The Beast in Control

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.

* * * * *

This was certainly more than I had bargained for! How had I so totally misunderstood the relationships in this family? Or was it simply that these people were so fully into their fetishes that they had long ago learned to be unusually secretive? I could not come up with a satisfactory answer to my ruminations, so I simply dismissed my failure with an admonition to myself to be more observant in the future.

I replaced all of the videos exactly as they had been and checked the room to see that nothing else was out of place. I knew I could always come back here and view the remaining tapes in the collection. And I also knew that I would.

Leaving the house as surreptitiously as I had entered, I returned to my own quarters to decide what was next on the agenda. There were still several hours before I needed to be back at my observation perch for the evening's events at Miss Ramada's. Did I need to check on any other of my quarries to see if I had missed anything in their lives as well?

As luck would have it – and also for ease of continuity in the story – I knew that Beth McVikar and Sarah Chambers spent each Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at the Racquet and Fitness Centre just a few blocks from my own apartment. I emptied the plastic bag I had stuffed full of Mrs. Whitman's black lingerie, dress and shoes and placed the lingerie in my own dresser drawer, the dress on a hangar on the shower curtain rod (so I could later steam out the wrinkles), and the shoes on my footlocker to be dusted off and shined.

Then, I left my abode by the rear entrance and made my way to the health club by way of alleys and backyards, always keeping to the shadows so as not to be noticed if it was at all possible. Upon arriving at the club, I stepped down six or seven steps below street level and used the small tool I had made more than a two years earlier to open the door to the boiler room. I had wanted to develop my physique to a greater level than I could with my own equipment in my apartment, but knew I would not be accepted at this club because of my appearance, so I began to use the equipment very early in the morning – between 2:00 and 4:00 o'clock – by jimmying the boiler room door. There was no security system. The owners – a flamboyantly gay couple – kept a large Doberman inside the club at night to deter any break-ins. The Doberman and I became incredibly good friends after I fed her a full pound of raw sirloin on my second visit. Since that time, she and I would spend the entire workout period together in the fitness rooms without so much as a whine or a whimper. I often brought her more meat or doggie treats and she acted like I was her owner rather than the men who ran the club. This suited me fine; but I sometimes wondered why she did not react to me like the professor's animals had. Perhaps because the Doberman was female? I never really knew.

But on this afternoon, I was very quiet in my entry because I had not often visited the club during daylight hours and I knew things would be different. On several of my visits, after satisfying my physical urge to exercise, I would wander the club and take stock of what facilities were there for members. It did not take me long to ascertain which locker rooms, saunas, steam baths and whirlpools were for women only. It did not take me much longer to find a secreted observation point for each of those areas. Sometimes it was a hole drilled in a plaster wall; sometimes it was a ceiling tile moved out of its rack to allow me to look down into a room from a false ceiling; and a long, narrow pipe chase between two walls that allowed for holes to be drilled into several areas of the locker room/shower room area.

I moved carefully and cautiously to the first of my observation ports and looked into the sauna. There were two women there, older and unfamiliar to me, both wrapped in towels and sweating mightily. I moved on and entered the perch for the hot tub/whirlpool room. Another pair of women met my eyes, but both were wearing bathing suits as they chatted in the roiling pool of heated water. Still no Beth or Sarah. I knew Tuesday was their regular day. Their employer was a firm believer in health and fitness and permitted two hours, twice a week, for all employees to use the club. So, I continued my journey, searching the tiny holes or slits that I had made for viewing women's most private moments.

It took but a few minutes more to work my way around to the wall of the women's shower room. I climbed the few rungs on the cement block wall to the false ceiling and slid the panel back to gain access to the showers themselves. Yes, there they were. Unlike most clubs, this building had not seen fit to provide single-stall showers for either men or women. There was a large room, some 24' x 12', with showerheads protruding from the walls on all sides. And there, in the near corner, were my two ex-cheerleaders.

Now, I must tell you that over a period of time in my observation of these two young women, I had come to believe that they were involved together in a sexual relationship, but I could never find any real evidence. They'd been roommates since graduating high school, but both dated men on various occasions and I could not ever observe anything that would have given me absolute proof of a lesbian relationship. Yet, in the back of my mind, I knew it. It was one of those conclusions we come to without any supporting evidence, but still are absolutely certain of the truth of the conclusion.

Well, I had finally found the evidence I had been searching for. The two women were standing in the corner of the shower room with bodies pressed together in a kiss that would have turned a cold shower hot. Their mouths were working on each other and I could see probing tongues moving in and out. Their body position, however, is what was so interesting. They stood just slightly to the left of each other so that their right thighs were slipped between the other's legs and rubbing against the other's crotch.

It was obvious they had done this before; it appeared so natural that it must have been practiced. Their chests were loosely against one another so that their breasts were interspaced. That is, the right breast of each woman was positioned between the breasts of the other. The two women were so alike it was nearly unbelievable. Both were blonde. Both were about 5' 5" tall. Both were heavy in the breast, but here there was a difference. I had noticed this before, while spying on them in their own apartment, but it had not really registered in my consciousness. Beth McVickar's breasts were hugely round, globe-like masses on her chest with their brown aureoles and nipples pointing straight ahead as if searching for something with their own peculiar radar. Sarah Chambers, on the other hand, while just as large in the measurement department, sported a pair of truly conical breasts with ruby-red aureoles and nipples that tilted upward as if seeking special attention. Other than that, they were nearly identical twins.

Their right hands were slowly massaging each other's pussy as well. Both pussies were shaved clean and smooth, I noticed. I had never been able to get close enough for a perfect picture prior to this point. It was truly an erotic vision right there before my eyes. I was mesmerized by the warmth they radiated. Not a passionate heat, mind you; but a lovely, loving warmth. I could feel it all the way up in the ceiling where I had positioned myself.

Watching the display below, I could not help but feel they had done this many, many times before. They were so comfortable with each other. It was as though they knew every nook and cranny of each other's body and made love to every inch of flesh they could come into contact with, softly and tenderly. There was nothing of the cheap, porn version of lesbian relationships here; this was truly beautiful. I thought, deep inside myself, that it must be wonderful to have such a relationship that you can count on.

I shook off that feeling though as the two women both reached a gentle, rolling sort of climax. No shouting, screaming, moaning or otherwise verbalizing anything except soft murmurs and mouthed words of love and comfort. I supposed this was the way it ought to be. At least, they looked perfectly satisfied with each other.

For the next few minutes, I watched as they soaped and cleaned each other's body and shampooed their hair. It is really erotic to watch a woman in the midst of her toilette when she is not aware she is being observed. No self-consciousness; no hesitation; simply a total cleansing of every part of the body that might have been covered with perspiration and/or sexual fluids due to their previous activity.

After their showers, the two women moved into another part of the locker room, wrapped in the huge towels provided by the club, and proceeded to dry off, put on their underthings and dry their hair with the portable hair dryers plugged into the wall. I changed my location just enough so that I could observe this as well. I was surprised at their choice of underwear, though. Somehow, I thought that these ex-cheerleaders, prom queens, etc., would have beautifully lacy things under their street clothes. But no, I was mistaken. Colorful, yes; pink and bright lilac, but not necessarily lacy or out of the ordinary. I supposed I still had a lot to learn. I knew that there were two drawers filled with exotic lingerie in their apartment; but now I had to suppose that those items were reserved for their dates with men. Another question popped into my mind for future resolution: are these ladies bi-sexual, or do they simply date men "for show?"

I watched as they finished dressing (there is something totally erotic about watching a woman put on her clothes, as opposed to taking them off) and walk out of the locker room area. Moving from my concealed perch, I re-traced my steps out the boiler room door and back to my own apartment. I was rather confused about the method for including these two women in my eventual plan. Of course, at this point, I was totally confused about almost all of the women. They had turned out to be something different from the way I had originally categorized them.

Realizing it was almost time for Miss Ramada to return home from school, I scurried through the back yards and alleys to my apartment to collect what I would need for the next part of my plan. I picked up my brand-new digital camera, the large-magnification binoculars and donned the black outer clothing I normally wore when I did any nighttime browsing. I was covered, head to foot, in black, non-reflective cotton. I could blend into shadows wherever I chose; and the outfit served well the purpose of containing any stray hairs that might be shed and allow for my eventual discovery.

I arrived back at my observation post before Miss Ramada came home and settled in for what I hoped would be an evening's diversion.

She arrived right on time, as usual. She did appear to be a bit more flustered than usual, and I was now aware of the reason. She checked and re-checked the sauce in the slow cooker. She set and re-arranged the table several times until she felt it was just right. She put the salad fixings into a large, glass bowl and tossed it a few times without the dressing. She went to the CD player and selected a series of CD's to run throughout the evening. (I wondered, really, what she had chosen.) And she set out a long loaf of Italian bread, turned on the oven and sat a dish of butter nearby to soften. Hmmm, garlic bread? Did she plan on getting familiar with this man with garlic on their breaths? I almost chuckled aloud.

After looking at everything again, she went into the bedroom and began throwing off her school clothes, stuffing them into the closet hamper, and moving about in her bra and panties. She moved the pale yellow peignoir set from the chair where she had left it this morning to a hook on the inside of the bathroom door. Was I imagining it or did she spend an extra bit of time feeling the material of the panties? God! What if they had not dried completely since my episode with them this morning! But, no, she moved them to the vanity top in her bathroom and bent to remove her panties. From my angle, I was treated to a glorious sight. Her black ass pointed directly at my vantage point and I could see that shiny, black bush crowding between her thighs. I had often wondered on other evenings of observation here about the routine of taking her panties off first, before her bra. I had found, in my other subjects, that they chose to remove their bras first, often walking around the house for some minutes in panties alone. But Miss Ramada always removed her panties before her bra.

She stood and looked at herself in the vanity mirror for a few long minutes, and ran her fingers through the bush at the apex of her thighs. She fluffed it, touched it, rubbed it and almost shivered at her own touch. She turned sideways to get a good look at her own ass and was apparently pleased at what she saw because she broke out in a huge smile as she admired her shapely thighs and calves.

Now, for the bra. No stretching behind the back for this lady. I'd watched her many times before. She always flipped the straps down and slid her arms out of them, then flipped the cups down below her breasts and slid the entire garment around so that the clasp was in the front and then opened it to discard it. But not tonight. Tonight was somehow different. I could sense it immediately.

She lifted her hands and cupped them under her breasts, lifting them inside the cups and squeezing them. She allowed her fingers to trace long lines along the side-swells of the cups and ended at the tips. As I watched, she circled the nipples with her fingertips and I could see them through the binocular lenses as they hardened and swelled under the material. I, too, had begun to harden and swell.

Her fingertips tweaked at the nipples once, twice, then she shivered again and reached to unhook a front-clasp bra. Ahhhh, I had not recognized it. I knew she had one, but I had not realized it was this one. She allowed the cups to swing to the sides of their own accord as the weight of her breasts pulled outward. The cups did not immediately release their treasures, but with a bit of teasing from her fingers, the eventually disgorged two absolutely beautiful, ebony-tipped breasts the size of cantaloupes. The aureoles and the nipples were swollen and so richly black that they might have been fleshy diamonds. My mouth began to water at the thought of sucking on them myself.

She looked at herself for several long minutes, doing nothing but circling her aureoles with two fingertips, and then turned sideways, towards me, to look at her profile. Those two, huge, black eye-like nipples stared right at where I had secreted myself. And she smiled into the mirror, apparently quite satisfied with what she saw.

Within a minute she was in the shower, soaping, rinsing, cleaning her skin so that I knew when she stepped out, she would gleam and glisten. And that she did! Droplets of water on her black skin were nearly iridescent and caught the light and reflected them toward me so that I was seeing twinkly little spots of light all over her body.

She dried herself, paying very close attention to the bush between her legs, rubbing and almost caressing it until every jet-black curl was completely dry. Drying her back was an exceptional visual treat. She turned toward my vantage point and placed the towel behind her while holding on to each end. She then proceeded to slide the towel back and forth, left and right, over her back as her melon-like breasts swayed and bobbled across her chest. That sight alone finished the physical excitement that had begun between my own thighs earlier. She put the towel aside and began to dry her hair, still standing totally nude. I was drawn into the room with her as if I were really standing there. I could smell the clean scent of just-soaped skin. I could almost feel the softness of its texture. What a delight it would be to draw my fingers across that softness and inhale the scent of a newly washed female of the species (perhaps just not of my particular species)!

I shifted position slightly to accommodate my stiffness and watched as she moved back to her bedroom with purposeful strides. She threw on an old, blue oxford shirt, not bothering to button it, and moved to the kitchen.

Over the next half-hour or forty-five minutes, I watched her prepare dinner for her and her invited guest. The meal appeared to be simple, yet well designed. When all was in order, she glanced at the clock and rushed back to the bedroom to finish her own preparations for the evening.

Her outfit of choice was a beige silk blouse with a long-point collar and a simple, brown skirt made of a material that was akin to suede, but not quite. I had spied this in her closet on a previous visit and was impressed with its design. It was rather short, ending at least three inches above her knees, and while not exactly tight, it was not a skirt that would be called modest, either. No stockings. No bra. No panties. There was no doubt that Ms. Ramada had specific plans for the evening!

She spent the next twenty minutes on her hair and make-up and when she returned to the living room to view her preparations, I could truly say she was a beautiful woman. And I hoped my own preparations were going to lead my plan to fruition as she hoped hers would.

After checking things several times, she turned on the CD player and though I could not hear the music from my perch, I could see by her relaxed attitude that it was certainly "mood music" for her evening. She then perched on the arm of the one large chair in the room and looked at the door. At several points over the next ten minutes, she stared out of the window, and directly at the spot from where I was observing her. Even though I knew she could not see me, I stiffened and became perfectly motionless.

I heard the slam of a car door and moved enough to see her guest arrive on the street. It was the man from the market, as I had surmised. He moved into her building and I watched her react to the doorbell (she actually waited until he had rung twice before she answered it.) She appeared a bit flustered when she opened the door, as if she had not been sitting there for more than ten minutes waiting for the bell to ring. She ushered him in, showed him around a bit, took his coat to the closet and motioned for him to sit down.

There were a few minutes of small talk, I assume, and then she excused herself to go to the kitchen. She checked on the progress of the meal and lifted one of the bottles of wine and took it with her to the living room. I stiffened at the thought that upon tasting the wine, either one or both of them might notice something strange. I was impressed that she did not play the weak female role, but opened the wine herself, pouring a liberal amount into two glasses, and offered one to her guest. He stood, they toasted to something, and they both sipped at their glasses. She took a seat on the couch beside him and they continued to talk for another fifteen or twenty minutes as they emptied their glasses and filled them a second time.

Within a half-hour, dinner was ready; they had finished the first bottle and were moving to the table. The second bottle appeared and he opened it for her as she portioned out the pasta and the salad for each of them. They chatted and laughed over the meal, once in a while becoming serious about some comment. At one point, he reached across the table and held her hand lightly; but other than that, it was just a meal between friends.