The Family Feud III

Chapter Sixteen
Wendy’s Day

STAR COUNT:
WENDY: 36
Get out of jail cards: 1
JAMIE: 39
Get out of jail cards: 1

The room is warm and earthy, well decorated and airy. A thin, red head with bright blue eyes is completely naked with her chin resting on the couch. She is holding her ass apart with her hands as she bends over. She has a wry grin on her face as she says, “Barbara Jean, if I pull ‘em apart any further, Brock will see what I had for lunch!”

There is genuine laughter from a crowd of people in the background.

Next to her is a big-boned but attractive blonde woman in her mid-thirties. She has a very excited expression on her face while she maintains the exact same position completely nude. “I am just telling you Reba, if Brock catches us without our asses held apart, there will be hell to pay, HELL to pay.” Her words are punctuated by the same background laughter almost as if on cue.

A handsome college aged guy with a thick shock of black hair is walking a beautiful blonde about his own age through the room. She has a pony bit and bridle in her mouth. She is wearing a leather bra and thong, with shoes that reminds you of horses’ hooves. He is marching her as she high steps through the comfortable living room, prodding her along with a riding crop. The ethereal laughter seems to follow the two of them as he marches them through the room.

Reba the blue-eyed, red-head says in a sassy Georgia peach accent, “Ah, to be a newlywed again!”, with a trace of sarcasm. The unseen audience laughs.

In walks a young girl, long flowing hair, she is naked from the waist up, her breasts just starting to bud. She is with a fully dressed boy her age who is grinning sheepishly. She protests to Reba, “Mom, Jake says I have to get naked!”

“I can’t do anything about it, honey. The men have taken over. You’ll have to listen to whatever Jake tells you to do.”

Then I awoke from the dream. I was asleep at my desk, and I realized I must have been dreaming about the sit com Reba. I should be working on Steve’s expense reports, or any one of the half a dozen other projects he has given me. Instead, I thought I would tap down that bizarrely perverse dream before I forget it.

I am not sure why. I would be too embarrassed to admit I’ve been having such twisted dreams to anyone. My son says that there is a “Rule 34”. It says that on the internet, if something exists, there is ‘porn’ of it. I suppose I could post my dream online, just in case there aren’t any dirty fantasies about the cast of Reba, yet.

There probably is. If I lose my job here, I could probably become a writer of internet fiction. I would pick a corny name to write under like “Connie Lingus” or “Amanda Hugginkiss”. I certainly wouldn’t want to write under Wendy Taylor.

I shouldn’t have been sleeping in the Office. If I get caught, I will probably get a correction when I get home. I shouldn’t be writing in my personal journal, when I have so much work to get caught up on. Steve is gone to a meeting, and left me here literally chained to my desk. I am completely naked save for the collar I always wear, and cuffed to my chair by my ankles.

I have the red rubber ball gag in my mouth, and I’ve been drooling all over my desk and down my chest. I’ve got two rubber dildos, one wedged up my ass, and the other uncomfortably slammed into my pussy. I could take these out, but if I did and Steve came in, I’d be so far up shit’s creek I don’t know what I would do.

I can always alt-tab away from my journal of private thoughts. I can’t get the rest in before he got the door open.

My office is locked, and he and my husband have a key. They are (hopefully) the only ones who can discover me this way. If someone knocks, they will hopefully assume I am deep in a conference call and too busy to take their questions.

I am actually surprised things have worked this way for a full week. I used to be a micro-manager with an open door policy, everyone came to me with their problems to solve them. I’ve come to realize that they thought I wanted to plan and organize for them, so they felt obliged to bring these decisions to me. I’ve come to realize that they thought I wanted to plan and organize for them, so they felt obliged to bring these decisions to me.

Now that I have stopped doing that, my direct reports (and indirect reports) have begun solving their own problems. It is almost like watching what must happen here at the office when I am on vacation. Things still get done, without Wendy Taylor making everything happen. What a realization.

I have wondered how I’ve kept this job for a week. I’ve done everything I can to please Steve, in order to please my Husband. Taken on his assignments, sucked his cock, been submissive. It is important that I keep Steve happy, because if he loses interest in supervising me, Bill will definitely send me to Vicky, and I don’t want that. I’d sooner quit than answer to Vicky.

Who am I kidding? I won’t quit my job. I am not a quitter, anyway. I don’t know how much Bill spent on the fair last night, but I hope it’s money they really did make off of Jamie, as stomach turning as that thought is. I can’t imagine high school kids have that much disposable income to pay a lot to date a popular girl. I sure didn't have that kind of money laying around when I was that age.

The cost of the tattoos, and whatever they paid Madam Chang, and who knows what else, could easily have been five hundred dollars.

We have a mortgage payment coming due, my car loan still has to be paid even though the car was wrecked. I don’t know what it will do to my credit, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to Bill about whether we should file a report or not. I have just been hoping the Griffin brothers really were going to make it all go away. Bill is running the finance of the house, and I do not want to nag him with the details. That would undermine everything we have been doing this week. I just have to pray that he knows we cannot spend more than we make.

I don’t think I will get fired. It turns out that as I rose up the ladder of corporate success, I had to step on the backs of both male and female executives to get here. My antics around the office have started rumors but it seems there are three camps.

First, there are the people who think I am trying to bait them into saying or doing something so I can use a threat they sexual harassed me as some sort of means to control them.

Second, The people who are too busy with their own work, to wonder about the changes in me. They seem happy I am out of their hair, and letting them take the initiative.

Third, are the people who actually seem to like the new me.

I don’t think anyone is really on to why I am doing this, or what the full extent of what I am doing is. Steve has been discrete. Why wouldn’t he be? He could probably get fired too.

I should probably start on those projected quarterly earnings. I am not a procrastinator. I never have been. It’s strange though. Without Steve standing over me, that I feel like I would rather record the events of this morning, than to do his work.

I will start with how we were woken up. It has almost become routine, if you can call being a slave to your son and husband a ‘routine’. Every morning without being told, Chris wakes us up. We didn’t get much sleep last night, which explains why I was asleep at my desk having a perverted nightmare.

When we got home from the fair, they made us lay down on the carpet, no pillows, no blanket… Just hard floor. Let me tell you, it makes you appreciate the comfort provided by 300 thread count genuine Egyptian bed sheets and a Perfect Posture Mattress. It makes me miss sleeping, even with my burping, farting, snoring husband (lol, it's really not that noisy/gassy, I am just venting). Needless to say, when my training is over, I am looking forward to sleeping next to that burping, farting, snoring man every night for the rest of my life.

I woke up with a sore, tender asshole. I was gagged and tied by the wrist and ankle to my daughter. I know Jamie hates the idea that we have to lay so close, because it’s obvious the guys want to see us play with each other that way. I hate to admit, I like to snuggle with her though. Her warmth gave me comfort.

A fact, that I do not tell her, or my husband, or Chris because they would probably not understand and read something into it more than it is. Chris is kicking Jamie in the butt, prodding her awake as I crack my eye open. I am surprised Chris is so chipper in the mornings these days. It used to be a big production to wake him.

When he was under my training, I was hoping to put Jamie in charge of waking him. I have to admit, I never saw him getting up on his own without someone literally beating him out of the sack. Here he is trying to motivate us.

Which would have been easier to do if he’d take the stems out of our asses. Ouchie!

We are uncuffed and made to go up the stairs on all fours. This makes the flower sticking out of my ass look like a tail, I am sure. I playfully let it waggle. Hey, if it’s going to be there, I may as well waggle my tail, right?

The bathroom is one of my least favorite parts of our morning ritual. Jamie goes first over the litter box. She used to be a lot more shy about pissing and shitting in front of others. She seems to have no inhibitions now. I hate watching her pump out what looks like chocolate ice cream soft-serv into the litter box. I think mostly because I know I am next.

The only solace I take in this, is that Chris has pulled the stems from our assholes. It feels like such a relief, although it still stings a little.

Chris complimented his sister that she pissed while she was on the pillory to amuse him. I don’t think so, it seemed like an accident to me, which is why I did it too. I didn’t want her to feel like the only one. I gave Jamie a supportive look when her brother said that. I am pretty sure she gets that I know she didn’t piss all down her skirt to amuse people.

Then again, maybe she did pee on purpose. Either way, what is done, is done. There is no going back and changing that.

The only thing that makes using the litter box even slightly bearable is Chris has a sense of humor about it. He’ll say glib things like, “Mmmm, I love the smell of ass in the morning”, like he is an Army Colonel on a chopper in Apocalypse Now. I think he has a future in comedy, I really do. I had no idea about his sense of humor. I knew he would say silly or ridiculous things, he did that ALL the time. I just never paid attention enough to know some of it was hysterical (if a little off-beat). This morning, he made me giggle while I am about to finish and he says, “God mom, say it, don’t spray it!”

Except I wasn't talking at the time; if you know what I mean.

I thought I might lose my mind laughing hysterically. Instead, I managed to keep my composure and act like it didn't bother me that he is supervising both Jamie and I do one of the most private things I’ve ever done in my life short of changing a tampon. I really have no control over how much I “spray”, anyway. I think Jamie is amused by his jokes too. We both try to keep straight faces, but I've caught her smiling once or twice in the past at his potty jokes.

We are not permitted toilet paper at home. That is another part that feels so grimy about it. I am positive I would have allowed Chris and Bill toilet paper if I had required them to use litter boxes. I swear though, I wouldn’t want to see Bill OR Chris take a dump. I would only require it, if I ever got the upper hand again, because they did it to us.

Which, I think I can safely say after this week, that I will never want the upper hand again. I am paying through the nose for my choices. My maternal instincts combined with my controlling nature, went haywire and somehow I ended up enslaving Bill and Chris. I feel so bad about that choice. I am not just saying that.

Since I cannot take back my decision and make it never happen, the next best thing is to grin and bear this for another week. With the ten stars we picked up last night, I think I am set to graduate from this right around the same time Jamie does, as long as she tries hard. I need to keep encouraging her to get through this. I’ve committed to myself to wait until she earns the last star she needs before I graduate. I am not going to sit in the house fully dressed while she serves. That would be completely insensitive of me. Besides, would they expect me to boss Jamie around after I've been where she is? I couldn't.

The sooner Jamie is done with this, the sooner I will be.

She is a trooper about it, I have no doubts she’ll keep at it. We shower together as we always do. She isn’t shy about washing under my boobs, or my ass. Chris is watching, so she has to put on a good show for him.

I am so impressed with my daughter’s courage. It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how hard they make it for us she always absorbs whatever they can throw at her. I shudder to think what it would have been like if we weren’t in this together. She has been my rock in this storm.

We are like Thelma and Louise at the end of that movie, where they go over the cliff together. I hope not literally. I hope there is something soft on the other side of that cliff.

This is my first chance to really see Jamie’s piercings and tattoo in a good light. Chris won’t let us use hot water (because it is for the men), but soaped up and cold as we are I get a full on view at the lewd design that is also on my own ass.

Mikey wasn’t kidding that he is a fast artist. He was able to ink all sorts of curious embellishments into the lettering that spells out “WHORE”. Oh my god, what kind of mom lets her daughter do that?

I suppose one who lets her son pimp them both out. What a nasty dirty dog, I have turned out to be. My own mom would be SO disappointed if she could see me doing some of these things.

“That was something last night, huh?” My daughter asks me.

“You aren’t kidding, my legs are still sore.” I tell her. My legs aren’t really that cramped. I don’t want to sound like I am bragging, but pilates and step aerobics for years made last night more of a light workout. I am realizing now that while I was doing all those exercises classes, I should have been focused more on my kids.

It is better that I agree with her, so that she doesn’t feel so bad that she is having leg cramps. I am kind of surprised, she has such a tremendous dedication to athletics herself.

Chris finally decides we’ve had enough time and lets us scurry around trying to douse ourselves in makeup, brush our teeth, and do all the things that take an hour in less than twenty minutes. This is usually a comedy of errors for Jamie and I, but we have managed it every morning so far. I actually grin like a silly goose the entire time, because it is kind of funny being rushed that way. It feels like when you play musical chairs, I guess, except there is no music or chairs.

Chris comes in and out of the bathroom all morning. I would probably have screamed at him for walking in on me naked while I tried to straighten my hair before. I do my best to smile graciously, and not hide anything from him. If he catches us hiding from him, or talking out of turn it is an infraction, and that will cost us time. We have a narrow window of time to be ready and out the door. I am ever the planner, so I am calculating and recalculating the minutes in my head while all of this is going on.

We are marched down on all fours like doggies for breakfast time.

“Make me breakfast and some eggs, bitch!” Bill demands gruffly, while sitting at the table. He likes to be dramatic some times. I am surprised he is up. I am guessing (hoping) he is spending his days at home looking for a job in earnest. I know I shouldn’t nag him, or remind him, but I can still hope, right?

I diligently get to work putting together the breakfast. Jamie, bless her heart is more trouble than she is worth at this. I show her what I am doing and give her tasks, so that she will learn how to cook. It is kind of sad, that I didn’t teach her these things until we started training together.

Her father sends her upstairs to get our shaving bucket while I finish serving their breakfast. Bill and Chris both jerk me around by nipple rings once Jamie is gone. I always thing they are going to pop clean out of my nipples, but they haven’t. It still hurts when they treat me rough but I just smiled and tried to stay positive. They can’t break me, if I don’t let them have the satisfaction every time. I let them have the satisfaction of seeing me break down every now and then, I mean that is what they like after all. I wish they didn't, but I can understand after everything I did to them. Everything I had them do.

When Jamie gets back, we are on the floor shaving each other’s pussies, legs, everywhere there is hair, we shave. Jamie tried to hide her arousal this morning. I could see her clit hood grow and expand before my very eyes. There was nothing she could do as it inflated like a tiny, fleshy balloon with a metal hoop through it. I could smell her sex, I am sure Chris and Bill could too, but they say nothing about the smell of pussy as they eat.

I was glad they weren’t harping on her about her being aroused. It has to be embarrassing, especially because in order to shave her, I have to pull apart her flaps, and folds in ways that I know secretly arouse me too. She is very good at shaving without my direction, we almost never knick ourselves. It means really taking your time and going delicately over some of the more intimate places.

We shave sitting on the tile floor, sharing a little bowl of water. Bill has been stingy about the razors we use, they are the cheap kind. I am surprised we don’t cut each other more often with them. Today there are none. I can see the purplish bruise on her ass from the spankings we received last night, there are bumps, bruises all over her legs, and chest. It makes me feel bad to catalog each one and internalized how it must have felt for her. I know all too well, because I have matching bruises and bumps in places I didn't think I'd have bruises and bumps.

Jamie had such a pretty pussy before she did this to herself last night. It wasn’t like mine, mine is just a regular pussy, not too fat, not too thin, not a bunch of skin hanging down, but a little bit thicker lips. I know it sounds gross for a mother to say that about her daughter's vagina, but I have to admit it. Her pussy was the slender, picture perfect kind that I think men probably adore, a slender strip of a pink opening with very thin lips on either side.

It is so obscene to see her clit hood peeking out, unable to go back into the fleshy walls that used to conceal it. I am sure my piercings are no picnic for her to look at either. I just think on me, the hoops don't look as out of place, when I am naked.

When I was shaving her armpits, she started playing with herself. I had seen her play with herself absent mindedly, just a rub or a tug here or there. This was a full on diddle, with an expression of passion on her face. I was positive if Chris or Bill saw they would punish her. I wanted to warn her to stop, but that would have only brought their attention. I smiled and pretended somehow I didn’t notice her give her clit the two finger tango. I haven’t used that phrase since high school, what is wrong with me? Two finger tango. That is a nasty way to say it.

That is what it looked like to me though. I am pretty sure she thought I didn’t notice. It was time for morning inspection.

Inspection position one, standing side by side, we wait for one of them to check us. It is really just an excuse for Chris to play, is how I feel about it. He isn’t really checking for hair. If he was, he is not going to find any. I am thorough.

When it is my turn, he jabs my asshole with his thumb, then sticks it right into my pussy. I want to tell him how unsanitary that is, but I don’t think he would believe me. Especially since he has done it to us all week and it hasn’t made us sick or anything. He makes jokes like, “Hmm, whose asshole is wider, Mom’s or Jamie’s?” and Bill will answer, “Oh your Mom is the bigger asshole.” That is hysterical to them.

They try to sound scientific at times, like measuring my areola will tell them something. I know it doesn’t because they don’t even write down their observations. I just let them have their fun. When Chris is done, he sticks his thumb into my mouth to clean it.

I have on several occasions sucked his finger so well, that I noticed he had a hard on. It felt like for a second, the power exchange had reverted back to me, and that he was helpless. I probably shouldn’t do that. It is almost like taunting him to be cruel to me.

It does not matter if I get him hard anyway. He is going to get hard once they are done with the inspection. This is when it is time to play with their cocks. They originally had this ritual in mind for how they wanted it, but things have devolved into us unzipping whatever they are wearing, pulling out their man meat, spitting and then stroking them. I can't tell you how awkward it is.

We begin by spitting on their dicks, to get them to cum faster. It’s gross but it gets the job done. It also beats them using up all my bath lotion and body soaps. I’m hoping after this week, to take a really long, luxuriant bath for a full day, to wash away all the dirty, disgusting feelings.

One of those feelings is the one I get looking at my son’s face while I play pump the pony with his cock. I would much rather be doing Bill, but they are both my owners and they’ve made it clear they want us to switch off for variety. It doesn’t take too long to milk that cum out of his dick into a mason jar.

I don’t really understand why they want to cum in the morning. I would think it makes them tired and want to go back to bed. I do understand why the mason jars. This is something that bothered them so much more than I knew at the time. I used to make them jerk themselves off into mason jars to keep them compliant. This was just something I decided on the spur of the moment to save my carpet from their cummy spills.

They sent Jamie out of the room on some errand to feed Rosco. Jamie didn’t know I had been making them pull their puds to be more compliant. I felt if their dicks were empty of juice, they could focus on their work and be more pliable.

So the fault is entirely mine, and nothing to do with Jamie. I understand now they want to get even with me for humiliating their male pride this way. As I have every morning since they started, I remain on my knees and beg them to pour their cum into my mouth.

“Are you a cum gobbler?”

I bock like a turkey in response, “Yes Sir, please hurry, pour your cum into my cum dump.” I want them to hurry before Jamie gets back.

They have their fun with me, and then drip their mason jars into my mouth, usually simultaneously. I am not allowed to swallow. Once they are satisfied, and see enough on my tongue, they have me start making our lunches.

I have to spit their cum back onto a cheese sandwich that I am going to take with me to work. I am lucky for that much, all Jamie got this morning was a banana and a tomato that they must have had from the fair. I pack Chris’s lunch full of puddings and snacks at his request (command).

When Jamie gets back in, I have this feeling she knows what I just did. I am so embarrassed, my face is red, but she says nothing about it if she does. I am thinking about last night at the fair when she said she wanted to do the same things as me. If she really knew how disgusting pouring salty cum into your mouth can be, I think she would change her mind about trying to do everything I do.

The very last thing we get to do before we are dismissed is to eat. Today it will be to eat their scraps off the floor from a single plate. After our customary, confused head butt, we split the plate down the middle. Cold eggs and bacon, mostly the fattiest parts of the bacon that neither of the guys wanted to eat. I am famished. I would eat raw horse cock at this point. Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but I am hungry enough it doesn’t matter that I am on all fours with my ass spread and eating like a donkey out of a trough. I don’t even think about it.

Okay, I am lying, I think about it, but it has to wait, while I fill my cheeks up like a chipmunk trying to consume as much food as I can. I realize I am being a piggy, eating too much, too fast and slow down. I tried to offer some of the food from the side of the plate that I had placed my imaginary border around. I even pushed it over to her with my nose playfully.

Jamie didn’t pick up on my signal or she was not hungry. Bill took the plate before either of us got to finish it. He had just gave this lecture about not wasting food, and then he wastes the last bit? Confusing. It is just as well though, we don’t have much time left before Steve will be there to take me to work.

We were ordered to go into the living room to get dressed from the ‘bitch box’. I could see that our wet, disgusting clothes from the night before have been tossed back in the box. I become secretly relieved they didn’t plan to send us out in those again, good grief, thank heavens for small favors.

Bill said something about how Jamie is getting ‘special treatment’ by being permitted to wear her cheer leading uniform. I am left thinking “Oh great Bill, make it even worse by TELLING her she is getting special treatment.”. I keep my thoughts firmly to myself. I simply remain supportive and quiet.

This morning, I was gagged, handcuffed, and my legs were shackled together. I was shoved out the door wearing only a bath towel and holding my sack lunch and some work clothes. I didn’t even get a chance to put on my shoes! I am outside in bare feet, like I just stepped out of the shower.

I scan the street line for any morning joggers or heaven forbid Mrs. Waxerman. As funny as it has been to bait her, I could not take her this morning. I crouched down by Bill’s truck to wait for Steve.

Steve is supposed to think I have agreed to all of these changes because I am a nymphomaniac and that I need some kind of aversion therapy. I cannot believe I am hunched over, squatting behind Bill’s truck in just a towel, trying to think of some plausible explanation for what I’d say when Steve finally took the ball gag out of my mouth.

The young executive pulled up right on time. He isn’t bad looking, a little cocky, but that is how you have to be to get ahead as an executive. I wave to him from behind the truck when he blows his horn. I ran out and jump in the passenger’s side next to him, opening the door with both cuffed hands simultaneously.

He predictably laughed at my predicament. That is a funny choice of words “predictable predicament”. I wonder what it is called when a writer uses a sentence like that? I better learn if I want to be a famous, published author of dirty stories. Then again, my only subject matter, for my own stories would be based on the experience I am enduring, and who would ever believe we agreed to and are living this way?

I am wearing just a towel around my chest, gagged, handcuffed, and preparing to go to my job under the supervision of someone who is half my age, and half my pay range. That isn’t a plausible scenario? Is it?

It doesn’t matter how plausible it is, I am caught up in it, and Steve makes me sweat it out for a little while in the car. He finally removes the gag when we are at a red light.

“What do you have up your ass, slut?

“Nothing Sir” I am surprised he doesn’t ask me why I am in the towel, or cuffed.

“Take a plug out of the toys in the back, and put it in.”

“Thank you Sir”. I turn around and reach into the box of toy’s that Steve paid for with my credit card. I am just thankful he didn’t charge it to my company expense account. If I haven’t been fired yet, that would surely do the trick. I better make a mental note that if I need to sabotage this job, that is one way to do it. I pray I can keep Bill and Steve happy with the current arrangement, because I may just need a parachute out of this situation if they give me to Vicky. That would be unbearable.

Steve insists I remove the towel, and let him watch how far I shove the plug up my already sore butt hole. “I was late getting up this morning, Bill sent me out before I could finish showering.” I explain.

I don’t know if he believes me, since my hair is dry and it is obvious I put make up on. Who would do that before they showered? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t seem to care why I am dressed this way. He watched me lying face down in the bottom of his passenger side seat, ass facing him, draped across his seat without asking more.

This suits me just as well. Less chance for me to put my foot in my mouth with these explanations. Then again, I feel like if I explain, it may seem more plausible, and he is less likely to wonder later. That is if he even wonders about this situation. I know I would.

“May I masturbate for you this morning, before I get dressed, Sir?” I ask him politely. This is clever because I’ve reinforced I am some chronic masturbator (which is what Bill told him), but also thrown it out there that I would like to get dressed. This way I don’t have to just ask to put on clothes before we reach the parking lot of our building.

“Do you think you deserve to play with yourself?”

“No Sir, I am a naughty bitch, but it is worth a try?” I am never sure what to say when he asks me things like this. I try being pleasing and amusing. I could have said, “Yes I do, Sir.” but that would make me seem like a greedy nympho who hasn’t learned anything from the lessons he has been teaching me.

“Do you think you can get into the office in handcuffs and your feet shackled that way?” He laughs.

He doesn’t offer me any incentives to even try. He doesn’t even know about the gold star idea. I secretly wonder if the new rules Bill said he would work on, the ones where he uses letters to be able to give smaller rewards for specific things, will be explained to Steve.

“No sir, you’ll probably have to cuff me again once we get up to our office.” I say “our”, but it is really “my former office”.

He has the keys to the cuffs and shackles that Bill uses, which is why I wasn’t completely freaking out to be sent to work this way. I spend at least half of my day bound up now. I am surprised they give me as much freedom as they do. (Otherwise I might be lazy and sit down and journal my thoughts. How ironic is that, because that is what I am doing right now? Granted, I am gagged and cuffed to the chair, but obviously that is not enough to keep me from breaking the rules.)

I don’t like to talk about my day at the office. It gives me such a stomach cramp from whatever nerves or ulcer I am developing over this experience. I keep thinking the powers that be are going to walk into my office and tell me to pack my stuff and get out.

Steve waits for me to slip on the ‘outfit’ they gave me to take to work. I say ‘outfit’ because it is barely a skirt and top. It is hardly professional, and the heels not only don’t match, they are completely inappropriate for work, with baubles and chains dangling down. Even our loosest intern or newest secretary knows better than to dress like this for a work environment.

It beats the towel I had on before though. I am used to walking with a butt plug up my ass now. It constantly reminds me it is there, demands I relieve myself, but I am used to the notion that I will be walking everywhere with one in.

This is one of the true things about my charade around Steve. I don’t enjoy having my ass tortured, stretched and played with. He thinks he is doing this to keep me from wanting to have my pussy tortured, stretched and played with. I hate lying, but at work all rules change anyway, and I feel like it’s better he not know the real reason I am submissive to him.

Every morning works pretty much the same way, after we get off on our floor. We go into my office and lock the door.

I strip completely naked, surrender my clothes and get on the floor kneeling in front of him, while he decides where he wants me.

This morning he wasted no time pulling out his sizable shaft to stuff down my throat while he decides my assignments. I know it doesn't sound like me to say “sizable shaft”, but that is the word that comes to mind when I see his fat one-eyed snake staring up at me.

I listened to Steve go over a list of his petty projects that should be no problem to do, while I polished his knob. I’ve become a pretty good cock sucker. I find prolonging it is best, so that he doesn’t cum too soon.

My goal is to make him cum, just about the time he is finished reading off the last of my assignments. The orgasm makes him more pleasant, and makes him want to take a break. The only down side is it means I have to stay there with his cum on my lips, while he catches his breath.

“Thank you for breakfast, Sir.” I lie in the most sensual way I know how. I smack the cum on my lips to remind him it’s still there. I am not allowed to swallow it until he tells me.

“You are welcome, cum pig. You can finish the cum.” Steve acted like he has done me this huge favor by letting me lick the cum off my own lips. I let him feel powerful, smile submissively, hungrily as I do.

“You can go run off 100 copies of your ass cheeks in the copy room, for being such a good girl this morning.”

Steve thinks I am an extrovert who gets off on doing that. “Thank you sir. May I do it later today, when so many people aren’t coming in and out of the copy room?”

“Don’t you want to get caught by someone making copies?” He asks playfully.

“No sir, I want you to watch me sit my bald pussy on the copy machine, fuck me right on top of it.” I tried to sound more aggressive, like I really need a good fucking. He bought it, and pulled me up roughly, over the desk, bending me over it to fuck me. He can get hard just that quick after his first time. That is one of the fascinating things about young guys. They are wasted on young girls, who don’t appreciate that skill.

“What is with this tattoo?”

“It is part of my therapy, Sir. I admitted I’ve been a whore and a slut.” I had forgotten to think of a good lie about the tattoo. This was all I could come up with on short notice.

“I thought the idea was to cure you of your sexual addictions?”

“It is, Sir. If the addiction gets cured, I can get the tattoo removed.” My answer sounded weak, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he pressed harder into me, taking me from behind, pounding my pussy in and out, with hard thrusts.

He lost interest in questions, his sounds more primal and urgent. He gasps after a few more minutes, “Are you ready for me to pull your butt plug out?”

“No sir, please keep fucking my cunt.” I beg. I know if he pulls out my butt plug, he is going to cum in my asshole. It is better I keep up the illusion I love his cock so much, and want him to keep fucking me. There is no real win to forestalling the inevitable. It doesn’t matter how much I protest or beg, when he is ready to cum the butt plug comes out, goes directly in my mouth and he pushes his dick into my ass about two inches and pumps me full of hot semen. He said something about condoms when we first began this, but it would be too impractical. I have got his dick inside me almost half of my entire day in one hole or another.

That sounds funny, that half of the day I am tied up, and half the day I have a cock stuck in one of my holes. The reason that makes sense is sometimes I do both.

After he fills my asshole with his juice, he makes me waddle over a saucer and drip it out for him. This is when he is supposed to give me affirmations that Bill wrote for him. I am permitted to take the butt plug I am sucking on out of my mouth just long enough to answer and then put it back.

He doesn’t deliver affirmations the same way Bill or Chris do. He doesn’t have the emotional investment in hearing the answers. He doesn’t build off my answers to ask other questions. Instead he just goes down the list. It is not as effective, in my opinion, at motivating me, but I go through the motions.

“Do you love cock?”

“Yes Sir”

“Do you crave cock so much, that you’ll let strangers fuck you in the ass to get it?”

“Yes Sir, even though I don’t particular enjoy being fucked in the ass.” I cupped my titties, taking the squat position we were taught the night before. It seems appropriate.

“What are you going to do with the cum I just shot up your ass?”

“I am going to bend over and lap it up, when you tell me I can, Sir.” He knows that I have to say that. Bill has prepared for him, acceptable responses to his questions.

“What is the deal with your daughter?”

My eyes shot open about as wide as that boy from the fair last night when I told him I’d give him the kiss of his life. “Did my husband put that on the affirmations, Sir?”

“No, he did not. Am I in charge of you at work?”

“Yes Sir, you have full authority over my ass at work.” I try to infer that he has authority over my body, not to pry about Jamie.

“When I met your daughter, I got the vibe that she may be under the same thing you are. She called me Sir, and she was running around with you in the sprinklers?”

“I think I’ve dripped all of your cum out of my ass, sir. May I please lap it up for you?” I tried to change the subject.

“You may not. Turn around, so your ass faces me. Get your nose right above the cum on the saucer. Don’t lick it up.”

Dutifully, I get into the humiliating position. I know he can now see my freshly fucked pussy, as I hold myself just a hair’s breath away from the cum that freshly came out of my ass.

“Remove the butt plug from your mouth, and put it where you think I want to see it.”

I’d like to shove it up his own ass. I didn’t have hard feelings for Steve. He was just doing what any guy in that situation might do given such an unusual but willing executive to torment. I was angry that he was bringing up my daughter. That wasn’t part of the rules. I don’t know why it bothered me so much, perhaps it because things get so much wilder in the office for me. We’ve been humiliated together at the grocery store, at the county fair, at restaurants. I should be okay with his questions, but maybe it’s just because he is such a shark, that I think his questions are more than simply curiosity.

“Put your well trained cock loving tongue on top of that wad of cum. Don’t lap it up yet.”

I did as I was told, looking straight at the messy goo I had just excreted back on to the floor.

“When you are ready to tell me about your daughter, you can eat my cum, and start your day.”

“Wha U wanna no?” I mumbled like I am at the dentist with a tongue depressor, my tongue planted firmly on the saucer.

“Is she a slut like you?” he asked hopefully.

“Not like me, no Sir.” That is technically true. I don’t think she is exactly like me. She is definitely more innocent and deserving of consideration and redemption than me in all of our dirty deeds enslaving the fellas.

“You did well. You can take one lick of my man sauce.” Spoken as if this is the biggest treat of my life. “Why did she call me Sir?”

“We are both under discipline, Sir.” I had finished my first lick of his cum, and was beginning to feel butterflies in my stomach. There was something sickening about revealing this to Steve, while she isn’t here. If we had been asked by Medieval Steve when we were together the night before, I think I could have just come right out with it. I couldn’t put my finger on why it sickened me to tell him something, even make up a convenient lie. It is nothing we hadn’t done for Mrs. Waxerman or any number of other people.

“This is a sore spot for you, isn’t it slut?”

“May I have a lick of your cum, Sir?” I asked him politely. He had made it sound like for every question I take another lick, and I wanted to finish as soon as I could, the topic had made my asshole pucker. I knew he could see that, which is why he seemed to be drawing it out.

“No, rub the rest under your nose, so you can smell it. Then get dressed. You have copies to make, slut!”