman resided. Mrs. Whitman, as you will remember, was serving as president of the board of school directors when I was enduring my high school years. Her husband is a gynecologist and head of the OB-GYN department at the local hospital. The hospital is closely associated with the university and serves as a teaching hospital for university medical students. I add this particular detail because I learned, through my research and observation, that Dr. Whitman was doing quite a bit of after-hours gynecological study on a few of the university students placed under his tutelage. I often wondered if being a gynecologist would totally sate one's curiosity about the feminine sex organ. While I am convinced that the old saying, "If you've seen one, you've seen them all" is most certainly not descriptive of my personal reaction to women's genitalia, I did wonder if the opposite effect could be felt by such doctors. Perhaps, after seeing so many vaginas up-close and personal, a doctor absolutely needed to see more and more and more. I have often sensed that if I were faced with this predicament, that is precisely what I would experience. I think I would never be satisfied until I had seen every shape, color, size and texture of pussy that this world has to offer. Ahh, but that is another story altogether.

Entrance to the Whitman's condominium was so easily obtained that it was truly laughable. I had spent many days and evenings here while the Whitmans jetted off to Europe or South America or someplace else to shed themselves of their wealth. I drank their wine, ate their gourmet foodstuffs and watched their immense-screen TV, all without their knowledge or permission. And I loved it!

Mrs. Whitman was very conservative in her choices in lingerie. I had searched her bedroom quite often. White, white, white and more white. Every bra, every pair of panties - conservative white cotton, or dress-up white nylon - every nightie in every closet and drawer was white. Oh, there were a few that might be called 'ivory' but I am not certain that this was the original color or if they were simply old and well worn. There were no teddies, no lacy thongs, no textured stockings, no garter belts - nothing to indicate the woman had a libido at all.

Today, however, I did locate two items of clothing that did not fit the pattern: a strapless, demi-cup bra in black lace that I found tucked in the very back corner of one of her dresser drawers, and a pair of black panties, not a thong, but very high-cut in the thigh and made almost entirely of lace - front and back. I simply had not gone to the lengths of investigating corners in the past. I searched her closet and located a strapless, low-necked black sheath dress that the bra and panties most likely had been bought to wear with. The dress, too, had been hung on the very last hanger in the far, far left corner of her walk-in closet almost as if it, too, was being hidden. I held the dress to my nose and inhaled her perfume and knew immediately what I was going to do. I removed the dress, hanger and all, and took the bra and panties set from its hiding place in the drawer. I bundled them both into a plastic bag retrieved from the drawer in the kitchen where a dozen or more such grocery bags resided, waiting for trash night. While the entire plan of what I was going to do with this outfit had not made itself clear, sufficient details popped into my head and allowed me to see Mrs. Whitman in my hideaway, chained to a wall, wearing her black ensemble. The picture was not complete, though, and I rummaged on the floor of the closet until I came up with a pair of dusty, black, ankle-strap pumps with higher-than-average heels. I knew in an instant that these were the crowning glory of the outfit and stuffed them into the bag as well.

Smiling to myself, I wandered through the apartment, making certain not to disturb anything else that would announce my having been here. As I moved into the den, I noticed a set of books that had been moved since the last time I had been here. The complete works of Shakespeare in 27 blue-and-gold leather bindings was now pushed to the far left of the shelf from where it had always been . Next to it, on the right, was a black leather box-like container that filled perhaps 18 inches of space at the far right of the shelf. I moved over to investigate and noticed that the top of the box was hinged and could be lifted to reveal the contents. I did so and discovered a collection of videotapes. Each cassette had been labeled with a white sticker on the edge. On each sticker, there was a date. I looked over the dates and learned that the series had begun in December, two years ago. The latest date recorded was just yesterday.

Frowning at having not seen this collection before, I carefully removed the most recent cassette from its slot in the box and looked it over. There were no markings anywhere on the cassette, except for a second sticker on its face, also bearing a date identical to the one on the spine. Curiosity overtook reason at this point and I slipped the cassette into the VCR under the monster TV. I stabbed the correct buttons on the remote and watched as the screen came alive. And come alive, it most certainly did!

There, in living color, on a screen more than 48" in diagonal measurement was Mrs. Whitman kneeling on this very floor, totally naked, with her hands holding up her breasts for the camera. I increased the sound and heard a man's voice instructing her what to do as the tape rolled. Mrs. Whitman massaged her breasts, pushed them together, pulled them apart, lifted them up so that her long tongue could flick at her distended, pink nipples and squeezed them so much that the entire aureole and nipple bulged out like the nipple end of a balloon when a child squeezes it. My cock stiffened almost immediately.

I listened as the voice instructed her to touch herself, "…everywhere…" and watched as she slid one hand into the valley between her thighs and the other behind her back, ostensibly toward her anal orifice. The voice gave her "…permission…" to make herself feel good. And she did exactly that. I watched her face change from totally expressionless to slightly pink to deep red as her hips tilted and thrust and moved and circled against her hands. To my incredible surprise, Mrs. Whitman brought herself to a thundering orgasm in less than three minutes. Her breathing was fast, shallow and labored and she nearly buckled forward at the waist. I am certain she would have if it had not been for the instruction of the off-camera voice. The man in charge - seemingly - told Mrs. Whitman to sit up, look at the camera and lick her fingers. She sat back on her haunches, removed both her hands from their places of refuge and began to suck and lick at the fingers that had just minutes ago been rubbing her labia. I could see, first, that her fingers were shiny, slick and coated with what could only be described as her own juices, and second that the hair between her thighs - a huge mound of it, bushy, wild, untamed and bright, yellow-blonde - was soaked, matted and flattened against her pubic area. I was taken aback and punched the 'pause' button to take a closer look. It had been my experience with magazine and Internet pictures that blonde women had very little hair in their pubic areas. What was there was usually corn-silk fine and very sparse. I could not have been more wrong! This woman sported a veritable bush, a near-forest of the most delicious-looking pussy hair I had ever seen, anywhere.

Allowing the tape to resume playing, I watched as Mrs. Whitman finished cleaning the juices from her fingers and the palm of her hand. The voice spoke again and commanded her to crawl to him. She let herself slump down onto all fours and moved toward the camera. The camera angle changed as she came closer and was soon pointing straight down at her, kneeling at the cameraman's feet. As the focus adjusted itself, I could see Mrs. Whitman's face - absolutely beautiful at this angle (why had I never noticed that before?) - with her very long, blonde hair loosened and falling around her shoulders, and her eyes; Lord, Lord, what eyes! The most brilliant blue I, personally, have ever seen. And they were looking up, directly into the camera lens. A man could dive in, swim around and drown in eyes as deep as those! I was mesmerized!

But my trance was broken a few seconds later when she moved her head and opened her mouth to accept the shiny, wet head of the cameraman's cock. She kissed it, she licked it, she sucked it with pursed lips. And she never took her eyes from the camera lens. It was as if she was sucking my own cock right here in this room. I could see the pattern in the carpet below her. I could see the luxurious fullness of her hair. I could see her deep red lips now sucking the entire head deep inside her mouth. I watched as her mouth closed around the thick, black shaft. She moved forward and allowed another two inches of that cock to slide into her mouth. And I could hear her humming on the sound track.

Wait! Wait a minute! I hit the 'pause' button again. What was wrong with this picture? Something was nagging at me. Something was not exactly right. Oh, my God! The cock in her mouth is black! Her husband is white! I dropped the remote on the floor and the shock jarred the pause button so that she continued with her sucking, bobbing movement, allowing that black rod to move in and out of her sucking mouth as far as the corona each time she moved her head back. I watched in awe as her cheeks hollowed with each drawback and her eyes glistened with tiny tears as the head touched the back of her throat on the in-stroke. I could hear the sloppy sucking sounds of her mouth and lips. I watched as pre-cum spread its path outside her mouth and around her lips. The black shaft now literally gleamed with a coating of her saliva and its own pre-cum.

Her hands never touched the shaft. Her mouth did all the servicing. It was less than four minutes later that I heard the cameraman murmur, "Now, Gloria." She lifted one hand and held the shaft steady while her lips freed the trapped head. She extended her ruby red tongue and laid the head of this black tool directly on it. She stroked the shaft several times, kissed the head a few more times, licked at the tiny eye in the center of the head and slid her head forward and back, allowing the head to slide in and out of her open mouth, on the surface of her tongue. The camera shook and moved as I heard the cameraman groan. A long, ropy stream of gray-white cum exploded from the end of his cock and covered the surface of her tongue. Four more spurts, evenly spaced in time, flew from the tiny hole at the center of the large, black cockhead, and covered her lips and slid out of her now-overflowing mouth onto her chin. She milked the shaft back and forth, squeezing every last drop of his offering onto her tongue and the reservoir she held.

When the last drop had been squeezed from the black cock, she moved back a few inches and allowed the cock to droop in front of her chin. She looked directly into the camera again, showing the amount of cum in her mouth, and smiled as she swallowed the entire quantity. She licked her lips, used the tip of one finger to scoop up the few strands that were on her chin, sucked the fingertip clean, and smiled into the lens.

And with that, the tape faded into blackness.