Saturday, April 12, 2014

A Woman in Control - My good organizer III

My good organizer III

Sunday I reflect on Saturday night’s interlude. I also await Jack’s call. I know it will come, he was most fawning when I finally gave him my cell phone number.

As promised, the meal was exquisite, Jack scampering back and forth serving me. A fine wine, turtle soup, pheasant, exotic vegetables including saffron rice, a souffle for desert.

And he never ate a bite.

Before dessert, perhaps emboldened by wine, I had him remove his socks. He obeyed and such sealed my analysis. For he did not ask why. And I had no answer other than the decadence of serving me barefoot had certain charm.

So in leaving behind my Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag, ostensibly by mistake, I know the cell phone will soon chime. My gallant servant will leap at the opportunity to once again come under my auspices. And sure enough, imagining Jack having left over turtle soup for breakfast, the phone rings at 11:00 a.m.

“Miss Montrove, you left a bag here,” he excitedly discloses after we exchange pleasantries. “I can bring it to the office on Monday... or stop by with it if you need it sooner.”

“Did you look inside it, Jack?”

“No, ma’am.”  

“Well, there are things inside for you, should you choose to wear them for me.”

“Things for me?”

“Yes. Little gifts. For the wine and nice meal.”

“Can I open it?”

“Of course. Anytime. I did not bother to gift wrap. And do let me know if you’d like to wear them for me.”

There comes a pause of surprise. He has not expected anything in return.

“And Jack... they’re not from Saks,” somewhat giggling as I impart the final words.

I hang up. What I have offered is really more than something to wear. I have anointed Jack with sets of Posey cuffs, wrists and ankles. The connecting straps I have in my possession, that which will comfortably and most ineluctably bind him where and when I choose. So though such are to be worn, it’s really the capitulation of doing so that I want him to think about.

The gap which he subconsciously seeks to be filled is now in the forefront of his mind... he must think carefully about how and with whom he fills it.

Though not delving into mechanics, his engineering mind will be transfixed with the design and efficiency of the cuffs. Rugged nylon, lined with foam, double strips of velcro bind in place after encircling the limbs. Safe, not to be removed by the bearer, Posey cuffs are de rigeur in hospitals and mental institutions.

'This will not be an experiment, Jack,' I was prompted to disclose. Not be entertainment... some replication of a thrilling Houdini escape. You will wear them for me when I desire... and such will be removed when I desire. It’s termed feminine caprice, Jack. Dare you submit to it?

Yet I kept my thoughts to myself, picturing Jack excitedly donning the cuffs.

I hope the dear boy isn’t masturbating.    

Well my concern is addressed when my cell phone rings again.

“It’s Jack, Miss Montrove. I opened the bag,” his voice shaky.

“And...” my voice smooth and firm, drawing more reaction, not the time for awkward silence.

“They fit.”

An engineer’s response.

“Of course they do, Jack. They are Posey cuffs. One size fits all. So you’re wearing them?”

“Yes.”

“And what else?”

“Ah... still in my pajamas.”

So quaint... a grown man in PJs.

“Jack, Posey cuffs are best worn while naked. Take off the pajamas... now!” the final word barked firmly but with an appropriate level of feminine grace.

There is silence. He obeys, which no longer surprises. He returns to the phone.

“There is a certain... feeling...”

I like his reaction. For someone of Jack’s ilk, the bindings, when taut, are sensed as a grip. And with the implements coming from a woman, the grip is sensual.

“Yes. Now put on your engineer’s thinking cap, Jack. You see the narrow straps that can wrap about the velcro?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Those straps accommodate little padlocks. So if someone so chooses, those Posey cuffs can be locked in place. What do you think about that?”       

Do I hear a gulp? At the very least, a clearing of the throat.

“They wouldn’t be able to be taken off.”

“It would not be the wearer’s prerogative to take them off, Jack. That’s the point of locking them in place. So the wearer would be under control.”

I pause to let the subservient psyche thrill in my emphasized enunciation of the word ‘control’. Perhaps I should specify a 'woman's control'.

“And you see the many eyelets and buckles?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Those are so the cuffs can be secured... to nice strong nylon straps... to immobilize the wearer. Someone could bind the wearer in place, Jack. No use of arms or legs, and obviously the cuffs only come off when someone else decides.”

Another pause. I do hope he’s not stroking himself. Finally comes a response.

“I see,” the words come as I listen for telltale heavy breathing.

More pause. Then an appraisal.

“The cuffs are well designed.”

“And well tested, Jack. Not even the most violent young mental patient has ever escaped when properly bound. No matter the effort, no matter the strength, when placed in Posey cuffs and strapped in place, one stays there.”

“Yes, there is a certain comfort level.”

“Yes there is. Good physical comfort. Can a man mentally acclimate to long term bondage, Jack? I believe a man with special needs can.”

There is breathing but I hear little motion. Jack is in thought. Enough parry. Time to thrust.

“I have straps, Jack. Strong... thick... not to be torn or broken. As an engineer I think you would be fascinated to evaluate the stress level, the tension such can bear. Thousands of pounds per square inch... so I am told.”

“Yes, nylon is quite resilient.”

Such an engineering mind.

“And I have locks. Tiny little luggage locks. That’s all it takes to bind a man with special needs. Posey cuffs, little locks and straps.”

“It does offer quite an image, Miss Montrove.”

“Are you a man with special needs, Jack?”

I get no reply. I do not expect a reply... not on this call.

“Jack, in the office, from now on when you need to use the men’s room, first call to the executive suite. And throw away those pajamas! We’ll begin to address your special needs.”

With that, I hang up. I must wonder whether he will sleep in his soon to be treasured cuffs.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

A Woman in Control - My good organizer II

My good organizer II

Jack tried again. I knew he would. And one must keep in mind his entreaties came before the hijinks began with G. Douglas and well before the development of my bull stud sales team. So though I kept my aura of superiority, that of haughty bitch, I was also in need of male companionship. But in that respect Jack proved inadequate except for certain non carnal attributes.

I learned Jack could cook!

He once again suggested coffee. And I, in the role of bitch, sent him out to retrieve... six blocks to the Starbucks, the institutional office stuff deemed below my standards.

‘Go fetch, boy,’ thoughts not words.

Returning winded (did he jog?) I made him stand while I comfortably sat at my desk, trying not to giggle when he expressed thanks in letting him be ‘of service’. Such gallant dribble.

Yes, I had him... and he wanted to be had. So easy.

There can be comfort in ownership, I learned in one of my advanced classes in aberrant behavior. So many examples, the loyalty of pets, slaves declining ultimate freedom, the Stockholm syndrome. And Jack’s soft eyes cried out for guidance.

At what level did he desire ownership?

When my intercom buzzed, G. Douglas in need of a paperclip no doubt, I shooed him away, without thanks, my attitude one of expectation.

‘Why should you not fetch and be of service?’

So it was Jack who first fell into my lair, not G. Douglas. The boss simply became the catalyst for the ultimate attainment of power.

Jack and I dated. I maintained my demeanor of bitch. Nothing more than dinner. I mean nothing. On the second date he divulged his cooking skills... a hobby but well honed. And as an engineer, precision ingrained, one could imagine a very exacting and pragmatic approach in the kitchen. He invited me to his place, on a Saturday night, spending the time to prepare something sumptuous all afternoon.

“I want to serve you a great meal.”

I agreed.

“No sex, Jack. Don’t even think about it,” I forewarned.

‘At least not how you would hope to envision it,’ I was tempted to add but did not want to scare aware the fish before even setting the hook.

I let him kiss my hand, declining to share a cab with him. Not too close too fast.

During the week he was given to visit me in the executive suite, a ‘just happen to be passing’ by type of thing. I finally put a stop to it, asserting myself, the mystical powers of the CEO’s administrative assistant... filing clerk, maker of coffee, sharpener of pencils... yet with perceived influence that really wasn’t there... at the time.

“Jack, you are to stay in your office in the analysis department unless summoned,” my tone as exacting as my 22 year old voice could assimilate.

Yet, I was effective. He later called and asked to go to the men’s room. I had to stifle quite the laugh, suggesting that he must first wait fifteen minutes. 

Well, most would take it as humor, anyone but Jack sarcastically responding to my overbearing instructions. But something told me to check and after fifteen minutes I happened near the analysis department, veiling my presence, but amused to see Jack finally step from his office and head for the men’s room. Fifteen minutes on the dot!

Wow, aberrant behavior indeed. The boy is crying out in need... and I decided it shall be addressed.

Saturday. I arrive at Jack’s apartment, in my hand a... well term it a surprise bag. Engineers do well, his upper east side building somewhat swank... doorman... well accoutered lobby. Permission to ascend to Jack’s nineteenth floor abode is immediate. He greets me at the door wearing an apron. As disclosed he has spent the afternoon cooking, but is the apron functional or is Jack sending a message?

When I step into his well furnished digs, there come more clues. The livingroom, open to a cute dining area, is not only spotless it is tastefully decorated... too tastefully. It’s not guy stuff... not the taste of a young bachelor. Yet it’s not feminine either... it’s just... precise... in spacing... in coloring... in its functionality.

Than another clue as Jack excuses himself to momentarily rush to the kitchen. He wears no shoes and his apron! Now that’s feminine! Frilly, it is only lacking the color pink to make it completely inappropriate to be donned by a male.

Another message?

I stow my bag. ‘Saks Fifth Avenue’ with sturdy handles, innocuously suggesting I have shopped.  Jack returns. Having checked on some portion of the meal, he carries a tray. A bottle of Champagne, two filled glasses.

“Thank you, Jack, very thoughtful. But you probably should not be drinking near all that hot food and equipment,” taking both glasses from the tray.

I have spent the morning and a good part of the afternoon reading some old texts. Jack is a submissive male. Deep within he relishes the female authority figure. There is a gap in his life which he yearns to have filled.

Did he find me or I find him?

“Yes, ma’am, I suppose it can be hazardous,” not an iota of regret as I put aside his glass and sip from mine.

Am I the woman to fill the gap?

“Very nice apartment, Jack. Nicely decorated,” small talk as he must stand before me, watching me imbibe.

Without drink, his hands are unoccupied and such fosters awkwardness... intentional on my part. For now I am the person who can bring comfort... and I don’t. I have intentionally worn heels, not high but nicely augmenting our height differential. And to think Jack has accommodated by forsaking shoes...

For some reason he dares not move and cannot find words. So we just look at each other, me gazing downward at his face, such delightful psychological advantage. Though there is silence, I believe messages are exchanged. Another sip and I take mercy.

“You’ll serve me there? In the dining area?” hinting at the evening protocol.

“Ah, yes, Miss Montrove,” responding as I stroll the few steps to the set table.

“Here you may call me Miss Desiree. Less formal don’t you think?”

He nods, knowing that it will continue to be Miss Montrove at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances.

“There are two settings. I am to expect a guest?”

I hear a gulp. Poor Jack has cooked for two. But not to go to waste. He can heat his portion later... much later.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

A Woman in Control - My good organizer I


My good organizer I
   
I have not been relating this story chronologically, instead aligning my thoughts with the clever joke.

So I need to step back with regard to the importance of a ‘good organizer, neat, attentive about the household, cooking and cleaning with cheer’. I have one.

Jack Dumond I met on one of my first days at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances. A young chemical engineer, not much older than me, he came ‘sniffing’ about the executive suite one day, all males are basically hounds, having heard that a new ‘girl’ had been hired, and I suppose hearing word that she (being me) was somewhat alluring.

With my training in psychology, Jack being clueless as to my background... other then that I could type and make coffee... he was not aware that I was evaluating him more than he me. And of course a male of Jack’s ilk exudes certain... let’s say clues.

“Good morning, Miss Montrove. I am Jack Dumond, from analysis.”

Okay, that prompts my assessment. He uses ‘Miss’. Maybe he knows not my first name, but it’s unlikely he learned my surname without the ‘Desiree’ proceeding it. Such are usually listed together. Perhaps in Jack’s mind, being assistant to the CEO demands a degree of formality. But he’s been with the company for over a year and I have just begun. It’s a good time for him to be assertive in beginning a relationship, while the newcomer is feeling his/her way around. Yet he chooses not to assert... it’s ‘Miss Montrove’.

So I pause in my filing to visually partake. Yes the ‘Miss Montrove’ makes an impression... one of meekness. Is that his intent?

Jack is handsome, but not in a brawny manner, as I am to later demand with the sales team. I look into the eyes. Soft, those of a puppy dog. Jack is shorter than me. Not diminutive, I am 5 foot 8. Still the two inches are meaningful in male female relations. And then there is the physique. As stated, regular workouts have brought a certain feminine vitality. I am not a brute, but certainly not ‘Olive Oil’. Jack is lithe. If there is muscle structure it is well cloaked. His dress shirt is loose and there is no bulge in the slacks where a woman is known to furtively glance for appraisal.

So, years of psychological study in hand, I step into the breech, the opening left by Jack’s truckling introduction of himself. 

“Can you hold these?” handing him a stack of files.

I refrain from adding ‘like a good boy’, not desiring to go ‘over the top’ in asserting myself. Instead I insouciantly return to the file drawer and feign resuming my chore, forcing him to do my bidding. Cruel, but boys like Jack not only expect it... in a way they ask for it.

“Just thought I’d introduce myself. Know a little about the flavor side of the business... so if you have any questions...”

Well, he’s trying. But it’s important for me that he feel a level of futility, plus that he learn I am new but not a pushover.

“Do you have business in the executive suite... Jack did you say?”

“Yes, Jack Dumond. Perhaps coffee some time. You appear busy.”

“And you’re not busy in the analysis department?” my tone stern, assuming the role of the CEO’s plenipotentiary.

‘Idle time in the Analysis Department! We’ll need more restructuring’, the operative word for layoffs. I am fully aware of the perceived consequences of my observation and I know this will imbue a degree of panic.

“Well, I do have to get back,” a sheepish fawning Jack Dumond quickly counters. “These files?”

“On my desk,” I point then follow with the coup de grace, “like a good boy.”

He turns and lugubriously saunters, placing the files on my desk like the puppy he is.

I have him. I wonder if he knows it.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

A Woman in Control - My Good Lover(s)

My Good Lover(s)

I take my time in empowering myself, suspicion not to be drawn. Besides, I learn the business, quickly develop the required acumen and truly contribute to the burgeoning coffers at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances.

So by year three, I decide to revamp the sales team and have G. Douglas make the announcement. By now I am well out of the reception area of the executive office suite. I take my own office, equal in size to that of G. Douglas, and some would say with a better view. Curious how one’s digs makes a statement in the business world. I suppose it’s akin to being judged and assessed by the size of one’s mansion in the wealthy suburbs.

Any way, missing from the story is my own satiation. Besides the gratification of controlling G. Douglas, a woman such as me needs physical relief as well. And, though it can be demeaning for a woman like me to be put under the penis, a rising girl executive can attain reasonable penetration without suffering the slightest loss of stature.

It begins with the power to hire. And such is important even outside of addressing a girl’s concupiscence. If I am to ensure my governance at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances I need to have underlings loyal to the cause. My sycophant G. Douglas is only part of the equation.

Thus a new sales team is to be developed... all reporting to me... and all having the attributes I desire.    

Since bulges in the slacks can be deceptive and I do not wish to be overly obvious in assessing critical male attributes, we have the clinic... on retainer. Before making a final hiring decision, all candidates must submit to a physical performed by Dr. Rebecca Helmstadt, the noted sexologist, a professional designation not to be broadcast.

Since the physical includes a sperm sample, extracted under the exacting tutelage of Nurse Benson... and the watchful eyes of Dr. Helmstadt... I know the precise penis size and degree of virility for every candidate. And I also obtain a report... the candidates reaction to performing naked for two fully clothed women is of much interest. There are those who display a certain degree of... let’s politely term it... receptivity.

So whom do I hire?

Needless to say, sales at Olivier Flavors and Fragrance is soon staffed with a bevy of bullstuds, well hung, virile, handsome (don’t need Dr. Helmstadt to evaluate that) a degree of submissiveness that makes them eager to perform and grateful for the opportunity to serve... and sell.

My large office is well furnished. And who but the sales guys knows that the narrow padded leather ottoman in my office is really not to be sat upon. No, it’s where the members of my team report to me... as I ride them.

As stated, reasonable penetration for me will be attained. Failure to properly perform for me results in an appointment with Nurse Benson and Dr. Helmstadt for testosterone treatment. Failure to abide with the appointment means dismissal.

Yet, a girl needs more... like an executive assistant. And revenge can be a sweet thing. I typed and made coffee for a year... it’s time for someone to do that for me. And that someone shall be male... and that someone must be bisexual, polysexual, whatever the term... he’ll do it to anyone, for anyone, any time, any place and under my command.

Demanding yes, but having someone perform at the snap of the fingers is refreshing. It rekindles the psyche.

For this position I need just one, and he must be quite obeisant. So the process is long and I need the input of Dr. Rebecca Helmstadt, offering a myriad of tests, including graphic photographs to be surveyed while the candidate is attached to an inflatable penis cuff to determine sexual response. 

Three make the finals, showing arousal while observing both male and female nudes. No more size needed, I select the one with the smallest appendage and order a chastity device, Nurse Benson to hold the key.

As a result of my efforts, Friday afternoons afford a cornucopia of deviant gratification. It begins with a ‘weekly update’ with G. Douglas. Only it is no longer the ‘boss’ initiating the report. By year four of my employment, I call him and announce the time. I proclaim that I expect him in his office, trousers removed, ash tray centered on his desk, butter ready for my hands.

Thereafter, ‘weekly update’ completed, lusty display of feminine power sparking a need, I have a bullstud salesman waiting in my office, completely naked. I like making them wait like that, disavowing any sense that the encounter is under their auspices.

When finished with G. Douglas, Bob, my bisexual assistant, sees me departing his office and knows to in turn enter my office where a humbled naked bullstud awaits to report. Bob knows I’ll want him erect, so while I pause for coffee, I know Bob kneels and fellates with relish, the salesman, typically somewhat homophobic, cringing as his eight to ten inch manhood is coaxed to full erection. With my timing honed, I enter my office and leisurely imbibe my coffee until I am satisfied that full erection is attained. Then with a snap of my fingers, Bob slinks away and my salesman knows to lie prostrate on the ottoman, pecker reaching for the ceiling as I hike up my skirt, straddle and impale myself.

I am eager and aggressive. And I insist in complete stillness. The pleasure is mine to take not his to offer. So I grind, not caring one iota about male delight, though it comes.

It’s a wordless exchange, all physical. The bullstud is nothing more than an object, a living dildo. I use him, the virile male totally capitulating. One climax, two, sometimes I’ll have him ejaculate within my quim, sometimes I will stand, step away and have him manually finish himself for me. It’s at my caprice. They never know when or where they’ll spend their seed. The lack of control is degrading for them... but refreshing for me.       

Friday evening Bob and I are known to work late. Yes, he’s orally proficient and was initially reluctant. Yes, I learned that cream pie clean ups are an acquired taste.

Bob acquired it. 

Still Bob’s position is not without rewards. Saturdays, he visits Nurse Benson, his keyholder, and she’ll release and have him masturbate for her... on the company health plan. Such generous benefits!

I should mention that my sales team also benefits. I have them regularly checked at the clinic for STDS... typically before they report under me on Fridays.

So it is indeed important that a woman have a man who is a good lover, caring and attentive in bed... but perhaps more than one... and perhaps good atop an ottoman... perhaps good kneeling under a desk... perhaps good wherever she demands gratification.

Friday, March 21, 2014

More on Amazon

See the below note from Pink Flamingo et al
 
More shenanigans from Amazon telling you what you can read. Seems the nerds have taken reading lessons.
 
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We're trying to garner as much support as possible for indie erotica publishers and indie eBook retailers. Amazon is cracking down again on content.. this time looking INSIDE the books. We've posted this in our blog and in our email newsletter... Help us spread the word.
 
 
A Request To Our Faithful Readers...
 
As some of you already know, we have had problems with major retailers banning our books. Pink Flamingo Publications has always strove to publish what our readers want. Some of those books include non-consensual or harder books that may have content that some people deem offensive. The major retailers, such as Amazon, Apple, and Google Books are now taking it upon themselves to determine what you find offensive. Even though our books are pure fiction, if they have non-con or even fantasies of non-consensual acts, they are being kicked off the websites. This is not just affecting Pink Flamingo, but other erotica publishers as well.

We understand that the retailers have made it quite easy on customers to get our books, especially with their 1-click buttons. But when they make our content harder to find, unless you’re a searching guru or they just take our books down, what will our customers or any erotica book lovers do?

Our request is simple. If you want to keep seeing the books that you love, from the authors you want to read, please buy the books directly from the publisher or from Indie Retailers. We have quite a few Indie Retailers that will be happy to help you find the books you want and need.
 
 
Fiona Thomas, EIC
Pink Flamingo Publications
 
Web
Social
 

Saturday, March 15, 2014

A Woman in Control - My Good Provider II


My good provider - II

Blackmail is best executed slowly, painlessly and thoughtfully. After all, if the victim decides he’s paying too much, that the blackmailer’s demands are too heavy, that somehow the circumstances and material used as a basis for extortion are not under strict control and may otherwise be divulged, then there comes a likely conclusion of doom on the part of the victim... that he may as well fess up, let the blade fall, let what may happen indeed happen.

That won’t do.

I therefore begin with G. Douglas very slowly. An immediate raise goes without notice. After all, it’s my one year anniversary with the company. Then come some ‘suggestions’ which I have G. Douglas put before the Board of Directors. Since the boss remains in voting control of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances, there come little resistance and questions. The profits are enormous, the money has to go somewhere.

So first I have established the CEO’s bonus account, having the board approve an annual sum of money which G. Douglas will dispense based on his sole judgement as to whom within the company has been most impactful on the bottom line. The recipients must be secret of course... no sense creating ill will amongst fellow workers as to whom is deserving and whom is not.      

Thus, in placing lots of money under G. Douglas’s control, it in fact comes under my control. My cell phone is quite full of photos and growing fuller every week. (Yes, I have him masturbate for my cell phone camera often).

Second, I have G. Douglas recommend to the board that the company compensation package for top executives be augmented. Better healthcare, who can take issue with that? More specifically I have the company retain, for a set annual sum, the services of a noted doctor and her clinic. Not to be disclosed is her specialty... aberrant sexual behavior. Having access to the clinic and expertise empowers me... and the goal is to be empowered.

Third, I outline for G. Douglas the long range plan... for me. Annual raises, annual promotions and in the outline is the position of chief operating officer to be attained in year four. With that I begin drawing up glowing personnel reports for myself, all to be signed by G. Douglas.   

Yes, G. Douglas Olivier becomes quite the provider.

Yet, one cannot be too draconian. Knowing that Mrs. Olivier’s denial is chronic, I must assure that the old boy does not lose all hope. So we begin a ritual, most devious, most decadent, in which G. Douglas summons me into his office on Friday afternoons for the ‘weekly update’.

Such becomes the coded phrase for me to retrieve my cell phone, butter and paper towels and observe and photograph his self pleasure. With his right hand healing, things go a little quicker, but within weeks there needs to be added some spice. Such is the male psyche.

So the ritual evolves. I buy a large glass ashtray for the walnut desk and have him masturbate into it. Though its placement is incongruous, G. Douglas does not smoke and neither is anyone permitted to smoke in the building, no one notices. And I relish inadvertently tapping it while taking notes at important meetings, laughing within as G. Douglas loses his concentration mid sentence, his focus turning to the forthcoming ‘weekly update’ during which I will have him coat the sizable saucer with his seed.

Within a year, cell phone memory chocked full of incriminating deeds, there comes more evolution. It is my hand that offers the sought pleasure... and G. Douglas becomes both surprised and smitten with my touch. I do not mention the many college years of controlling hand jobs. In hindsight I humorously suggest to myself that perhaps I should have listed such skill on my resume. Well, I cede to him his pleasure but since I am in control, it ‘comes’ at my behest, demonstrating that the male organ will only spurt when and where I decide. Such protocol also helps psychologically as my demands continue and G. Douglas knows not to offer a word of resistance or contention, instead reveling in his ‘weekly updates’.

By year three, G. Douglas, randy as a billy goat, begins to get hard at the smell of butter. I insist that be the lubricant. Plus knowing the importance of male prostatic health, the fingers of my left hand join in on the ‘weekly updates’, energetically penetrating his anus while bending over his desk, the glass ashtray awaiting his explosion as my right hand works that aging phallus.      

In time, I purchase a digital camera with a time delayed shutter. Somewhat unwieldy, aligning the lens such that only my anonymous hands are in the frame, but with digital photography such undesired shots of my face can be quickly deleted or cropped from the final snapshot before archiving. 

So, as stated I have my good provider. Though the weekly hand job is condescending, overall it empowers. And in time, the protocol for the weekly updates will change.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

A Good Find - 'A Woman in Control'

Came across a story in my well stuffed hard drive. Not sure why I put it aside. It's rather entertaining. Female dominant, male submissive, it begins slowly. I try to build characters before plunging into the prurient.

'A Woman in Control'.

Will post on Saturday mornings as before.

Enjoy

CB

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A Woman in Control

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows


Whenever I think of my status I am reminded of an old joke, going something like this...

It is important that a woman have a man who is a good provider, financially stable... and generous.

It is important that a woman have a man who is a good lover, caring and attentive in bed.

It is important that a woman have a man who is a good organizer, neat, attentive about the household, cooking and cleaning with cheer.

But most importantly, these three men should never meet. 


Well I have the three, and more, and it just so happens that they meet all the time. For I have also found that it is important for a woman such as me to be empowered... and I am.

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My good provider - I

G. Douglas Olivier, debonair, wealthy, known as a captain of industry but really a trust baby who inherited a unique specialty chemical company, his title of CEO is merely a sinecure.

I run the show.

I suppose at one time G. Douglas was capable, not only of competent business dealings but in bed as well. But now such is gone. At home he is uxorious to an overbearing wife who spends lots and gives little, particularly in the sex department. At work, he is subordinate to me, though for obvious reasons that is veiled. As stated, his CEO title is a sinecure, and I must respect the title. But such respect is offered merely for pecuniary reasons. How would our overly profitable firm be viewed without an Olivier ostensibly at the top?

So I know where my bread is buttered, so to speak, for in fact I am the one with the butter.

Educated at Vassar, it was with great condescension that I initially accepted the position of administrative assistant to G. Douglas. My classmates who joined the corporate world all became junior executives, well on their way to breaking the ‘glass ceiling’. All had ‘connections’. I had none. And I also had bills and no trust fund.

So, near the top of my class, advanced studies in philosophy and psychology, no funds for graduate school, it came down to exchanging my typing and administrative skills for a paycheck. Sadly, I was not going to climb the corporate ladder, I was going to hold it steady for those who did. Or so they thought in personnel.

I was just a little too intelligent and a little too quick to learn, to steady the ladder as others fell off. Yes, I had ambition.

The first to fall was my husband, but I will stay that segment of the story until later.

So upon graduation I condescended, accepting a clerical position, and further condescended in learning to make coffee, keeping G. Douglas organized, assuring immediate responses when the calling wife telephonically wriggled her finger, etc. In being hired, I could not help thinking that in terms of desirable attributes, my looks exceeded education and intellect. Not ravishing, I was always told that my athleticism offered a certain allure. Not tall, certainly not short, I stayed in shape, working out three or four times per week, careful with diet and nutrition. Yes, I suppose my presentment was deemed worthy of laboring on the executive floor.

So my story begins...

“Miss Montrove, would you step into my office please.”

It’s G. Douglas, his stentorian voice always seeming to boom over the intercom. I am summoned, grabbing pen and pad, prepared to record a directive. The first anniversary of employment nears. I feel comfortable, getting to know the players, with whom to salute, with whom I can vie with the power of my proximity to the CEO, with whom I can command as the boss’s plenipotentiary.

I quickly move to the closed office door and enter the capacious office of G. Douglas Olivier. The decor is opulent... old money opulent... thick dark walnut paneling, lengthy polished conference table, oversized desk, well stuffed padded leather swivel chair where sits the boss.

Over the many years, the office has been occupied by both G. Douglas’s grandfather and father. Rumors abound over the impressive couch... how many generations of illicit Oliviers were conceived there, later to succumb to a gynecologist’s ‘dust and clean’... i.e. dilation and curretage.

It nears noon and I have not seen my superior all morning. He arrived in his private elevator, his presence noted by the alighted phone line on my desk. It is not unusual for him to furtively arrive and dive right into work. This modus operandi makes it difficult to ascertain his time of arrival, which some office wags suggest is intentional, long nights of cocktails mandating late arrivals.

Still, it is not my place to question or in any manner become involved with the conduct and social interaction of the boss. His withered face and thinning white hair indicate a life of epicurean delight suggesting age beyond his fifty years. And though I do not intentionally assess, levels in the many bottles resting on the armoire behind his desk seem to deplete steadily. The wages of wealth and its temptations are bringing senescence to G. Douglas Olivier... and frustration.

“I’ll be eating at my desk today, Miss Montrove. So you’ll need to get me a sandwich from the office cafeteria,” as usual gazing at me through a veneer of lust.

“We closed it six months ago, Mr. Olivier. Remember... the cutbacks.”

I must suppress a smile of amusement. Having trimmed overhead, so many clerical functions automated, it soon became evident that the culinary needs of the few remaining staff did not justify the cost of maintaining a kitchen staff. An aloof and rapidly aging G. Douglas has forgotten.                

Meanwhile, the reason for his request becomes self evident. His right hand is heavily bandaged, appearing to be encased in a mitten of white cotton.

“Yes, of course. Well, order something from somewhere. Roast beef on a buttered roll if something like that can be procured.”

I nod while recording the request then inquire, “to drink?”

“Anything but diet stuff. And better put the butter on the side. Too much can kill you.”

I write, nod again then prompt, “not serious I hope...” gesturing toward the bandage.

“A moment of stupidity... perhaps a senior moment. I picked up the fireplace poker... apparently shortly after Mrs. Olivier had stoked the fire and not properly returned it to the rack. Not red hot, but hot enough for second degree burns.”    
 
I nod sympathetically, wondering who had the so termed ‘senior moment’... G. Douglas in picking up a hot poker or Mrs. Olivier in placing it such that the hot end was so accessible?

Marching orders received, I step from the office in thought. Could the hot poker explanation be a ruse? Perhaps not an accident? Mrs. Olivier is a martinet, I have learned in intercepting her calls for G. Douglas, pulling him from board meetings to assure he has remembered the grocery list.

Perhaps I exaggerate, but it is amusing to overhear many ‘yes, dear’... ‘no dear’... ‘right away dears’, in inadvertently entering and exiting G. Douglas’s office during what are usually twice daily phone interrogations. Over my year of tenure, it is apparent that G. Douglas no longer ‘gets any’ at home, to frame the forced chastity in male parlance. And interaction with the Mrs. is nothing more than added frustration, enduring the stick of husbandly duties without the carrot of carnal delight. Thus the lustful look whenever the boss summons me to his office. Basically, he’s horny.      

Onward, to my desk in the open reception area of the executive suite, I phone the local deli... roast beef on a roll, butter on the side, Coke, seafood salad for me... not realizing it will be an eventful afternoon.
 
Then I phone my companion and follow worker, Jack Dumond, and suggest we will not be lunching together, certain that the boss will require attention. I get buzzed for the most inconsequential things, like encountering the dilemma of a dull pencil, so I can imagine the needs arising from a bandaged hand.  

Mrs. Olivier calls and I know to immediately buzz the boss and inform of the incoming call on line 3, never directly dialed by anyone else. He instantly responds and while the line 3 light glows, the delivery boy arrives with lunch, his attention prompt in knowing of a substantial tip.

So I return to the august chamber with sandwich, butter and Coke, hearing the ‘yes, dears’ and ‘no dears’ my lips tightly pursed as my boss G. Douglas cow tows to his boss.

“Yes, I understand the message and your need to take corrective action...” G. Douglas’s words tapering off as discomfort with my presence becomes apparent.

At the corner of the desk, I place down the sandwich and Coke. There is a small container of butter for which a knife is also offered. Turning to leave, I hear words reluctantly uttered in my presence, to further delay Mrs. Olivier deemed churlish.

“I am well rebuked. It will happen not again,” the words sotto voce but heard as I step out the door.

G. Douglas has been verbally disciplined. A smile radiates. Out of sight, I no longer need to purse my lips. 

Then as prognosticated, I am buzzed within three morsels of my seafood salad.

“Miss Montrove, I need you.”

I smile, fully aware of the double entendre. I suppose any conversation with the likes of Mrs. Olivier will foster Walter Mitty illusions... and more lustful gazing.

I return to G . Douglas’s office.

“The butter, can you remove the top, please?”

As suspected, the bulbous bandage of the right hand precludes many rudimentary functions. With the butter delivered in a sealed plastic tub, removal of the top is a two handed job. I peel it off with ease, a grateful G. Douglas, so humble after being telephonically upbraided by the Mrs., peers with even more desire.

“And I guess you’ll also need to help me with the knife... just a modicum... a thin layer of butter on the top and bottom of the roll.”   

More inconsequential duties, I repress a sigh of ennui and smear accordingly.

“It’s not easy... this role I play, Miss Montrove. The pressure of leadership... and lacking the required attention... to certain male needs. Mrs. Olivier is distant of late.”

Was she ever close? I ask myself.

I should now digress. Though just out of college I am well aware of the male libido, the drive which can become self destructive. So G. Douglas’s poorly cloaked expression of frustration does not surprise. I recall dating a guy who, after I spurned a rather brash advance, stated... ‘guess a guy has to do what a guy has to do’, making a rude stroking motion with his hand.    

Well I had too many psychology courses... too many lectures to be put off.

‘Right hand or left?’ no derision, my question posed in a clinical manner, that of budding psychologist.

The boy seemed surprised, his words and gesture, intended to shock and disgust, instead engendered interest.

‘I... I... the right’, he finally stammered. 

I smiled, not coyly but with wisdom.

‘So use your left... pretend it’s someone else’s touch... like mine.’

System raging with hormones, the notion oddly gave pause for thought. After a cascade of adolescent exchanges, to shorten the story, I jerked him off, right there in the car. But a woman such as me extracts a price. I took the boy to the edge three times, bending his turgid manhood down to forestall ejaculation. Finally, the fourth time, I made him beg then righted his penis, gave a last sensuous down stroke and released, finally permitting him to toss his cookies but without further touch.

He fumed with the humiliation of my controlling touch and its well timed withdrawal... but he thereafter called again... and again. And I offered more controlling degrading hand jobs... different public places... demanding different stages of undress... ignoring all requests to exhibit my femininity. I became a rather accomplished masturbatrix... a bitch... but a provider for a priapic lad in dire need.

So back to G. Douglas Olivier...

“Yes, it must be vexing to have the auxiliary provider of your male needs be so consummately bandaged,” referring to his wounded hand of course.

Rather impetuous of me, in a way. But it is G. Douglas who has broached the subject matter.

“So the left hand just doesn’t make it?” continuing the conversation, very much in line with the beginning of my college antics.

The staid G. Douglas, feigning astonishment, is pleasantly intrigued, pausing to search for a reply by taking a bite of his sandwich.

“The hot poker, Mr. Olivier, it couldn’t be that Mrs. Olivier has been mischievous. Not only denying you her charms, but curtailing alternative relief,” my comment offered as I sit on the corner of the desk, knowing that the pose further exhibits gams honed with regular workouts.

With that, assuming the role of minx that G. Douglas seems to insinuate upon me, I dab two fingers of my right hand into the small container of butter. Then I most sensuously lick away the small dollop. The old lech gawks. Though aging, his sexual needs are burdensome, Mrs. Olivier extending the denial of her bed to complete chastity with the cruel hot poker stunt.  

“She caught you,” I blatantly suggest.

G. Douglas slowly nods with introspective remorse.

“She finds insouciance concerning the conjugal satisfaction of male needs... and finds disgust in the ‘alterative’, as you term it.”

He’s trying to elicit sympathy, perhaps in a subtle way trying to seduce, at the very least currying favor outside of my assigned tasks.

I push the butter tub toward G. Douglas.

“Do try the left. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

So beguiling of me, abetting the boss’s need.

I arise and stroll to the door, knowing that the lustful gaze is following my every step. My seafood salad awaits... and my devious mind percolates. Mrs. Olivier will not be the only bitch in G. Douglas’s life.     

At my desk, I excogitate. Cell phones with cameras. Whoever conceived of such an added feature? Alas, there does come a level of convenience and I reach for the cleverly small and seemingly innocuous device... that and some paper towels.

I am always cleaning up the boss’s mess... tsk, tsk.

My timing needs to be adjusted. G. Douglas is much older than those I was given to torment through masturbation during the college years and I know that age naturally cures the tendency to prematurely ejaculate. So I quickly finish my salad, arise and listen at the door, hopefully not hearing any sounds suggesting completion. Then, paper towels in left hand, in the right my cell phone, camera function set, finger on the shutter button I thrust open the door.

G. Douglas Olivier, staid and venerable business executive is caught in flagrante delicto, his utterance of surprise coming with a simultaneous click... then another... and another as he hurriedly tries to zip. I giggle, adding to his ignominy, watching as the swollen state of his turgid semi impressive male thing precludes a neat and simple return within his trousers.

“Thought you could use these, boss,” offering the towels.

Obviously the task has not been completed. And with incriminating photo evidence in hand, I choose not to hasten a return to my desk.  

G. Douglas, turning crimson, can find no words, his left hand slick with butter.

“My suggestion didn’t work well... or you need more stimulus?”

Yes, I am a minx. But gone from G. Douglas’s gaze is the lust. It is now both fear and frustration. He knows I have clicked away with the cell camera, compounding the consequences of the sordid, disgusting male deed with evidence... and evidence so quickly and easily shared.

I must assume he knows it is not in his interest to become confrontational. Yet, he finds not other words. He’s a puppy, house training not quite completed, awaiting admonishment for soiling the kitchen floor.

In the past it’s been ‘Mr. Olivier’. Now it’s just ‘boss’.

“Well boss, you may as well finish for me. You’ve been denied long enough,” wriggling my finger as I step to the long highly polished conference table.

With my training in psychology, I am not surprised when he obediently responds to my beck and call. He is defeated, first having his wife conspire to make his right hand useless, then enduring her verbal rebuke, then getting caught in a most humiliating pose with photographic evidence of his licentious misdeed.

“Bring the butter,” I remind.

He grasps the tub while I move a chair from the end of the table, then spread paper towels where I will have him complete the embarrassing hormonal release.

“It’ll will be easier to clean up your mess here,” I proclaim with newly assumed authority, pointing to the paper covered glossy surface of the table.

I stand arms akimbo, the boss knowing to return a semi firm penis into the office lighting. It quickly pops into view, red and messily smeared, the sole useable hand slippery and not able to timely close the zipper.

“Let’s see how far you can shoot all that built up spunk, shall we? I have plenty of memory in the cell phone camera...”

And thus began my change in status at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances... from steadying the corporate ladder to rapidly rising upon it. And more importantly, I attained that so termed ‘good provider’ a woman should have. Both G. Douglas and the company made lots of money. No reason not to share.