Friday, December 7, 2012

Introducing Rita - Part Three

Every night of the next week was fantastic, just fantastic! Here I was with the same superhunk I’d learned to love, but like the same superhunk in a new package. Only no more of the torture scenarios. I had two new patients in the podiatry clinic, an elderly couple from a South American country. The old woman had to help her human vegetable of a husband get around, do all the talking for him, because when they were younger she had been forced to witness him being dragged behind a fast-driven Mercedes convertible while the Grand Revered Generalissimo for Life (age 56) fingered his girlfriend (age 17) as they watched from the back seat. The car was stopped periodically for men to come up and beat on him with bamboo and giggling little boys in tattered clothes to pee on him, while the girl showed her bare bountiful boobs out the back of the convertible. The real thing was too much to swallow, even though I couldn’t stop fantasizing myself in place of the Generalissimo’s girlfriend.

All the same, we knew about my special urges, and we turned to the idea of bloody fighting between two well-matched combatants, although sometimes we harbored the ideas of bullies, even though we disliked them, making life miserable and painful for a nerd, or a gang hunting down a despicable weakling and beating the holy crap out of him. We went to two events, first a conventional boxing match with visible hatred between two light-heavyweights, a heavily muscled black guy and a sleeker and swifter Chicano, an up and coming champion, who tired out his opponent with footwork and dodges, but when the black contender found his target, his punches made bloody sausage of the Mexican champ. The second show was way more exciting, an ultra M.A. cage fight, not to the death but damn near. We had second-row seats, and I kinda envied the cheering hardtack women in front of me getting spattered with drops of blood.

For the nights at home we took the little old TV out of the bedroom and moved in our plasma giant so we could watch mean sadistic stuff. I bought Skip an early birthday present, told him it was a VCR. He was puzzled why I’d want to get an outdated video player. Laughing gaily, I unzipped his pants and took hold of his semi-stiff member and slipped something onto it. I told him, it’s not video, silly goose, it’s a vibrating cock ring. Flip on the little button, I said. “Wow!” he yelped, “That’s a supercharger!”

The VCR was not exactly an unselfish gift. Simultaneously with the pumping of his battering ram I got a vibrato all over my feelgood organs like nothing before. I was experiencing two kinds of climaxes, one the orgasm(s) of the moment, two like a climax of my whole previous life, an ecstasy I’d been waiting years for, sex and violence, violence and sex.

Every month or two in the past, we’d get lucky and make love twice in one night. Now – my god! – we were doing it twice, three times, or all night, real wet and messy and who cared? Just screwing while watching fight videos or whipping scenes in movies. But we were showing up at work tired, Skip going to the shipyards where he had temp work on the docks, me laying out the podiatrist’s instruments for hammer-toe surgery and trying not to imagine what it would be like to amputate one of the patient’s toes. I was enjoying the new me, the really baaad girl!

I imagined being a biker’s slut after reading a story set in the Arizona desert, about girlfriends in the days of mini-miniskirts standing and watching while their bully-beef bikers tied a guy real tight to a giant cactus and beat him with their studded belts.

Skip and I drifted into a schedule of every other night, mainly to get some fucking sleep and also to build up anticipation for our mega-fucking the next time. All this because I’d come across Candy Apple’s blog, not to mention the sexual awakening of my daughter. Vanessa was now quieter, spending a lot of time in her room with the door shut. One thing about me as a parent, I never snooped, no breaking in and leafing through diaries or my kid’s messages. But then a kind of accident when I picked up the phone and a guy with a nasal but surprisingly deep teen voice started talking nonstop, having mistaken me for Vanessa. “Hey, Nessa, me and Fats and Bugs got it all set up to take you and Cheryl and the one I can’t remember her name with us to the shed to set things right with the that dorky bastard Clancy. We got a workbench and a vise, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

I lowered my voice to sound real adult and said, “Excuse me, let me introduce myself, Vanessa’s mom, and you are….?” After “myself” I just heard “Oh shit shit shit” and a click. I rounded up Nessa (hateful nickname) and told her, she knows I don’t snoop and didn’t mean to find out, but she ain’t going nowhere with Fats and Bugs and some unknown ringleader. To my surprise, she stomped her foot and shouted, “MOM!” but looked kind of relieved, didn’t tramp off to her room, just sat down at the kitchen table and picked at a bowl of pretzels.

As for me and my hunk, it’s not human nature to ride on a superhigh forever, and I knew it. We had to think of something new, a trip somewhere, Central America, the Middle East, some exotic dangerous place. Just talk. And then, as if by magic, another incident... be continued!

1 comment:

  1. i like nothing more than being cockteased into fighting a stud for pussy. i want to make a babe cream as i fight for her. if any of you women share that kink, email me


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