The Family Feud III

Chapter Eighteen
Wendy's Work Day II

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

**Note to reader: Some of Wendy’s journal was altered to protect the name of the corporation and some of the employee’s identities. In order to increase readability, some of the dialogue exchanged was altered to appear in a ‘narrative’ story format.


What choice did I have but to comply with Steve's orders? I hate to seem like this robot who does whatever everyone tells her, but my options are extremely limited. At least a dozen times a day, I daydream about taking my life back. Demanding everyone stop sticking things up my butt, and slapping me.

I dream about packing up the car and driving back home to Indiana, or any place. Then I realize Jamie wrapped my car around a tree. There was time for dreaming right then. I had just been ordered to wipe the cum that had drained from my ass under my nose, and get dressed so that I could go make photocopies of my ass.

“Yes Sir” I said pushing the butt plug firmly up my ass as I stood up. “Would you like to come supervise, so I don’t get tempted to masturbate?” I pleaded. I don’t want to do this, much less did I plan to masturbate if he isn’t there. It is all part of the strange game I play every day to maintain this cover story with Steve. It gets more and more where I don’t remember what is really my motivation and what I am pretending to be like. There is a part of me that wants him to come with me.

He declined. He had a meeting of some sort to go too. There is another part of me, the controlling snooping kind, that wants to hear about the meeting. What is going on at the office that I do not have my thumbs in?

It seems all I have my thumbs in lately, are my own ass and pussy.

Once I was fully dressed, Steve gave me a cursory glance, unbuttoned one of the buttons over my cleavage, and with a pat on the butt sent me out to make my own copies.

I’ve been a Senior Executive Vice President in charge of multiple teams with direct reports, who themselves manage large teams. There is no reason I would make my own copies. The good news though is when you have a position like that, no one questions why you are doing it anyway. It comes off as some sort of alpha personality, “I’ll make them myself, MY way.” kind of thing.

I am starting to realize that despite the fancy title and my involvement in so many projects, things continue to get done even with me shutting my doors. I am also starting to realize that the title gives me some insulation from people poking their nose into what I am working on. They must assume I am doing something high pressure. If I were lower on the totem pole, I may have had an immediate supervisor breathing down my neck and wanting to know why I keep my door locked.

Executive privilege, I guess? Why don’t I feel very privileged with a big dildo up my ass and a gag in my mouth? Lol.

I walked into the copy room, patiently waiting for some intern to finish her binders. There are several copy machines, but I pretended the one she is using is the one I need. She shifted her work to other machines, and so I had to pretend to be busy doing some prep work, grumbling to myself about quarterly reports and profits for the interns benefit. I really just wanted her to go so I could lock the door and finish, and get back to my desk.

Then SHE walks in. Vicky. I should also mention that Bill told me I don’t have to say Sir and Ma’am at work, on a few conditions. I have to say it to Steve no matter what, but to other co-workers, because we are business casual, it can be seen as condescending to call them a title. If I said “Ma’am” to Vicky, she would think it is an underhanded way of demeaning her. If Jamie or Chris find out, I have to go back to say Sir and Ma’am at work.

This is something I feel guilty about anyway, because I know Jamie has to say it even at school and that must be really difficult for her to call people she used to be on the same level with by titles of respect.

Vicky looks like a fatter version of me. Her hair is just so, she has frosted tips, a little more garish make up than I would wear. She had her usual look on her face, the one that seems like she just smelled a fart and she suspects YOU did it. The thing that was different today, is she was wearing a very short skirt, and I believe she didn’t have on a bra.

Unlike me, she doesn’t have a boob job, but she has fairly large natural sized breasts. Her big old jugs seem to catch my eye, in the provocative blouse she has chosen.

I immediately suspect that either she too is being blackmailed/guilted into dressing this way by someone, or more likely she has chosen to start dressing like me for some reason.

“Hello Vicky” I greeted her trying to sound polite.

“Okay.” She waved her hand dismissively.

“Making copies?” I ask politely.

She sneers at me, as if to question why I asked her, or that copying is beneath her. “No, I am here to pick up my reports!” She turns to the intern and starts questioning her on why the binders aren’t finished and demanding them to meet a project deadline. Then Vicky leaves in a huff, without saying another word to me.

“Wow, tough boss, huh?” I smile to the Intern.

She didn’t answer for a few minutes. I started to assume she must think I am a pig too. “Between us, Vicky is a complete bitch. I wish I worked for you.”

“Why is that, hon?” I ask. It is nice not to have to call her Ma’am, it would sound so weird if I did.

“You seem much nicer, and you are in here to make your own copies. I don’t think Vicky would ever do that.”

I smile, because I know until a week ago, I would have been more critical of the intern, laid more pressure on her to get it done and do it right, and I would not have come near the copy room. I would have sent someone else to check on the intern.

“How much longer do you need to make the copies?” I changed the subject.

“At least an hour.”

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Wow, don’t you have other things you need to be doing?” She seemed flattered that anyone at my level would be willing to help.

It is more that I need her out of this room, so I can lift my skirt, sit my ass on the cold plate glass of the copy machine and hope it does not crack while I make 100 photo copies to show Steve. The sooner I get that done, the sooner I can finish my other work.

I started to help her, and about 20 minutes went by without incident. I was busy collating binders when Vicky came back in.

“Taken a sudden interest in the Bitterman account, have you?” She asked me.

“No, not really. I thought I would just help out.”

“No thank you! I’ve had your ‘help’ before. Then you end up putting your name on my work and taking credit for it.”

I smiled innocently, but I knew exactly what account she was talking about. It was true, I had been a self-promoting cunt without remorse. I consider myself honest and nice, except in the board room. Here I can be more ruthless, a dragon lady. This is probably where my domme personality emerged from when I began disciplining Bill and Chris.

She adjusted her skirt without even thinking about it. I could tell dressing in skimpier clothing was new to her. I remember feeling that way the first day I came to the office in something that provocative. I pretended to ignore it.

“You have been walking around here like you’ve got something up your butt, and I want to know what it is?”

My jaw dropped open. There was a moment, just a second where I thought she was being literal. That she somehow saw right through my new behavior and was calling me out. I almost admitted I did and called her Ma’am.

“What do you mean?” I asked her, instead. Pretending to be coy. Asking questions, rather than answering them isn’t my true nature. It isn’t who I really am, but it is part of the game between executives and I used to play it exceptionally well. That is until my wings were recently clipped by my husband and Steve.

“You know what I mean.” She said vindictively. This should not be taken to mean anything special. Most of what she says sounds vindictive and downright hostile. If a man were to take that tone around the office, he would be labeled an ‘asshole’ and no one would go near him, if his career lasted long enough for people to ever need to go near him. For us women, such bitter harshness is tolerated, even expected in the management arena.

“I really don’t, but I do like your shoes.” I have to admit a certain amount of joy at giving Vicky a complement. She assumes I must mean I don’t like her shoes. She’ll stew for hours wondering if I really liked them, or if I was being facetious. That feels like the old me. I wonder if I will be able to completely come back to being the ‘old me’ when my training is over. How much of those bad habits can be erased by two weeks of training? Some of these ‘old me’ habits have saved my bacon, and helped me get a promotion at work. As mean and tiresome as some of them are, I can’t deny their effectiveness. I don’t know that I want to change into a ‘new me’ for good.

I’ve resigned to do my best for next week to fulfill my bargain with my husband, short of getting fired. Vicky doesn’t have the patience to wait me out in the copy room. She left feeling like I was definitely up to something, probably with the Bitterman account.

While I waited, my real work and Steve’s work will be piling up for me, but the copies are necessary or else I’ll probably get not only a punishment here, but one when I get home. Double-whammy.

I locked the door to the copy room, and proceeded to set my bald pussy on the photocopy and wait for the 100 copies to materialize. Since I am not paying for them, I use the color copier. “What the hell?”

This isn’t the first time I had made copies of body parts. I’ve even done my tits, which is a really weird feeling to press my fat tits against glass for the time it takes to make a hundred copies. Having a boob job has been essential to play the game at work and climb the corporate ladder. I used to be so proud of them, listen to me calling them ‘fat tits’ like Bill and Chris do.

I am not talking about Erin Brockovich, “Tee Hee, give me what I want.” shaking them for some perverted executive. That is going to get you about as far as Executive Administrator. I am talking about the power they gave me over other women. Even women like Vicky with naturally large breasts. As I could tell from how they hung without a bra, they don’t stand up straight and perky like mine (With just a hint of a natural hang). They sag with the weight of time.

The great tits, had a psychological effect on me. I walked chest out, shoulders back. I felt superior, and in doing so, other women treated me with a respect. I can’t explain it. I guess for a male, it’d be something like comparing the size of your package with all the other guys at work, and the biggest is the alpha male who gets to decide what to do. Sort of a primal thing.

They were an excellent investment for my career and my self-confidence. I think though they, as many things do, had some unintended side effects. Aside from the eye-rape of every bus-boy, bag-boy, or ‘boy’ in general as I bounce along oblivious to their stares. The confidence may have made me take Bill for granted, and take too assertive a role at home. That is probably the understatement of the year, had I not been stopped last week, I would still be Domme around the house, just like I was queen bee here at work.

The copies were finished, and I pulled my skirt back up. I could hear someone knocking to get in the copy room. I try the old George Castanza trick from Seinfeld. I’ve been doing this a lot lately, when I am caught doing something that is hard to explain. It is where, as I unlock the door, I carry a lot of papers, grumble and complain as if I have way too much work to do, and people keep interrupting me. The poor simple administrative assistant doesn’t dare question why I locked myself alone in the copy room.

I hustled down to Steve’s cubicle to see if he was there. It is on the way to ‘our’ office. He is there, filling out some fax coversheets and pretending to do his own work. “Hello Sir, I have your copies”. I hand him the stack of color copies of my ass crack and pussy lips.

“Thanks, did you sign them?”

“No sir, not yet”. I did my best to not roll my eyes. I don’t know if he knows I can be punished for that, but it is best to avoid his gaze. He wants me to sit down and sign each copy, this wouldn’t be the first time. “May I do it in our office, sir?”

“Yes, you can be more comfortable there.”

I know what he means, as I nod and accept the assignment. Once I get into my office, I lock the door, take off all my clothes and then shackle my foot to the chair (as it is now). I insert a dildo I keep in my desk into my pussy, and removing the butt plug, I replace it with a rubber dildo as well. I hate to admit that for some reason I felt the need to put it in my mouth and clean it off. I chalk it up to having no other way to keep it sanitary, and just the habit of doing it every time.

Then I gag myself with a rubber ball. I can only imagine what someone would say if they walked in on me like this. It was 11am and almost time for one of my status meetings. I had scheduled lots and lots of project meetings in the past. There were so many meetings, that about half of the developers and analysts working for me, used to joke that most of their time on project were spent compiling status reports for my meetings.

I am sure they are pleased I cut those way back to the bare essentials for my time in training. I may just keep this meeting schedule once I finish. The modern meeting isn’t held in conference rooms. I have direct reports in Mumbai India, London, Madrid, and Brazil. They have to happen on my time zone, since I am their boss, but they happen over the phone.

I can take the gag out to direct the meeting, but I leave the dildos in uncomfortably. I admit I’m sometimes playing with my hood or my nipples if Steve isn’t there. How can you not if you are naked, and sitting on two silicon encased rubber dicks?

The meeting was dull and technical. At times, I almost made the mistake of saying “Yes Sir”, or forgetting to bring “Old Wendy” out of hiding to ream someone for not getting things done. It’s kind of funny. I used to “Ream” people all the time. That is, I used to give them a hard time for not meeting deadlines. I never really thought about the definition of reaming, is having your asshole completely filled with cock. I think it also means squeezing orange juice and of course reams of paper, but when I used to ‘ream’ people, I wasn’t making OJ or giving them paper. I was giving them, what I was feeling quite literally up my ass right now.

After the meeting, I replaced the gag and started to work on quarterly reports for Steve. I had signed all the copies during the conference call and put them back in their folder. I wondered what he did with these, but perhaps the less I know the better. We’d both lose our jobs, if anyone finds out he put me up to it.

That is when I fell asleep and had the “Reba” dream, which brings me up to the point I am writing this now. I keep reflecting on that dream about the sit-com and how twisted it was. Wise-cracking, sassy Reba, was that supposed to represent me? If so, does that mean big-boned, former pageant winner Barbara Jean is Jamie? Are Brock and Van, Bill and Chris? Maybe sometimes dreams are just dreams, or as they say ‘Maybe sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’.

The door is being unlocked. Every time I hear the familiar sound of the key turning, I think about what is going to happen if that isn’t Steve. I had better alt-tab away, and come back to this journal later. Time to look like I’ve been working on his reports.

Hello again Journal, it is almost time for me to go home and face the music there. I’ll summarize quickly how the rest of the day went before I leave for the day.

When Steve unlocked the door, I looked at him innocently, with gag in my mouth, from across my desk. He returned my gaze like a wolf, closing in on his dinner.

“Are you hungry?”

“For Cock, yes sir.” I said as he removed my gag. It is sometimes fun to see the look on his face, as I play the role of the cock-crazed slut to the hilt.

“Alright, you can lick my balls for a few minutes, while I look over your work. Then we go out to eat.” He sounded like he was negotiating with me, even though I have no cards to play in this game. I dutifully agree, and began to suck his balls once he pulled his pecker out of his pants.

He is standing over me, checking the work I did. Don’t worry journal, I closed you, so Steve wouldn’t see all the nasty things I wrote.

When he was satisfied with my work, he poked me in the eye with his now very hard dick, and then hit me on the head a few times with it. I smiled like I enjoyed it. “Get dressed, slut.”

“Yes Sir, may I take out my dildos and clean them?” I unlocked my leg shackle and stand up.

“What size do you have in?” He asked.

“I have the 8 inch in my cunt, and the 6 inch spreading my asshole, Sir,” I answered revealing the length of the rather thick rubber dongs in my body.

“Set them on the table, deep throat them both until they are clean, and put the bigger one up your stink hole”.

I just gave him a big smile and a, “I’ll give it the college try” look. I am getting better at deep-throating, but I still want to throw up and gag all over my desk. I bent over at the waist, and take the 6 inch cock almost perfectly. The trick is to relax your throat muscles as much as you can, and try not to think about it. Keep your tongue down, and act like a sword swallower. He doesn’t like me to spend much time sucking the dildo, but to give him his little show, I lift my head up and down on it quickly.

It also helps a lot to not think about the fact this rubber phallus has just been in your “Stink hole”, and you are actually cleaning your own poop off it. I think the fact that it is my own butt juice, makes it much easier to do. Sort of the way it isn’t so bad to smell your own farts. It wasn’t like it was coated in brown pudding, just a few specks, and the sickly-sweet smell of my ass. Bill likes me to say Shit, but it’s my journal, so to me, it is brown pudding.

I had visions of Bill Cosby’s puckered face mugging in front of me, saying “The Jell-o pudding pops”. Hahah. Do they even still make those? Those were good. When I am done with training, I am going to buy those if they still make them.

Then it is the 8 inchers turn. The extra two inches really makes a difference. This dildo isn’t just long, it is extra fat, probably 3 inches, hell I dunno, how wide. I am guessing. It’s fatter than most fully hard cocks I’ve had in my mouth that is for sure.

I pulled my ass cheeks apart as I bent over for Steve, keeping my hands away. I opened my mouth and started to slowly slide my lips around the bigger dildo, warming up as I take it about to the 6 inch mark. I can feel myself wanting to gag. I can tell he is giggling at my discomfort. I wonder if he can see my pussy expand and contract as I drive my face down-wise to impale my mouth on the rubber dildo that is sitting straight up on my desk.

He could be laughing at the whore tattoo. It is hard to say, I hope he isn’t laughing at how I have to practice a few times on the dildo to get my mouth all the way down to the wood grain of my desk, and drive the dildo tip into my throat. If so, he may not believe I am really the cocksmith that Bill claimed me to be, if I can’t deep throat 8 inches.

After two or three tries to take it all, I get sort of a running start, slapping the back of my head with one hand, and pulling it down. “URRKKK” I pull up before I throw up everywhere, leaving only a trail of spit on the dildo. I kiss the slivers of spit back into my mouth.

“C’mon, I am hungry, you have thirty seconds to cram the bigger cock into your ass, or you’ll do without lunch and can just watch me eat.”

His choices for lunch are usually disgusting anyway. I am probably better off taking my time, and missing lunch. I would have except I was still VERY hungry. I didn’t think I ate so much when I was free, but I must have. That or all this training activity has increased my need for caloric intake. I think one of the upsides to having dietary restrictions, is that I’ve trimmed up and may have a little more definition.

Even after the training is over, I may ask Bill to keep choosing my diet, at least at home. Isn’t that weird? I should want to have the freedom to choose what I want, and I am considering delegating the privilege back to my husband? The only question would be, how would it make Chris feel if I didn’t let him choose for me as well?

I would have to table that question, I was already cramming the dildo into my sphincter. I was thankful I had left gobs of my spit all over it, and I had already warmed up my ass with the six incher. It made it much easier to drive it in quickly. I am sure my face contorting and my eyes being wide, told Steve this was quite an effort for me.

He laughed in response “Moooon River!!”, I think that is a line from Fletch he was quoting.

I looked back over my shoulder at him with a wry grin, two inches still sticking out of my ass to get in. He didn’t have a stop watch, so the thirty seconds was an estimate. I wouldn’t have been able to contest his decision if he had decided I hadn’t made it, but he decided I was fast enough for his tastes.

As I got dressed, I want to share with you my secret journal, the feeling of ‘fullness’ I have when I have something crammed up my asshole. There is this sensation, like my skin is tight all over, that it changes how I walk. It isn’t entirely unpleasant, once I get the dildo inside my guts, I almost don’t notice it. The pain is entirely around the asshole nub. The thing I feel most is more a tremendous desire to fart or take a shit - the feeling that the tip of the dildo is poking out of my stomach in the front (even though it probably doesn’t go that far); the feeling that my skin has been tighter all over my body, and this heightened feeling of sexuality; that if he just pulled me by my pussy lips or my hood ring, he’d set off an orgasm.

I haven’t been carrying a purse very much since the training began. I get to carry my purse, because part of my lunch is in there. (I am SOO glad we will probably be done with training before I get my period. I am doubly glad that Jamie and I are pretty much in synch with our periods. I don’t know if Bill has even thought about what he’d do in that situation).

We were going to “Five Guys” today. This is a greasy hamburger place, that I would never have been caught dead in on my lunch break. I used to just work through lunch, with a snack on my desk, or occasionally take power-lunches with other executives in fancy restaurants like the Capital Grille.

Today, I was standing in line, trying to hold the dildo up my butt, by clenching my muscles in line to get a greasy hamburger from “Five Guys”. That is kind of an ironic name, there were six guys working, and one of them was a girl.

Steve ordered for me a plain hamburger. He ordered himself fries, a double bacon burger, and a drink. “Thank you Sir, you are very generous.”

“You are paying, so I thought it was the least I could do?” He hand fed me a peanut that he freshly shelled from a box of them the restaurant has for customers in line. I opened my mouth to accept it, and the dildo PLOOPED right out and clattered on the floor. If I had anything in my bowels, it may have plooped right out at the same time, I was in so much shock.

The line wasn’t long, but everyone including the black lady with two sons, noticed. How could they not? Everyone was staring at me, like I was the dirtiest whore the world had ever known. I couldn’t very well say “How did that get there?”

I bent at the waist to pick it up. There was no point in getting punished for bending at the knee, after everyone already saw the big eight inch dildo, complete with tiny specks of chocolate pudding.

“May I go to the bathroom, Sir?” I asked Steve, while trying not to maintain eye contact with anyone.

“Why?”

“So I can put it back in?”

“What?”

I wanted to scream at him, to demand he stopped playing with me. Two boys who couldn’t be over twelve years old just saw what “it” was. Saying it wouldn’t help defuse the ticking time bomb that was their angry, black mother.

“My dildo, Sir. I need to put it back in.” I bravely expel the words from my mouth, wishing very hard at that particular moment to be having an out-of-body moment. “Go into the light, Wendy” I picture myself being better off dead at that particularly awkward moment.

“Wouldn’t you rather carry it?”

In truth, I wouldn’t. He’d make me display it on our table, and probably clean it off right there. “No sir, I’d rather put it back where it belongs, up my ass.” I whispered the last part.

“Where?”

“Up my ass”. I say out loud, so even the cashier heard me. The black mother is hugging her youngest in her arms covering his ears, I think she whispered “Sweet Jesus, this white lady be crazy”.

“Why didn’t you just say so? Yes, you can go put it back in. Make sure you don’t drop it again, slut.” He scolded.

This isn’t the first time I’ve ‘plooped’ in a public place and dropped my dildo. The asshole is an EXIT, not an entrance. Whatever goes in, gas and pressure is trying to force back out. It is a war, and if you don’t work at it, the asshole is going to send it back out, slowly or with an ‘across the room’ sort of flying thrust. This was definitely one of the worst places this has ever happened to me though.

When I had it back in, I returned and found Steve sitting at a table. My hamburger was sitting open.

“Would you like me to spit on it?” Bill had convinced Steve I have almost as much gluttony for unhealthy food as I do for cock, and that aversion therapy is to give me fatty foods, but make the experience eating them unpleasant.

“Yes Sir, would you mind?” I continue the charade, by pushing the hamburger over to him, where I can watch with a pained expression as he hocks a loogie on it. “Hocks a loogie” is so much more descriptive then spit on. I haven’t used that expression since grade school. This is where he summons up some phlegm from the bottom of his throat and lets it fall on the patty. Then he slides the burger onto the floor to kick it back to me.

I was almost in tears, but I am too strong to let him see me crack. I just smiled, picked up the burger with my hand, put the bun back on it.

“May I also eat my cheese sandwich, Sir?”

“Does it have cum on it?”

“Yes Sir.”

“How many men’s cum?”

“Two, Sir” I am not lying to him. I am glad he doesn’t ask who were the sperm donors. It is better if Steve thinks I have an addiction to cum and that these are two strangers I’ve milked onto my sandwich. I still feel all this guilt that Chris’s cum is part of the equation. Cum is cum, right? It still makes me so uncomfortable to think about. The only way I’ve been able to justify it, is that he was made to milk himself in a mason jar in front of me, and somehow through my own convoluted system of weak justifications for some of my recent choices, that seems like ironic justice.

I don’t know if Bill has explained to Chris much of our deal about Jamie, and her NOT having to drink their cum, or being told I do. I have just been letting sleeping dogs lie about that. If he had told Jamie, I am sure I would have heard about it.

I think to myself as I eat my two sandwiches without anything to wash it down, that Steve had asked about my daughter in the morning affirmations for a reason. “Any particular reason you asked about my daughter this morning, Sir?” I said as I tried to fill the awkward quietness. I really should have left that issue alone, but I find I just can’t help myself. My curiosity gets the best of me at times, this being one of them.

“Yes, she has your good looks. How old is she?”

I tried to hide my skepticism. When an older man asks about your attractive daughter’s age, Chris Hanson’s face saying, “Would you have a seat over there” starts to appear in your mind. I should however expect guys to be interested in her, even older guys. She isn’t a little girl anymore.

“She is sixteen, Sir.” I let that sink in. I decide sixteen sounds far more foreboding than, “She will be seventeen soon, Sir.” which would also be true.

He looks back at his food, and says nothing else about it. Mission accomplished, Wendy! You were able to head off another wolf in sheep’s clothing. Granted, there are a million of them out there, but how awkward would it be if he started dating Jamie after fucking me every day for two weeks?

Am I just a selfish cunt, who is jealous of her daughter? I hope not. That is a thought I will table along with my son’s cum for another time.

After lunch, it is time to go work out. My office has a “YMCA” with a gym in it. I used to use it occasionally, but I much preferred a more exclusive gym, closer to my house. They probably miss me there; they haven’t seen me all week.

“Do you like licking assholes?” He made his idea of pleasant conversation while we walk back to our building.

“I don’t mind, if they are shaved, Sir.” I lie, trying to sound like a skeezy slut who loves all forms of sexual interaction. In truth, Bill has been uncomfortable with his own asshole being touched, and it hasn’t come up.

“Do you like to sleep with women, too?”

“I slept with one last night, Sir” I smile as I tell the truth. He doesn’t have to know it wasn’t my choice, and I was tied up with my daughter. This only helps me sound like the pig he thinks I am.

“Your husband knew about it?”

“Oh yes, he wanted me too, Sir”.

“Wow, he is REALLY understanding about your sexual addiction? Did you at least do a three way with him?”

“No he slept alone, we were downstairs, Sir.” I suppose I could have lied and said Bill got some, but it felt better for some reason to go with this story. I hate to mix and match lies and truth, but the girl I slept with was my daughter, and how would that have played? Especially since we were tied up together, with flowers sticking out of our buttholes.

“He really accommodates you too much. He must really love you!” Steve seemed genuinely convinced Bill was the patient, understanding good guy. I suppose in a way he is. “Is this stuff we are doing everyday helping you?”

“Yes Sir, why else would I do all of this?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes you seem like you are getting off on it.”

“You are about to make me put on spandex so tight it shows the indention of my camel toe and my rings, and jog in place, work out until I am exhausted, and you think I enjoy this?” I tried not to sound too critical. I didn’t want him feeling guilty about the supervision he was providing, or else he may back out and the job goes to Vicky.

“You looked excited when you dropped your dildo in front of all those people back at the restaurant.” He gave me an example.

“I was shocked, I think it is a wakeup call on how twisted my life has become.” That wasn’t entirely false. “Would you like to check my pussy, Sir? To see how aroused I am.”

“Cunt?”

“Ooops, Sorry Sir. Yes my cunt. I am supposed to talk about my cum box, without calling it something pleasant and inviting. I am sorry for my goof. Would you please punish me, instead of reporting me to my husband for my mistake?” If he punishes me, there is a good chance Bill will let it go when I get home. Steve is much lighter in punishments than Bill is.

“Not a chance, slut. You took your sweet time making my copies. You dropped your butt plug. I am going to tack forgetting your protocol on to my report.”

Steve enjoyed laying all my mistakes on thick. I wanted to give him the cute little lemon face my daughter does when Chris does the same thing to her, and stick out my tongue. Instead, I just smiled and said “Of course Sir, I have been very lazy and thoughtless. Punishment and correction are the only ways I will be able to get better.”

At this point, we were already at the gym. If there was a way he could take me into the men’s dressing room, I am sure he would. I think I’d actually prefer it. It is much worse, changing in the girl’s dressing room. The scorn and looks of disgust as I strip out of my skirt, obviously having nothing underneath, are like the lashes of mental whips on my body.

The murmurs and whispers about my tattoo are twice as obvious as when they first saw my piercings. The same women are changing about the same time every day in the locker room. I thought they were done being shocked, but the whore tattoo has awoken the same feelings they had the first day I came here.

I pretended not to notice, as I slipped on the spandex aerobics outfit. I think this may be the original 1980s outfit sans the legwarmers that Jane Fonda wore in her workout tapes. I bet every man in the gym, has spanked it to 1980’s aerobics when they were kids. It was like soft-porn, even I could tell that and I was very naïve back in high school.

The white leggings left little to the imagination. They were skin-tight, literally showing the outline of my ass crack, the metal hood ring, all visible underneath. I’d imagine the outline of the tattoo in the back can be seen too. They’ve sent me to work with writing on me in magic marker before, and I know that was partially visible underneath the spandex.

The sports bra, does very little to hide my sweaty tits, as I begin my work out cycle. Steve follows me around like a personal trainer. He is actually pretty good at motivating. “C’mon piggy, let’s work off that hamburger!” As he keeps me on the Nordic track bouncing up and down.

I used to never think about the men staring at me when I did aerobics. I suppose it is a natural by-product of girls jumping around to music, that some guy would want to stop and watch. I can’t stop noticing now. I can’t help but feel their eyes groping me from a distance. I am surprised when I see a guy who isn’t leering at me, and can only assume he is probably gay. The best looking ones at the gym usually are.

Of all the exercise machines that I must use, there is one that I particularly dislike. I have to lay on an incline and spread my thighs, pushing apart two padded leg rests against weighted resistance. It makes me feel like I am spreading and opening my legs, and any guy who happens to park himself nearby can see not only my sweaty pussy outline, but the base of the rubber dildo I still have up my ass pressing against the back of my spandex.

In the process of pushing, I can feel my nipple rings trying to escape from the sports bra, as a sheen of sweat coats my body like baby oil.

Today, Vicky showed up at the gym. I have never seen her there before. She didn’t say a word to me, but we both locked stares. Why this sudden interest in exercise?

After I was excused from working out, I get to take a shower. I cranked up the hot water, and enjoyed the caress of soap. The most embarrassing part besides people staring at my rings and tattoo, is the fact that everyone I shower with can clearly see the flat rubber base of the dildo up my ass. I have found that despite my desire to explain, it’s best to pretend that this is perfectly normal and say nothing about it.

No one has dared to ask me anything about it. It is also nice to be able to towel dry instead of air dry. I suppose I should be thankful for Chris for helping me appreciate the small pleasures in life, by making them so rare.

Unfortunately, today there is no joy in Wendyville. That is because Vicky has decided to saunter back into the locker room while I am getting dressed. I should have known that being such a novice at exercise, she was showing up there more to pose as if she was working out and would be done in ten minutes. She is the type of person who wants to go to the gym to say, “I went to the gym”, than to get any benefit. (I used to meet them all the time at my gym).

Alarms went off in my head. “RED ALERT!!” I kept my face as calm as I could, while I stood up and faced my backside to the lockers. I clutched my clothes to my breast as she walked over to me.

“Oh, stop it.” She said dismissively.

The jig was up, I started to drop my arms holding my skirt to my chip. It was clear she knew all about my situation.

“Everyone knows you have a perfect body. Don’t try to act all modest.” Vicky’s tone was half-vindictive, which meant she was probably trying to be nice.

“Oh thank you!” What a relief she wasn’t on to everything I had been doing at work, and thought I was just cowering in the corner because I had body image issues. I began to pull the skirt on. “I thought I was putting on weight, I had TWO sandwiches for lunch today.” I was bragging while pretending to be modest. She didn't need to know the condiments were dry cum and fresh spit.

“Wow, piercings and you shave?” her voice sounding strange, since admiration obviously didn’t come naturally to her.

“You like it?” I asked humbly, pulling my skirt up.

“I just wouldn’t have expected it. Mid-life crisis?”

“You could say I am in my mid-life, and I am in crisis. That is probably true.” I smiled as I sashayed out of there. The confused look on her face that I seemed to be comfortable, even happy with my crisis, was worth the price of admission.

As I walked out, I could overhear her whispering behind my back. “What did the tattoo on her ass say?” If I wasn't mistaken, it almost sounded like admiration, and not the underhanded gossip I had come to expect from her. That made me smile for reasons I couldn't explain.