by JJ Giles
His head dropped between his shoulders, lost in the sensations his hands could cause his genitals. They seemed two different bodies, one stroking the other, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. His hands were full, busy, quite active as his penis and testicles, the recipient of so much bother, passively enjoyed.
Men. So easy to get their attention, as she watched him stroking himself. The way his grip relaxed a little on the shaft and tightened over the glans. A decidedly attractive man, one who kept himself in check, the physique of a man half his age, dark brown hair kept short appearing the professional, yet a little long and loose on top making her think he wasn’t so uptight. Dark brown eyes that fluttered wildly.
“A little tighter with the right hand, please.” Her shoe came to rest against his hip and connect to him.
He braced himself against her pressure without opening his eyes. His hands were so full, so content to have something to have and to hold. He’d never noticed how much his hands enjoyed this, that the sensation was silken and smooth, yet aggressive.
She watched the glans grow purple with the insistence of blood being forced there. His left continued to knead, though harder now. He was about to spill and since he hadn’t been trained not to yet, since she merely wanted his attention for the moment, not even his surrender to her, she whispered, “You may come for me.”
The very words no sooner passed the threshold of his ear than his hand tightened on his throbbing member. The penis, with a mind of its own now, heaved its treasure as if it was regurgitated from the sea to dry land. He growled with the feel of its forcefulness, its insistence to be loved, even as he merely held to it, its own activity the most passive thing he could have ever known. Something just waiting to be pleasured, his hands the aggressor rather than it.
Once again, he crushed it only to empty it.
“Very good,” she said with a haughty smirk. “You can follow instructions.”
He opened his eyes, saw the puddle of cum on the floor next to his chair. And then he raised to peer at her. What the hell was that? he wondered. Carefully, he studied her softened expression, her pleasure that he could follow her instructions and do it well.
“Put it away now and get dressed.”
Putitawayputitawayputitaway rang in his ears. It was it somehow, not the most precious thing about him. It as he laid it lovingly in his shorts and pulled his shorts to his waist, his trousers around his shorts. Quickly he buttoned the shirt and was dressed again.
“Now,” she started, “your wife.”
“My wife doesn’t have anything to do with this,” he snarled.
“But she does, Mr. Abernathy. You see...you’re a wife-beater. And she’s just a little whore for it, isn’t she? She does whatever she can to irritate you and cause you to correct her, doesn’t she? She does everything she can to piss you off and draw your attention away from the world where it resides, to her.”
“Have you spoken to my wife?” he said angrily.
“Not yet.” She picked up the phone, her finger poised over the keypad. “What’s the number?”
“I don’t want my wife involved in this,” he said adamantly.
“Then you don’t want me.” Quickly, she returned the phone to the cradle and began to rise.
“Wait...I don’t understand,” he insisted with a little panic. “How do you know I beat my wife?”
“Those very vivid and startling e-mails tell me exactly who you are and how you perceive your wife and all women generally. You’re very afraid of them, I’ve noticed.”
“I’m not afraid of any woman,” he yelled. Defensively, he pulled himself off his knees, yet he refused to approach her.
“Ah...but your wife is very afraid of you, isn’t she?”
He hesitated. He didn’t believe his wife had the sense to fear anything.
Morgan continued: “She ought to be, hadn’t she? While you’re working your ass off, she’s out playing with your money. Tramping around at the club, on the Riviera. On the plane that takes her there with the attendant...hell, maybe even the pilot.”
“Yeah,” he said filled with aggravation, his fists clenched. “Embarrassing bitch. I run a global conglomerate, trillions of dollars every year and I can’t contain my own wife.”
Morgan smirked. Wonder why, you asshole. “So you understand that if you and I are going to be seeing each other, she has to know about it. There’s no longer any reason to keep your liaisons from your wife. She has to know because you are going to be coming home with the evidence on your body. I play rough, Mr. Abernathy and I don’t want some brittle little wife getting in the way, if you know what I mean. I don’t need some wife going to a lawyer exposing us and turning me over to the law. I don’t need her permission to use you. I need only to keep her mouth shut. I have to be assured she will.”
He stared for a moment. “Interesting approach,” he said thoughtfully. And after what just took place with him, what might happen with his wife? The answer to his life-long problem had perhaps, just presented itself. This would get rid of her for good.
Morgan picked up the phone. Her little ploy worked well, but it always did with this kind. Turn the whoring wife into the enemy. She dialed the phone just as quickly as he rattled the number. She hit the speaker function that he might hear and she could further gain his trust.
“Hello.” The voice was timid and very feminine.
“This is Morgan McFaye. Your husband is a client of mine and he’s asked that I see you also.” Coyly, she winked at Abernathy.
The woman hesitated. “See me for what?”
“Professionally, of course. From what I understand your home life isn’t all it could be, according to him. He’s asked me to get involved.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
“A sex therapist.” Her response sent Jerry into a fit of silent laughter. “You may refuse, of course, you’re not under any obligation. It’s only that your husband feels that you could both benefit from my services.”
“This is strange,” Cheryl said defensively. Instantly, she was suspicious of her husband.
“Of course, you could check with him if you prefer, although I have a couple available hours now if you’re going to be home.”
The woman stammered. “I don’t know you. And the possibility of getting ahold of my husband at the moment is probably nil. Could we meet somewhere? Say that little French place on the corner of Martin and Fourth?”
“A half hour?” Morgan asked.
“Yes...that would be fine.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“What did you say your name is?”
“Morgan. Morgan McFaye.”
“I’ll see you in a little while.”
Morgan sat in his chair and returned the stare of her newest client a moment, the smile on his face filled with the evil of twisted thoughts. Believing he had followed the tack she was taking, he asked, “You gonna screw my wife?”
“Can you think of a better way to keep her mouth shut than to cause her to be guilty of the same thing as you?”
“As a matter of fact...no,” he said. Happily, he’d found a new respect for this woman.
“Would you like to watch?” She straightened in the chair, her shoulders pressed against the back of it, her breasts straining the fabric of her blouse.
“As a matter of fact, I think I would,” he said.
Morgan’s tongue swept over her thick lower lip reigniting the shimmering sand tones of her earthy complexion. “Does that mean you’ll be a good boy for me?”
“It means you have my interest, fleeting as it may be.”
“But you’ll be very grateful when I save you the better part of your fortune which might otherwise be lost to divorce attorneys and alimony.”
“I might.”
Morgan rose to her full height and went directly to him. Her jacket already open, she began with her blouse buttoned to the center of her chest. Conspicuously, he peered at the cleavage formed there by lush full br
easts. He stared uninhibited as slowly she exposed them, sans bra but only some wonderful leather thing cinched around her waist holding them high.
The color of cream, the nipples of rose full and throbbing. Filled with desire to be touched, suckled, punished perhaps and he stared unabashedly wanting that very much.
“You may thank your Mistress with your lips rather than your tongue.”
Slowly, he bent, the scent wafting from that cleavage full of musk, the soft scent of lady dew rising between them. He lingered, his lips grazing over that firm flesh and for a woman her age, so very firm. His lips found a nipple and he could almost hear her heart thudding, see the palpitations of it in the flesh.
“Much better,” she praised. Finished with him now, she stepped back to button her blouse. “I send my invoices directly to you, Mr. Abernathy, to be paid from your personal account. Mistress Morgan never goes through accounting to some little lackey who is likely to fuck it up. Do you understand?”
Only a smile belied his bemusement. “I do.”
Pointing a fingernail sharp enough to cull his senses toward the entry, she informed him, “At exactly two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, I’ll walk through that door. I expect you to be standing in that corner, fully nude and awaiting my next command, or we’re finished.”
His hands rubbed against each other, the softness embedded in them like satin. “Is there ever a time when my fantasies will be acted upon?”
“Of course. I’m not a heartless woman, Mr. Abernathy. But certainly you understand that I have to be able to trust you before I can allow you to chain me up, to do the things you’ve so eloquently described. The things you want so much to do to your wife. You see, you need me, Mr. Abernathy, to live out those fantasies. That high priced whore sitting in your lobby available to all of your executives at the first rush of blood doesn’t go there, does she? If you took her there, her next stop would be the newspapers and you’d have to kill her to shut her up. Not me,” she said surely. “But you’ll demonstrate your abilities for me on your wife.”
“Even more interesting,” he purred.
“Leather turns you on,” she told him. She knew.
He moaned a little.
“Tomorrow at two, you’ll be my slave for only a little while. Long enough for me to train your wife.”
A broad smile etched his lips. “Of course, Ms. McFaye.”
“Mistress Morgan,” she hissed.
His head bowed a little. “Mistress Morgan,” he whispered.
“Much better.” Quickly, she turned and left him, the door closed respectfully behind her.
He stood in the center of his office and looked around. What the hell was that? His eyes settled on her briefcase, left behind. A whirlwind, a dust devil, a tornado had just swept through and left him quivering yet he was intact, fully dressed ready to meet his executives if need be. The little bit of humiliation of jerking off in front of her left him wanting more. He never realized what an audience could do for his libido.
He sat in the chair and flipped the briefcase open. The penis instantly rose to the sight of her things, her ‘professional’ cache, she might call them. He picked up the riding crop, something of obvious quality. He picked up the black satin blindfold and rubbed it over his cheek. What was this? A lovely hood, something that could be placed over the entire head and zipped closed, a ring sewn into the top of it. Zippers could be opened or closed over the eyes and mouth according to the wishes of the Mistress. It smelled delightful, so rugged, so pure, certainly brand new and never before worn. That bottle of oil, the scent still lingering on his hand. A small phallus, headed and veined. A sissy little ping-pong paddle.
The pockets against the lid were empty except for a piece of paper. He removed that paper and read:
If you’re reading this, Mr. Abernathy, it means you dared open my briefcase and rummage through my things. You’ll be punished for that...tomorrow.
Easily, he laughed and slipped the paper back into the pocket, closed the lid and set the briefcase aside. “Okay,” he whispered. Quietly excited, he laid back in the chair and his hand returned to his crotch where it might soothe the tension once again rising. “You punish me and then I’ll punish you, Baby.” The scent of her cleavage still burned in his nostrils as he went to the liquor cabinet and poured a drink.
And what a lovely little distraction you are.
* * * *
Morgan fell against the wall of the elevator to catch her breath. What the hell was that? she wondered. A man who only around the edges looked like his father. A man who surrendered to her command so easily. His father would have hung her by the neck until dead to be talked to like that.
Two men stepped in on the twenty-ninth floor and stared openly at her a moment. “Good afternoon,” she said curtly to get rid of them. And then she smiled. Jerry Abernathy had given into her already and it required only a self-inflicted orgasm to get his attention. And the way he did it, so eagerly expressing his desire for her. His father’s desire was expressed only at the end of Bowie knife.
The attraction she felt for him was intense at the moment. Could it be? she wondered as she stepped into the lobby to go to her car.
Chapter Nine
Morgan knew for whom she searched. She was the mousiest, the most submissive, the most frightened thing in the room. She was between fifty and sixty, and probably wore make-up heavy enough to cover bruises.
She didn’t need to search the middle expanses of the room, only the corners where a mouse might hide. Quite curiously, the corners were empty. But in plain view, a woman fitting the profile, thin and emaciated, sat demurely with her legs crossed, her hands in her lap, a cup of coffee before her. Interesting.
Quietly, Morgan sat down in the chair opposite a well-kept woman, barely past forty-five, it seemed. A soft platinum hair, not at all mousy, clipped to soft layers, and averted eyes covered in the palest of milk chocolate shadow.
“I’m Morgan,” she said softly.
“Cheryl Abernathy, and I am very, very confused,” she whispered as she raised her head to glance at Morgan.
Not too far gone yet, Morgan assessed. If she was too far gone she would be considering suicide and looking like death warmed over. But this woman, unlike others, lived in a fun house with all the available money to keep her entertained while others live in poverty. She could pamper herself any way she wished as long as she allowed her husband to beat her.
Morgan ordered coffee and croissants with a little butter. And then she turned to Cheryl. “I’ve never met a man who enjoys beating his wife,” she stated.
“Oh, God, he told you that,” Cheryl sputtered.
“No, no, no,” Morgan said quickly. “He didn’t have to. I just know the type. He has some serious issues with domination and you’re perfect for him because you’re so horribly submissive. You two just go about it all wrong. One of these days you’re gonna end up dead, Lady.”
Cheryl looked away, clutched at the ear of the mug and spilled a little. Nervously, she dragged a napkin under it.
“You don’t really want to die and he doesn’t really want to kill you. It will be an accident and he’ll get away with murder because he’s so very wealthy. But the result will be the same. You’ll be dead. Is that how you want it to go?”
Cheryl shook a little. Of course, that’s not how she wanted to die even though those social workers in the hospital warned her over and over. But what was she to do? She dropped out of high school because he wanted her. He wanted her to be his wife, to have his children. Only her, he assured her.
But that was so very long ago.
“Your husband has some serious issues, and the truth is, I am a sex therapist although he is thinking of me as a very high priced prostitute. One who will not only let him indulge in every fantasy he’s ever been bothered with, but also train him how to dominate women.”
“I don’t think he has a problem with that.”
“But he does...obviously. If someone has to go to the
hospital when he’s through with them it’s not domination, it's torture. He doesn’t know that yet. So tell me about you. Are you still in love with him?”
Pained by the very word, she looked away. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you now if I ever was. Maybe I was just swept up with all the extravagance. Thought my entire life was about the romance of fame and fortune.”
“But it’s not, is it?”
“Sitting at home night after night, waiting for him to roll in about midnight, listening to him complain about how hard he works to support me. Why shouldn’t I spend his fucking money?” she quipped angrily. “He’s never around.”
“Kids?” Morgan asked.
“An adopted son who doesn’t come around anymore. Jerry kicked him out ten years ago because my son didn’t care to be tortured. And we have a daughter we don’t see. She is a little bit of an embarrassment, though.”
“What’s her deal?”
“She’s gay and flaunts it like an overloaded fright train. Tattoos, all those things in her skin,” she admitted and then cringed. “All that metal.”
“Bull lesbian trying to get her father’s approval, and never will. An awful lot like him, huh?”
“If only he could see it,” Cheryl whispered sadly. “I’m certain they’ll go at it until one of them dies and the other will congratulate himself on the victory.”
Morgan laughed a little. “And you’ve been trying to mediate their disputes for years and you piss them both off. But what goes on between them is not your problem. Their relationship is none of your business, but you still get involved because you love your husband and your daughter. And then you get your ass beat for it.”
Cheryl’s eyes rolled up to peer at Morgan, though her head never moved. “How do you know so much about this?”
“I’ve been doing this for a very long time,” she stated. “Wife-beaters are control freaks but they can be taught to dominate and not control. How long has it been since you’ve had sex with your husband?”
