Saturday, July 5, 2014

A Woman in Control - A good life gets better I

A good life gets better I

Within a few months of marriage, G. Douglas Olivier calls me into his office to order lunch, his hand bandaged, a termagant wife apparently plotting to forestall masturbation with a hot fireplace poker. The remainder of that segment of the story has been told.

So first I acquire a chemically castrated cuckold husband, then a boss so sexually frustrated that he finds relief in controlling hand jobs and lastly acquire the power to assemble a cadre of bullstuds... all of whom are on the company payroll.

Still, I am astute enough to understand that behind the power is the significant cash flow of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances. This is not to be tampered. Thus the hijinks... the office hijinks... are solely on Friday afternoons, beginning with the ‘weekly update’... G. Douglas getting his rocks off into an ash tray, thereafter Bob sucking to full erection the bull of my choice whom I will ride on my office ottoman, then having Bob do oral clean up.  

Jack is sequestered in his office, ‘analyzing’ I trust. His electrified cock cage makes it impossible to step out his wired office door, so the office dalliances are not and never will be burdened with matrimonial concerns. I preserve the torment of Jack for nights and weekends. Week days he works, bolstering the company cash flow.

But once per week satiation does not, and I suspect, never will be sufficient for a woman of my penchants. Home at night in an impeccably cleaned apartment, being served a sumptuous meal every evening by a naked husband, prancing about in full makeup, stokes the smoldering embers of lust. And whereas Jack’s cunnilingus is steadily improving, as stated, my preference is for penetration... deep... the vaginal walls frictioned and well kneaded by a massive and stiff male appendage.

So I date, frequently and without compunction. As I informed Jack on our wedding night, as a mass of gism slowly drooled from my lips to his... vaginal to oral... there will be more, and many different flavors.

Rather ironic, considering Jack’s line of work. He did suggest, during his meek introduction to me that he ‘knew a little about the flavor side of the business’. So I constantly put his skills to work, returning home, straddling Jack’s supine and well bound form and letting the evening’s collection of virile male essence slither to his mouth.

“Care to guess who I fucked tonight, Jack?” I taunt, knowing that, though he finds it repulsive, by rote he records the taste in the archives of his chemically engineered mind. He cannot help himself and he knows the names and penis sizes of every one of my bulls. I am given to describe the encounters quite graphically. Having a useless penis, small and becoming smaller, locked away for no other reason than to punctuate his forced chastity, he mentally seethes. He can never physically please me in the manner of a man. It torments, and I cherish such torment.

“It’s Randy,” he’ll finally postulate... and do so quite accurately. Quite the skill since there is Lou, Adam, Chuck, Tom, Harry the Horse, Leonard and an occasional unknown the taste of whom gets recorded should I ever choose to again fuck the restaurant busboy... the parking valet... or some guy across the bar.      

Yes, life gets better and better.

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