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.




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.


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.  


Anonymous said...

Excellent start :)

Hope101 said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Hope101 said...


One suggestion: why not leave the reference to abortion in paragraph thirteen to just "dust and clean"? The analogy is perfect to stand alone and quite novel.