The Misogynist Ch. 04

Cheryl was waiting upstairs in a ninth floor hotel suite completely naked. Turner had managed to talk her into it. Getting her out of her clothes wasn't going to be his crowning achievement, but it was his biggest step yet.

He'd go upstairs slowly. There was no hurry for what was lying ahead. The longer he kept her waiting the better it was for him. This stage of his plan was a simple one. She was naked, and waiting. He was dressed, and moving. The longer he took to reach her the less sure her situation became. Every minute longer it took him the greater the erosion of her poise and confidence. In many ways just knowing some woman's self-esteem was crumbling was a sexual tonic. He didn't have to see her; just thinking about it was aphrodisiac enough.

He loved hurting them, women. This woman was going to be a special delight. He was going to win $2,000.00. He was going to degrade, humiliate, and corrupt a worthless bitch, and he suspected he'd be tormenting his friend Martin who he suspected had special feelings for the bitch meat upstairs.

He'd study her body. He'd stare at her. That always crumpled their confidence. He'd point out how much he loved what she had to offer. Then he'd take her. He'd fuck her in as many ways as he could. She'd be helpless. All her clothes, her personal papers, her cell phone, everything would be unavailable to her. He'd have complete control, total authority. He'd even have the hotel phone turned off. She'd know she was under his complete control, she'd see it, and she'd understand all its implications, but she'd pretend it wasn't true. She'd pretend it was something she wanted as much as he did. He might keep her locked away in the hotel for several days, probably not but it was a thought. For him it would be fun, and for her? Well for her, she'd have her childish fantasies.

Turner stood outside the ninth floor suite where Cheryl was waiting. A housekeeper, a woman, had gone in to obtain her clothes. The housekeeper stepped back in the hall and handed the clothing to Turner. After giving her a parsimonious tip he took the clothing across the hall into the second suite he'd secured. He examined her apparel. He was surprised by the sizes. She was indeed a lot smaller than when they'd first met. He considered; if she'd been taking their relationship seriously enough to lose so much weight she'd be ready for a lot more.

He went through her purse and her wallet. He checked her credit cards, jotted down their numbers, and stashed that information in his own wallet. One never knew.

And in what he considered a last pointless check he opened her cell phone. Out of curiosity he checked her most recent phone calls. It was an interesting observation! Her last outgoing and last incoming messages had been with Martin! He had suspected something between Cheryl and Martin, but knowing Martin's usual reluctance to join him when he was fucking over some girl he'd doubted his, so-called, friend would ever go against the grain. Martin was his gopher, his dog.

What could these messages infer in the twisted prurient mind of a sick sociopathic monster like Turner? Were Martin and Cheryl more than just two people playing out their respective roles in Turner's malignant fantasies, or were they merging into something different, uniquely theirs, an item perhaps? Whether they really were or not it mattered very little. Turner had already come to the only conclusion his warped mind could ever have reached. These two were more than what met the eye. He knew he had Cheryl and now with Martin interested in her he had even more reason to fuck her over. Then there was Martin. Martin, he thought, Martin had to be dealt with too, and he knew how. The instrument of Martin's torture was just across the hall. Turner laughed. His laugh degenerated into a fiendish giggle. Yes! While he tortured and tormented the bitch, he would see that Martin had a front row seat. He'd ruin Cheryl, turn her into a whimpering groveling whore bitch, and he'd see to it his best friend got to watch every single little twist and turn.

Turner had to calm down. He couldn't let his anger get the best of him, not just yet. There was the whore in the other room. He had to lay the groundwork, all the groundwork, and he had to do it well. From now on he had not one, but two shits to fuck.

Turner checked the mirror. He re-combed his hair, adjusted his tie, unbuckled his pants and re-tucked his shirt. He was going in. He wanted to look cool, calm, collected, and most of all in control. Cheryl was naked, totally. He was fully and neatly dressed. She was vulnerable, helpless, weak, and dependent. He was strong, powerful, and dominant.

Cheryl took up position on the sofa facing the door. Turner was on his way. Some maid or housekeeper had already and picked up everything she owned. Oh, she figured she might still be able to run in the bathroom grab a towel and run down the hall, or maybe wrap one of the bed covers around her naked torso and flee to the elevator. She'd seen that sort of thing in old movies. They were all very funny. She didn't feel funny.

Sitting on the sofa she never felt more stupid, more out of sorts, more exposed. Why had she done this? She should have paid closer attention to Martin. Yes, she loved Turner. He was her sun, her moon, her stars, but was this really the kind of thing a man in love would do? Was he the romantic she imagined, or was it something else?

She had to think! No! Turner was real! Martin had been jealous. Turner was the real McCoy! He loved her. This was just his way. He was the true romantic. Martin was the jealous harpy. She'd imagined a man like Turner, the hero, the knight, the rescuer. This night would prove it! Tonight he would prove his love! But why had he insisted on this? Why did she have to sit here, in this strange room, alone, completely naked, and absolutely helpless?

Cheryl was about to bail out. There was still the hotel phone. She reached for the receiver. She'd call downstairs for someone to bring her some clothes. She'd call Martin back! The receiver was dead! Jesus! What should she do next? She looked forward, toward the door. She heard something! Someone! Her stomach was tied in a million knots! The handle of the door began to turn. There it was. It opened. Into the living room of the high rise hotel suite walked Turner, her Turner!

He opened the door to Cheryl's suite. He walked in slowly and casually. There she was, seated on the sofa just like he planned. She had one hand covering her snatch, while the other she had draped over her breasts. He could tell she was hoping to display a pose of calm relaxed indifference, but she was still trying to cover as much as she could. Inwardly he chuckled. They were all always so stupid. She was trying to relax, but that look was one of tension, uncertainty, and maybe a little fear. Good! That was as it should be. His next objectives: undermine the little bit of self-confidence she still had, increase her dependence upon him, and then get all three cherries!

"Cheryl." He said her name softly, lovingly. He walked over to her place on the sofa. For just a second he stood over her, looking down. He smiled. He knelt in front of her. He knelt at chest level just at her knees without touching her. "Cheryl please move your hands away from your body."

She made no move to do anything.

He leaned forward, placing his hands on the sofa, on either side of her hips, still not touching. He leaned forward close enough so their lips were almost touching. He could see the fear, the tension written all over her face. "I see you're scared." He reached forward and gently touched her brow. He very carefully wiped some stray locks of hair away from her face. "Calm down." He pulled his hand back. "There look. You made me touch you, and I promised I wouldn't." He leaned back a little.

Cheryl wanted to get out of the situation. It was a mistake. "Turner I."

He interrupted her. "May I please sit down beside you?"

That took a tiny bit of the edge off, not much, but enough for Cheryl to begin to think. "Yes."

He sat next to her, still not touching. She was facing the front door. "Cheryl look at me."

Cheryl slowly turned her head.

"Cheryl it's only me, Turner. I see you're scared. Don't be. I just want to see you. Look at you." He gave her what he hoped was his most calming reassuring smile. He considered what he had, a real deer, a real rabbit. He tried to take her hand to hold it, but she pulled it away.

"No. Don't." She summoned all her courage. "I want my clothes. I want to leave."

He wasn't surprised. His tone became a little more forceful. "Cheryl look at me."

She turned and looked at him. "I can't stay. I want to go home."

She was right on schedule. He'd heard all this before. "Darling." They always liked that. "No. I can't let you leave, not yet." He started to stand up. He held up his left hand as though he was pointing something out. "I rented the room right across the hall. All your things are just fifteen feet away." He saw he had her full attention. Her eyes were boring right into him, pupils fully dilated, still afraid, still ready to run. "Stay seated right where you are. I'm going to turn this sofa around. I don't know if you noticed there's a television right behind us. I'll turn the sofa around, we'll turn on the television, and we can watch TV and talk. No touching, no advances, and no sex or anything like that. Just two people on the sofa watching TV and having a conversation." He could tell she was listening, but she was still scared for shit. "Hey listen. Once I get the sofa turned around I'll go into the bedroom, and bring out a blanket for you. Would you like that?"

Wide eyed, corneas filling with fluid, Cheryl nodded her head.

Turner got up, lifting one end of the sofa he turned it around to face the television. Without looking at Cheryl, the television, or anything else he went straight to the bedroom, got a blanket, and brought it out. Walking toward Cheryl he opened it and shook it out. "Here you go sweetheart."

She took the blanket and wrapped it around her body. That felt a lot better. He called her sweetheart. That was kind of nice. She breathed a slow, almost inaudible sigh.

Turner heard the soft sigh. Yes! He turned on the television, picked up the menu and remote control, went back, and sat down on the couch beside the girl. He handed her the menu and the remote. "Here. Why don't you pick out something we can watch? I'll be right back."

She looked up at him as he got up.

"I'm a little nervous, and I think I need to go to the bathroom." He did need the bathroom, but not because he was nervous. His trip to the John was a matter of natural necessity, but he knew his claim to nervousness would get her mind off herself.

While Turner went to the toilet Cheryl rummaged through the television menu looking for something safe they could both watch. She felt a little better. She had the blanket for cover, and the television gave her something to do. She listened for Turner in the bathroom. So he was nervous too. That made her feel better.

He came back out. He'd taken off his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "Did you find anything?"

"Have you ever watched this Show Time show?" She pointed to one of their most popular situation comedies. It had been on for several years, won numerous awards, was a little over the top sexually, but was hugely entertaining.

He looked at her choice. He'd never seen it. "God I love that show!"

"OK." She hit the remote button, found the channel, and together they leaned back to watch a middle aged housewife get in and out of trouble.

The show was hysterical. They both laughed as the heroine got into and out of scrape after scrape. Slowly Cheryl started to loosen up. She even let the blanket slip down a little, revealing some breast.

Turner asked. "Would you like something to eat or drink."

Cheryl wondered how he would get anything. She knew the phone was dead. "Sure."

Turner picked up the hotel phone, discreetly pushing the off/on button that was under the stand up phone back to the 'on' setting. He called down to the kitchen and asked for some crab balls, chicken wings, and two bottles of white wine. He asked Cheryl. "Is there anything you'd especially like?"

"No that's fine." She continued to watch the end of the sitcom. She silently marveled that the phone worked for him and not for her, but she kept it to herself not wanting to let on she'd tried to use the phone.

They continued to watch television until the foodstuffs arrived. Like a gentleman Turner went to the door, tipped the waiter and rolled the snack cart near Cheryl was but not quite close enough for her to reach it.

"Allow me." He popped open a bottle of wine. Poured two glasses, and handed her one.

Cheryl, clutching the blanket in one hand reached out and took the glass in the other.

Turner fixed her a plate of food. "I see you have your hands full." He took his fingers and started to hand feed her. He held out a crab ball, and she took it on her mouth. "They're good aren't they?'

Cheryl chewed the tiny morsel and nodded her head. He gave her two more. She sipped some of the wine, but continued to clutch the blanket.

He smiled. "You look like Linus in Charlie Brown."

Cheryl laughed nervously. "It's chilly." It wasn't, she was just scared.

"Cheryl. Honey. We came here so you could show me your body."

She stared at him.

"Would you drop the blanket down just a little. I'd like to see your breasts."

At first she clung tighter, but after a second's thought she slowly let the blanket slip to her lap.

He marveled at her breasts, their size, their shape, her aureoles, and nipples. They really were beautiful breasts. He told her. "You have beautiful breasts Cheryl." He wanted to grab, squeeze, and twist them, but knew that had to wait. "They're shaped perfectly. May I?" He went to touch one, but she recoiled slightly.

He pulled his hand back. "That's OK." He kept talking. "They have a rounded delicate shape, like a fully ripened pear." He saw she was nervous about the comment. "That's how a perfect breast should look." He went on. "You're aureoles have perfect color. They're a beautiful dark brown, and your nipples are mouth watering. They're slightly distended, but not excessively so. You have perfect breasts Cheryl. I knew you would."

She was warming to the compliments, but still chary of anything more.

Turner asked. "May I touch them, please?"

She seemed to stiffen. "You promised."

"I know. I'm sorry, but you're just so, just so perfect. It's hard not to want to touch anything so beautiful."

She whispered. "Well OK. Don't come too close."

Turner reached forward and gently started to touch her right breast. Using only one hand he took his fingertips and drew circles around its edges near where her breast started to protrude from her chest. He drew slightly smaller circles gradually closing in on her dark brown aureole. He lightly touched it. He took the palm of his hand and softly passed it over her nipple. He felt it slightly engorge. She felt it too.

Cheryl tried to keep up the fantasy that nothing was out of ordinary, but the sensations she was feeling from his fingers and hand were all so new. It was a little dizzying.

Turner asked. "Cheryl can I kiss you?"

She supposed things were pretty much under control. She could hold out until it was real late, claim fatigue, get the bedroom while he got the couch. Then tomorrow morning he'd get her clothes, and they would be on their way to whatever came next. A kiss didn't seem unreasonable. "Yes. I suppose so."

Turner put his right arm above her shoulders using the back of the sofa. He leaned forward to kiss her. She leaned in his a direction to meet the kiss. In was a long luxuriant kiss. Turner and she had practiced this, and he knew she could handle it. While he kissed his left hand was still busy gently swiping over her right breast.

He kissed her once, leaned back, and leaned in for a second kiss. She demurred.

Shit. This was going to be harder than he thought. It might not work. "What's wrong?"

"I'm. I'm just not ready."

"Cheryl what are you supposed to be ready for? I'm just kissing you. I'm only just barely touching one lovely breast. I just love looking at you, kissing you, touching you. I'm asking for so little."

"I know but."

He interrupted. "No one's making any demands. No pressure."

She tremulously replied. "I know."

He looked at her tenderly. "Girlfriend?"

She didn't say anything.

He tried again. "Sweetheart?"

She sat stiffly still.

Turner knew he had to do something or he'd ejaculate in his pants. There was only one way to win tonight, and that was to surrender. "OK. Wait here."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get your clothes."

"Why? Are you angry?"

"No not angry. Disappointed maybe. Feeling betrayed a little maybe, but not angry."

"I'm sorry Turner. I'm trying."

"I know." He was up and heading for the front door.

Cheryl got up, wrapped the blanket around her self and followed him. She felt horrible. She was letting him down. She was afraid she might lose him. He'd been a complete gentleman. She was backing out. What was she afraid of? This was Turner. Her Turner. "I'm sorry Turner. I'm just not ready."

"It's OK." He was going to lose the fucking bet after all.

He walked across the room, opened the door, stepped across the hallway and retrieved her clothes. Turning he walked back to where Cheryl was hiding in the blanket. He re-crossed the hall and reentered her suite. He kept thinking, all this fucking work for nothing! He reopened the door to her suite. She was standing, slightly leaning against the back of the couch. The blanket was wrapped around her waist. She was giving him a standing full frontal view of her breasts. No lower body yet, but he sensed pay dirt. He dropped her purse on the table and tossed her clothes out in the hallway. He moved directly to Cheryl. He swept her up in his arms. "Cheryl" He used a soft hoarse whisper, his best gimmick.

"Turner please forgive me. I'm so scared."

He held her close against him. He kissed her deeply. Bending slightly forward he lifted her and started to carry her to the larger of the two bedrooms. The blanket dropped to the floor. He'd already seen to it that the bed spread had been pulled down. He carried her in and laid her gently on the bed. "Don't be afraid Cheryl. It's me Turner. It's only me, and I love you." He'd saved the best for last.

Cheryl looked up at Turner. Her's was a face of pure innocence completely free of guile. "Don't hurt me." She held out her arms, lips puckered, tentatively waiting for a kiss.

He kept screaming to himself. Home Run! Home Run! He started kissing her all over. He kissed her face, her neck, her shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her and slowly started working his way down toward her breasts. They were big, but firm. Lying on her back he could see there was no droop or slack. He kissed around the top of her right breast. In no hurry. He knew the slightest slip up and he'd be back to ground zero.

Cheryl was scared to death. This was all so new, too new. She tried to gently push him away. It still wasn't too late.

He felt the pressure. He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear. "Girlfriend."

She was so scared but responded. "Boyfriend."

He softly murmured. "Love."

There was that word again. She whispered. "Love."

He was careful from then on, but he knew it was in the bag. They lay on the bed, and kissed. He slowly, ever so slowly took off his own clothes. She barely noticed his transformation.

He had her on her back He lay partially atop and partially beside her. His right arm was behind her head softly caressing her neck and hair. His fingers gently tickled up and down the nape of her neck. He could feel her hackles rise. His left hand started to slowly rub up and down the right side of her body. Slowly he worked his way back to her right breast. He carefully swirled his left hand around her breast in ever tightening circles until he reached her aureole. He pulled her slightly forward and placed a tender kiss on her right nipple. He felt her shiver. He heard her sigh. It was time for more bullshit. "I love you Cheryl. I love you."