The Predator Ch. 08

I was sleeping soundly when my goddam cell phone rang. It's probably a good thing I didn't reach it on the first grab or I'd have just thrown it. It had been a GOOD dream.

I reached down and got a handful of Doris's hair and gently pulled her off my cock and then fumbled and found the phone.

"Hel....." I started, cleared my throat, and started again.

"Hello," I said.

"Ummmm, hi," a voice said, "is this David?"

"Yes," I said, still not awake enough to say anything cute.

"Ummmmm," the voice said, obviously an older woman, "the David who put that sign up on the bulletin board at the senior center?"

Finally, my mind made the connections.

"Yes," I said, getting into the call now, "no job too small, some jobs too big," I said and then sort of grunted as Doris squirmed around and had me in her mouth again.

"Oh," she said and I heard a little giggle, "well, ummm, my ceiling fan is dead."

I waited.

"Is that something you can take care of?" she finally asked.

"Well," I said, gathering myself together, Doris was actually getting pretty fucking good with her mouth, "that depends. Is it an emergency?"

The voice giggled then, a high-pitched, tinkly sound, making me smile.

"No, it's not an emergency," she said, "but I use it all the time."

"Okay," I said, wanting to end this phone call and concentrate on what Doris was doing, "what's your name and address. I'll run by in a while."

"This is Madonna Robbins," she said, her voice a bit proper, "and my address is," and she read off an address.

"Will you be home this morning?" I asked.

"All morning," she said.

"Okay," I said, "I'll be by in a couple of hours."

I hit "end" and laid back, stroking Doris's hair, enjoying her new skill level.

She took me along very slowly, using her tongue as if she had been doing this all of her life. Each slow stroke as she pulled off, her tongue caressing, almost holding, my cock was a separate blast of pleasure.

"That's right, baby," I said softly, stroking her hair, make it last for both of us.

And she did. Damn, I should hire myself out as a tutor. When she finished me, and I really don't know how long it took, she pulled off quickly and accepted the produce of my oversized prostate gland on her face and in her hair, her hand lightly stroking to keep me going.

Damn, I really should hire myself out as a tutor.

When she laid back I rolled out of bed quickly.

She looked absolutely stunning. Her face was a mask of my semen, with more hanging from her hair.

"Hold that thought, sweet cheeks," I said, "while I go see what my new client wants."

"Really," she said, pouting.

"Yes, really," I said, "business calls. Do you know this Madonna Robbins?"

She smiled at that. "Oh, I know her," she said, "she should be plenty harmless. Just an old widow woman who lives out of town."

I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, ran a brush through my hair, peed, and went back to the bed. I bent and kissed her, jumping back before she could grab me, and said "Hold that thought."

In my little car, I keyed the address she had given me into Google Maps and started following the blue line. The line led me north, and then west, into some very pretty country. Right at the base of the first range of mountains was a turn-off and since Dr. Google proudly announced "arrived at your destination" I turned down it. Another half-mile of dirt road, making me wonder about my little sports car's capabilities, there it was. A very nice little ranch with a white frame house, red barn, a couple of outbuildings, a white fenced pasture, and some miscellaneous agricultural-looking equipment scattered about. I'm a creature of the city and really can't say I recognized any of it.

As I pulled up in front of the house a woman walked out on the porch.

I got out of the car and started toward her.

She surprised me with a very high, clear voice when she said, "that's not the kind of truck I expected a handyman to be driving."

I chuckled and said, "I don't claim to be a contractor."

"Well," she said, "come on in."

She was really a tiny woman, barely over 5 feet tall and, if I had to guess, about 90 pounds. She dressed as if it was still the 1950s in one of those full collar angora sweaters, a torpedo bra for her oversized breasts (assuming they were real), toreador pants that I'm sure she called pedal pushers, and very white tennis shoes. I guessed her deep in her 70s although I also thought properly made up she could pass for 50.

In her front room, she turned on the offending ceiling fan and I could hear, immediately, what she was talking about. It worked, but the bearings groaned and anyone at all familiar with anything mechanical knew that it wouldn't be long before it seized up.

"Okay," I said, "there ain't no fixing that. It's definitely repair-by-replacement."

"Where can I get one?" she asked.

"Oh," I said, "no problem. There's a Lowe's in Pueblo. Ace might even have it in Salida. Wanna take a ride and we can see."

"Oh my," she said, "now that is service. Yes, thank you. Give me just a minute."

She headed upstairs and was back in a few seconds, smiling, saying, "ready."

She had a little purse in her hand and her thin hair was caught in a hairband, adding to her lost-in-the-50s-look.

When I had her in the little car, noticing that she knew how to get in, she smiled at me looking oddly young and asked if we could put the top down. So I chuckled, reached over, moved the two little handles, and gave a push.

She actually giggled when I had it down.

"I'm 73," she said, conversationally as I got in the driver's seat, "and it's been decades since I was in a convertible."

I flashed The Grin and said, "well, I'm happy to oblige. Now buckle up."

A Fiat 124 Spyder is kind of a classic sports car, more along the lines of the MG-TC and TDs and occasional Jaguar XK-150s that made it home after World War II than a more sophisticated, powerful speedster like a Corvette. Oh, it'll do 100 on a flat road, but that's about it. But since your butt is only about six inches off the ground, it feels much faster. Similarly, any modern sedan can pull more Gs on a skidpad, but it handled well enough. With that five-speed transmission, dual overhead cams, and an exhaust system that allowed a bit of exhaust burble to join in with the pleasant mechanical sounds from upfront, it's great fun even if not a rational transportation appliance.

It worked on her. As soon as we started moving with the wind blowing her hair she started smiling in what can only be called an ear-to-ear smile. She put on a pair of sunglasses, very heavy framed, something else from the 1950s.

It's a noisy car, especially with the top down, so I didn't try for a conversation. I did drive a little faster than I usually do, putting the little car through its paces. That smile stayed.

In town, and much slower, she had her arm leaning on the door, looking like a teenager, looking around and I couldn't help thinking hoping she would see someone so she could wave from the little red car.

At the Ace store, I hopped out and ran around the car, and opened the door for her. I offered my hand which she took, her small thin fingers feeling like delicate sticks in my larger hand. When she stood she was a little breathless and I thought I caught a hint of aroused womanscent in the air. She smiled and I smiled back, and I wasn't surprised at all when she grabbed my arm in that possessive way women have.

Inside the guy at the counter greeted her by name, "Good morning Mrs. Robbins," he said, "haven't seen you in a while."

He was easily 50 and since he called her "Mrs." I assumed she had been a babysitter or maybe a teacher.

"Well good morning to you, Ronald," she said, a little breathlessly, solidifying my evaluation of their former relationship as teacher/student.

"Do you have ceiling fans?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "we have a few," and he came out from behind the counter and started leading us, "but down at The Place for Now they have a bigger selection."

"I should have thought of that," she said, "but let's see what you have."

In the back of the store, there was a display of a half dozen ceiling fans with a variety of lighting included. She looked and hummed and fiddled and I knew she wasn't going to buy any of them.

All of the time she kept her hand on my arm.

In the end, she said, "thank you, dear, but I think I will go look at The Place for Now. If I can't find anything I like better, well," and she pointed at a basic fan/light on display, "I suppose that will do."

He smiled and said, "the customer is always right."

In the parking lot, I opened the door and held her hand as she got in the car, and then we were off again.

The Place for Now is one of those boutique stores that can always be found in places where tourist money flows in. As locals find themselves suddenly with more money than they are used to, the urge to upgrade seems to kick in. Tourist towns will always have a high percentage of high-end cars of course, but it's also found in their houses. They want the newest doodads and so the boutique stores spring up to feed that need. The Place for Now was typical in this regard. Lots of chrome and glass and mirrors and odd shapes were on display.

We walked back to the lighting section and looked at the dozen or so ceiling fans on display. Any one of them would have been at home on a hillside, glass-fronted home in Los Angeles or, more relevant here I suppose, over the mountains in Aspen. None were even remotely appropriate for her house though.

"Well," I said, "the one from Ace or are we heading for Pueblo?"

She smiled and said, "really? Pueblo," like it was a big trip.

"Sure," I said, "but I AM on the clock you understand."

"Oh," she said, and she smiled up, "and how much is this going to cost me?"

"Tell you what," I said, taking her hands in mine, "I like you so I'll flat rate the day at $120 and we'll have your house breezy before I go home."

"Done!" she said quickly and headed for the door.

"You buy lunch and gas too," I said and she giggled over her shoulder.

At the edge of town, I stopped and got gas.

"Go pee," I said, "you'll enjoy the ride more if it's not interrupted."

She giggled again but headed into the little convenience store while I was pumping the gas.

I called Doris as soon as Madonna was out of sight.

"Change of plans, sugar," I said when she answered, "I'm going to be tied up all day?"

"Oh?" she said, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

"Yes, 'oh'," I said, allowing a bit of annoyance to slip into my voice, "and don't wash your face. But you should have some interesting pictures before I come home," I said, and hit "end."

She was coming out of the store as I was going in. I thought she had a bit of spring in her step. I peed, paid, got a couple of bottles of Gatorade, a fudge brownie, and headed for the car.

She had managed to get in all on her own, so I hopped in, opened the Gatorade and brownie, handed her a bottle and a half of a brownie, and we were off.

Highway 50 from Salida to Pueblo, following as it does the Arkansas River, is not exactly the Nurburgring, but it's a fun drive with enough twists and turns to make it interesting. The final run, from Canon City to Pueblo is pretty flat and straight and I ran the little car up to 80 which feels like well over a hundred. As we slowed and passed Pueblo West I glanced over and saw that she was flushed, hair a mess, and smiling broadly.

I headed for Lowe's and walked her in. She held onto my arm very possessively. I knew I had bagged another cougar.

In the lighting section, with its dozens of ceiling fans and light fixtures, she seemed overwhelmed. Eventually, I guided her to a nice fan, size appropriate for the room, in a sort of antique style with some filagrees on the housing, in an antique brushed brass finish. I explained to her that the shiny brass she favored would probably make her nuts, or tempt her up a ladder to polish it, and I didn't want her hip broken. She giggled when I patted that hip.

At Gray's Coors, the home of the best "sloppers" in Pueblo, a big hamburger served open-faced smothered in green chili, I ordered a pitcher of beer and two sloppers.

"Haven't seen you around lately David," the hostess, appropriately named Maria, a very fat, very pretty woman, the wife of Jesus, the owner, said.

"I moved up to Salida," I said, and made the formal introductions. "Maria, this is my new best girl Madonna. Madonna, this is Maria, the REAL owner of this place and easily the best restaurant manager in Pueblo."

Maria leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, but loud enough I could hear easily, "you be careful with this one honey."

Madonna had a bit of deer in the headlights look as I seated her.

"Relax," I said, "enjoy."

"David," she said, "I'm, well, overwhelmed."

I smiled, stood, and offered her my hand.

"Got five dollars?" I asked.

She looked puzzled but opened her little handbag, and handed me a $5 bill.

"Come on," I said, offering my hand.

We went to the jukebox, I fed it the bill, and we stood side by side looking at the selections. I didn't hesitate and punched in A8, the Righteous Brothers' incomparable version of "Unchained Melody."

We spent her $5 and when we started back to the table I caught her hand and leaned down, my lips very close to her ear, and whispered, "you know what would make this lunch interesting? If you were to go into the bathroom and when you came back you gave me your panties."

When I leaned back her eyes were, as they say, "HUGE," and I thought I had overplayed my hand.

But then she smiled and said, "excuse me for a minute, dear."

I stood when she came back to the table and seated her like a proper gentleman. Just as my mother had taught me. She sat for a moment, her hands out of sight in her lap, and then took a deep breath and handed me her panties.

She was blushing furiously as I folded them carefully and used them as if they were a handkerchief to wipe my face. I liked the faint, clean womanscent they carried.

"I've never," she started but I stopped her by holding up my hand.

"Do you want them back?" I asked holding her eyes.

Her blush got even redder, something I would not have thought possible, and she said, in a very small voice, "no."

I patted her hand and said, "then enjoy."

I could tell she was struggling to keep up a conversation as I asked her about her background, what she and her husband had done, and was she keeping what was obviously a farm or a ranch (as I said, I'm a city boy and not really clear on what the difference might be). You know. You can cut a few yards of that conversation and fill in the blanks. Pure pickup bullshit. But I could tell I was getting to her.

The lunch was, as always at Gray's, excellent. The beer was cold, the sloppers delicious. And as she warmed up, the conversation was interesting.

On the way back up to Salida, she had me stop in Canon City. So I topped off the tank, checked the oil (my little Italian beauty was a bit thirsty for that stuff), and went in to pee.

When I got back to the car she was already in it, so I just got in and started it up.

She touched my arm and I looked over.

She was holding out her bra, a heavy thing, surprising me not at all by being sturdy white cotton.

She didn't say anything and her blush was scarlet.

I grinned and hung the bra over my mirror by a strap. The damn thing was big enough to cause me some vision issues but if you're going to make a point you need to make the point.

"You," I said, touching her gently right between the eyes, "are a very naughty girl."

She giggled and the blush, which had been fading, returned. But she didn't ruin the mood by saying anything.

As I pulled out of the gas station, I was smiling and decided I would see how far I could push this cunt.

At the first pull off west of Canon City, I pulled off.

"Take off your sweater," I said, flashing The Grin just a brightly as I could, "get the full convertible experience."

"DavIDDD," she said, her voice rising.

I turned up the wattage of The Grin a bit more. "You'll enjoy it, I promise," I said.

Her eyes held mine, but she did not move.

"Come on," I said, "tits in the wind."

I think it was the coarse language that finally got her. She took a deep breath, leaned forward (no shoulder belt in a 1975 Fiat 124 Spyder), and peeled off the sweater.

"Damn," I said softly, "nice tits, toots."

She giggled as I pulled back onto the road and headed up the highway.

And they were nice tits. Surprisingly nice for a woman in her 70s. They sagged, of course, but not as much as you might expect. The glands were full and heavy. But the thing that caught my eye first was her nipples and areolas. The areolas were large, very dark tan circles, and her nipples were huge, two-inch-long hot dogs drooping from their own weight. When I glanced over I saw a white drop form and fall onto her jeans.

It was my turn to squirm, adjusting myself so my sudden erection fit properly in my pants.

When I looked over she was smiling, a knowing smile.

I grinned, a legitimate grin, and enjoyed the rest of the ride.

In town, I could see her tense up a little, but she didn't try to hide or anything silly. She giggled a little when she waved at someone on the sidewalk before we got back on the road heading for her place.

At her house I had my cellphone in my hand, the camera function ready, when I opened the door.

"Smile," I said and took the first picture as she was turning, still tits in the wind.

"Oh," she sort of gasped but then she did smile, arched her back, thrusting those big tits out.

I took about 10 pictures quickly as she got out of the car. They really were spectacular tits.

Inside, she came to me, smiling.

"Surprised?" she said.

"Actually, yes," I said, reaching down, touching one of those white drops on her nipple and then touching it to my tongue.

She giggled.

"That's what happens when you get knocked up young, have six more, and decide you and your husband enjoy them almost as much as the kids," she said.

I gave her nipple a tweak, split streams of milk squirting, and said, "but now?"

She turned serious and said, "I pump almost a quart a day."

Her smile turned mischievous and she lifted one of those big udders. "Here," she said, "try it. You'll like it."

So I bent and took her nipple into my mouth. Her milk was warm and rich and absolutely fucking delicious.

She giggled and turned her body, pulling her nipple free. It was dripping very regularly now and she was giggling.

"First," she said, "the fan. THEN the treats."

I chuckled and said, "okay. I trust you have a step ladder."

She smiled, evidently perfectly at ease being topless around me now, and said, "my husband's tools are all in the garage." She pointed, "right through there."

She took the step separating us, put her hands behind my head, and pulled me down for a kiss.

"Don't be too long," she said.

In the garage, I found a very well-appointed workshop. Obviously, her husband had been a competent handyman, probably the guy who maintained everything around the place. I found the stepladder hanging on the wall, exactly where it should have been, in front of the painted outline of, you guessed it, a stepladder.

I took the ladder into the front room, set it up, and loosened the two screws holding the fan, gave a half twist, and it came loose. Then, holding the thing awkwardly, undid the wire nuts, gave a firm tug, and the whole assembly came loose.

I damn near fell, though, when her voice startled me.

"Work fascinates me," she said, and I turned to see her, completely naked now with a beer in her hand, walk to the couch and sit, "I can sit and watch it for hours."