A Story With Forks And Spooning-- Big Hands, Bigger Feat...

SO, OK. YOU WANTED MORE OF THIS STORY. YOU GOT IT. I DID A REWRITE (thanks be to Nancy Dancehall) AND THEN ADDED TO THE STORY. TROUBLE IS, I COULDN'T DECIDE WHICH DIRECTION TO SEND THIS TALE, SO I LEFT IT UP TO YOU. THERE IS AN "A" DIRECTION, AND A "B" DIRECTION. WINNER TAKES ALL, SO LET ME KNOW WHICH DIRECTION YOU PREFER...

---Big Hands, Bigger Feat---

There was no ring and there was no other, but that didn’t stop the pummeling Hank was tolerating to his neck and the side of his head. Her hands were busy like xylophone wands playing a tired old classic. “How could you! How could you? How could you do this, the fuck, to me?”

Wild black hair clung to her wet face like mutilation scars, and her lithe hands whipped and struck at the pliant side of Hank himself.

“She sure is pretty” Hank thought while she beat on him. “Wild though.”

He would tolerate this as calmly as possible for a few more seconds, and then he’d have to act. He hated that part. Acting. It wasn’t what he wanted, at all. If only she’d stop having these episodes. If only she didn’t get this flipped out he could keep his hands busy doing other things. Things he enjoyed. Things she enjoyed. He wanted to touch her in places. He wanted to make her feel really, really good. Not this shit. This shit was going to get somebody hurt.

Her body was rolling over thirty-five with little damage done. There had been no kids. There had been no weight gain. There had been several lean years where food was not an easy thing to over-do. All of this had kept her more desirable than most. Her litheness and elongated form was what Hank really enjoyed while he stared at her naked body those times they were at peace.

It made her both beautiful and flimsy, though. It made these efforts to hurt Hank ineffectual and almost laughable.

Hank knew he was lucky to have her. Being fifty on the outside meant his chances for these types of bodily encounters had been reduced to almost nil. Here was a woman in a girl’s body, and she was in bed with him, and she was naked, and he had just made love to her and given her three. What the hell was she so upset about after that effort?

The pummeling had broken through to Hank the human form and the pain was welling up by the accumulated blows. Hank was done letting her get this all out. This anger she had was not his and did not belong to him. He could take some of it- some of it he could absorb for her because he wanted to love her- but damn it! This shit hurt!

He caught a flailing wrist with his right hand the way one catches an object thrown, and shifted it deftly to his left. Her bones were small and her hands were delicate- he needed to be careful. With his right hand free again, he swiped often at her other hand, finally snaring it and gripping it while trying not to break it. Wanting a hand free, he passed this into his left hand too and now gripped her wrists with an even pressure with the one hand only while she struggled against him.

“Easy now…” he kept saying to her in a soft voice. “Easy now…”

She struggled against his left hand fiercely. Her face wrinkled and cried out and blew huge volumes of air in and out of a spitting mouth- not effective in doing anything but hurting herself- and her skin twisted and pinched inside the massive work-hand that held her with so little effort.

“Easy now…” Hank repeated.

This woman was not going to let this man do this to her.

“Easy now, my fuckin’ ass! Let go of me! LET GO OF ME!”

The rage she was so hell-bent on expressing left her hands and arms and traveled down her torso and into her right leg. This she lifted like the head of a Cobra and struck and struck. She was now driving her heel down into Hank’s kidney and Hank had no choice but to grab her leg and place it too in his left hand, holding it there with a spare finger he released from her two fighting arms.

This apparently, pissed her off more, and now her rage moved into her final limb- her left leg. This she tried to bring down against the collection of limbs Hank held tightly with the one calm hand, and she
kicked and kicked and tried to wedge her limbs free but now she was caught again, her last limb scooped up and placed with the knot of limbs within the calm, brute strength of Hank’s left hand- caught not like fish in a net but like the goddamn net itself!

Hank lifted her- using his left hand and his powerful left shoulder- by her four gangly limbs until her body became light against the bed. With his right hand he reached down and tried to stroke the mass of hair away that had sprayed all over her spitting face.

Her breathing grew frantic and then suddenly shifted into long drawn out sighs. She was caught. There was nothing she could do. Everything she had had been spent fighting this man. This man who now had her completely subdued without even trying. This man who talked in patronizing calmness. With one final writhing effort, she tried to break free and jerked around like a speared fish and then gave in and found herself held captive and exhausted, with nothing left in her to drive her rage and nothing left to fight him with.

The tears came, and the sobs soon followed. Semen slid unseen down upturned passages and traveled easily to an awaiting egg.

II - A

Hank stood alone in the bathroom with a gaping pair of threadbare boxers on. There were nine hours of night still left to get through, but he was ready for the day already. In the mirror, he dabbed at scratches and mottled skin where he had been attacked.

“Damn crazy girl,” he thought. “What a crazy handful. Cold water splashed about and I’ll be fine“.

Hank dipped his hands in the cold water drawn in a subconscious cleansing ritual he was unaware he had developed. Over and over.

“She was a tall, little thing, really. She didn’t do much harm. Damn sure wish I knew what all the fuss was about?”

Water was leaving Hank’s face tainted with blood, and dripping down his aged, freckled and hairy chest in a single rivulet, passing through a valley formed by fatty breasts. It split around his fleshy belly button and then rejoined, and wicked into his boxer waistband like a red-dawning sky.

“She sure is pretty, though.”

II - B

Hank held her four limbs above the bed until her adrenaline bled out and just before he tired and cramped beyond his own capacities.

The woman’s limbs fell like bones to the bed and she curled in on herself like a burnt spider.

Hank was contemplating what his next moves were.

She had no place to go and he sure liked having her here when she was normal.

The sex was fantastic and she didn’t make much noise, sauntering around the house in her under things- pretty things too- all sleepy and smiley.

When she was normal she’d ask him if he was thirsty and bring him something to drink. She’d try to cook things up in the kitchen, sometimes making something that tasted quite almost right, and she’d ask for things while she lay limp and satisfied in a hot bath. Hank would bring things to her, and he’d linger and stare.

“Damn,” he would think. “She sure is pretty.”


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A or B?