Marion's Way

It had been months in the planning.

His capacity for punishment, whether taking it or meting it out, was the stuff of lore.

In the gym, nobody pushed harder. Five nights a week he'd pound out eight kilometres on a Vision Fitness treadmill at 12km per hour, with the hill incline set to two so it accurately simulated the intensity of a road run.

He'd follow that with a full abdominal workout - 50 crunches, leg raises and two minutes of air bicycle – then repeat.

Mondays and Thursdays he'd focus on upper body – triceps, biceps, shoulders, chest and back. Tuesday and Friday were legs – calves, quad extensions and leg press, hamstring curls. Three sets of 15 and only then would he increase the weight.

Saturdays were just the run and a double abdominal workout, Wednesdays and Sundays were his days off.

It wasn't the most intense regime in the world, but for a guy that had spent his university years and his entire twenties putting the same kind of application into his drinking, it was something.

At the end of it, he'd take stock of himself on one of the gym's many mirrors.

The old style scales tattooed on his right bicep in stark black ink against his porcelain skin pleased him every time he looked at them, as did the etching on his rib cage, in flowing cursive script – the word 'free'.

He'd look at himself for a moment before running a hand through the closely shaved salt and pepper stubble on his head and walk to his car.

His friends called him 'the extremist'. Partly for his nature, this constant need to be pushing at something, chipping away at himself in some way. But it stretched back further than that, to high school – when as a budding young guitarist he worshipped the American rock virtuoso Joe Satriani. His favourite album of Satriani's was called, aptly, The Extremist, much to the amusement of his friends more content with the Top 40 of the day than some wailing instrumental guitar rock.

At 36, he seemed settled.

He'd worked at the department of public prosecutions since graduating from university with a law degree, and had finally made it to the level of prosecutor.

After serving as a junior for five years, he was now being entrusted with his own cases.

It was a job he loved, and he had put away car thieves, small scale drug dealers, muggers and thugs who had assaulted and beaten people.

He was coming up in the world, and one day he'd be asked to lead cases against rapists, murderers, drug traffickers and the like.

She knew most of this, because she watched and listened.

She was a widower, whose husband had dropped dead one morning on a golf course at the age of 46.

She'd watch him on his runs, as she read her New Weekly or Who on an exercise bike from the bank at the back of the gym.

She'd pedal, not particularly hard, but she'd pedal. She'd pedal and she'd watch.

She was a 54-year-old, pleasantly chubby up top, with red hair flecked with grey, but with strong, toned legs from all those hours spent on an exercise bike. Watching and planning.

One night she left a little early and sat in her car in the small, almost-empty car park. She must have sat there for 15 or 20 minutes until he emerged in his sweat-stained t-shirt and shorts and threw his bag in the back seat of his Ford Focus.

She waited for him to start backing out of his space before quickly reversing out of her own, clipping his car with her rear bumper.

The two of them stopped and locked eyes for a moment in their rear-view mirrors, not sure whose fault the accident had been.

They got out of their cars and met at their bumpers, still touching with the barest of damage to each.

"Oh shit," she said in an upper class English accent. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you."

He should have been angry, but after 8km on a treadmill and a sweat like the one he'd just worked up, it was hard to be angry at anything.

"Look, don't worry about it," he said. "I should have been looking, and I didn't see you either. How about we swap details and we'll get this sorted out."

He was tempted to just let it go, call it even and they could just each pay for their own cars to be fixed. But he'd only had one car accident before, much more severe, and going from that experience he knew better than to leave things to chance.

"Do you have your drivers' licence?" he asked.

"I don't, I'm sorry," she smiled apologetically. "I travel pretty light when I go to the gym. I'm just round the corner though. Gillies Street – you could follow me home and I'll give it to you."

He really just wanted to head home, shower and put his feet up. He had a long day of meetings ahead of him tomorrow, and needed the rest. But again, he thought, he should do the right thing.

"Alright, you lead the way," he smiled. He got back into his Focus and moved back into his space to let her exit the car park first.

Five minutes later he got out of his car outside a neat weatherboard home in Gillies Street, with a white picket fence and some neatly trimmed roses, and followed the woman up the driveway to the front door where she fumbled with her keys before opening.

"You must be bloody parched," she said, leading him through to the kitchen. "I think I've got a Gatorade in the fridge."

She went to the fridge and picked one of three bottles of blue Gatorade in there before handing it to him with a smile.

He opened it, not noticing that the seal was already broken, and drank quickly. He put away half of it on his first gulp and on the next swill there was barely a drop left as she pottered around the lounge trying to find her purse.

As she approached him and presented him with her driver's license, he felt his middle begin to float and at the same time his limbs began to feel heavy.

As he started to go, he looked up at her eyes and he liked the wrinkles they made when she smiled, but her smile was sad.

As his eyes fluttered open, the man he saw in the distance was naked and lying on a bare mattress, arms and legs spreadeagled.

He realised he was looking at his own reflection, in a large mirror mounted on the ceiling, when he saw that the man had an identical tattoo on his abdomen to his own.

This realisation came at precisely the instant he discovered his hands were lashed with thin leather straps to the metal headboard. Each foot had two thin girl's belts wrapped around them which were then secured tightly to the foot of the bed.

She didn't gag him because she knew he wouldn't cry out.

It took him a moment to come to his senses, and when he did he lifted his neck to see her standing at the doorway leading into the room, dressed in a white tank top and a pair of black knickers.

She began walking towards him slowly, sliding her thumbs under the waistband of the knickers and easing them off her hips. She kept walking as the knickers slowly tumbled to her bare feet and, when they got there, she stepped out of them casually, like she was discarding a towel on her way to the pool.

"My lord," she said. "You look absolutely divine."

He gave the straps securing his hands a check, but if he was truly honest with himself, his efforts were half-hearted. He didn't know what was happening, but he knew he didn't want to be anywhere else.

She stood by the side of the bed and looked him over, drinking in his musculature and those black tattoos. She ran her right hand over him, starting from his right foot, and worked her way up his leg, across his cock and up his abdomen before stroking his forehead and looking him in the eye.

Again, she looked sad, almost apologetic that things had come to this.

Almost with an air of resignation, she climbed on to the bed like a cat, and crawled to position her mouth over his cock, with her back to him.

He shut his eyes in anticipation of the contact, but there was none forthcoming.

He waited a long moment before he opened his eyes to find her head turned round and staring at him with a wicked grin.

"Oh, there'll be plenty of time for that," she said. "But first I'm going to get you to eat my arse."

The sentence was no sooner out of her mouth than she had thrown her arse onto his face, forcing his head back down onto the mattress. She shuffled up into position, using a hand to spread her buttocks apart and letting gravity grind her arsehole over his dry mouth.

"I want you to tongue my arsehole, please," she said, as if asking for a pint of milk at the local deli. "Put your fucking back into it and eat my arse."

He had never eaten a woman's arse before, although he loved eating pussy and had been curious to try it on occasion. He once had a girlfriend who liked to turn her back to him while she jerked him off, and he lifted his neck to try and taste it, only to be met with a stern 'no!'

So this was his first time, and the fact that he didn't have much choice in the matter only added to the thrill. He'd lap three or four times before she'd let her weight sink onto his face until he couldn't breathe, and then instinctively lift her buttocks up to let him drink in some sweet oxygen. Rinse and repeat.

"There's nothing quite like having your arsehole eaten, darling."

He grunted, and she moaned softly as her right hand began to work her clit over. He was enjoying the musky smells and tastes her arse had to offer, and his cock was standing to attention, absolutely rigid.

"It really is the most amazing feeling. All those little nerve endings down there being tickled, getting them all wet and slick."

He was tonguing her arse as if his life depended on it. For all he knew, it did.

"You know," she continued her monologue, "in 18 years of marriage my husband never once tongued my arsehole. Can you believe that? Not once. Claimed the thought of it repulsed him when I brought it up one night."

"Of course, he had mistresses my husband. Young things. He might have licked their arseholes, but never once with me. Not even when he was absolutely rat-arsed," she chuckled at her own double entendre.

She continued masturbating softly and driving her arsehole into his face, and he responded in the only way, he could – licking and probing her sweet, tight hole with his tongue until it became tired and sore.

Ha had no idea how much time had passed, he was so involved in proceedings, but after a while he looked up to find that that she had shed her tank top and was facing him, straddling him at his upper thighs, below his cock.

He took stock of her body, big tits that would look magnificent trussed up in a bra hung at the middle of her stomach, which was flecked – like her hips – with stretch marks. She continued to play with her pussy as she looked him in the eye.

"Do you like my body, lawyer man?"

He looked again. Sure he'd been with fitter, better conditioned bodies, but there was something about this woman's body he found irresistible and beautiful.

"It's beautiful," he said.

"Awwww... you're a sweet one, aren't you?"

She took his pulsing cock in her hand and peeled his foreskin back to reveal the head, which she sized up approvingly, as if a waiter had just put a piece of sirloin in front of her.

"Are you going to stay hard for me lawyer man? Or are you going to tell your friends in the police about how you ended up here? Well? Are you going to have me dealt with, lawyer man?"

He dropped his eyes as she smiled at him, knowing there was no way he'd be telling anyone about this.

Suddenly, with the same violence of movement with which she had thrust her arse into his face, she yanked his cock down and climbed on top of it, shoving it inside her, while the sudden sensation against his exposed head caused him to squeak involuntarily and writhe against the leather.

He'd never felt a cunt quite like it, and it was certainly not what he'd imagined from a woman of her vintage. It was tight, tight as he imagined her beautiful arsehole would be, and she drew him into her as deeply as she could.

She slowly worked up a rhythm until she was fucking him with a vengeance, as he tried to fight the urge to come.

She started to moan deeply, her orgasm building to a frightening crescendo as she ground her pussy backwards and forwards against his erection. When she was a few beats away she began to look dreamy and looked down at his eyes.

"Are you going to come for me lawyer man?"

He nodded.

"You make sure you fill me up, lawyer man...ahhh..."

She couldn't finish the thought before she began gasping and coming in jagged spasms, grunting like a shot putter as she got there, while he – free from the constraints of making her come – let himself go and fired jet after jet into that beautiful pussy, like a schoolboy jerking off over his first Playboy.

She used him like that several more times throughout the night, turning on a small lamp when it became too dark to see, and he loved every last minute of it.

At about 4am she smiled her sad smile again and got off him.

She went through to the kitchen and returned with another bottle of Gatorade and a funnel.

He became concerned and wanted to ask what she was doing, but she sat beside his head and held his nose.

When he opened his lips for air she jammed the funnel between his teeth and, with enough force that she almost made him gag, drove it deep down into his mouth.

He struggled against the leather, but there was no give and there was nothing he could do when she smiled at him sadly again and poured the bottle of Gatorade into the funnel, easing it into him in five goes until he'd consumed every drop.

"You were wonderful," she said, and as he started to float off again he saw the lines around her sad eyes as she stroked his head. The last thing he saw as his head lolled to the side before he drifted into darkness, was the red rawness of her sweet English cunt.

When he came to he was in the passenger seat of his Focus, parked in his usual spot outside his apartment. He felt groggy, and wasn't sure if what had happened had been a dream.

Only when he began to move, and felt the dull throb in his cock and balls, did he realise that it was real, and he saw the marks around his wrists to confirm his suspicions.

The sun was rising and birds were singing in the trees as he mounted the steps to his apartment and contemplated his own depravity and that of his partner. He thought of his meetings today, and he wondered if people would be able to peer into his eyes and see the twisted dreams and longings he had for this woman.

Most of all, he wondered if he'd ever get to be used by her again, and whether he'd once again get to lick her beautiful, tight arsehole.

Later that night he drove round to the house on Gillies Street and parked in the driveway before knocking on the door.

There was no answer, so he had a look in the window to discover the place bare. No furniture, no fridge – nothing. It had been stripped. He went round the back and discovered the room he'd been kept in. He could see in through a window, whereas during his captivity the blinds had been tightly drawn. It too was bare – no mirror, no mattress, no lamp, but looking at the size of the room, the walls and the floor, which he'd only seen reflected in the mirror, he was sure it was the same place she'd had him.

He was starting to doubt his own mind, when he saw them over in one corner of the room, bunched up and discarded. A pair of black, lacy knickers.

He looked around quickly and tried the window, which was unlocked, so he opened it and jumped inside, practically running across the room to get to them.

He picked them up and held them to his face, drinking in the sweet smells of her pussy and arse still lingering on them, thinking that if this was all he could take of her then it would be enough. That, and his memories, would be enough.

As he tried to inhale the fabric like a man possessed, he looked down at the hardwood floor and saw a small rectangle of white plastic card which had been underneath the panties.

He picked it up and stared in wonder, and growing excitement, for a moment at what it said.

'Marion', with a mobile number underneath.

He had another quick glance around the room, stuffed the card and the knickers in his pocket and climbed out through the open window, butterflies in his stomach and grateful to be alive.