PAW WOLFYWITS
iv.
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."
"Huh?"
*
* * * *
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
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