Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com

TURRET TWO

by Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com

 

The northwest, upstairs turret was Fred's room, door always locked, his in-possession key and one more locked in the basement file cabinet the only two in existence. It housed weightlifting equipment -- benches, plates, dumb bells and bar bells. It housed boxing equipment -- lace-up gloves on the floor in one interior corner. Above them and five feet from the corner, a heavy bag hung from a metal spring, which was hooked to a metal plate that was bolted to a main horizontal support beam hidden beneath ceiling plaster. A Fred-constructed chin-up bar also was housed in this room. Anchored by two blocks of wood, two metal bars rose vertically eight feet in height, where they were Fred-welded to a horizontal crossbeam five feet in length.

Nothing in this room would arouse anyone's curiosity, until Fred brought from his basement a pair of file-cabinet hidden cuffs, foam-padded inside, black metal outside, with one link of chain Fred-welded to their centers. Connected to the link on each cuff were spring-loaded eye hooks. Each cuff was released for opening by way of metal fold-over snaps, taken from a pair of rubber galoshes. Opposite to each side of snaps were hinges which allowed the cuffs to open and close around the wrists, snaps snapped to lock them shut.

With cuffs in hand, wearing red gym shorts and black shower sandals, Fred unlocked and entered his room, attending each of the six windows to pull down their shades. Betty was in her bedroom, the northeast turret, undressing when Fred called to her.

"I'm ready."

He had secured the left cuff himself. She did the right, and he jumped to grasp the horizontal crossbeam with his hands. Using one of Fred's flat benches, Betty stood higher to reach the cross beam. Holding on with his left hand, Fred moved his right hand higher and Betty hooked his cuff to the beam through the eye hook. As Fred released his left hand to hang from the eye hook on his right, she repeated the process to leave him suspended by his cuffs, his wrists three feet apart.

Now, only Betty on the bench could release him from the cross beam. She closed the door, and then removed his sandals, leaving his feet bare ten inches above the wood floor.

"Gloves?"

"Yes." Fred brought up his knees, crunching them as close to his stomach as the thickness of his thigh muscles would allow, while Betty put on the boxing gloves. She waited, not bothering to lace them. Twenty leg lifts were followed by stationary lifts, legs straight, feet together and held horizontal to create a forty-five-degree angle. Fred held his legs for a count of twenty seconds before slowly lowering them to vertical. He repeated this pattern ten times, followed by another set of twenty leg lifts. His body sweat; his abdominal muscles burned, pumped full of blood.

He dropped his legs. He sucked in air. His gym-shorts waistband hung just above his pelvic bone, having worked its way low during his exercises. He winked and tightened his gut to receive her blows.

"You arrogant son of a bitch." She drove the padded glove of a straight right hand into the pit of his stomach. Forward motion met pumped muscle with a resounding thud. "You stuck-up bastard." Her left glove hooked into his belly, just to the right of his navel. A succession of blows was peppered with verbal degradation. "You fucking," right hook... "think you're hot shit," left jab... "piece of crap," straight right. "I will show you who's tough," two from the left... "cut you down to size," a right-left combo... "and you better not throw up on my shiny floor," a right upper cut in the gap between navel and waistband.

Betty was trained. Although she possessed no great strength, Fred had shown her how to turn her gloves just before impact, how to use her feet and the pivot of her body for power.

Fred's belly was also trained. Whether at home or on the road, he religiously burned away fat and tightened muscle with crunching exercises, vowing he would never allow himself to fall victim to the trucker's gut, the untamed beach ball of jelly hanging over down-to-the-crotch belt line. This was the public reason for his hard belly.

Private reasons, known but to him and Betty, also came into play. The joy of giving. The challenge of receiving. The thrill of watching the giver give and the taker receive was a drug for them. An elixar which further solidified them as lifetime partners. In the bedroom. In the kitchen, basement, living room and bathroom -- and in turret two.

Sounds in the room stimulated. Initially, only deep thuds of padded gloves versus meaty muscle were heard, but as his abdominal cavity gradually softened, faint grunts of "oomph" and "ugh" escaped from his throat with every impact. Sweat darkened his hair, highlighted his muscle. Sweat brightened her skin, highlighted her curves. His masculine resistance excited her. Her dominating attempts to penetrate his defenses excited him.

As Betty ended her first series of blows, Fred collapsed, relaxing all muscles while sucking in air. She allowed his body to hang and recuperate while mocking him.

"Some men just never learn." She paced in front. "How many times? Why do you constantly make me beat you?" She removed her gloves. "I told you not to screw with my neighbors." She bare-fisted a right to his belly button. "Now you want to involve the police?" She left-hooked the meat above his waistband. "Bring them down on me, too?" She planted her left hand to the small of his back. Pulled him towards her. Formed a claw with her right hand and dug her fingers into the muscled perimeter of his navel. "Who do you think you are?" She buried her fingertips into him with all her strength, eliciting a deep-throated groan from her victim, as he tightened his belly to hold her back. "When will you learn not to mess with me? Don't you know what I'll do to you? Don't you care? Why can't you... why... oh, god... Fred... you drive me..."

An out-of-control woman released her belly claw and buried her face into him. She frantically licked his briny sweat, kissed his wall of brick, drilled her tongue into his navel. She yanked down his shorts. His hard penis sprang upwards to slap her chin. Her tongue found his dangling testicles, removing their wet salt, replacing it with her wet spit. Her tongue laid a trail from his ball sac to the shaft of his peter, continuing on a path to his sensitive triangle of skin beneath his slit. Her touch triggered an involuntary leap of his tool, a convulsion so dramatic his mushroom nearly made contact with his belly.

When it fell to horizontal, she captured him with her mouth. Imprisoned him with her lips, crushing him between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. He twitched as her lips slowly worked along his shaft. He shuddered as her mouth crushed him, inch by torturous inch, until her lips met his pubic hair and he spoke her name.

"Betty?"

She spit him out, not knowing whether to be agitated or eager. "What?"

"The dog is barking. Can you hear it?"

She listened. "Yes. Let me see." She tugged an edge of window shade to view the front yard. "Damn it. There's a car coming."

"Where?"

"Just now turning onto the drive."

"Who is it?"

"Your brother and his wife."

Aw, sheeeit! Fred silently expressed his good fortune. The unexpected interruption of his uninvited relatives would give Betty plenty of fuel to punish him even more. She glared at him. He winked at her, and she exited turret two so she could send the intruders away.

Sorry, Bill and Alice. You better not come inside. Fred is very sick. Some sort of stomach flu. His belly is hurting him something awful. He will call you later when he's feeling better... you know, when he's not all tied up in knots. Okay? Okay. Thanks for stopping by. Bye-bye.

Returning to her still-hanging victim, Betty again put on her boxing gloves. She would have to start over, but with an elevated level of gusto. A story line with a bit more intensity.

After all, her man had somehow managed to maintain his erection during her absence. Knowing that she had such a lingering effect on him truly stimulated her. He deserved rewards. More punches. Harder. With everything she could muster, and with no regard as to whether or not his swollen dick got in the way of her fists. She expected to soon hear sounds never heard before, bouncing off the walls inside turret two.

end

 

 

 

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