Everyone in this twisted tale is 18+.
All is fair in love and war.
All's fair in love and war, or at least that is what my Dad beat into me growing up. The end justifies the means; one example will fill you in on all you need to know about the great hunter who was my Father. All I asked for Christmas that year was a pellet gun for my fourteenth birthday. I read a boy scout book on shooting that said using one to improve your shooting skills is how they taught soldiers in WWI to shoot, as the guns were not made in large enough numbers for the army yet. The ones trained on the air guns scored twice as high on their sharpshooter's rating. I hoped to please my Father by getting better shooting scores at the gun range, but after this, I have yet to try again to satisfy him with anything. Dad bought me one, and before I could even touch it, much less shoot it, we went to the hunting lodge out of town outside of Butte, Montana. We went with his paid customers; that was his source of income. I did not get to touch it; all the other guests did. I complained, and my mistake was to do it in front of the guests. When we got home, my Dad beat me till I was unconscious for talking back to him. I was unsure why he did not do it there, and I would find out why four years later. Mom intervened, and Dad took her to their room. Seeing him pull her by her hair to their room was upsetting, nor was it the first time I saw it.
I was born in Butte, Montana, a city of 28,000+, in 1968. I'm Billy with no middle name Andrews as Dad; he was drunk and refused to give me one. It was Dad being who he was. Being treated this way made me mad. I had to learn what I needed to defend myself by taking Mixed Martial Arts fighting at a gym with no metals or trophies, but they did have three fighters who were nationally ranked and three taught me as they knew my Dad Boner Jim Andrews or Bo to his friends. They were happy to help me hurt the most hated man in three counties they even put his photo on one of the punching bag. I've met Dad so called friends; not one would I let them be alone with my hot Mother and a couple who it felt like I would be the one not to be left alone with.
Dad never said no to his clients, but he said no to us at every turn. I am eighteen and was sent to a ranch near town for the summer it was his idea. I was told to do all the work that was asked of me. I thought of it as making money for college as they paid five bucks an hour. It's 1986, that's higher than minimum wage. I worked for four months as a ranch hand to help pay for my college as my hard work working part time at the gym as a trainer. Yes, four years they let me teach the first-timers. I made a little over $6,000 a year, and except for fixing up my pickup of a gift from my Granny, I have yet to spend a dime. The owner died, and his son took the cash from selling the building and left for parts unknown, leaving me needing a job.
The ranch work was hard, but it pushed me to get stronger. I did not know that the fifty-four-year-old widow had other plans for my fit eighteen-year-old ass, which had nothing to do with ranch work. I had taken my fight training as survival skills for my home life. On my third day at the job, I was outworking the full-time hired hands. Most of the ranch crew thought to teach me a lesson for showing them up. They had not fought sober before, and it showed their skills were lacking as I took on four at once and put two in the bunkhouse, unable to get up for work for two days. The other two had black eyes and busted lips. One broke his hand on my hard head that was three months ago no one has said a word to me after.
The widow, Mrs. Baker, came to me and asked if I would eat dinner with her on my last night on the ranch. I need to tell you about myself. I have blue eyes and stand Six foot two, tipping the livestock scale at one hundred ninety-eight pounds. My light blond hair is growing out, it's too far to get a haircut cut. I'm not letting any of the ranch hands near me with sharp objects. After cutting the few wild hairs off my face with a shave, I cleaned up and added some aftershave. Dinner: we did not eat much in the way of food, but things were eaten; she had a high libido. I ate a salad and was halfway finished eating a steak when it happened.
The widow had enough to eat stood and dropped her dress, leaving on her open nipple black lace bra, and crotch-less panties. You wore matching suspender belt, silk stockings, and four-inch red stripper heels. You crawled on the table like a sexy cat, your whole breast swinging gently with your catwalk. Mrs. Baker took my breath away; this was unlike the preacher's daughter or my last two 'Dates.' It was an odd foreplay, but it made my seven inches bone hard, and my cock head dripped. My fingers teased a nipple as your mouth tasted of Rye; my tongue whipped yours to your moan. I touched your wet swamp and a few strokes on your hard clit. I had no clue your five-foot-four body was as sexy as it was without your denim shirts and jeans. Your green eyes and your tan body were sexy. The weathered look of your skin was offset by your tan lines that looked like mine. You were still sexy, as was your hot mouth. You jumped into my lap, knocking us onto the floor. Getting me out of my things took seconds.
You chirped happily when you saw my one-eye monster. Your tiny hands were rough from ranch work. Your touch on my cock thrilled me, but they could have been sandpaper, which would not have stopped us. When your wet hot mouth found my hot cock you said. "By the Gods, your cock is big, I can't wait to see if it fits."
I could not speak as the widow had me all in her mouth, a feat none of my women could do. It spoke volumes of her experience, which was how the rest of the night went. My youth and stamina had us fucking till near dawn. She let me come three times to her ten or more. I've worked at her ranch for three months; my last day was yesterday. I had an idea she waited till the last day to keep this fuck away from the hired hands. I packed my bag and left it in my second-hand F150 from 1975. It was a birthday gift from my Grandmother on my eighteenth. She died last spring, and I got her house in a small town outside of Aspen, Colorado, and $60,000 in cash it came with a note to take care of my Mother.
My Mom, Catherine Sophie, insisted on keeping the house and cash a secret from Dad as he would sell the house and drink my money. We told him the car was a gift from Mom as her savings bond matured, or that's what we told dear old Dad. Dad had beaten what he thought was the truth out of Mom and spent the $5,000 left from the so-called bond to update his truck with a new engine. I had given her the cash so she could leave him, but it did not work out that way. That was four months ago as I loaded my coffee mug and was heading across Butte to the hunting lodge on Boulder Mountain.
It was a short drive, and being where it is, there was no traffic, but I was still in bed doing the widow, making me run late. My Dad was not pleased, but he sent me to town to pick up some day trader that flew in, so I peed, filled my cup with coffee, and drove the hour back into town, driving the lodge van to the airport. I went to the section where chartered Jets landed. I met the trader and his date and another couple who were their guest. They talked about buying stocks and the ins and outs of the basics on the hour ride there. One guy talks about a company listed on the stock market for the first time on Monday. It had a silly name, Apple Incorporated. It was a steal at ten a share, he said. The ride was an education. It sounded easy to invest. The hunt was like all the others. I was bored seeing death as a sport, but I kept that to myself, not wanting a repeat of the air gun incident. Did my Dad drink because his life was the replication of what he loved to do all the time and the boredom of getting what he wanted? I was still unsure if it would be the thing to do, but the guy with the $8,000 watch wanted to buy some stock in Apple. I had cash to blow on a gamble for a better life for my Mom and me.
After the two days of long hours being a butler, a cook, a maid, and cleaned their trophies. I cleaned up the lodge I told my Dad before he left to drive the van back to the airport. I was driving to the University of Montana to enroll in college as my grades were good enough to get a student loan rather than go straight home. Driving the few hours to Missoula, Montana, I added my name to the list for a student loan, drove back downtown, and found a Financial Advisor. He showed me the stock started at ten dollars, and two hours later, it was up to twelve. I wrote him a check for $15,000 a quarter of my $60,000 and kept the cash in my pocket. I kept seeing my hot Mom's face as I started to use the $3,000 cash, and I flashed to you, winking at me like you did when Dad took you away, stopping him from hitting me. I bet $15,000 on that wink. We discussed what I could have made if I put the money when the stock market opened; I would have made a 15% profit quickly.
I went home and was told Mom was in her room, and Dad said. "Your Mom refused to come out for dinner, leave her alone."
I took my things off, and my hickeys were all over my chest and flat stomach; I emptied my pockets on my desk and went and showered my first in two days there was not enough hot water for the guest at the lodge. Coming out clean, wrapped in my towel, I saw my wallet on the desk open, and my cash was gone. Still in my towel, I ran to the front of the house, seeing my Dad drive off with the hot young next-door neighbor. An impression of a note scribbled by the phone when rubbed with a pencil read dinner at eight for two and a hotel reservation for ten p.m. with a king-sized bed at the Country Inn. I stood there taking it all in, and I felt odd not having seen my Mom for dinner or her not saying hello.
I ran to the folk's bedroom, still in my towel, and Mom was handcuffed to the bed. Your eyes showed great fear, and then you saw it was me in all my glory. As my towel fell to the ground, you relaxed. Seeing my hot Mom cuffed to the bed, your mouth covered in duct tape. Your naked and bruised body was covered by only a sheet. There was caked, dried blood from a couple of open cuts.
Taking the tape off, I took a rag out of your mouth as you gasped. "Baby, what are you doing naked? Wait, where's your asshole, Father."
