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.

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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.”