Saturday, July 12, 2014

A Woman in Control - A good life gets better II

A good life gets better II

“Mrs. Montrove, I need to go to the bathroom.”

It’s Jack, calling from his office.

“Ten minutes,” I mercifully proclaim, reaching for the remote control and setting the timer.

Ten minutes hence, the control unit will automatically turn off the charger and allow Jack to leave his office for an allotted interval. If he does not return in time, he will not be able to get past the wired doorway to reenter. Failure means trouble. A call to reset the control unit for reentry results in a naughty boy shock... or worse... an agonizing shock if he returns much delayed.

“And Jack, cook for two tonight. Steaks, caesar salad, a good rich craft brew. I have a guest, so I want you to look pretty for me in your uniform.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s not ‘we’ have a guest... it’s ‘I’ have a guest, Jack having no say. And I might add, Jack usually cooks for one... me... and I’ll let him later ‘feast’ on what I leave on my plate such as picked over bones and perhaps a vegetable which has turned inedibly cold before receiving my attention. 

Usually I eat at home then depart for drinks and a good fuck, returning satiated with a brimming love nest for a well restrained Jack. But it’s time for the next step in our cuckold marriage.

I have invited Harry the Horse and he will be impressed... with Jack’s cooking... with Jack. And Jack will be able to put a face with a mentally archived ‘taste’. My instruction concerning the uniform is to allay a degree of shock. Having a husband as a serving maid some will find quirky enough. Having a husband as a naked serving maid, cock caged in metal, can be deemed over the top. I do not want to distract Harry from his appointed duty... that is to lie supine, get it up, and eventually get it off after I do my rodeo thing.

As five p.m. approaches I set the control box to permit Jack to leave. The timer will allow him 27 minutes to get home, otherwise he’ll not get through the apartment door and will need to call me to arrange entry... and receive a punishment shock for tardiness.

Bob, my fawning personal assistant, enters.

“Got the stuff you wanted from R & D,” placing a moderately sized spray bottle on my desk. “Think it’s pretty close.”

I decided to use the acquired talents and knowledge of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances to have a little fun. I asked Bob to have someone in the fragrance laboratory concoct a spray mist with the scent of butter. Normally it’s the flavor guys who get such a request, artificially adding a buttery zest to foods without the calories and insalubrious fat. But I want to have what will essentially be a perfume bottle of butter scent. G. Douglas’s reaction will greatly amuse if the boys in R & D get it right.

One must recall, my conquest and quick rise in the organization began when he masturbated for me utilizing butter as a handy lubricant. To this day, the ‘weekly updates’ center about a slick right hand and greased penetrating fingers of the left... the use of butter continuing.   

I am eager to see what the scent prompts without the actual lubricant. So I press the pump and presto, my office reeks of the makeshift masturbatory unguent.

“Tell the boys in the lab I am pleased,” slipping the bottle into my desk drawer to await the next Friday ‘update’. 

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