A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith IV

Reaching My Zenith IV

Monday morning I reward Mr. G for his compliance... a long, slow... and overdue... weekly update. He shot quite the load for an old timer.

Then Saturday finally arrives. Whereas normally on Saturday mornings I have Jack cook several meals for the weekend then just keep him hooded and tightly restrained until Monday morning, I’ll want to show him off to Mrs. Olivier.

So he prepares French toast and eggs benedict, then steps to the bedroom to don his maid’s attire. Just as in serving Harry the Horse, there is a degree of apoplexy. Daintily attired, buttocks well presented, he knows the possible consequences of being so exhibited to the boss’s wife. This is not the Bed and Breakfast episode of our wedding... completely naked before my cohorts of kink. In some ways completely naked could be more easily explained.

Instead he’ll be in the attire of a young serving girl... and he knows very well how much I enjoy showing people his controlling cock cage and my remote.   

Mrs. Olivier may remember him from an office Christmas gathering, but in maid’s cap, blouse, apron and skirt, it is doubtful

Meanwhile I assure that my laptop is properly running and that the photos I uploaded are easily assessable. Jack’s thorough subservience will certainly push the conversation in the intended direction. And though I am sure the prim and proper Mrs. Olivier will initially feign discomfort... perhaps even shock... she’ll come around.

In her own way, she relishes control of the male herself.

The doorman calls to announce the arrival of Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. The clock reads 12:40 p.m., graciously late.  Jack begins to fidget. I merely pick up the remote and wave it in front of him. There will be no delays in greeting Mrs. Olivier as with Harry the Horse. Two minutes later the doorbell rings, I nod, Jack’s heels tap away, I remain in the livingroom.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Olivier. Mrs. Montrove is expecting you.”

Jack curtsies and just as with Harry the Horse there is a moment of stunned silence. Jack is neutered yes. But his attempts to appear girlishly feminine fall comically short. I will have to let his hair grow.

Finally there comes a regal ‘thank you’, condescending to speak to a servant with apparent gender issues.

The gray haired, prim Mrs. Olivier enters.

“Mrs. Olivier, thank you for coming.”

“So gracious of you to have me,” the polite words do not conform to the tone and lack of enthusiasm.

“I have had my husband Jack make some Mimosas, but we also have tea, coffee and plain orange juice.”

“A Mimosa will suffice.”

“Let’s sit and talk here. Jack will need a moment for the eggs benedict.”

My maid knows to retrieve the refreshments and Mrs. Olivier is delightfully shocked when he turns, her eyes gluing to the soft round buttocks of a pubescent girl.

“Did you say husband?” the question posed in disbelief.

“Yes, Jack. But nights and weekends he serves me as a maid and perhaps should be called Jackie,” I calmly explain gesturing to a chair.

We sit. I continue. I am sure Mrs. Olivier requiring time to gather words.

“I’m sure you have household help as well,” I prompt.

“I have a woman who cleans and tidies up... a couple days per week.”

Jack enters, strolling rather well in his heels, carefully balancing tulip glasses filled with orange juice and Champagne.

“I prefer to be served by the neutered male,” I bluntly explain. “They have a need to please and are more focused on doing so.”

Jack dips at the knees to offer, Mrs. Olivier accepts. When he turns his girlish backside is not only again displayed but now offers proximity.

“Return to the kitchen and stay. I will let you know if we need anything else and when I want to be served in the dining room,” my words sharp and direct.

As Jack steps through the kitchen door I make a show of pressing the remote, always at my side, always ready to punish. As planned, with a look of perplexity Mrs. Olivier watches me set the electrified cock cage.

“I not only emasculated Jack, I have what is left of his penis locked away in an electrified chastity device. It helps address his special needs.”

“I see,” Mrs. Olivier manages to succinctly respond.

“Many men have special needs, Mrs. Olivier. Fortunately there are women such as me who know how to address those needs... and do so with a degree of passion. It is best for him.”

“But you must have certain needs as well... you’re... you’re young.”

Mrs. Olivier is too prim and proper to bluntly say a girl needs to get laid on occasion. But I get her gist, that Jack cannot serve all my needs.

“You mean sex? Men are hounds, Mrs. Olivier. A girl can get that anywhere any time. It’s being pampered, having financial stability, for those one must truly endeavor in earnest to attain... wouldn’t you agree? Cheers.”

We click glasses. Mrs. Olivier needs alcohol. I need her to have alcohol. I am heartened when she first sips, nods approval, then partakes with a goodly draw. It would seem a half naked, servile man in a frilly uniform fosters a certain thirst. 

“I suppose, but Douglas and I are of an age when we no longer need to consider that.”

“Really? We talked briefly about the company’s experimental product line and you suggested your Douglas’s reaction was to spend time doing something...” I prompt. 

Mrs. Olivier nods reluctantly, taking another sip... more fortification?

“So what could it possibly be that the scent of butter spurred?” I inquire mysteriously, reaching for my nearby laptop computer.

“Much time in the bathroom... showering,” Mrs. Olivier blurts, attempting to truncate any thoughts of untoward behavior.

“Cold showers, no doubt,” filling in idle time as my computer boots.

“Whatever,” the disgust in her tone suggesting disapproval.

I tap a few keys, note Mrs. Olivier’s glass then reach for my remote. I press, inaugurating a reminder charge to Jack’s cock cage and Prince’s Wand. There comes a yelp from the kitchen as I press a second button to turn off the charger which restricts Jack to that room. He knows that he has been summoned and prances to us with alacrity.

“Two more Mimosas, Jack,” I command as I turn my laptop toward Mrs. Olivier.

On the screen an early depiction of G. Douglas Olivier, standing at the edge of the conference table, pants down, a buttered hand firmly wrapped about a turgid penis. It’s the initial encounter, my pics stored chronologically.

“This was taken years ago. Your husband performed for me. I had him ejaculate right on cue. Quite obedient. As stated, many males... most males?.. have special needs. I’ve been accommodating for years now.”

I press, scrolling ahead. An aghast Mrs. Olivier gapes at pics in which I have taken more control. It’s my hand, my face not seen. The ashtray sits at the ready to accept the bosses ignominious discharge.

“You can see for yourself. Press here to advance. Some dozen photos, taken each week... for over four years now. Quite a collection.”

Mrs. Olivier is silent in her shock. There is a degree of disbelief which rapidly wanes as there is no question it is indeed the debonair captain of industry G. Douglas Cooper who so obediently stands reveling in the delight of my controlling hand and spurting with fervor into the ashtray... week after week after week.

“You’ll note how much he enjoys the anal penetration. Are you aware of that Mrs. Olivier? It’s common among many males. Something about the prostate gland...”

Mrs. Olivier, having her fill, pushes the laptop back toward me.

“What’s this all about?”

I smile, press Jack’s remote and listen for the girlish yelp.

“We’re moving to the dining room to be served,” I call out knowing I have his attention.

I arise, sweeping with an open hand to suggest we partake in brunch.

“Control, Mrs. Olivier. It’s all about control,” I step following Mrs. Olivier.

“You see just as Jack has special needs, I in turn have some of my own. Your husband has been quite accommodating in that respect. The promotions and hefty annual raises have been much appreciated. And now running Olivier Flavors and Fragrances... yes, G. Douglas has not made a meaningful decision in years... has served to scratch a certain itch.”

We sit. I press the remote to allow Jack out of the kitchen. He immediately steps forth with two plates of eggs benedict cooked to perfection, his Hollandaise sauce unsurpassed. He than dashes back to the kitchen and returns with a platter of French toast, centered between us. Jack then knows to step to the corner and await the snap of my fingers. Brunch is served.     

“You’re a bitch,” Mrs. Olivier finally blurts, her Haughtiness finally stepping out of character.

“No question,” snapping my fingers to have Jack instantly step forth. “Have some more cinnamon at the table for Mrs. Olivier... and by all means some butter,” the irony not to be avoided.

Jack moves toward the kitchen door and shocks himself. I reach to the remote and press, having forgotten to offer electronic passage.

“Yes control, Mrs. Olivier. I have used the threat of disclosure of my graphic photos for years to keep G. Douglas Olivier under my thumb. And yet he has not unduly suffered. Matter of fact he was quite perturbed when I recently delayed his weekly update... it’s our code word for when I step into his office and masturbate him onto his desktop or conference table. He’s learned quite nicely to pose for the camera... wouldn’t you agree?”

“Disgusting. It’s all about sex.”

“Perhaps... but in dealing with the male, sex becomes power. And we all crave power to a certain extent... don’t we Mrs. Olivier? You have used the denial of sex as power over your husband. I have simply taken an opposite but equally effective track.”

Mrs. Olivier is upset but eats.

“Another Mimosa for Mrs. Olivier, Jack,” having placed the butter and cinnamon on the table.

She does not refuse. The woman is in need of more of something which soothes.

“Where is this conversation leading?” Mrs. Olivier losing her prudish parlor manners.

“Power over you, of course. I finally came to the conclusion that as humiliating as the photos are to G. Douglas, his weekly submission evidencing his desperate need to keep his perversion shrouded in secrecy, they are equally embarrassing for you. The Garden Club... the Daughters of the American Revolution... the Greenwich Woman’s Club...” I proceed to rattle off all the snooty organizations in which Mrs. Olivier finds social consolation in mingling amongst the idle wealthy. “Now they would find this of great interest. I am sure they’ll all recognize in the photos the debonair CEO of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances. I wonder how that would affect your membership status... your social standing... married to a libertine pervert.”

“Douglas will find this to be quite expensive,” she threatens.

“Douglas is not to know... never to know that you’re aware of this. I think at this point it behooves us booth to keep him under a woman’s thumb... wouldn’t you agree?”

Mrs. Olivier draws a very unladylike gulp from a fresh tulip glass.     

“My demands are simple, Mrs. Olivier... and just as G. Douglas adapted, you will as well...”