Saturday, August 23, 2014
A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith - I
Reaching My Zenith I
Fridays are long days. Masturbating G. Douglas, riding the week’s top producing salesman on the ottoman in my office, watching amused while a naked Bob pays homage and cleanses the award winning salesman’s cock, then leisurely sitting at my desk, skirt hiked, thighs spread as Bob does the cream pie clean up.
With the antics going well past five p.m. I set the remote to allow Jack to depart his office and go to the clinic. There Nurse Benson strips him and utilizes the painful electroejaculation to drain him of whatever his chemically altered reproductive system is still able to produce. The effluent is collected, the Prince’s Wand making that facile, but it is no longer tested. It’s merely prostatic fluid and is demonstrably shown to Jack to emphasize his castration. Plus it is best to rid him of the goo lest he drip about the apartment.
Next the cock cage and waist belt are removed for cleansing and Jack in turn is cleaned and shaven. Upon leaving, Nurse Benson calls and I set the timer, offering just enough time to return home before the electrified door locks him out. There he will disrobe and clean the apartment while back in my office an orally accomplished Bob licks and licks and licks.
Sometimes I will call home and describe how Bob’s mammoth tongue is fluttering about between my thighs.
It’s year four of my ascendency and the steady string of pre planned promotions have brought the title of Chief Operating Officer, and a huge salary. G. Douglas’s title of CEO is more of a sinecure than ever. Essentially, I call all the shots. And whereas Jack’s salary was material to my means at the time of our marriage years ago, it’s now a pittance by comparison. I toss most of his pay into savings and a good long term care policy. Castrated men have particular health issues as they age. I just hope when needed I can find a place that will keep him suitably restrained... and find another servant for myself.
Presently my well stored photo collection of the boss performing for me is vast. If disclosure is ever deemed necessary, there will be no arguments of a photoshopped scene... something contrived... cut and pasted to embarrass G. Douglas. No, the huge collection will speak loudly, cleverly photoshopping hundreds and hundreds of snapshots deemed impractical.
And my collection continues to grow. I like having G. Douglas perform for me before the camera... another aspect of this power thing...
I have come to realize that though my power is almost absolute, there is one possible glitch... the termagant Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. Their estranged marital relationship has become more distant. With me satiating the boss’s sexual urges, now only once per week as his senescence progresses, G. Douglas no longer even attempts to get any at home. Still he chooses to cowtow, there being nothing to gain in a divorce instead just a division of assets, mainly stock in Olivier Flavors and Fragrance. Such is deemed unthinkable.
So who is to ultimately rule over G. Douglas?
If there is one thing I have come to learn about the haughty Mrs. Olivier, social prestige is paramount. Yes, the sizable wealth and income bring comfort, but status... that is what ices the cake of the affluent.
Thus I ponder, realizing that as impactful as the disclosure of my many photos can be to G. Douglas Olivier, there would be equal impact to the social status of Mrs. G. Douglas should there be further disclosure outside the comfortable and opulent G. Douglas Olivier nest.
So perhaps I can attain a degree of power over the harridan wife of poor G. Douglas. But how to manifest?
If G. Douglas knows that the Mrs. is aware of the Friday dalliances... firm stroking hand, fingers penetrating, infirm pecker spurting into the ashtray at my behest... then my power will diminish. One less and very good reason to obey me. But if the Mrs. learns of my ability to extort and informs not G. Douglas, then my power does not diminish... it is enhanced. Power over G. Douglas by way of threat to disclose to Mrs. G. Douglas... power over Mrs. G. Douglas by way of threat to disclose the humiliating photos to the myriad of clubs and societies where she revels in supremacy.
I connive. Mrs. G. Douglas rarely comes to see G. Douglas. Places of labor are beneath her, the offices of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances thought of as the stable of a gentrified country house... a dwelling of necessity... but not to be visited.
I have only met Mrs. Olivier at the annual company Christmas affair. Terming it a party would be a stretch as no one dares celebrate in the overly stuffy atmosphere, the attendance of the board making all wary of ‘inappropriate behavior’. Still she knows of me... and my rapid rise and annual promotions... by way of sharing a glass of punch... and from the days when I formerly answered the phone... line 3.
Mrs. Olivier is prim and aloof. Discussing business, that which keeps her in diamonds, vintage wines and cut flowers, is beneath her. So conversations are brief and the only thing we share in common for sure, so to speak, is husband G. Douglas... which shall not be an item of conversation.
Yet perhaps I can entice her into some level of business discussion... woman to woman... research... her input needed on a potential product line... just out of R & D.
Yes, I connive. I write...
Olivier Flavors and Fragrances is developing radical new air fresheners for the home. No longer the foreign scent of laboratory concoctions, we have the ‘baker’s delight’ series of fragrances, offering the homemaker the pleasant scent of home cooking. Planned are the scents of baking pies... bubbling soups... roasting meats. But first out for field testing... butter... pervading the kitchen and dining room with the ubiquitous fragrance of all fare that is savored.
(Not bad, perhaps we should in fact be working on just such a product line.)
Enclosed is a specimen for trial use in the Olivier household. It would be helpful to our research if you as matriarch of the Olivier family and organization first sample the product in your home. Mr. G. Douglas Olivier is unaware of the sampling. We would be interested to learn of his ‘blind’ reaction.
Chief Operating Officer
I am so mischievous!
I instruct Bob to print a formal letter on company stationery and have him retrieve a small box. G. Douglas, after some four years of being masturbated by a woman’s butter coated hand, becomes aroused with the scent of butter. So in mailing the fragrance to Mrs. Olivier, I am empowering her with the catalyst that has prompted the patriarch of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances to drop his drawers every Friday and stand before his desk, sometimes the long conference table, and spew his seed into an ashtray... at the behest of a woman.
Always butter, always the ash tray, I am fond of rituals, turning the debonair, epicure, wealthy, captain of industry into a Pavlovian dog. And G. Douglas indeed drools like the psychologist’s canines... though from his penis.
Packaged, appearing distinctly personal, the letter is mailed along with the R & D concoction, to arrive on a Thursday. I smile inwardly, envisioning G. Douglas’s priapic response to the scent of his kitchen.