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The Beast in Control Ch. 1

By: ReturnedOne



The story you are about to read is a 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 offends.

* * * * *

My decision to control them was easily made. I had been watching them for nearly nine months and the conviction that I could make them mine had been with me for at least four of those months. It was only now, however, that this was nearing reality. Within the next few days my life and theirs would be intertwined to such a degree as not to be able to separate them. I would be within their lives and they would be within mine.

Let me begin a bit farther back in time. I have been teased mercilessly most of my life because of a defect in my appearance – a defect over which I had absolutely no control and would have, at any moment in my life, abandoned, if it had been within the realm of possibility. I am cursed with a curiously hideous abundance of body hair. I shall not bore you with the medical terminologies associated with this particular affliction. Suffice it to say that anyone looking upon me for the first time is either immediately repulsed or is so curious that they become rude in their staring, pointing and sometimes, questioning. Every part of my body is covered with a heavy, furry matting of light brown hair. In certain lighting it appears to be near golden in color. For years, I shaved every part of my body that I could reach; but that did little to assuage the curiosity of those with whom I came into contact. Finally, at age 18, I abandoned all pretenses and wore my body covering as armor – protection against the outside world. 

Nor will I burden you with tales of my early years – elementary school, junior high, boy scouts, church school and youth groups, community sports teams, etc. My life was a pure example of Dante's vision of Hell, I can assure you of that. There were no friends who would admit to being such; there were no neighbors who would allow their children to play with me; there were certainly no girls who would allow more than a momentary glance at me. There were, of course, the jokes, the giggles, the outright laughter each time I entered a room. Notes passed around, writings on bathroom walls, etc. all became commonplace to me. I learned to rise above them.

All through my early education years my parents had no financial resources to 'place' me in any private school or institution where I could be hidden from the public most of the year. The only time I ever felt at ease was when a professor from the local teaching hospital offered to educate me if I would live in his home and allow him to study me as a medical subject. I actually tried it for two months when I was about 14, but the study came to a screeching halt when the doctor's other 'pets' – two monkeys, three cats and four large dogs – began to behave aggressively whenever I was in their vicinity. I was sorry to return to my own home and school. But I threw myself into my studies and rose to the top of my class. I carried a grade-point average of over 4.0 because I loaded my schedule with every advanced placement and honors class it could possibly hold. I had the idea that if I excelled in academic pursuits, everyone would realize I was as normal under this hair as they were. I could not have been more wrong!

During my senior year in high school, near the end of April, the school board changed the rules for awarding Valedictorian status to a student. No longer would that honor be given to the student with the highest GPA, but now it would be awarded with a student's "future potential" in mind. I did not even bother to point out the redundancy in the words 'future potential' – what other kind of potential is there? I gave up and left school before graduation, never looking back, but for the first time allowing an incredible resentment to build inside me. That resentment was directed specifically at women. I saw women as the source of my difficulty. The girls in my class had made life utterly unbearable during the past two years. All my teachers were female during my senior year. The principal of my high school was female. The president of the school board was female.

There was little doubt in my mind that they had conspired against me. Perhaps I was already unbalanced at this point, but I did not see it that way. I saw that my only avenue to acceptance had been blocked by women. There grew a burning need to punish them, to show them, to educate them about the man who lived under this animal-like exterior.

And the plan began to take form in my mind.

Shortly after my exit from high school, my parents made a momentous decision. They could no longer be the subject of scorn and ridicule, they reasoned, so they sold the lovely vacation property they owned, unloaded every stock they had hoarded, cashed every CD they had invested for my future, took a huge second mortgage on our home and even went so far as to visit Atlantic City several times where they magically continued to win, win, win. 

One lovely Sunday morning, after my usual five-mile run (lope?) through the parkland adjoining our property, I returned home to find my parents in the living room with our family attorney. They sat me down, heated and sweaty as I was, and informed me that I would be moving out of their home. I was presented with a lump sum of $270,000 that had been either deposited or invested for me. I was informed by the attorney that with the current market condition, the investments that had been made in my name would allow me to live "comfortably" into middle age, at least. My family felt, he continued, that I would be better off moving from this community and finding a life somewhere else.

While my first reaction was, of course, unbelievable shock, I quickly took stock of the situation and even allowed the thought to creep into my mind of the freedom this money would bring. I smiled at my mother and father, stood up and took the attorney by the hand to lead him to the vestibule. There I looked at him and said, "What are the hidden conditions? There must be some."

He hemmed and hawed for a few seconds and then produced a document, which I quickly scanned. It stated that I would change my name and move to either another city or at least to another distant section of this one; that I would have no further contact with anyone in my family; that I would not call attention to the fact that I was actually the son of my parents; and that I would never request financial assistance from them. Attached to the document was a notarized form, lacking only a judge's signature, that would change my name to whatever I chose. That portion of the form was blank and I was to fill it in according to my own preferences. I pulled the pen from the lawyer's hand, filled in the space with the words Chadwick Crestline, signed the other document where indicated by X's and stuffed the Mont Blanc pen into my own pocket. I smiled through my heavily bearded face at the attorney, obviously unsettled by this, and said, "You're only doing your job. Do you have a card? I may need your services at some time in the future."

With shaking hands, he produced a business card from his vest and I pocketed that, too. "When can I expect the first installment of this gracious bequest? I shall be in need of some pocket money immediately." Before I could even wonder at my own audacity, $10,000 appeared in his hands, in ten small bundles. I laughed, thanked him, stuffed the money into my pants pockets and walked out the front door. 

And I have never returned to that house since that day.

All of this is provided for the reader to make certain that you understand my mental state at the time I made the decisions to take my revenge on those I saw as responsible for my plight. I was rational, though probably as mad as the proverbial hatter. I was decisive, though most likely as mentally unstable as any inmate in any state institution you could name. I was resolute in my intentions, though my mind most certainly vacillated between sanity and madness as often as a thermometer rises and falls in a false spring day. I was, simply put, as crazy as a loon. But, of course, I did not see it that way.

It did not take long, nor will I suffer to provide a detailed chronology of events, for me to obtain a small basement apartment in a rather seedy downtown section of our fair metropolis. In addition, I purchased two double-wide mobile homes, although used, in rather decent condition. I had them both buried, side-by-side, so that some five feet of earth covered their entire surface. The 'burial' took place on a piece of scrub land some thirty miles outside of town on a piece of property that I had claimed at a bank foreclosure. The property was worthless at that point, and had no possibility of ever being developed. The two mobile homes, with the connecting wall ripped out, provided me with a hidden lair that was truly impossible to discover. Air venting and plumbing was accomplished through the surreptitious employment of an older contractor who had developed a rather large alcohol dependency, but who had served many richer clients in former times building 'fall-out shelters' during the cold war. I saw it as only a slight misfortune that the contractor met with a very untimely end one night while walking on a dark country road next to the lip of an old quarry.

My lair, or as I came to refer to it, my cave, was sparsely furnished but what was there was of a specific design. My plans for control were deeply sunk into my subconscious and my actions simply fulfilled those plans. There were shackles and chains along the two longer walls at several heights from the floor. There was an assortment of pulleys, cables and eyes in the ceiling, floor and walls. The furniture, if one could call it that, consisted of padded tables, large chairs without arms, cots, benches and hand-made, free-form wooden constructions with padding applied on different surfaces. There was only one available entrance to my cave and it was cleverly hidden beneath a roadside billboard advertising Black Velvet Whiskey. The luscious blonde on the billboard was constantly gesturing with a huge finger directly toward the entrance to my hideaway, and no one ever recognized it.

Deciding on my targets was really quite simple once I began treating my plan as a reality. Prime on my list of 'targets' was Mrs. Jennifer Van-Heusen, principal of Crestline High (in the halls of which my new name had originated). Mrs. VanH was one of those women who oozed power and confidence. There was never a situation that I observed over the years under her tutelage that she was not in complete control of herself. Unlike most 'power females' of the decade, Mrs. VanH was a redhead. She was not statuesque by any means – most likely 5'4" tall and approximately 130 lbs. But her physique was well arranged and not at all out of proportion. Her one outstanding feature was her eyes – glaringly green with golden specks within the irises. I remember being the recipient of her riveting stare many times as I fled through the halls of her school. She was to be target number one, most certainly.

Two additional targets had presented themselves to me on a daily basis while in school. Both had been cheerleaders during our tenure at CHS and had on more than one occasion aroused both my sexual curiosity and my acute humiliation. I will not, as has become my custom here, fulfill the reader's curiosity as to what specifically they did to me, but let it be understood that whatever was to be their fate as targets two and three, they most certainly deserved it. At least, they deserved it within the tortured chasms of my mind. Beth McVickar and Sarah Chambers were as alike as two peas in the proverbial pod. Blonde (of course), blue-eyed, heavy in the breasts, slim at the waists, athletic in the legs and hips. But they were as stereotypically airheaded as any two females could actually be and still remain upright. My plans for them were already solidly founded in my imagination.

Out of the raft of female teachers I had suffered under, I made a conscious choice of Miss Ramada (not the motel). Miss Ramada was an outsider herself at CHS, being black, but chose not to recognize my 'outsidership' and treated me as less than human in her classes over the course of three years. When I describe Miss Ramada as 'black' I am not referring just to her ethnicity. She is honest-to-God black…as shiny black as a smooth piece of obsidian from the depths of some ancient volcano's crater. There are conditions of lighting, which cause her skin to take on such a luster that she appears to be almost blue-black or indigo. Could she be one of the original "Indigo Girls?" Forgive the lame attempt at humor, dear reader; I could not resist. Miss Ramada was large, to say the least. By 'large' I mean that she is about 5'9" tall and approximately 160 lbs. 

She was not fat, by any means; just large, with pendulous breasts, wide hips, heavy, muscular thighs and calves that would crush a ribcage if she so chose. And her hair was inordinately long, below the middle of her back; and it was a shiny, silky ebony that I had long imagined running through my fingers. She was a perfectly 'inclusive' target number four.

Making the choice for the fifth target took but a moment of thought. The haughty, pretentious bitch who served as the president of the Crestline Heights Board of School Directors, Mrs. Gloria Whitman, would serve that end quite well. Burned into my memory is the evening I sat in her office listening to her explain to me in the most condescending manner imaginable why I could not serve as Valedictorian of my class. It was probably at that moment that I began to construct a plan for her undoing. I looked across her desk and analyzed what sat there before me. Blonde hair with distinctive red-gold highlights; long, below her shoulders but often turned up into a bun on her head; seemingly quite tall, but really only about 5'8"; statuesque in build with everything in proper proportions; most likely a 35 or 36-inch breast measurement with either a full B or perhaps a C cup; incredibly flat stomach as if she was a slave to crunches or some Ab-developer machine; and the most incredible attribute any woman could hope to have – legs that appeared to begin somewhere near the floor and continue into the stratosphere. Long legs would not be a sufficient enough description for what she crossed and uncrossed there in front of me with that whisper of near-silk. They had made my mouth water at times, even before that evening in her office, and that night I could not tear my eyes away from them in her above-the-knee skirt. She was obviously no stranger to the sun or a tanning bed. I longed to run my fingers along the sleek muscles of her thighs right at that very moment. I allowed her to ramble and ramble about my "shortcomings" and why the "community" could not accept my presence as Valedictorian. I stood as she reached the end of her monolog and looked her directly in the eye and said, "I'll be seeing you around, soon." And I walked out.

To the reader: if this story elicits sufficient positive response, there are several more chapters 'in the can' that I would submit. Please let me know. 

The Beast In Control Ch. 2



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.

* * * * *

"Targeting" is a phrase often used these days in business (target audience), in education (target course or degree) and in medicine (target reaction), but my own use of the term had no such legitimate connotation. The women described earlier had actually become my targets. They were now being hunted. They were sought after by a hunter who would not give up until his quarry had been brought to ground and subdued. They were 'in my sights' so to speak. And I began to close in on them, one by one. There was, truthfully, no escape; but only I was aware of that fact. They were blissfully ignorant. Realizing I had all the time in the world made it ever so much easier for me to actually make the 'kill' when the most propitious moment presented itself.

Sixteen months. Sixteen very long, very involved months. Sixteen months of following. Sixteen months of observing. Sixteen months of stalking and spying, if you will. Sixteen full months of filling notebooks with work schedules, leisure activities, restaurant and shopping preferences, names of acquaintances and their addresses and their schedules as well. When I made my move, I wanted no interference from inaccurate timing. My plan unfolded as the months stretched behind me. The nuances of my revenge began to heat up, simmer and eventually reached a boil just before Labor Day of this year. I was now ready. I often wondered if they were.

In continuing this tale, I need not describe the innumerable days, evenings and nights that I spent in secluded places, cars, buses, parks, stores, restaurants, bars, clubs and even churches observing the idiosyncrasies of my five targets. Allow it to suffice that I learned many otherwise-unobservable things about each of them. I spent countless hours in computer research detailing everything they had purchased, every site they had visited, every tiny crack in their otherwise normal facades. It is truly amazing what a person will tell another on the telephone when the caller professes to be a representative of a particularly well-known research and polling organization. Their personal existences were no longer personal, except that they had no idea of this condition. I knew as much about them as they did, themselves. 

Night vision goggles and an aptitude for climbing fences and trees provided views of the private areas of their homes and apartments that anyone else could not hope for. Physical abilities honed in private on my own personal training machines provided for stealth and secrecy when observing them outside their homes. Copies of outdated CIA/FBI training manuals obtained through the Freedom of Information Act delivered techniques and procedures for following them so they suspected absolutely nothing over that long span of time. There were times when I was within six feet of them and they never knew I was anywhere present. The lengths to which I went in learning to observe behavior and compile statistics were most likely unmatched outside of the covert operations theater. I actually became good at what I was doing.

One particular incident that bears re-telling here involves Miss Ramada, the English teacher I spoke of earlier. I had been watching her for more than a month at that particular moment and knew her routines quite well, simply because they were routine. She rarely did anything differently at any time of the month. Each day was exactly like that same in the previous week. But one Friday morning as I was watching from my hiding spot, I noticed she took extra effort in cleaning up her kitchen, picking up everything that had been strewn about the night before, and even changed the sheets on her bed – something she had never done on a Friday before. She checked the contents of her refrigerator and cupboard several times before she left for work. I searched my notes for some clue as to what might make her change her routine so drastically. I had watched her do her regular shopping the evening before and nothing seemed amiss at that point. She had spoken to several people in the local market, as she always does. Most of them were lily-white liberals from the suburbs who most likely figured it was politically correct to engage one of the few black customers in some sort of conversation. To her credit, Miss Ramada never allowed what were probably her true feelings, to show on her face. She was polite and cordial to everyone who spoke to her. But, yes, there it was; she had spoken to a stranger in the store – a very large black man had approached her near the produce bins and had engaged her in conversation for some ten or twelve minutes. How had I missed that? Stupid! A drastic change in her routine! Had she invited him to her apartment? For what purpose? She never dated. She never went out with anyone, except two other teachers from the English department on their bi-weekly payday excursion to a local Italian eatery. This was worth looking into.

Within three minutes of the time she left her apartment for CHS, I was inside, searching for the smallest of clues that might point me in the direction of what had caused this alteration of my quarry's routine. It was not my eyes that found the clue, it was my nose. Within minutes I noted a strong aroma of a spicy nature and followed the lead of my olfactory sense to the large crock-pot on the counter in the kitchen. I could see through the glass lid that Miss Ramada had prepared a rather large quantity of a red sauce. Carefully lifting the lid, I sniffed the simmering concoction and was actually quite surprised. Miss Ramada rarely cooked on her own. She was a slave to the microwave-style quick meals that so very many companies have dropped into our collective laps. I quickly replaced the lid and took a peek into the trashcan at the other end of the counter. Ahhh, I was not disappointed. Three large, empty jars with the labels boasting a nationally known brand of 'roasted peppers and mushrooms' pasta sauce lay at the bottom of the can. She did not prepare the sauce; she had simply opened the jars. So much for the mystery of how I had missed all that preparation.

I checked the refrigerator to find two large bags of pre-prepared Italian Mix salad greens alongside a large-size bottle of Robusto Italian dressing. Smiling, I turned to survey the rest of her kitchen. There it was! The key to all of this was the appearance of two bottles of a rather decent California Merlot on the counter in the corner where it meets the walls. I could not have seen this from my vantage point. She was going to entertain. Would it be the large gentleman I observed her speaking to yesterday at the market? This would take some thought.

This was not the first time I had been here. I reminisced about the fact that I have visited the apartments and homes of each of my targets several times in the past sixteen months. Entrance was ridiculously easy and I have always been careful not to disturb anything in the process of investigating, so no one has ever suspected that anything was amiss. I do suppose it is apropos of me to provide a bit of confession here. Yes, I have sneaked into the targets' bedrooms; and, yes I have gone through bureau drawers and closets to find what sort of underwear and lingerie they wear; and, yes I have often masturbated with some of the more silky or lacy items I have found; but I have never removed anything from any of their residences. That would have been too chancy. I have found teddies that would shock the general public if they knew their elected officials and educators were wearing them under their otherwise demure outer clothing. I have located panties that amounted to nothing more than a tiny triangle connected by a few silken strings. I have seen items that are euphemistically called 'marital aids' in all of the targets' homes except for Miss Ramada. Vibrators of extremely varied lengths and girths; dildos of different colors, textures and sizes; leather apparel designed to titillate even the dullest libidos – all these are the property of four of the five who are destined to be my partners in a grand experiment in the very near future. But I can keep a secret. And I have, until now.

Bringing myself back to the present and the chore at hand, I wondered how I might defuse the evening to cause Miss Ramada some of the embarrassment and perhaps discomfort that I had experienced at her hands over the years. I needed to return to my own lodging quickly to secure the proper tools, but the plan was already formulating in my mind and had nearly reached its conclusion as I climbed down the service elevator shaft to leave through the basement.

It was not even an hour later that I found myself back in her kitchen with the equipment I needed to set up the scenario for the evening. I have not gone into any specific detail as to my sources of supply for some of the items I shall describe in this missive, because there is some question of the legality of some of the things I have obtained as well as the manner in which they were obtained. I did have two very good friends through the past few years, but who would rarely ever consent to being seen with me. One was a middle-aged hooker with quite a large chemical dependency, which I could assist her with in return for her 'favors.' She never once commented on my appearance and did her job well enough that I found it quite acceptable to pay her more than she was worth. Through her contacts I had easy access to any manner of chemical compounds that would serve my purposes quite well. In my hand right now was a vial of liquid Seconal and two hypodermic needles with syringes. I had read enough to understand the hypnotic, sleep-inducing properties of Seconal and reasoned that it would fit into my plan for the evening almost as if it were so designed. Nearly half the bottle went into the large crock-pot of sauce and was stirred in with a large slotted spoon, which I washed thoroughly and returned to its place in the jar next to the stove. The other half of the bottle was divided between the two bottles of Merlot, introduced by the hypodermic needles through the corks. A gentle tilting of the bottles mixed the liquids and my job was nearly finished. 

I checked the entire apartment again, this time paying close attention to the bathroom, where I found a brand-new tube of KY jelly on the vanity, and the bedroom where I noted Miss Ramada had laid out her beautiful yellow peignoir set. This set was one of my favorites. I had only seen her wear it twice before – both times when she had been alone and had drunk a bit too much of the Bailey's she keeps beneath the sink. I sniffed the material and was surprised to learn it had not been laundered since the last time I saw her wear it. I could still smell her musky, dusky scent in it. I lifted the panties and crumpled them against my face before I even realized what I was doing. I inhaled and the world seemed to stand still. The aroma of a woman aroused leaped into my nose and screamed its way into my brain. My penis began to grow at an uncomfortably rapid rate and I knew I was in trouble. Rushing to the bathroom with the panties still at my nose, I stepped into the tub and loosed my thickening male member from the confines of the sweatpants I was wearing. 

I never cease to be amazed at what I see when I look down at myself. While I am not large by any means – I measure in at just a small fraction less than seven inches – the sight that strikes me is the amount of hair that covers my shaft. Not the normally present pubic hair, but long, golden-brown strands of soft hair cover the entire length of my penis. Only the head, bulbous and purple when pulled from my uncut foreskin, is devoid of hair. I know the hooker I spoke of earlier has always been fascinated by this uncommon occurrence and has often commented on it. 

To continue, I stood there in the tub and masturbated passionately with Miss Ramada's panties jammed against my nose and into my mouth where I sucked and licked at their contents much as a man starved for moisture licks an ice cube for liquid nourishment. I was rewarded with her musky, tangy taste inside my mouth just as I reached my climax and spurted my heated seed down toward the drain in the tub. I shuddered at the rapidity with which I had reached my peak and replaced myself in my pants. I carefully stepped out of the tub and turned on the shower to wash down any remnants of my being there – both the semen itself, and any stray hairs that might have been shed during my moment of passion.

Leaving the bathroom, I spread the panties back on the chair where I had found them; certain that the crotch would dry sufficiently by the time Miss Ramada had need of them this evening.

I made one last circuit of the apartment, making certain I had retrieved everything I had brought with me and that nothing was amiss or out of place, and I slipped out the door and retraced my steps of earlier that day. The thoughts in my mind were leaping over each other trying to get to the front of my imagination.

What would the evening bring? How would my plan work out?



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.

* * * * *

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. 



The Beast In Control Ch. 4



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.

* * * * *

I stood there in the middle of the room, remote in one hand, my furry cock in the other and felt my mouth gaping wide open. What in the hell had I just witnessed? Why had I never noticed these tapes before? Was my mind so set on accepting Mrs. Whitman as being devoid of any sexual urges that I simply discounted any other possibilities? And to whom did the black cock belong? Was her husband aware of the situation? He must have been because the tapes were not locked up or hidden in a secret location. How could I have misjudged this family so much?

Moving rapidly, I rewound the tape and selected another. This was the very first tape in the series, recorded more than two years ago. I inserted it into the machine and punched the play button. Immediately the camera was focused on a bedroom - the master bedroom, I recognized - and Mrs. Whitman spread-eagled on the bed, but across it rather than along the length of it. Her legs hung over the edge and her hairy blonde pussy rested right on that edge. Her breasts had puddled on her chest and appeared to be two pink fried eggs, sunny side up. God, right then I wanted to suck and bite on one of them!

She was softly stroking the hair of her pussy with a long-handled brush. Up and down, up and down went the bristles, and as I watched, the camera moved closer to the bed and then zoomed in on her crotch. I could see droplets of her own dew glistening on the hair around her pussy entrance. I could see the bristles of the brush becoming wetter and wetter with this secretion. I thought I knew what was coming next as the camera zoomed to within inches of her now wide-open cunt lips. I figured the brush handle would insinuate itself into her pussy and slide deeply into her heated chasm.

Again, I was wrong! As I watched the screen, the bristle end of the brush - some 2 ½ to 3 inches in diameter approached the slippery entrance to her love grotto. And it slid inside with little or no difficulty. I listened to the soundtrack and heard her screech and mew and moan and groan in rotation as the bristled head disappeared entirely within her puffed-up lips. Then, I heard her say, "I can't do it! It is driving me crazy! I can't" And she began to withdraw the brush, very gingerly.

At that very moment, a hand appeared in the frame of the camera and slapped her fingers from the brush handle. "I'll do it!" a male voice growled. I quickly took notice that the hand was white, not black. So, she has made tapes with at least two different men. I wondered if this was her husband. The hand took the brush and almost roughly moved it in and out of her pussy, spreading and scratching the inner lips as they protruded with each withdrawal stroke. I could hear her becoming nearly hysterical as her ass jumped up and down in the frame. The camera shook and became harder to control, but a bark from the man calmed her and the brush-fucking continued. I watched copious amounts of liquid almost pour out of her slit and down her ass crack. I listened to her crying and whimpering. But I also noticed her ass could not hold still. She humped higher and harder with each down stroke of the brush and when the camera operator sensed she was close to the edge, he began to rotate the brush inside her wet cunt.

She went ballistic, screamed, jumped and climaxed violently. Her climax was so violent and prolonged that she could not even breathe for a long stretch of seconds. The hand that held the brush pushed it so deep that the entire handle almost disappeared. He held it there, pushing against her resistance, until she had stopped heaving and her breathing was nearly back to normal.

I watched very closely, then, as he began to withdraw the brush with a wide-circling motion, stretching her already limp pussy lips. At the same time, he again twirled the brush, causing the bristles to go round and round, scratching her pussy walls and lips as it emerged, soaked, slick and - I could almost swear - steaming.

Her clit was hugely engorged and had slipped far from its protective sheath. Of course - and I knew this was coming when I got a look at where the camera was focused - the hand could not ignore this particular condition. The brush detoured from its planned course away from her pussy and slid upwards to scrape over the length of her slit and her clit, pulling it upwards toward her bush. She screamed loudly, shrilly and went totally silent and limp. My God, she had fainted! That was evident from the slackness of her thighs and the fact that a large amount of pussy nectar was released from its reservoir to slide down along the crack between her lovely white cheeks.

The last thing on the tape was the cameraman's voice murmuring, "Sleep well, my love; for your road to pleasure has just begun." And the tape clicked off.

Sleep well!?!? Damn! With these scenes on my mind, I doubted if I would ever sleep again. My cock was a throbbing, furry staff of sexual abandonment. It nearly took on a life of its own, almost begging me to masturbate. I could not, however, afford that luxury right here and right now. I wanted to see more.

I selected a tape from just this summer, and after replacing the previous tape in its assigned slot, inserted it into the VCR. As the picture formed on the screen, I could see Mrs. Whitman lying by the pool behind the house. The pool is completely screened from any prying eyes on all sides by the house and by huge, rambling hedges nearly 9 feet tall. I was immediately struck by the fact that Mrs. Whitman was not sunbathing in the nude. She was wearing a - what else? - white string bikini that looked absolutely fabulous against her darkly-tanned skin. The top consisted of two white triangles connected by a very thin string. The bottom was, again, a larger white triangle that covered her bush but hugged her crotch very tightly and showed the clefted bulge of her pussy lips. She was very still, lying on a cushioned chaise lounge. Her breathing was slow and even. Perhaps she was asleep? Perhaps this was an act? The camera angle changed as the operator moved to stand below her feet, panning up from her feet along her oiled legs and to her puffy crotch, where it hesitated and then moved to her also-oiled stomach and then to her beautiful breasts. When the focus zoomed in closer, you could see that her nipples were taut and pushing against the material of her top. The top was wet from her perspiration and the oil that had been lavishly applied to her flesh and allowed her skin color to show through. She was not tanned beneath the tiny triangles. She was creamy white and I imagined the tan lines as being beautiful in their contrast. By looking carefully, you could see her darker aureoles showing through. I was concerned that I would cum on the floor without actually doing anything.

As I watched the camera's panning motions, I could see exactly how beautiful this female creature really was. Everything about her face and features was in perfect symmetry. She was truly a gorgeous woman.

At that very moment, as I was becoming enamored of her looks, the camera pulled back to include the door to the small pool house that sat at the rear of the Whitman's property. The door opened and I caught my breath in my throat as I watched a huge black man exit the pool house. He was totally naked and his cock hung down to mid-thigh, looking to be all of 10" long in a turgid but limp state. Behind him came another man, also black, with a tool that looked more like the end of a baseball bat than a cock. It was not long, really; perhaps 6 or 7 inches, but I had never seen anything like the thickness of it. It was almost freakish in its size.

But this was not the end of the parade. Three more black men, all of different cock sizes, appeared out of the pool house. I had to chuckle, honestly, at how crowded five naked men must have felt in that tiny space. They quietly moved to stand around and behind the chaise on which Mrs. Whitman was sunning herself. The smallest of them, appearing to be no more than 17 or 18 years old, bent and kissed Mrs. Whitman directly on the lips.

She jumped and opened her eyes to the sight surrounding her. She screamed. She lurched up as if to get out of the chaise, but one of the men put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back. Was this all an act for the camera? Had her husband (presumably the camera operator) arranged all this for her or for himself? Or was this an honest-to-God non-consent situation for the husband's enjoyment alone?

I had little time to ponder that thought as Mrs. Whitman was assaulted from all sides by pairs of black hands. This was to be no soft, warm sexual experience. Her pussy was probed by fingers; her face was kissed by black lips; her tits were rolled, pinched, massaged and squeezed by other sets of black hands; her suit was ripped from her body in a few small pieces and tossed into the pool to float with the circular movement of the water caused by the filter apparatus.

When she tried to scream again, the youngest of the men slipped his cock directly into her mouth and held her chin. I could see him speaking to her, but could not hear what he was saying. Most likely she was being warned about screaming - or about biting.

I hit the pause button to survey the scene before anything else changed. There she was, in all her blonde glory, with a black cock stuffed into her mouth about three inches, a pair of black balls hanging just above her eyes, a black hand squeezing each of her swollen breasts, two black cocks hovering just above her nipples, another pair of black hands thrusting fingers into her hugely-hairy cunt while spreading her lips obscenely and one black man standing back, aloof, not taking part in the action at all. He was the one with the monstrous horse-cock I had seen earlier.

Mrs. Whitman struggled and bucked, but did not manage to dislodge even one set of hands. A voice - her husband's? - spoke and reminded her that she had told him she dreamed of this. He offered details about her being terrified of being raped by a black man or more than one, he said. So, he continued, he had arranged to have her fantasy dream fulfilled here and now. She shook her head violently back and forth and waved her hands in the air and tried to speak around the cock in her mouth, but nothing other than muffled cries came out. Obviously, she had not been a part of the planning for this event. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

The biggest of the five now moved to the chaise and ordered the others to step back. He bent and lifted her body as if it were a feather pillow and tucked her under one arm as he turned and straddled the chaise and sat down, pulling her onto his lap with one leg on either side of the chaise, her feet on the grass.

It was as if she knew exactly what was coming. She let out a screech and struggled with him to escape; but to no avail. Instead, the young man whose cock had been in her mouth a minute ago, now stepped to the head end of the chaise and pulled her by the hair so that she bent forward and had to put her hands on the huge black man's chest to keep from falling into him. In doing so, her face was directly in front of the young man's cock, which he proceeded to stuff back into her open mouth and hold her by the hair at her ears.

She emitted another muffled cry as she felt the man below her place his hands on both her tits and squeeze them into bulbous, fleshy masses with her nipples bulging out toward his face. He opened his lips and sucked a gloriously large nipple into his mouth and bit down on it. At that very moment, her hands were removed from the big man's chest and two black cocks were stuffed into them, one on either side of the chaise. The big man beneath her held her up and she felt suspended by cocks on three sides. I could only imagine what was going through her mind at this point. I have no idea if she had actually seen and taken account of the size of the two cocks that were not occupied. If she had, real fear ought to have been coursing through her veins.

As this thought flew through my mind, the big man released one of her tits and lifted his huge erection, now such a staff that I could not believe my eyes, to rub the monstrous head along her pussy slit. There was no doubt that he was lubricating the head, because with the constant changing of camera angles - the cameraman was moving to every conceivable angle - I could see the slick wetness collecting there. What I could not ascertain was whether that slickness was as a result of oil Mrs. Whitman had applied to her body or whether it was a direct result of her own arousal and lubrication. I suppose the question was academic. It mattered not in the least to the man who was about to spear this luscious blond pussy with the most outlandish weapon I have ever seen.

She knew at that moment she was in trouble, but could do nothing about it. I watched, as her entire body seemed to relax. Muscles that were tense and knotted, slipped into a stretched-out posture and allowed her to sink downward an inch, impaling herself directly on the fat head of the man's cock. She had had no idea about its size, I could tell, because she let out a horrendous yelp around the black cock now stuffed some four inches into her mouth.

But the yelp did little to deflect her oncoming experience. The man moved his hands to her waist, still holding her up, and angled his hips a bit differently. He murmured something to the others and counted, one - two - three, and dropped her onto his cock. She slid some six or seven inches down the shaft before her screams could be heard on the tape. She stopped at about seven inches and was breathing heavily around the cock in her mouth. She was trying to hold her weight up on her two feet, but the man under her continued to lift her ass and then drop her again and again and again. On the third or fourth lift-and-drop maneuver, he did not let go of her hips and pulled her entire body down tightly against his. I could see her eyes bug out of her head and her face turn a bloody red color. I thought she was going to have a stroke, until the camera moved to look down at the space between the two bodies - one snowy alabaster white, and the other jet-black. 

There was no space between their bodies. Her cunt had swallowed the entire length of his cock. She was hardly breathing and could not have moved if she wanted to. I was certain she was going to pass out, but with an incredible full-body shudder, she again relaxed every muscle and seemed to sink yet even farther down into his crotch. I could see the cords in her neck tighten as the young man slipped another inch of his cock into her mouth, now probably probing the beginning of her throat. Another relaxation move, and the length of his cock disappeared into her mouth leaving his curly pubic hair against her lips, chin and nose. She moved her head back and forth in a small movement to gain breathing room, but did not make an effort to remove the cock from her throat. Her eyes closed and I could almost see the defeat as she asked herself, "What else?"

What else? Her throat was stuffed with a young, thin, black cock; her two hands were wrapped around thicker versions of the same, moving in and out of her clenched fingers, seemingly fucking her hands; her cunt was stretched and filled beyond all reasonable estimates. What else could there be? Apparently she and I and the cameraman had all forgotten the heavy-set man with the cock as thick as the end of Sammy Sosa's black baseball bat. He now stepped into the picture, taking up a position directly behind her ass. The cameraman moved closer to get a good angle on what was to come. The monster underneath her began a series of long, slow, pussy-punishing strokes in and out of her pussy, pulling at least ten inches of hard, black meat out each time he lifted her off his hips. And each time, he slammed her back down, hard, to the very limits of his monster cock. I could hear the sounds of her pussy sucking and slurping around that black tool and I could only marvel at the limits to which a woman's flesh will go to accommodate a man.

The man standing behind her ass, lifted the bottle of suntan oil and liberally coated his thick wand with its creamy-white contents. I could see the palm tree logo on the bottle and could almost smell the coconut in it. He looked to the man below who re-adjusted his grip on her hips and squirted a huge quantity onto Mrs. Whitman's puckered rosebud orifice. She immediately knew what was to come and began to scream and squirm, but the black giant below her held on so tightly she could not move her ass an inch to either side. 

The thick-cocked conspirator moved his head to her opening and with one incredibly swift motion, smacked her hard on one ass cheek while he rammed the head inside her backdoor love entrance. She screamed again and tried to escape, but with black hands holding onto her from all angles, it was impossible. I could hear her sobs, but the men took no notice as all five of them began a concentrated rhythm of thrusting and pulling their cocks in and out of whatever piece of flesh they had claimed.

The fat cock that was imbedded in her ass now sunk itself to its full 7" limit and caused her ass to stretch and swell in a manner unbelievable. Her cunt was being pulled nearly inside out with each withdrawal of the first black behemoth, and then slammed back inside itself with each re-entry. The thin, black rod that probed her throat now moved in and out at leisure, with her breathing controlled by the rhythm her own body had adapted to. The man below her now held her breasts again and crushed them into mushy melons as the man on either side of her stroked in and out of her clenched fists, which they held tightly together with their own hands.

She was being fucked. And she was being fucked royally. The thought immediately came to my mind as to what in the world I could ever do to her if she finally did wind up under my control. Once again, I had little time to worry about this because the men indicated they were all reaching their peaks. What surprised me, though, was Mrs. Whitman also appeared to be near an orgasm. I had not expected this. I had expected humiliation and sexual abuse, yes; but I had not figured on her body taking over and reacting in a positive manner to that abuse and humiliation.

Her eyes were closed, her breathing ragged, her muscles spasming and trembling. The men also realized this and increased the speed and force of their thrusting. And she exploded. Or, rather, they exploded. Within a space of fifteen or twenty seconds, every one of the six participants - five willing and one unwilling - orgasmed with a ferocity I had not seen in porn films, ever. Cum shot, seeped, ran and bubbled from every possible orifice and covered the woman's body. The men arched and spasmed violently as they came and deposited their treasures onto and into her body as they did. She was near collapse, sobbing and crying, as the cocks were withdrawn from her body, one at a time. I could hear the obscene sounds they made as they slurped and slopped out of her insides. The man beneath her stood and flipped her onto her back on the chaise and they all lined up beside her so that she could lick and suck their cocks clean, one at a time. She cried the entire time, but did not refuse one of them. She could not, of course, get either of these two larger members into her mouth, but satisfied their need by licking and sucking them perfectly clean with her lips and tongue.




The Beast In Control Ch. 4



They walked off, back into the pool house, single file, cocks swaying as they strode across the grass between the house and the pool.

She was still lying there, sobbing, massaging her sore breasts, when a shadow crossed her body and I could see that the cameraman had straddled the chaise and was looking down at her. He used one hand to hold the camera and one hand to stroke his own cock into a climax. His cum spurted out and landed on her face, her hair, her tits, and as she opened it, into her mouth.

As his climax subsided, she opened her eyes and looked up at him - and, thereby, directly into the camera with those incredible eyes - and said, "God, that was wonderful. When can we do that again?"



The Beast in Control Ch. 5



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.




The Beast in Control Ch. 5



At the conclusion of the meal, they retired to the living room without cleaning up; but they took the remaining wine with them and sat heavily on the couch. Their bodies were quite a bit closer to one another than previously. As they talked, it was obvious that the subject had changed. Now, they touched each other repeatedly – on the hands, the arms, the face – and some of the touches were near to caresses. And, finally, they kissed.

It was a gentle, almost sleepy kiss (my own terminology due to what was certainly going to happen) and they held each other warmly for minutes during and after the kiss. He touched her face and traced lines down her throat and into the neck of the blouse. He leaned in to kiss her again and she took both his hands in hers and placed them directly under her breasts as she then put her hands to the sides of his face to prolong the kiss. She had set the boundaries and it was now his move, should he care to make one.

And make a move he did. He slid closer to her and lifted both breasts upward and outward, caressing and moving them under his hands and the silky material. I could see his thumbs had found her huge nipples and were pressing in on them as he lifted and moved her melons. And their tongues were interacting with some ferocity at this point as well. His hands were nimble and experienced, because without my even noticing it, all four buttons of her blouse were undone and his hands were spreading the halves of silk and moving inside to caress the flesh beneath.

She stiffened her back and thrust her breasts into his hands. He slowly, tenderly manipulated them and pulled at the nipples as he pinched them delicately. I knew she was excited because I could see her breathing increase from where I was. Her chest was rising and falling with her attempts to suck in enough oxygen to keep up with her racing heart. And he pulled the rest of her blouse from her skirt and removed it completely. The contrast of her black skin against the backdrop of the rose-pink couch was almost more than I could bear at this point. My camera had been clicking to capture their ballet of love since the first kiss.

I watched as she stood up, slowly taking his hands from her breasts and took a position directly in front of him. I now had a side view and watched as she unbuttoned the one button of her skirt and slid the side zipper down to its limit. She then bent and took his hands and placed them on the waistband of her skit and said something to him.

He replied with something and began to remove her skirt by sliding it down across her luscious ass and thighs until it puddled at her feet and she stepped aside, flicking it across the carpet. Now, she took his head in her hands and slowly pulled his face to her stomach where he pressed his lips and kissed her softness. She allowed her head to loll backwards and he moved his face lower until he was nuzzling her ample bush of jet-black curls.

He slid his hands up inside her legs, caressing along the insides of her thighs and touched her nest of passion with his fingertips. He bent forward further and kissed her right at the apex of her pussy, full on the mound and cupped her treasure in one hand.

She moved backward, out of the reach of his hands, and said something to him. He sat back on the couch and she walked into the bedroom, leaving him there. As soon as she was gone, he stood and began to remove his clothing, carefully hanging the items on the back of the chair next to the couch. When he was fully nude, he sat on the arm of the chair and waited. She must have told him she would call when she was ready.

I switched my viewing to the bedroom where she had gone. She had moved to her bathroom and retrieved the yellow peignoir set and had slipped the panties on and was holding the gauzy garment in front of her. She was shaking her head as if to clear it and holding onto the edge of the dresser with the other hand. As I watched, she sat down on the side of the bed and let the yellow gown slip from her fingers to the floor as she slipped sideways onto the coverlet, the Seconal taking full effect on her body.

Hearing nothing from the other room, her guest became a bit agitated and began to pace back and forth. He moved closer and closer to the bedroom doorway and finally peeked in. When he saw her lying on the bed, sound asleep, in the yellow panties and nothing else, he moved to her side. He touched her, massaged her breasts, poked at her shoulder and leaned down to speak directly to her; but there was absolutely no response.

He stood there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head, and looked at the vision in front of him. "Here was the chance of a lifetime," I could imagine him thinking. "I could fuck her without her ever knowing it. She's out like a light." Now, these comments are only supposed, of course; but it is exactly what I would have thought had I been in the position he was. He did give in to temptation enough to spread her legs a bit and to touch her softly between the thighs. He slipped a finger into her and moved his hand around a bit, but when there was no response, he simply bent and kissed her, and threw a small quilt over her sleeping body.

He went back into the living room and turned on the TV and sat down to watch. It didn't take but a few minutes before he, too, was sound asleep. The plan was going well, or so I figured at that moment.

I scurried from my hiding spot and entered her apartment as usual. It was now my turn for a surprise. This man was huge! How in the hell was I going to get through the next part of my plan? Well, I suppose moving him into the bedroom was still a better idea than moving her out here. I squatted in front of him and pulled him across my shoulders in a fireman's carry. I strained thigh and back muscles to stand up with his weight and moved clumsily to the bedroom where I deposited him in the chair in the corner.

Then I moved to her and began taking pictures. Full-body shots, shots of her face, shots of her breasts, extreme close-ups of nipples, beautifully framed shots of her bush and pussy lips…they all found their way into my digital camera.

I moved her about, stretching her legs out as far as possible and then propping her ass up with pillows to shoot at a bed-level. My viewfinder provided me with an incredibly erotic series of pussy shots from all angles. Now it was time for the meat and potatoes of the plan. 

I used every ounce of strength that I'd accumulated in the last months at the club to pull him out of the chair and onto my shoulders again. I walked to the opposite side of the bed and flipped him onto the mattress beside her. I stood back and gauged the situation and moved Ms. Ramada's body so that her head was now lying on his stomach, her mouth only inches from his black rod. He was already thickened and nearly hard when the drug took over and he had not yet settled back into total limpness, so his tool was thick enough to make the picture look good. I took several shots from different angles, which made it look as if she was just about ready to eat his cock.

Then, I took her hand and wrapped it around his tool and took several more pictures. I placed her lips directly on the head of his cock and slipped them open a fraction so that the head was almost entering and took a few more. To my surprise, probably due to the repeated handling, the man's cock had begun to stir. He was still deep in a drug-induced sleep, but his cock was reacting to the external stimuli of her hand and lips – much like waking up with a hard-on after a wet dream, I suppose. I smiled to myself and moved her hand up and down along the shaft until he had reached what I figured was his full proportion. He was not porno-film large, but quite respectable at 8 or 8 ½ inches and actually thicker than my own cock. The head was a shiny black-purple which contrasted with the dull black of the skin of his cock shaft. 

Since Ms. Ramada was in a state of absolute, total relaxation, it was not difficult to open her lips and insert the head of this cock into her mouth. I took another half-dozen shots with the head inserted and then manipulated her face and his cock enough so that she was appearing to swallow nearly the entire thing. It bulged in the side of her cheek and a small bit of saliva ran down from her lips along the thickness of his shaft.

I placed her hand under his balls as if she was cupping them and took another few pictures. I did not think I would be able to get him to actually reach a climax and cum in her mouth without some specific work on my own part and I was not prepared to do that, so I put down the camera and re-arranged their bodies. This took nearly ten minutes and an entire bucket of sweat and strain, but now she was on her back and he was between her legs. Her knees splayed far to the side as she had no control over them, and he was crushed into her crotch with his own. He lay heavily on her upper body, smashing her huge breasts under him and causing them to bulge out at the sides of her body. I raised her knees as far as they would go and not slide back down and took a series of shots of what appeared to be a fuck scene.

This was not enough, of course. I then spent the next hour moving them into various positions that could be held for a minute or two without them toppling over. A beautiful shot of a classic '69' was one of my favorites, with his cock again jammed into her mouth and his face, propped up by a pillow, buried deep in her hairy cunt. I even managed to insert one of his fingers into her anus while they were in this position so it looked like he was not only eating her pussy, but finger-fucking her ass as well.

The pièce de résistance, however, was my last idea. I knew that I could not force him into climax without some personal manipulation of his cock, so I spread her legs as far as I could, held her ankles in my hands and slipped my own cock deep into her cunt. She was a bit dry, but I did not let that stop me. Within a few strokes, I had provided enough lubricant for the both of us and managed to sink my entire length into her in a long, slow insertion. I pressed as deeply as I could and fucked as wildly as I could in order to let her know she had been fucked (I wanted her to feel fucked when she woke up). I rubbed my wet, oozing cock all over her pussy hair, her stomach, her thighs, etc., leaving pre-cum streaks everywhere. When my climax was imminent, I pulled out, laid her legs back on the bed and climbed to where I could cum onto any part of her body I aimed at.

The first spurt landed directly on her black pussy hair, glowing white-gray in the lamplight; the second was aimed at her coal-black nipples and actually strung itself in one long ropey strand across both breasts; the third landed squarely on her partly open lips, dripping slowly into the recesses of her mouth. I wiped the rest of the cum from my cock on her nipples and breasts and moved away from the bed. I would be far from here before either of them awoke, I was certain. I took a few more pictures of her cum-smeared face, breasts and pussy, then one of her entire cum-covered body lying next to his, and I left by my usual secret entryway.

I can not relate how either he or she reacted when they actually woke up, since I was far from the scene by that time, but leave it to the reader's own imagination. 

And when the package arrived at her front door a few days later with glossy, computer-printed pictures of her in a variety of sexual positions and predicaments, she was probably shattered. The enclosed note which instructed her to appear at a certain time on a certain date under a certain billboard just outside of town or suffer the consequences of those pictures being sent to a dozen Bulletin Boards on the Internet probably shocked her, too. The note also mentioned the e-mail address of the principal of Crestline High School and the e-mails of several of the members of the Board of Education. Would she like those pictures to appear in their mailboxes at any time soon? The writer of the note supposed not, and continued with the instructions as to what she was to wear and that she was not to be followed, nor was she to inform anyone – especially the police – of this particular event in her life. She already knew what the consequences would be for any such violation of trust, didn't she?

Though I did not know it at the time, she caved in and prepared to honor the meeting time and place. She thought she could reason with the blackmailer and wanted to give it a try. She had a little money put away; she would promise him/them that if only they would not publish the pictures. Now, wouldn't you think a blackmailer would be willing to negotiate for money? Not this blackmailer!

I had set the date in two days time, figuring I could lay the rest of the foundation for my "plan" by that time and have all five of my "targets" in place at the same time. Now, I needed to move on with the machinery of luring the others to me.



The Beast in Control Ch. 6



The story you are about to read is a 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 offends.

* * * * * 

With the pictures safely hidden in several directories of my computer, I turned my attention to the tasks of luring the remaining members of my target group to my lair.

My two cheerleader friends were not difficult. I had found them online long ago and had pretended to be a young female and interested in the idea of two blonde cheerleaders and me in a threesome for dinner and whatever might strike their fancies. It was not difficult at all to set up a meeting at the small log-cabin roadhouse not a half-mile from my hidden den. They answered my e-mail while I was stationed outside their apartment watching and listening. They giggled and got as excited as they used to when they were schoolgirls. I figured I had them intrigued enough to do most anything at that point. My e-mail had said that I was younger than they were (barely legal, the online description usually reads) and extremely nervous about this meeting, but wanted so much to meet them to find out exactly how I really felt about being with a woman. I had described myself as a redhead with overly large breasts that I was uncomfortable with, and a shaved pussy. They had described themselves exactly as they really were. I noted to myself in those online conversations that they must be quite comfortable not to have misrepresented themselves in any way as most women would – some exaggeration.

I set the meeting date and time for 6:00pm the next evening, one day prior to the date I had given Ms. Ramada and hoped it would work out.

Mrs. Whitman's luring was not a difficult task, either. I simply moved into her house one evening when she and her husband were at a local society event and traded a blank cassette for the one on which she fucks five black studs. I carefully peeled off the labels and transferred them to the blank cassette, which I then inserted, into the slot where the original tape had been.

Making several copies of the tape was no difficulty. I edited one of the copies and slipped it between the door and the storm door of her house. When she followed the instructions and placed it into the VCR, a signboard with printed instructions came up telling her to watch the tape and then to follow the instructions at the end. I had edited the tape to the point that it had been reduced to noting but a series of cum shots and shots of her face reacting to each surge of jism. There she was in all her glory, covered in cum from face to glorious blonde pussy. After each short scene, I inserted a picture of various leaders in the community: other School Board members, her priest, her mother, the garage mechanic she used for her BMW, her two best friends, and the minister of the Black Baptist church in town, etc. At the end of the video, the signboard instructed her to keep this little episode a secret from everyone, I including her husband, or else the video would reach each and every one of those persons she had just seen pictures of. In addition, I gave her the mailing address of the local underground cable TV station – run by several high school students – and told her that I could guarantee they would tap into the closed-circuit system at Crestline High to let the students there know exactly what their School Board President was up to.

I set a meeting time for 9:00 in the evening of the same day as the cheerleader targets were to meet me. I instructed her to travel to the state forestland just behind my lair and to park at the second picnic table area inside the park gates. I watched from my vantage point as she viewed the tape, then rewound the last part and viewed it again. I observed her body language and understood immediately that I had struck a responsive chord. She held her face in her hands and sobbed. She ran to the bookshelf and ripped open the box. She took out the tape I had inserted and plunged it into the VCR in place of the one she had just viewed. When she realized it was truly a blank tape and that I actually had the other, she fell to her knees in the room and sobbed, her entire body shaking.

After climbing from my observation perch, I strolled home in the shadows to plan my next move. Four of the five were set up for their eventual abductions and downfall, but I had yet to set in motion my plan for Mrs. Van Heusen, Crestline's principal.

I knew something about her that few knew. I knew she was having an affair; I knew who she was having the affair with; I knew he was married; I knew when they usually met; I knew where they usually met; I knew most of what they did when they met. But I was also aware that Mrs. Van Heusen was not married and revealing this relationship to anyone would not be a heavy enough lever to push her into any sort of meeting. Such a revelation would only serve to injure him and his wife. I actually had nothing on her to blackmail her at all. While this was my usual method of operation, it would not work with her. I had given it some thought over the past months and I had come to the conclusion it would simply have to be a 'snatch and run' in order to get this woman into my underground abode. So, I ran all of my old plans through my head to see which might fit the current situation.

I had observed her from secret vantage points, yes; but my observations led me to no specific conclusions. I never actually got a close look at her body. I never had the opportunity to spy on any of her dressing or undressing routines. The most I had ever seen was her body in a one-piece bathing suit while swimming in her neighbor's pool. I had, of course, sneaked into her house on more than one occasion, but there was nothing to find. No erotic lingerie, no tell-tale sites on the computer. No marital aids (toys). There was absolutely nothing to indicate that she was anything more than a normal woman who had been divorced and was now having a physical relationship with a married man.

She jogged, but never at night and a daylight snatch would be too difficult. She hardly ever went out except to meet her "friend" at a small motel far outside the city. Movies were not her 'thing' unless she was with several teacher friends from school. She was rarely alone outside of her home and inside her home, her unfriendly boxer was too much of a built-in alarm system for me to chance.

It would have to be clever. It would have to be unexpected. I had a plan, but I was not certain it would work.

Each Wednesday evening, the two lovers would meet for dinner at an Italian restaurant some 20 miles outside of town; then they would drive to their favorite motel where they apparently had a standing reservation, as they always took the same room. I had rented the adjoining room several times over the past six months and had listened to their lovemaking through the thin walls. I had also bored several observation ports into the walls of the room and could view most parts of the room quite well. While I could not see the bed directly – it was against the wall separating the two rooms – I could look into the mirror that was hung directly opposite the bed and view most of the action.

My plan was a bit daring, as it involved revealing myself for a moment – at least my voice – but it seemed to be the only way I could arrange for her to be alone. On this Wednesday evening, I secreted myself in the small copse of trees just to the east of the motel, not twenty feet from the freestanding pay phone at the edge of the parking lot.

After the two had been in their room for some 45 minutes, I called their room and spoke in a rather breathless tone, "Is Jonathan there? No, don't hang up! I know he is there with you. I must talk to him! He is about to be caught with you!"

There was a clatter as the phone dropped to the bedside table and then picked up again with the question coming from him, "Who the hell is this? What do you want?"

"Jonathan, just consider me a friend. I've known about you and Jennifer for months now. You've been very discreet, but not discreet enough. Marjorie (his wife) will be there in no less than five minutes. Don't ask how she found out; just get the hell out of there as fast as you can!" And I hung up.

It didn't take two minutes for him to come out of the door with his pants on but no shirt, carrying his shoes, tie, jacket and briefcase in his hands. He jumped into his Camry and threw gravel all over the place streaking out of the parking lot.

I watched the door swing closed, knowing she was still inside in a state of undress, and rushed to reach it before it could lock. I didn't make it and had to knock lightly. When she called out, "Who's there?" I simply told her, in a lowered voice, that it was Jonathan and that I had forgotten my wallet.

She jerked open the door and I slammed into her body, throwing her back onto the bed. I kicked the door closed and rushed to the side of the bed where I threw my body across hers, straddling her hips with my knees clamping her upper arms to her sides. I leaned forward and placed a hand over her mouth both so she would not scream, and also to put the piece of gauze pad into place over her nose.

I retrieved the bottle of chloroform from my pocket and unscrewed the top with one hand. I took a deep breath and held it as I dripped the contents onto the gauze covering her nose. She immediately knew what it was and in a reflex action, drew in a deep breath to try to avoid inhaling the fumes. Her reaction served to defeat her purpose in that her intake of breath was already filled with the fumes. Her eyes rolled upward and her muscles went slack over a period of the next two or three minutes. When she was totally limp and pliable, I got off her body, re-capped the bottle, thrust the gauze pad into a plastic baggie and began to inspect my most recently-captured quarry.

This woman was entirely different from the others I had been observing. Heavier, thicker in the thigh, broader in the hip, she was nearly of Rubenesque proportions. What attracted my eyes, of course, was the thatch between her alabaster-white thighs. It was not a full bush, but trimmed in a deliberate, straight line, some two inches in width. The strip of hair extended from just about what would be her bikini line directly into the valley between her legs. I lifted one leg and moved it wider apart from the other and noticed that while the edges of her pussy lips had been carefully shaved, the strip ran directly along those lips until it disappeared near her anus. Delightfully different!

And the hair was red! Golden-red and shiny! Curly and still wet from the beginnings of a sexual interlude that had not yet reached fruition. And thick! I mean that the strip of hair appeared to be something like a heavy-duty Mohawk haircut on some grunge-rocker's shaved head. Thick, coarse, heavily curled. I could not resist running my fingers through it and tugging it. My fingers came away moist and I sucked at them to assess the deliciousness of this pussy. I was not disappointed.

Her skin was freckled everywhere. Stomach. Rib cage. Breasts. Chest. Shoulders. Nose. Tiny auburn freckles appeared all over her upper body. Hmmmm, how I would love to play 'connect-the-dots' with my tongue!

And her breasts. Huge! Larger than I had imagined upon any other observation. I reached for her beige bra that had been hung across the back of the side chair. 44DD was stamped into the label. Industrial-strength straps and elastic for this one, I could guarantee. The aureoles were pink. I had not expected that. I had rather expected an auburn-to-brown coloring for her. But no, they were pink. As were the nipples that sat directly in their centers. Not long nipples. But fat! If I were to estimate their diameter, I would say perhaps the aureoles were 3 ½ inches in diameter and the nipples were at least ¾ of an inch in diameter as well….still swollen from immediately-recent sucking, I supposed. I honestly liked what I was looking at. But I didn't really have the time to enjoy the sights. I had to get her out of the room in case Jonathan wised up and returned.

I did, however, take the opportunity to slip one long finger deep inside her pussy, which was already well lubricated and offered no resistance. What struck me as unusual was the fact that my finger touched "bottom" in a matter of inches. I could not even insert the entire thing without touching fleshy walls. I found the hard circle of her cervix ring before the entire 4 ½ inch length of my finger had found its way inside. Quite unusual, I thought; for a woman to have such a shallow pussy cavern. I moved my finger around in circles, stretching and pulling at her skin and lips; and while her juices flowed freely with this unconscious stimulation, I could enter her no further than the original 4 – 4 ½ inches. Thought-provoking scenes flashed through my head, but I shoved them aside to lay myself into the task at hand.

Searching the room and gathering every stitch of her clothing I could find, I stuffed it into the backpack I carried. I took her lipstick and printed on the dresser mirror, "Jon, don't look for me; I'll be back when I get my head on straight; it can't go on like this much longer." I put the backpack on my back, stooped beside the bed, pulled on her arms and slid her across my shoulders in the now-familiar fireman's carry, and moved to the door.

I listened for a moment before switching off the lights and opening the door. Nothing. No one. I raced for the trees with her naked body rubbing against my back and shoulders. I reached the tree line in seconds and made my way through the brush to the spot where I had secreted my van. I slid open the side door, silent on its runners greased with powdered graphite, and laid her on the carpeted floor. I slid in beside her and closed the doors, again silently.

Quickly, as I could tell the chloroform's effect was lessening, I attached her wrists to the two-cuff-and-chain set extending from one sidewall; and her ankles to the set connected to the other sidewall. I placed a piece of silver duct tape over her mouth after checking to see that she was breathing ok through her nose. And I wrapped a black-bandanna blindfold over her eyes. She was now mute and blind as far as I was concerned. She could still hear, of course; but her sense of smell would not return for at least 24 hours – a lingering effect of the chloroform.

I moved to the driver's seat and slowly pulled out of the wooded lane where I had been parked. I checked the digital dashboard clock and noted that the entire operation, from telephone call to cuffing in the van, took only twelve minutes. I allowed my body – tense with the pressure of such an event – to relax behind the wheel. I was careful about both the route I chose and the speed at which I moved. No sense being pulled over by some fat-bellied township cop before I reached my destination.

Upon reaching the spot by the billboard, I clicked the remote on the visor and the spotlights that illuminated the sign extinguished themselves. I pulled past the sign and into a small shed that sat at the far end of the board. The shed appeared to be there for the sign-changers to store their tools. In fact, they knew nothing about its purpose or ownership. I'd never even seen them take notice of it. I hit the other remote button and the doors of the shed slid silently closed. The construction of this building had taken me months to solidify. The shed had always been there – for what reason, no one seemed to know. I had to have it modified so that it appeared to be dilapidated and abandoned, while actually sealing off any possible leaks of light from the inside. I had to install the remote door-operators. And I had to be certain that all of this was kept totally secret from anyone. I had hired two men of middle age some months back. They were what could be termed "mentally challenged" but only because they had pickled what brains they once had with the cheapest of wine and rye whiskeys. I allowed them to live in the shed as they made the repairs I directed them to make. I kept them supplied with as much Thunderbird wine and Seagram's rye as they could handle, and they figured it was a good deal. The remodeling turned out very well, and when two homeless alcoholics simply did not show up around town for a very long time, it was assumed they had moved on to some better place. Indeed, they had. They now rested at the bottom of the very same quarry that my other friend's body calls home.

Inside the shed everything was painted dull black, even the windows. As the doors silently rolled closed, I again clicked the remote button and the lights on the billboard outside resumed their glaring illumination. Had anyone been driving the road at the very moment the lights had gone off or back on? It was a chance I simply had to take. In the floor of the shed a small trap door led down a stairway into my underground chamber. It was but one of three entrances to the subterranean home I had built. It was here that I carried a still-groggy Jennifer Van Heusen. I sat her on a round-topped stool against one wall and fastened her hands and ankles to cuff-and-chain sets on the wall behind her. The chains were some 40" long and allowed for some movement. She could stand or sit, but she could not move more than 40" from the wall. She was leaning back against the wall and the coolness of its surface began to rouse her. She groaned a bit and knew she was shackled immediately. She reached for her blindfold and I killed all the lights in the room with another remote. Now, we were both blind. 

But, as I had mentioned earlier in my tale, this curious genetic anomaly had provided me with certain physical characteristics that served me well in special situations. You already know of my ability to run (lope?) at a speed not usual for a member of the species Homo sapiens and the connected ability to sustain that loping gait for an incredible length of time. Now, I will not say that I can see in the dark; but I will reveal to the reader that my vision is not as occluded as is that of a "normal" human being. I can see about as well as a dog or, perhaps, a wolf does in the dark – enough to discern shapes and movement and some features of a figure.

I watched in the darkness as she ripped the blindfold from her eyes. She could see nothing, of course. She next removed the tape from her mouth, slowly and carefully, as it would certainly sting a bit. She spoke out loud, almost to hear herself speak, "Where am I? Where the hell am I? Where are you? I know you are here, you hairy freak! Let me go, you unbalanced piece of fur! I want to get out of here! If you don't let me go, I'm going to make sure your ass winds up in prison!"

She continued to rant and rave in that fashion for another minute or two, but when I did not utter a sound in response, she gave up. I watched her move around as far as the shackles would allow, and try to get them to release. When she realized that was impossible, she sat down again on the stool and hung her head.

I was not even three feet in front of her and she had not seen me. I reached out with one hand and with unerring accuracy pinched her left nipple. Not hard, just hard enough to get her attention, and then dropped my hand away.

She screamed out in surprise more than pain, and resumed her diatribe against me, my condition, my appearance, my parents, and anyone else she could find to curse. While she screamed out her invective, I slid to one side of her and knelt down. I lifted one heavy breast and squeezed it hard, causing the aureole to bulge out and the nipple to expand hugely. I immediately dropped the breast, allowing it to slap back against her rib cage as I stood and moved away. She kicked out with one foot and slung one hand outward at the spot where I had been moments ago. The length of the chain did not allow her to connect, of course, and she cursed out loud again.




The Beast in Control Ch. 6



It was time to speak to her. "Mrs. Van Heusen," I began slowly and softly, "you are now mine. You are in my absolute control. I spent far too many years of my precious life in your control and now it is my turn for control – for revenge, if you choose to put it that way. I shall enjoy making you squirm as you did me. I shall enjoy assigning you to a place lower than a normal human being, as you did me. I shall enjoy watching you come to the conclusion that there is no escape. I shall revel in the knowledge that what I am about to do to you will be at first resisted, then welcomed, then begged for. You are my toy now, Mrs. Van Heusen. You are mine to invent games with and for."

Of course these remarks were met with a new string of foul language and invective. I moved to her right side and turned a small crank on the wall. The chains were pulled back toward the wall. She could not resist their pull. She had to stand up. She had to move backwards until her back and ass were flat against the wall and her hands were pinned above her shoulders, spread widely. Her feet were also pulled back against the wall and spread some 30 inches apart. Not totally uncomfortable, but not a resting position by any means.

"Now, Bitch-queen," I whispered in her ear, "your body is mine; your mind is mine; your soul is mine. I shall bend it to my will and you will love it. Or you will not. That depends on you, my sweet thing." And with that, I stepped in front of her and squeezed both breasts, sliding my hands down to the aureoles and pinching them between all four fingers and thumb on each hand. I pulled at the nipples with thumbs and forefingers until they stretched to their limit and lifted the breasts from their positions against her ribcage. 

"These are mine, you bitch. These are mine to do with as I wish." And I bent and sucked one deep into my mouth where I bit into the aureole and forced the nipple into my mouth where I flicked it a dozen or more times with the tip of my tongue." I heard her gasp and try to throw her body from side to side to dislodge my mouth, but I held on tightly and listened to her heartbeat increase and her breathing deepen.

I released her breast from my mouth and stood within inches of her. I slid my hands under her breasts and down across her stomach to that strip of hair where I used thumb and forefinger again to tug and pull at that thatch. As I pulled with one hand, which caused her to actually raise up on her toes, I slid the other hand between her spread thighs and cupped her pussy lips in the palm of my hand.

"Feel that, dear one? That is the hand of your Master for as long as I choose to be such. Get used to it. I will touch you, stroke you, insert myself into you as often and as much as I like. Do you understand that?"

She screamed. She screamed a long, blood-curdling scream that came out as a mixture of a wounded mare and an ancient Irish banshee screaming out her pain. I didn't flinch. I didn't move an inch. My hand still cupped her pussy.

"Scream all you like, my love vessel. There is no one within miles to hear you. And besides that, you are so far below ground that only the worms and the grubs would pay attention. Get used to the fact that you are in my control." And I slipped one thumb deep insider her pussy. She was relatively dry…no real reaction to my earlier manipulation… but I didn't care. My thumb found warmth, but not heat; slickness, but not the wet surfaces that I sought. That would come later.

I pushed the thumb as far into her as I could and lifted her almost off the floor with the pressure. I was touching the hard circle at the back of her velvet chasm as I whispered into her ear. "This is only a thumb, my slut; wait until it is something much bigger, much longer. You will not be a shallow cunt for long." And I released her abruptly and felt her sag in the chains.

I stepped away and told her I was leaving for a while but would return with company for her to talk to. And I slipped out the door and back to the shed above.



The Beast in Control Ch. 7



The story you are about to read is a 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 offends.

* * * * *

As I climbed back into my van, I clicked the first button on the remote and the lights outside extinguished themselves. I then clicked the second button and the doors to the shed slid quietly back in their tracks and I backed out into the darkness. Once the doors had been remotely closed, I drove onto the roadway and clicked the other button to re-illuminate the billboard. There she was, some fifteen feet above me. That gorgeous blonde in the black dress still pointed at the entrance to my soon-to-be-occupied dungeon and the world had no idea the treasure that lay beneath her extended finger.

I drove off, confident in my next move, but sorely in need of sleep. Even the animal lust that I felt inside was not enough to fuel my body for long. I headed for my own apartment and after ensuring that I was organized for the next day, fell into bed in pure exhaustion.

Upon waking late the next morning, I felt totally rested and filled with an anxious anticipation for the remaining steps of my plan to fall into place.

First, I needed to scout the area around the old roadhouse restaurant for any hidden difficulties. I was fairly familiar with the locale, but one more check would not hurt. Lady luck must have been shining her face toward me, because upon driving into the restaurant lot, I noted that there was an old Volkswagen camper parked behind the restaurant that had not been there before. I took up an observation point in the corner of the parking lot and learned that there was a rather unsavory-looking teenage (?) girl living in it. Dressed like some refugee from the late 1960's with tie-dyed shirts and torn jeans, she slumped around the parking lot, looking into cars that were parked there. She was not the cleanest thing on earth, but appeared to be rather attractive (at least from a distance) and the crowning glory was that she was a redhead. A quirk in my plan began to form. If she would be home about 6:00 this evening, I had a dead-set way to ensure the two cheerleader targets would come right to me.

The day wore on, with nothing unusual happening around the restaurant and I abandoned my post. I drove home, changed into civilized clothing, stuffed my black outfit into a gym bag of the same color and began the trip back to the roadhouse. I arrived there just after 5:00 and managed to hide my van in the trees on the other side of the highway where an old fire trail ran into the woods for more than two miles.

I took the long way around in loping back to the restaurant, and wound up in the trees behind the VW at approximately 5:40. I spent some quality time listening, still as a wolf in hunting mode, and ascertained that my little redheaded hippie was alone in the camper. I could also (with some heightened sense of smell) distinctly separate the odor of decent marijuana from the other smells that surrounded the camper. So, my little retro-redhead was inside getting stoned!

I opened my satchel, took out a small notebook and carefully printed a note: "Please drive your car around to the camper in the back. I am dying to meet you, but I didn't want to show up here where somebody might know me….Janie." I carefully folded the message, tucking it into one of those triangular-shaped notes that high school kids constantly pass back and forth in study hall.

Slipping around the edge of the camper and leaving my bag behind, I knocked on the door. The pseudo-hippie answered the door with a roach in her hand and a beautifully glazed look on her face – already halfway there – and immediately frowned, "Oh, shit! I thought it was Max." She just stood there, swaying slightly to the beat of some ancient Jethro Tull coming from inside.

I spoke up, "I don't mean to disturb you, but I need a favor; and there's twenty bucks in it for you."

"I'm not fucking any hairy son of a bitch like you for 20 bucks!" she snarled at me. "It'll cost you at least 40!" I almost laughed at her attitude, and after looking her over, decided I wouldn't fuck her even if she paid me forty bucks!

I explained that this was not the favor I needed. I told her that there were two young ladies coming to meet me here at 6:00 and I didn't want them to see me in the restaurant before I got a good look at them. I described them to her and asked if she would go inside and give this note to the hostess or manager, whoever was at the door, and tell him there were two attractive girls coming and to give them the note. But she was to pretend the note came from her, not from me. Would she do it?

"Ya mean that's all I have to do? Give that bitch hostess the note?"

I replied in the affirmative and showed her the twenty-dollar bill I had promised. I told her I would wait right at the end of the parking lot to be sure she really went in. I would have to trust that she delivered the note, but if the girls didn't do what was in the note, I'd be back to "talk to" her again, and that she might not find me as agreeable the second time around. She grumped a bit, grabbed the note out of my hand, took one long last sucking drag on the roach and stomped it on the floor of the camper before she stepped out and headed directly for the door of the restaurant.

I watched her go in, spend perhaps 1 minute, then walk back out and head for the camper. I scurried back to the door and got there just as she arrived. 

"Been there; done that; gimme the fucking twenty!" she blurted.

I reminded her that if the girls didn't follow the instructions she could be in deep shit. She looked at me and said, "I think I know when I see a hard case, mister; and you are definitely one. I was wrong when I said I wouldn't fuck you for twenty. As a matter of fact, I think I'd like to see if your cock is as furry as the rest of you. I'd do you for nothing. Wanna come in the back for a quick one?"

Declining her most generous offer, I slipped back into the woods and moved to the edge of the lot. I changd into my black outfit in the cover of the trees, lifted my next tool from the bag and took up a position where I could see the lot completely.

At one minute to six, the girls' Mustang slipped into a parking spot at the end of a row and they got out. They looked at each other, giggled a bit and pranced toward the door of the restaurant. I got a decent look at them. They had actually dressed alike. I remember them talking in their e-mails about feeling like sisters, but this was going a bit too far, I thought. Then again, perhaps this was a new tease for me. Twins! I was going to be fucking a set of twins! I almost laughed out loud.

They were dressed in short, pleated, school-uniform-type plaid skirts -- yellow and green, green knee socks, old-fashioned penny loafers, and gray Notre Dame t-shirts. What outfits! They had apparently tried to "dress younger" so that their own internet quarry would feel more comfortable.

The girls were not in the restaurant for more than three minutes when they came out, note in Sarah's hand, and looked around. They could not see me from my observation post, and got into the Mustang to drive 'round the back. I slipped through the trees and pressed myself up against the side of the VW where they could not see me.

As they drove closer and parked I moved to a spot behind their car. I slipped up to the driver's window and pointed a spray canister of a chemical that butterfly collectors use to immobilize those beautiful insects while they pin them to their collection boards. The chemical is chloroform-based, quick-acting, and does not require the collector to actually touch the butterfly and damage the beauty of the wing patterns if it should struggle in an attempt to escape.

Sarah was driving and the spray caught her directly in the face. I hit the button twice in succession, perhaps a second apart. Her initial reaction was to gasp for air, which only served to pull in a lungful of the chemical on the second inhalation. She slumped sideways, head resting on the sill of the driver's side door.

Beth looked at Sarah to see what had caused her to gasp and saw me standing there. She opened her mouth to scream, but my arm shoved the canister directly in her face and I hit the button long and hard. She yelped a bit, but immediately lost focus in here eyes and as her face turned to rubber, she, too slipped into unconsciousness.

I knew what I had to do: get in the car and get the hell out of here quickly. But there was a problem. The Mustang had bucket seats and there was no way to push Sarah out of the driver's seat onto Beth's side. I lost precious seconds lifting and shoving her into the space at Beth's feet, and my heart began to pound in the fear that someone would drive along the side of the restaurant and see what was happening; or, perhaps, our little redhead hippie slut would look out the van window and see me. No, I figured, she's most likely zonked out by now... stoned to the gills. At least, I hoped that was the picture.

I slid behind the wheel and moved the car smoothly and quietly out of the lot and onto the highway. Within fifteen minutes I was entering the remote-controlled doors of the shed above my den and they closed behind me in silence.

I sat and listened. Nothing. I stepped out of the car and moved to the passenger side. I took the pulse of both girls and understood they were rather deep asleep. Not wishing to take any real chances, however, I gave Sarah a hefty blast of the canister as I picked up Beth and slung her over my shoulders to carry into the depths.

Down the hidden ladder; into the darkness below; to a long, padded table at the far end, I carried Beth McVickar, and laid her, face-up on it. I immediately strapped her to the table, arms and legs fastened to swiveling shelves at either side, and a larger set of straps over hips and chest just under her breasts. I applied a gag to her mouth and left the room.

Sarah was still deep asleep, snoring slightly in her slumber, and I lifted her clear of the car and carried her to join her friend. I placed her in a hanging leather sling, sort of like a sitting hammock, with her hands attached to chains and cuffs hanging from the ceiling. I applied a gag to her mouth, too, and stood back to admire my handiwork.

I could hear Mrs. Van Heusen on the other side of the room asking, "Who's there? Help me! Get me out of here!" She could not see who it was in the dark, but she knew there was someone here.

I slipped over to her, standing directly in front of her and reached out to squeeze her breasts hard and quick, removing my hands immediately. She screamed again. I whispered into her face, "My dear Mrs. Van H, did you miss me? Did you want to feel my thumb in your cunt again? I can oblige you, if you'd like." And I slipped my hand between her thighs.

"No! No! Don't touch me, you freak!"

"Ahhhh, you should have learned to be nicer by now. That sort of talk will only get you a piece of punishment. Is that what you are looking for?"

I turned on the lights and walked to the table along the far wall. I noted that both of my new conquests were stirring and moaning a bit. I picked up a small, leather riding crop from the table and went back to stand in front of Mrs. Van Heusen, slapping it into my palm. "Is this what you were hoping for, Mrs. Van H? I didn't know you were into pain. Are you a pain junkie, Mrs. Van H? Do you get off on pain? Let's see." And I lifted her right breast with my left hand, holding it out from her body and watching as it puddled a bit on the flat of my palm. I lifted the crop and with a measured swish, brought it down on the very tip of her nipple. She yelped and screamed and tried to move away, but she could not. I slapped her again, this time on the upper swell of her breast. And again, on each side swell. And several more times in rapid succession, back on her aureole and nipple. I looked at her breast and it was marked with red stripes on all sides. But what I really took notice of was the nipple. It was amazingly hard and huge. She did get off on pain! Well, the little bitch! I had no idea. How had I missed that?

I pinched that swollen nipple with the fingers of my left hand and pulled it out and up from her body. Her breast stretched and her nipple trembled as I tugged at it. I twisted and rolled it in my fingers, pinching and hurting her some with each turn. She cried, she begged me to stop, but her breath was coming faster and faster.

With a small idea forming in my mind, I laid the crop aside and plunged my hand between her legs. Just as I thought! Wet. Sopping, slickly wet. She is a pain junkie.

So, I teased her cunt lips with my fingers. I slapped upwards with my palm, feeling her lips swell and heat up. I mashed them and crushed them with my hand. And I picked up the crop again and switched up between her legs, whipping her pussy lips until they were a deep vermilion and she could hardly catch her breath.

And I stopped.

"No! No! Don't stop! You son of a bitch! Don't stop! I'm so close!" she screamed at me, spittle flying from her lips.

I gave both her nipples one last hard pinch and moved away from her, leaving her to scream and curse me and my mother and everyone who ever had been connected with my sorry-ass life.

Both of my new conquests were now wide awake. Their eyes were huge in their faces. They had no idea where they were or how they had arrived here. They could only see: (1) that they were bound and gagged; (2) that there was another woman – who I'm certain they must have recognized – across from them; and (3) me. I know they recognized me, because when I turned to face them, they both reacted with a jerk and screamed into their gags. I simply smiled and walked to stand between them, Sarah in the hammock/sling, and Beth flat on her back on the table.

"Hello, lovelies," I crooned to them, running my hands up along Beth's knees and uncovered thighs, so soft and silky. "Isn't it nice that we're together again? I certainly think so. Why, I'll just bet you are dying to know what is in store for you here, aren't you? Well, let's just say that you could have had anything and everything from me when I was sixteen or seventeen, but all you wanted was a target for your crude humor. Whoooops! Now who is the target? Oh, my, oh, my….I think it's you."

And I moved to the table along the wall and removed a wicked-looking bar knife from the drawer. If the reader has ever seen any of the Rambo movies, the knife was an exact duplicate of the one he uses in his personal-revenge combat. As I walked back to the girls, holding the knife in front of my face and testing the blade with the flat of my thumb, they screamed and twisted and turned and tried everything imaginable to escape from their bonds. Of course, they couldn't. I knew what they were thinking. But I am not that sort of a person. Revenge, yes. Murder, no.

I slipped up to Beth on the table and removed her penny loafers and then her knee socks. I then moved to Sarah and did the same. Moving back to Beth, I slipped the point of the knife under the center of her Notre Dame T-shirt and slit it from bottom to top, allowing the two halves to fall to the sides, exposing two absolutely gorgeous breasts. I quickly cut through the arms and pulled the tattered pieces from her body. Repeating this movement with Sarah took but a few seconds. Both girls were apparently so relieved that I had not cut them or stabbed them immediately, that they didn't resist a bit.

There they lay; two lovely, lovely female bodies; breasts poking upward (in Sarah's case) or puddling on her chest (in Beth's case). Nipples and aureoles were taut and stiff from the rush of cold air in the den. Small goose-bumps paraded across the milky-white swells of flesh in front of me. I was in for a delightful feast, truly I was.

Now, as I stood there looking down at Beth's body, I teased myself into seeing her pussy before I uncovered it. I flipped up the hem of her little pleated skirt and noticed that she was wearing a tiny pair of white bikini panties. The crotch was slightly stained as if she had wet herself – perhaps in fear in just the last few minutes? I cut through the fabric of the skirt and the waistband and pulled it roughly from her body. Now there was nothing between her private garden and my eyes but a thin layer of white rayon.

I quickly stepped to Sarah's apparatus and wrestled her around so that I could remove her skirt in the same fashion. No surprises here. Bikini panties, but pink. I decided the panties would serve a purpose for me.

It took me but ten minutes to coax a discharge of slick fluid from Beth's shaved pussy into the crotch of her panties. Nipple twisting, aureole stroking, pussy manipulating and finally, a finger insertion were all that was needed to bring about some self-lubrication. I rubbed her panty crotch around and around, twisting her rubbery lips and coating the crotch until the liquid seeped through. Though she was breathing heavily, she did not show any other signs of enjoying this. Perhaps because I was a man? Or perhaps just because she was so totally angry that her body had already betrayed her?

The time for an identical reaction in Sarah's body did not take even two minutes. I swear that she was already moist when I touched her the first time – just from watching my manipulate Beth's body?

When both pairs of panties were soaked through at the crotch and I could tell that small rivulets of liquid were trickling down their cracks, I cut the panties off in two short swipes each. I flicked off the gags and stuffed the panties into the girls' mouths in one fluid motion….Sarah's panties into Beth's mouth and vice-versa. This action choked off a scream from both of them when the gags were removed.

I leaned toward them and said, "Well, I've never seen you actually suck each other's pussies, but I know you probably have. Enjoy the taste. It may be your last for awhile."

I flicked off the lights and left the den in the dark as I slipped out the door and up the ladder to the shed. I got into Sarah's Mustang and used the remote as before to exit silently and in the dark.

Taking all back roads, dirt and gravel, I arrived at the spot deep in the woods where I had hidden my own van. I pulled it out of the hidden spot and inserted the Mustang into the sheltering bushes. I covered it as best I could with dead branches – not freshly-cut ones – and got back into my van and drove away.

It was only 8:15. I still had 45 minutes before I needed to be in hiding near the picnic table in the State forestland behind my billboard. I thought about Mrs. Whitman and was surprised when my salivary glands leaped into overdrive. I licked my lips and smiled.

The wolf was getting hungry again.



The Beast in Control Ch. 8



The story you are about to read is a 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 offends.

* * * * * *

After stopping at a local Dairy Queen and wolfing down (please pardon the pun) two large Pork Bar-B-Que sandwiches and a huge Mountain Dew (caffeine withdrawal was setting in) I drove out to the spot where Mrs. Whitman was set to meet me. There was plenty of time and I drove leisurely, to avoid any stray policeman's eyes from spotting something out of the ordinary on this road.

I reached the picnic table I had specified and took stock. Not as dirty as usual. I quickly policed the litter and made the area look a bit more inviting. The sun was just beginning to disappear behind the hills when I moved my van off the road into the entrance to an old logging trail, hidden by three huge hemlock trees.

I got out of the van, moved to the far side of the clearing where the table was and hunkered down behind some laurel to wait.

Again, right on time. (I've heard for most of my life that women are forever late; now, three women in a row have been exactly on time for an appointment I set for them. Exceptions to the rule?) She drove onto the lane from the highway, approximately 200 yards away with some hesitation. I could understand that. It was dark and she was most likely unfamiliar with the area. I can't imagine her and her husband ever coming out here. From my position, I could see down into the small valley where the highway lay. No one had followed her. No other lights were in any proximity to her car. As a matter of fact, hers was the only car that had been moving along that stretch of road. I was just being careful. I didn't need to step into a trap or some other type of set-up at this point.

Her car's lights crept closer to the meeting place. She was traveling at a snail's pace, partly because of her unfamiliarity with the spot, and also because the lane is pitted and pocked with washouts and potholes.

When she reached the edge of the picnic area, she slipped past it and backed in. Smart woman, I thought; covering her escape if it was necessary. She sat there in her car without turning off the ignition or extinguishing the lights. I waited. 9:05. 9:10. She had still not turned off the engine and I was not about to stand up from my hiding place so that she could see me in the glare of her lights.

Just as I was about to call it quits and try to plan something else, she hit the power button for the driver's side window and called out, "Hello? Is anyone there? I'm here like I promised. I've brought money. I've brought jewelry. Hello?"

With the window open, I knew she could hear me, so I used a stage whisper to call back, "Extinguish your headlights and turn off the engine. Don't move from where you are." I was fully prepared to plunge back into the brush and trees if she was accompanied by someone else in the car. She clicked off the ignition and the lights followed in a few seconds. I whispered again, "Take the keys from the ignition and drop them outside the car." She complied, looking all around for the source of my voice. "Now, crack your door just a bit so the interior light turns on. Don't move; don't look around." She complied, again without protest. I could sense, almost smell, her nervousness, but she did not turn around. I crept up to the passenger's side of the car and stood on the picnic table bench to look into the car. Nothing or nobody inside the car, either in front or back. "Pop the trunk and don't move," I called out.

She hit the button on the dash that released the trunk lock and I moved away from the table and up on a low branch of a large spruce to peer into the trunk. There was a light in the trunk lid and it showed nothing inside. I was a bit relieved myself. She had followed all of my instructions.

I moved forward, pushed the lid down until it clicked and told her to slowly step outside of the car, turn to face it and to put her hands on the roof. She paused a few seconds, but followed my instructions. I crept up behind her, as silently as a wild animal creeps up on its prey, and put my hands on her shoulders. "Don't move," I whispered, "don't turn around. Close your eyes. I am only going to check you for wires – recording devices."

She started to say that she was not wearing anything, but when I pressed my hard fingertip into the small of her back, she shut up – probably assuming, as I had hoped, that it was a weapon. I stooped and started at her ankles and slid my hands up along her legs, under her skirt and up to her hips where I grabbed the material and yanked it down to her ankles, immediately wrapping it around them. She gasped and cried out, but I told her to shut up, I was just making sure she was not going to run. She couldn't move with her ankles wrapped in her skirt like that.

In the dim light afforded by the stars, I could see that she was wearing white briefs. Plain, white, conservative briefs. Not bikinis. Not thigh-high cut. Not a thong. Plain, white briefs. (Well, what else had I expected?) I allowed my hands to travel the length of her legs again and to cover her cheeks and then around to the front of her panties where they flattened themselves against her lower stomach. "Nothing here," I whispered.

I stood and slid my hands upward along her sides, feeling the coarse denim material of her man's-style shirt. I knew she had several of these in her closet and wore them almost all the time when at home alone. I touched the bottom swell of her breasts with my cupped hands and she shuddered, "Is this absolutely necessary? I tried to tell you that I'm not wearing a wire – is that what they call it?" "Just making very sure," I whispered, and grasped the front edges of the tails of the shirt and gave a humongous rip, tearing the buttons completely off the shirt and pulling it apart in the front. I reached up quickly and grabbed the collar and yanked it down, pulling her arms from off the top of the car and pinning them to her sides with the sleeves. I grabbed at the wide back strap of her white bra and unclasped it in a microsecond. Her breasts, not all that large, surged free and I took note that she was probably wearing a too-small, too-tight bra. While her breasts were probably only a "B" cup, I could swear that the cups of this bra were no more than an "A"…I wondered why.

I slipped the shirt from off her arms and allowed it to fall to the ground, then flipped her arms up into the air where I stripped the bra from her chest. I rapidly stretched my hands wide and caressed every inch of her breasts, cuddling them, massaging them, pinching them, as she now came awake and tried to turn to slap me. I slammed her against the side of the car and pressed myself hard against her. She could, no doubt, feel my erection pressing against her. I told her to hold perfectly still and this would be over in a matter of minutes. Otherwise, I could be "quite an animal" (there I go again) if I wanted to be.

She calmed down, except for her breathing, and allowed me to continue my finger search of her chest, waist and breasts, including the cleavage between. "Well, nothing here; I suppose you were telling the truth. There's really only one more place to check." And I grabbed her panties and tore them from her in one huge jerk. I know the waistband and the leg bands dug into her flesh, because she almost screamed out loud, but another slam against the car ended that.

I traced the lines of her pubic hair and fingered it with both hands wrapped around her, sliding lower and lower into her valley. "No, not there; there's nothing there; you don't have to check there; please don't touch me there; I'll give you money," she cried.

Of course, I paid no mind to her protests and moved one hand to her ass as the other explored her pussy. I spread her feet as far apart as they could go within the confines of the skirt wrapped around her ankles, and slipped a thumb into her pussy. Yes, you probably guessed it: she was soaked. Aroused. Excited. In anticipation of something.

"Ahhhhh, you like that, don't you?" I whispered into her ear.

"Damn you! This is not fair. I thought we were here on a business deal, not to fuck around. If you want a quick fuck, we can make that part of the payment; but let's get on with it. I don't have all night."

"Oh, yes, my dear woman; we do have all night." And with that I slammed my other thumb into her ass and lifted her up off the ground with the two inserted thumbs. Now, she did scream, and she screamed again. I didn't worry. The closest humans were the women inside my den, and they couldn't hear her. And they could not have done anything about it if they could. I lifted and dropped her, again and again, until there was no doubt she was letting down her lubes as her body reacted to the intrusions.

I held her against the car and finger-fucked her ass and her cunt with thoroughly complete thrusts of my thumbs. Her screeches turned to whimpers, mews, groans, and finally to, "Oh, Jesus! Fuck my ass, you son of a bitch! You really know what you're doing! Give me more than your thumb! Shove your hand up my cunt…your whole hand! C'mon, I'm on the edge. I'm gonna cum!"

But I stopped. Stopped cold. She turned to look at me and since her eyes had now adjusted to the darkness, she could make out my facial features. "Oh, my God! How did you? Where did you?" she started, but the spray hit her directly in the mouth and nose and she collapsed into my arms in seconds.

I opened the rear door of the sedan and dumped her on the back seat. I gathered up all her clothing and slipped it into my ever-present black bag. I then drove with the lights out to the spot where my van was hidden. I transferred her and my bag of tricks to the van and closed the door. I got back into her car and carefully drove off the trail into a deep gully behind a stand of hemlocks. The gully was totally undetectable from the trail or from the other side. One would have to climb up the banks under the hemlocks and look down to find it. I had already noted a large, fallen hemlock about 10 yards farther up the gully and now retrieved it, and after wiping any fingerprints I may have left on the car, pulled the hemlock up and over the car, almost completely obscuring it.

Returning to the van, I checked on my cargo and noted she was fast asleep, deeply asleep, and decided it was unnecessary to clamp her in as I had the others. I carefully pulled from my hiding place, checked the ground around the table as I passed and drove out of the forest and onto the road with no other car in sight.

Within minutes I was back at my shed, carrying the final trophy in my collection to her new residence. I placed her over a padded barrel in the center of the room, face down, ass in the air, and shackled her hands on one side of the barrel and her feet on the other. Another bitch at the mercy of someone for whom she had made life miserable.

When I came in this time, I had switched on the lights so the others could see who I was bringing in. I heard cries and muffled words of recognition and then they settled down into the usual beggings to be released, etc. My newest captive began to wake up and spent the usual amount of time stressing herself to try to escape; but soon, she, too, gave up the struggle and just listened.

I went to the bar at the end of the room and poured myself a delicious-looking Bailey's over ice and went to the huge, overstuffed chair, which sat on a raised platform in the center of my ring of captives. I sat down and began to speak. "There are four of you now. There is but one more to add and then my collection will be complete. I do not wish to hear from you at all between now and that time. If you should speak without having permission to do so, I shall be forced to punish you…. I will punish all of you for the transgressions of just one; so be very careful. Now, one of you may speak to me; which one will it be?"

The girls said nothing, but Jennifer Van Heusen grunted for me to remove the gag and allow her to speak. I moved to her side and did so. She began with the usual stream of curses and invective, so I simply slipped the gag back onto her face and she shut up. She begged with her eyes and whines to be given another chance and I allowed it.

"We have to go to the bathroom. We have to … pee. And maybe something else. How long are you going to keep us here? What are you going to do with us?"

"A few too many questions for one time, my love," I said and shoved the gag back in place. "But I'll try to help you out. One, you can piss and crap on the floor for all I care. There's a hose on that wall. The floor is slick tile. It declines toward that corner. There is a drain in that corner which should take care of any waste you might produce. You aren't going to eat or drink much while you are here, so you won't have much to release, now will you? Two, I'll keep you here until I am finished with you. I'll keep you here until you have learned the pain you caused me for years. Three, I am going to do everything imaginable to you – and some things that you could never have imagined. Does that answer your questions?"

I could not resist one more touchy-feely round with all of my "pets" and moved toward Mrs. Van Heusen again. I knelt in front of her and slid two fingers deep into her cunt, still wet from her whipping incident earlier, and twisted them around. I added a third finger, then a fourth and moved them about inside her. She was doing her very level best not to move or react in any way, but her pussy walls made a liar out of her. She leaked copious amounts of juices and coated my fingers and the back of my wrist. I pulled the fingers out of her sopping maw, popped the gag from her mouth and wiped my fingers all over her lips and teeth and cheeks. "That's only a 'taste' of what I have planned for you, Mrs. Van H. Now, go ahead and piss on the floor if you have to." And I shoved the gag back into her mouth.

Within five feet of her were the two ex-cheerleaders, eyes as big as saucers, not knowing what I had in store for them. In fact, I was not totally sure myself what I was going to do with/to these young things. I did know, though, that I had this incredible desire for revenge smoldering inside my body and they were two of the most likely targets for the heat of that fire. I stood between them, one lying face-up on a table and the other strapped into a hammock/swing apparatus that kept her arms and legs spread wide apart for easy access to her most vulnerable parts. I allowed my left hand to slide up the thigh of Sarah in the sling and come to rest directly on her smoothly shaved pussy lips. At the same time, I slid my right hand up along the thigh of Beth on the table and cupped her soft lips in my palm. I looked down at the two of them and spoke in soft, soothing tones, "I know you didn't mean to be such platinum-plated bitches when we were in high school. I'm sure you just didn't know any better. I'm really sorry that I have tricked you into being here like this. You probably don't deserve this, do you?"

Both girls made an attempt to speak but the panties allowed only muffled sounds of agreement to leak out of their mouths. I smiled at them, showing my true, loving nature and immediately pinched their clits between thumbs and forefingers until their bodies arched and strained and their voices grew hoarse screaming into the panty gags.

I held on tightly for more than two minutes and rolled as I pinched and pulled at their swollen buttons. And I shouted at them, through their own screams, "The hell you didn't know what you were doing! You knew every fucking time you made me feel like a piece of shit! You did it on purpose! You laughed out loud at my embarrassment! Well, ladies, I am going to show you just how much pain and humiliation you caused me. You are going to share in it over the next few days, weeks, months….who knows how long."

And I released their clits and watched as the color faded back into their faces and their bodies slumped back into their original positions. And I moved to the latest addition to my private club, Mrs. Whitman.

"So, you could change the rules for Valedictorian whenever you fucking well pleased, is that it, Mrs. Whitman, bitch? You could decide that earning the title meant not one fucking thing, right? You could present the title and the fame to some piece of shit twit who had no idea what the hell she was doing just because "being different" might sully the fine image you have created for your school district, right? Well, you are also going to feel the pain that I felt, knowing that I had earned the right to a title which could never be mine because I did not measure up to the standards of your imagined image for the district. You are going to wish you had welcomed me with open arms, Mrs. Whitman."

And I picked up a wide-bladed paddle made of sturdy ash and slapped her ass cheeks three or four times at a medium-heavy strength. She screamed and lurched; her ass cheeks turned bright crimson; her body twitched and jumped in anticipation of each swat I leveled onto her lovely full ass. As I whipped her, I kept telling her she should have played by the rules, because now she was not in a position to make the rules any longer. Now she would have to live by my own warped sense of what was right and wrong.


After a dozen or more swats with the paddle, she had turned into a sobbing, quivering mass of white flesh; her entire body was lax and supple. I turned the paddle in my hand so that the handle was pointing outward. The handle was approximately nine inches long and about two and a half inches in width. I placed it at the entrance to her anus and shoved the entire length inside in one strong stroke. She screamed out in her pain and I reminded her that this was nothing compared to what she had already had allowed to slide into her ass. She tensed at that remark and I told her that I had some interesting video to show her friends here and how sorry I was that the paddle was not black, since that seemed to be her color of choice.

I ripped the handle from her pussy and watched as drops of her un-requested lubrication followed. The handle was wet and slippery and I wiped it clean in her hair, allowing it to fall down beside her face when I was finished.

"For now, ladies, I shall be leaving you. I am off to collect the very last specimen for my special collection. Does any one of you have an idea as to who it might be? I'll tell you what; if you can guess who it will be by the time I return, I will give a very special surprise to the winner. Think carefully, now, ladies. Who else would you think belongs to this special company of bitches?"

With that remark, I left the room, turning off the lights as I did. Now, to exercise my body (it seemed to crave more and more exercise as I grew), then to fill my stomach, and then to get a full night's rest, probably sleeping deep into the day, before I was to meet Ms. Ramada the next evening at the billboard. 

After returning to my own humble accommodations and changing into my usual running attire, I thought that perhaps now was the time to succumb to the thoughts and emotions that had been coursing through my veins for the past few months. I almost felt like an animal. I often reacted instinctively, like an animal. And now, I wanted to be free, like most animals. I climbed into my van and sped out of town to the state game lands, which abut the huge forest I've mentioned before. I slipped the chain lock on the gate and drove inside, returning to re-lock the gate after myself. I drove deep into the meadowland, which was reserved for state-sponsored hunting, but not in this season of the year. I slid the van into a slot between two huge holly bushes and climbed out. While I stood there, surveying the scene before me – rolling meadowland for as far as the eye could see, thigh-high straw-colored grasses that waved in the soft wind, and a sun as warm as a mother's hand when she touches the cheek of her newborn – I knew I had made the right decision. I stripped off all my clothes and breathed the breath of freedom. I could be an animal here – free and unfettered. Slowly I began to lope along a lightly-marked trail in the grass. Who knows what animals had passed this way over the years, tramping down the grass with their feet or their hooves. I only knew that the trail was mine now, and would lead me to freedom. I ran, I loped, I sped across the meadowlands in a relaxed, wolf-like gait that ate up the acres. For more than an hour, my pace kept me moving at the speed of the wind, in a huge circle so that I saw the holly bushes and my van as I moved up the long hill from the valley below. I was breathing heavily, but I was not winded. It amazed me that I had run for more than an hour, but yet felt no oxygen starvation, no muscle cramping, and no ill feeling from the exertion. I truly was one with nature here in this meadow. This would now become my special place. I knew it.




The Beast in Control Ch. 8



After dressing, I carefully drove back home and devoured a huge marinated rib-eye steak. A particularly acute hunger had told me that I could only be satisfied by rewarding myself with meat tonight. And I allowed myself to indulge in sinking my teeth deep into the charred flesh of another beast.

Sleep came easily. No waiting for the demons to depart and heaviness to overtake my eyelids. I slid into my night's slumber with little or no effort. Tomorrow would present the final acquisition for my unique collection. Ms. Ramada, the black-skinned target of my frustration would join the ranks of "collectibles" in my underground den. 

And I slept.



The Beast in Control Ch. 9



The story you are about to read is a 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 offends.

* * * * *

Waking early, I spent a few moments reviewing the events of the past two days.

Mrs. Jennifer Van Heusen, the principal of the high school where I had attended a few years back and who had treated me like something one would put out with the week’s trash, is now secured to the wall of my den with two separate sets of cuffs and chains. I’ve learned that she is somewhat of a pain freak and have been re-aligning the treatment I had in mind for her with this new discovery.

The almost-twin ex-cheerleaders who had made my life miserable with their comments and rude behaviors while in high school, Beth McVickar and Sarah Chambers, are also hidden below ground in my personal hideaway. Beth is now lying flat on her back on a specially padded table in that little room, secured of course, with her friend’s panties stuffed in her mouth. Sarah is swinging leisurely back and forth in a specially designed hammock/swing apparatus that holds her at whatever level I wish to choose with legs and arms spread wide apart and her most private parts exposed to my whims. Her dear sex-partner friend’s panties are stuffed into her mouth, too.

And, of course, Mrs. Whitman, the president of the School Board who had denied my right to appear as valedictorian for my class because of some imagined “image” the school district sought to uphold. She would soon pay for her casual dismissal of my personal triumphs. She, too, was secreted in my dungeon – spread face-down over a padded barrel with hands and ankles secured, legs spread wide to the vagaries of my fertile mind.

These four were the beginning, but only the beginning. My next quarry was to be captured today and I needed to be prepared for her. Ms. Ramada, the English teacher who spent an inordinate amount of time belittling both me, and everything I attempted to do in her classroom. Black, large, gorgeous, she would pay the price of denigrating my accomplishments. I was to meet her later this very day. I needed to prepare.

My morning run on this day took me far from my home base and circled through the state game lands and forests that surrounded my town. How effortlessly I covered the miles in that long-striding lope that set up a rhythm in both my body and my brain that told me I was one with my surroundings. I felt more animal-like than I did human when I ran like this. I found myself at the rear edge of the property where I had kidnapped the cheerleaders the day before. The old van was still parked there, and I needed to make one short stop. This would not be difficult. And I crept closer as silently as a stalking wolf. There, I said it! I’ve always thought of myself as part wolf, and now I have allowed myself to say it out loud. What a relief! It is out in the open now. I hope whoever reads this document will understand what I feel inside at this moment. It took but a few moments to move to the van and slip inside. And within five minutes I was slipping back into the cover of the deep woods behind.

As I ran, I looped past the billboard where the entrance to my private sanctum lay hidden. There was no sign of anyone except myself having been there recently. There were no signs of anything unusual, out of the ordinary. I was careful to scout the entire area from which the billboard might be seen, as this was the spot where I had directed Ms. Ramada to appear. Ostensibly, she had agreed to meet there in order to retrieve photos of her and a male lover from a supposed blackmailer. I wondered if she might bring him along or if she would come alone, as instructed, with a large amount of cash.

The meeting time had been set for noon, so as not to spook her completely; but also so that I could observe her approach to the site and learn whether she had followed my instructions. I spent most of the time after my run, cleaning myself and deciding what I would wear for the meeting, as this was not to be a forced abduction, but one of reason and deception.

Appearing at the designated meeting spot near the billboard more than an hour ahead of time, I took up a position where I could see the approaching road for at least a half-mile in either direction. From here I would be able to ascertain if anyone was with Ms. Ramada and would take steps to abort the mission if it turned out to be less than a sure thing. I settled in to wait, and allowed my mind to wander while I rested there.

Ms. Ramada had planned to entertain her newly-found friend but had, instead, found herself being drugged along with him and posed in a series of quite pornographic situations. My promise of removing those pictures from any possible distribution was what brought her here.

The two cheerleaders had been lured into my trap by another party who never suspected a thing, and who now was sleeping peacefully in her old van, and would sleep thus forever as a result of an “accidental” overdose of liquid Seconal, injected just this morning. Poor thing. She had actually smiled at me when I appeared in her doorway this morning. She’d been lying down on that filthy mat she called a bed in the van. She’d been nude. Her hair was matted and stringy and I could see globules of someone’s cum congealed on the hair of her pussy. She had had company last night after doing me the favor that placed Sara and Beth under my control. I hoped it had been good for her. I hoped she’d had an orgasm to end all orgasms. It had most certainly been her last.

And, of course, there was my former principal, Mrs. Jennifer Van Heusen. She had made the mistake of having an affair with a married man in a local motel. Tsk! Tsk! Didn’t she know that the wages of sin are often too costly to pay? A bit of trickery and a small amount of chloroform, and she, too, belonged to me.

Now, I had but a short while to wait for Ms. Ramada to appear and my “collection” would be complete. I’d seen the movie “Kiss the Girls” sometime back, and though I would not readily admit it, the idea of this “collection” grew after viewing that film. Of course, the perpetrator in the film was portrayed as a near lunatic and his mistakes were founded in that lunacy. I, on the other hand, considered myself perfectly sane and rational in my choices of targets and their acquisitions.

So, I waited, ruminating in my mind as to what sort of pleasures I would derive from extracting the retribution that I intended to inflict on the five specimens in my collection.

And my eyes caught sight of a car in the distance, moving slowly toward the billboard. The hair prickled on the back of my neck and my arms. Was it my latest quarry? As the car came nearer, I could see that it was a city taxi. I had instructed Ms. Ramada to choose a taxi at the cabstand near the railroad terminal in the city and to be certain that the driver was Caucasian. I did not wish to have her present lover playing the role of driver and surprising me.

The taxi came to a slow, grinding stop in the gravel around the billboard. Nothing happened for a full two minutes; then I noticed the driver – white as instructed – turn and say something to the passenger. The passenger gestured with her – yes, I could see that it was a woman – hand and opened the door on my side of the car with some speed. She stepped out into the sunlight and slammed the door, hard. The car sped off, throwing gravel and dust back at her and she – in a very unladylike fashion – threw him the finger.

I almost laughed at her comic gesture. I watched as she moved around the billboard, looking for something. Perhaps she thought I would have left a note there or something. After a good five minutes of looking, she simply sat down on one of the whitewashed rocks that surrounded the base of the sign and looked down the road in the direction of town. There was no secrecy in her movements; no hesitation; nothing that would indicate she had been followed and was looking for someone who was there to protect her.

After a full fifteen minutes, she was up and pacing and obviously upset at being left out there alone. I stepped from my hiding place, not twenty feet from her, and called out, “Ms. Ramada! Over here! Move slowly and directly toward me.” 

She looked up at me in some alarm and then set her mouth in a solid line and stomped toward me. “You little, furry son of a bitch!” she exploded. “What in the hell do you mean by this? Getting me out here in the middle of nowhere, for what? Are you the one with the pictures? How much do you want? I brought everything I could get my hands on. Tell me what you want, you little fucker!” She was obviously angry and her color had deepened perceptibly as she fumed at me. By the time she had finished her little monolog, she was standing directly in front of me.

“Ms. Ramada,” I began in a conciliatory tone, “I don’t want your money. I don’t really need your money. I want something else. Didn’t you ever look at me when I sat in your class? Didn’t you know I had a hard-on more than half the time looking at you? Didn’t you realize that half the guys in the senior class wanted to see what you looked like under those clothes? We were all in love with you. At least most of us. Some of us were just in complete and total lust with you. You are spectacular!” And I took note of what she was wearing: all white; white oxford shirt, white v-neck sweater thrown over her shoulders with the arms tied at her chest, white pleated skirt about knee length, white stockings and white shoes. The woman was a denial of her own blackness. I could see her black skin through the material of the shirt and noticed that the bra was also white.

“What?!” she exclaimed. “You brought me out here to tell me you loved me? That you liked to look at my body? What in the hell is the matter with you?”

“I’ll make you a deal, Ms. Ramada. I have already seen your body. I’ve touched it; I’ve caressed it; I’ve moved it around and felt how soft and beautiful it really is. But I have never tasted it, nor have I fucked it.” She gasped a bit at this but did not immediately resist. Of course, she had no idea that I had already fucked her in her own bedroom and had cum on her body before I took some of the pictures. I could see her calculating the risks and the rewards behind her eyes. “If you will come with me for just a few minutes and do just a few things for me, I will turn over all the pictures and give you my sworn word that they will never see the light of day.”

“What sort of “things” would you want me to do for you?” she asked with some hesitation. “I’m not doing anything perverted, and I’m not even sure I want you to fuck me. You’re a hairy little shit and I don’t fuck animals.” She almost laughed when she said the last. How wonderfully rewarding her debasement would be!

“Honestly, Ms. Ramada, I’d like you to do only a few things for me. First, I want to watch you undress. I want to see that beautiful black body appear in front of me one inch at a time. Next, I want you to lie down and spread yourself wide open so that I can see every part of you that you hide. And I want to be able to kiss your beautiful breasts and suck on them. I want to kiss your big, hairy pussy and taste what a black woman really tastes like. And, if you will agree by that time, I want to fuck you. I just want to slide myself inside you once. I won’t cum. I won’t even move if you just let me inside you for one minute. I want to feel how hot and wet you are inside. That’s what I want. Are you willing to go along with that if I give you everything I have?”

I was deliberately playing the jerk, the seemingly naive little boy who thought he could bargain for something. She sensed that she was about to gain something without giving much of anything. “Deal!” she said almost surprising herself by saying it. But I am not taking my clothes off out here in the sun where anybody who drives by can see me; and I’m not going into the fucking woods with you, either!”

I reassured her that neither scenario had crossed my mind, and indicated the small shed just a few yards away. I told her that I had a key to the lock and had a surprise inside. She was wary, but walked with me toward the small door in the side of the shed. I unlocked it and allowed her to precede me into the darkness. Once inside, I flicked on the lights and she took a survey of what she saw: a neat, little hideaway that anyone with as devious a mind as mine might have made; an overstuffed chair; a TV (not connected, but a good prop); and a small metal bed in the corner. She immediately made her decision and moved toward the bed.

“No, Ms. Ramada, not yet. I’d like to sit here in my favorite chair and watch you undress first. Would that be alright?” 

“Where are the pictures? How do I know you even have them? This could be a trick.”

I walked to a small footlocker in the other corner and opened it. I retrieved a manila envelope from the top tray and opened it to show her a dozen or more photographs and six or seven strips of negatives. “Here they are, Ms. Ramada; I don’t lie. I will give you the entire package when you give me those few small pleasures I asked for.”

She must have made up her mind in an instant, because she agreed immediately. I put the photographs back into the envelope, the envelope back into the footlocker, and snapped the clasp shut before moving to my observer’s chair.

What happened over the next ten minutes or so would fill volumes if only I had the vocabulary to describe it. I was treated to one of the most deliciously sexy stripteases that I have ever seen. This woman was certainly making all effort to earn the return of what she thought was her downfall if released. (What she did not know was that the pictures in the envelope were not even of her, but shots taken in the woods of various animals) The originals were secreted safely in my apartment and would serve as insurance against anything else that might happen.

She undressed, slowly and seductively, until she stood in front of me in a pair of plain, white briefs and a white bra made of some heavy-duty cotton material. It would have to be heavy duty just to contain the size melons she sported. God, she was even larger than I had realized while shooting the film in her apartment. “Must I go all the way down to skin?” she asked. I responded that I would not settle for anything less. I could see black women in bathing suits at the local pools that were showing me more than she was, I told her. And she did something strange. She reached down and slid her panties off her ass and down her thighs to slip into a pile at her feet. She stepped out of them and bent to lift them off the floor. As she did, I reached out and snatched them from her hand. I immediately pressed them to my nose and mouth and inhaled and tasted her.

“You are really a fucking weird-o,” she laughed. “Haven’t you ever smelled a woman’s pussy before? Do you like the smell?”

“Ms. Ramada, my dear woman, I have smelled more pussy than the average man, but I never seem to tire of the feeling it gives me when I first sniff the heady aroma or when I first taste the tangy lusciousness of its cream. I must say that yours is absolutely delicious. I would love to taste it directly from the source.”

“Well, I……” she began, but stopped herself. Could she be getting aroused by the play? I wondered to myself about that as she reached behind to open the bra.

“Stop!” I told her. “I want to know something. Why did you take off your panties first? Why not the bra first? Most women I know take off their bras before they take off their panties. Why do you do it in reverse?”

I could swear she almost blushed behind that ebony skin. “Well, I, ah, I…” she stammered, “I’m a little bit sensitive about my breasts. They’re, … they’re…”

“Huge!” I concluded for her. “My dear Ms. Ramada; I am aware they are large. They are also beautiful, from what I have seen. Now, please get over your embarrassment and let me see them completely.”

She looked me straight in the eye and unsnapped her bra from behind. The cups did not move at all except to relax a bit and allow her melons to sag downward just a bit more. She let her hands hang at her sides and the cups stayed right where they were, surrounding her breasts with a pair of white cotton cradles.

I stood up and moved to her and said, “Let me.” She flinched, but when I put my hands up and moved them around on her nipples in big circles with only the palms touching, she relaxed. I felt her nipples swell and become turgid and stretched. I looked her in the eye as I moved my fingers into small pincers and pinched those nipples between thumbs and forefingers. I pinched lightly at first, then harder. I could see she was playing a game with me: who would quit first. I did not take my eyes off her and continued my pinch pressure on her nipples, but now I pulled them away from her breasts and tugged at them. Her breasts actually lifted up off her chest and I heard a huge expelling of breath as she said, “Enough. Don’t hurt them too much. Stop. Please.” The last word was breathed out and sounded almost like a plea.

Allowing the pressure to relax, I continued to pull away from her and the bra came with my fingers, slipping off her slopes in one easy motion. There they were. Huge, by all standards. Round. Globe-like. Black and smooth. Ebony diamond nipples, swollen and stiff. Roughly pimpled aureoles as large as a tennis ball, all crinkled and swollen in her evident excitement.

“You actually like that, don’t you?” I asked. She colored again and nodded in assent. I sneaked a peek at the label at the back clasp of the bra. 44DD! Now that is a pair of breasts that even the most die-hard breast man could appreciate!

I dropped the bra and touched her breasts, cupping them, lifting them, caressing them with my fingers and thumbs. My thumbs pressed her nipples back into her aureoles and then fished them out to tug and pull and twist at them. I could feel her breath quickening on my face and I dropped her breasts onto her chest.

Sitting down again in the chair, I told her that I loved the way her body looked and asked her to slowly turn around for me. She followed my instructions, even going so far as to lift her arms out into space as she slowly twirled for my inspection. I was loving every second of this show, and apparently she was as well.

When she had made a full circle and was again facing me, I pushed one foot out toward her feet and nudged them apart until I had them spread at perhaps a 30” distance from one another. She didn’t appear to be uncomfortable and stood there waiting for whatever was to come next.

I leaned forward and ran my hands up inside her legs from calf muscles to the tops of her thighs but never really touching her pussy at all. I teased her like this, rubbing and stroking with fingers and fingernails until she almost screamed at me, “Touch the fucking thing, will you; you are driving me fucking crazy!”

Laughing, I immediately pushed upward with my right hand and held her entire pussy in the palm. I squeezed, slowly, but tightly until I felt her fat lips expand and swell and fill my hand completely. I manipulated them and pulled them and tugged at them until I felt what I had been looking for: the first drops of her lubrication. She was excited and could not control her body.

“Well, look what we have here,” I said as I slid my palm back and forth on her pussy slit, coating it with her juice. “I guess I am going to taste you a bit closer to the source after all.” And I lifted my hand to my face and licked the palm clean, never taking my eyes off her face. Her own eyes were a bit cloudy and I immediately replaced my hand and began to work to spread her lips. Honestly, there was just too much flesh hidden there in that jet black forest for one hand to conquer. I looked up at her and asked her, “Use your fingers, dear; spread your pussy lips for me. I want to get closer to heaven.”




The Beast in Control Ch. 9



She seemed a bit taken back by my words, but slid her hands across her stomach and down into her V and pulled up and apart so that her hugely pink inner self now gleamed in the dim light of the shed. Her inner lips were dark rose-brown, a color I had never seen in my natural life. Beneath those inner lips, which looked delicious and rubbery and slickly wet, her velvety recess beckoned to me. I watched as it actually throbbed and moved, with the hole in the center opening and closing like the eye of some bright pink alien begging me to slide inside and be devoured.

I moved my right hand back between her thighs and slid it upwards, thumb first and plunged it deep inside her cunt. I did not stop the movement until the entire thumb was buried and the back of my wrist was pressing against her hidden clit. I cocked my thumb, moving it around inside her and rubbed her clit with the back of my wrist. She actually moaned when I did that and I could feel her slick wetness increase immensely.

“Like that?” I asked.

“Shit, yes; this isn’t what I had planned. You know how to touch a woman. Where did you ever learn that trick? I almost came when you punched your thumb in there.”

“Ms. Ramada, this is only the beginning,” I told her, and stood straight up, thumb stuck deep inside her cunt and lifted her off her feet with my other hand behind her back. I took three steps and slammed her down onto the small bed and immediately dove between her legs with my face, tongue extended and began to tongue-fuck her incredibly hairy pussy. I threw her legs over my shoulders and spread her thighs to their limits with my hands. I almost did not find the center of her cavern because of the huge hairy forest just outside, but when I slipped my tongue inside her and licked at every surface I could touch, she went rigid. I thought she was going to push me away with her legs, but I could not have been more wrong! She climaxed! Right there, from only a few touches and a beginning tongue-fuck, she came right into my face. Fluid raced onto my tongue and seeped out between my sucking lips to coat the hairs on my face with her fragrant nectars.

I pressed harder and deeper with my tongue and now used my two thumbs to pull at the top of her pussy lips, stretching them and revealing that fleshy hidey-hood that kept her love source hidden from the world. With a dozen or more wet licks and kisses, accompanied by constant tugging and spreading, her clit popped (actually popped) into view outside the silky sheath that usually contained her.

Without missing a stroke, I moved my tongue from her hole to her clit and flicked her about twenty or thirty times, ending with her hugely extended in my mouth. I pulled back at the feeling and took a good look. Christ! This woman had a miniature cock embedded at the top of her pussy! Honest to God, it was even shaped like a small cock with a separation between head and shaft. It was pearly pink-white and gleamed with a deliciously wet, slippery coating. I renewed my efforts to suck that tiny female cock into my mouth and clamped down on her with my lips while I sucked and flicked at the head with my tongue tip.

Ms. Ramada went into spasms. Her back arched, her hips slammed upward, pushing her cunt against my face, her legs began to tremble on my shoulders and her hands found the back of my head and grabbed the hair until it hurt, rubbing my face all over her messy wet cunt while I sucked at her clit.

I knew she was on the edge and bit down hard on the small intruder between my lips and listened to her scream. She screamed and screamed and tried to pull my face away, but I would not budge. Her pulling only served to stretch her already long clit even farther. She came again. Wet, messy, musky cum spread itself all over my face and I knew I had her in my control. I reached down with one hand and loosened my pants, allowing them to fall free of my body. I was rampantly hard and as long as I have ever been in my life.

As her back arched yet one more time for another thudding climax, I let go of her pussy and stood up between her thighs. In one, long, slippery insertion I thrust my cock deep inside her cunt. She screamed again and came until I thought she was going to pass out from the strain and not being able to catch her breath. My hairy cock was now imbedded as deeply as I could possibly shove it. My golden hair was interlocked with the jet-black bush she called pubic hair. I was fucking my Black English teacher.

She grunted as I hit bottom and her eyes flew open as if she had just realized what I was doing. Before she could get a word out of here mouth, I lifted her legs and pushed them back so that her knees were over her breasts and her cunt was pointing straight up. I slammed myself down with all my strength and heard the breath whoosh out of her mouth as I retreated for another stroke.

Pounding and pounding her cunt, I watched her eyes roll up in the back of her head as she let herself slide into oblivion. She was out. I pulled my wet, slimy cock out of her fuck hole and watched as the juices literally flowed out of her hole and down along the crack of her ass. I had plans for that ass, but not here and not now.

I walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled her by the shoulders to a point where her head was just off the edge of the bed and her mouth was pointing up at my dick. I rubbed the head on her lips and they opened of their own accord and accepted the head of my cock inside. I must admit, it felt wonderful.

A few strokes inside her mouth, a few rough pinches on her huge nipples, and I was ready for the next step in my plan.

I knelt beside her and woke her up. She was groggy and apologized for passing out. She said she had never done that before. I told her that she had never been fucked by an animal before.

Her eyes flew open and I smiled at her. I helped her up and began to gather her clothes for her. She walked to the other side of the shed and noticed the trap door in the floor. I had purposely left it slightly open so it would jut up above floor level and be easily seen.

“What’s this?” she wanted to know.

I told her that I was as surprised as she was and didn’t remember seeing it before. I leaned over and opened the door easily and the light from below streamed up, outlining her beautiful form as she bent to look. 

“Are you brave enough to go down and take a look around?” I asked. “It’s probably some sort of old bomb shelter from the 1960’s when the people around here thought the Russians were going to blow us up any minute. Let’s go look.”

I climbed down the ladder with all of her clothes in my hand and looked around. My other captives had heard the conversation, but did not know what was coming. Ms. Ramada asked what was there, and I told her it was exactly as I said, and to come down to take a good look. I told her there might even be a shower down here where we could clean up. I watched from below as Ms. Ramada turned and climbed down the ladder backwards. God, what a sight! That incredible ass and pussy right above my eyes. The pussy was still leaking juice that ran down her thighs in long rivulets. I had done a decent job, I congratulated myself.

When she reached the bottom, she turned around and took one step. Her eyes slammed into the top of her head as she saw the other four there and knew she had been tricked. First, she started toward them, crying out their names. Then, she stopped dead in her tracks knowing that she was to be added to the group in front of her.

At that very moment, I stepped up beside her with the can of chloroform spray, reached around her to cover her mouth and as she gasped through her nose, sprayed a huge quantity of the spray into her nostrils.

She collapsed where she had stood, in one soft, black heap of quivering flesh.

I left her there as I threw her clothes into the hamper at the side of the room and scurried back upstairs to make sure all was closed, locked and secured. I then slid back down the ladder, closing the door silently above me.

I turned slowly to survey the sight before me. One, two, three, four, ….. five. Yes, five. I now had acquired my fifth and final specimen. My collection was complete.

Now, for the mounting and the enjoyment of those specimens.