Aw, shucks, Wolfman. Why do you have to be such a beautiful man? Stretched so tightly. Your spine arched so gracefully. Your chest rising so majestically. Your abdomen... well, your fur and muscle seem to spell the words "Bring it on," and I aim to please. I give you my target. Lay the blunt end of my Slugger on your tummy, dead center, two inches above your belly button.
I drool at your response: a lifting of your head, a strain to peer over your chest. Your eyes follow the line of my bat, to my hands, up my torso to my face. You wink. Drop your head. Exhale, tighten and prepare.
You winked at me? Daring me? Fine. I swing full circle. Human strength, about a seven out of ten, and my Slugger pounds into your gut with a deep, wood-to-meat thud. Nothing from you. No grunts, no groans, no escaping of air, you remain frozen, tensed, waiting for more.
More is what you get. A succession. A rain of blows delivered with pinpoint accuracy. A hammering of your muscle between pelvis and sternum. Three times and four. My bat a pick ax grounding up dirt. Five times and six. My bat a mallet pulverizing a side of beef. Seven, eight, and nine, my Slugger brutalizing an inanimate object. The sounds of wood beating belly excite me; the absence of sounds coming from you angers me in an exciting way. Still no groans? No gasps or grunts? The combination of my physical exertion and mental frustration opens my sweat glands. I'm soaked. I drop my bat. Clothes come off.
You watch me undress. Make good use of your respite. Your breath is your only sound, as your chest and middle rapidly rise and fall. The corners of your mouth turn up ever so slightly. Do you like what you see as I join you in nakedness? Do you like your torture so far? Does it excite you? Do I?
As I pick up my bat, your arms strain against their chains. You arch your back. Elevate your chest, flatten your belly, steel every muscle and nod to me. Giving me your approval? Inviting me? Challenging me?
All right, you rough and tough slab of meat. Time to go Dark Ages on you. My toes touch urine and I further regress the era. Primeval. Two alpha-male beasts will do battle. Supremacy of the forest goes to the victor, and I will win. I will break you if it kills me. Or you. No more counting, just beating. No more control over velocity of my blows, either. I'm gonna pound on you until you make a sound. My wood pulverizing your belly reverberates like a symphony. Dissonance. Expressionistic, and you will provide the counterpoint. Your melody a pained G minor: a grunt, a gasp, a groan, or perhaps a gurgling as I rupture every organ you've got inside your seemingly impenetrable wall.
Is that what you want? Are you forcing me to destroy you? I don't care one way or another. Don't know who you are, where you come from or where you belong, and I am no longer in control of my actions. I am a madman beating on you with maniacal strength. My Slugger should have already burst through your abdomen, snapped your spine, broken my bench and cracked my concrete floor, but yours is a muscled defense not to be breached. I continuously wail on you, and nothing stops me until your dick flips onto your belly and gets in my way.
The damn thing is one hundred percent erect. What kind of freakish freak of nature are you?
I drop my bat. Kneel between your thighs at the end of the bench, my knees in your piss and loving it. I bury your cock inside my mouth. Take it all. Extend my tongue. Slather your nuts while crushing your dick-head in the back of my throat. Nothing subtle. No slow-build, I violently scrape the length of your pecker, my lips arriving at the rim of your mushroom lickety-split, lickety-lick.
You breathe. Recuperate from your beatings, while I mercilessly stroke orally, squeezing with lustful insanity. My frenzied hands hot-rub your belly. My frantic fingers knead your tortured muscles. My clamped-tight mouth crushes your mighty cock, reducing it down to a harmless twig while my head bobs up and down with a rapidity that could snap my neck from its axis.
I don't care. I've lost all common sense, and besides, it doesn't take but a couple dozen strokes before you flood my throat with your come. My long-sought goal is finally achieved. You twitch. You squirm, and yes, at long last, you surrender your music to my ears. You gasp, grunt, moan and groan, as I maintain tempo sucking and swallowing. No pity for you. I drain your nuts and then some. Torture your post-orgasmic, sensitive cock as though you'd never even come. I've got you emitting sounds that nearly make me come untouched. But I do touch.
I spit out your dick. Stand over you. Straddle you. Spit in my hand and jack myself. You close your eyes. Smile at me. Groan for me when I sit on your belly to complete my ecstasy. Like you, it doesn't take much for me, and my cock spurts a volley of semen dotting your neck and chest. Second spurt, third, and the finale leaves a pool on the pit of your stomach.
Spent, I stand over you. Lean down and pressure your chest with the palms of my hand, as you open your eyes, gaze at me and wink. "Thank you, Mr. Thomas."
* * * * *
Chapter 5 is the end and will post one week from now, or you can read all five chapters at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com