Beetlesmith's Ch. 17

"That's because you seem determined to hide these features. We're going to change that. Now, second on the list after these glasses...This beehive has got to go."

I reached over and pulled out as many hair pins and bobby pins I could find. With the support girders removed, the matronly, bullet-shaped mound of hair collapsed into a billowing mane of curls, draping across her shoulders and face.

I was shocked. Other than a few streaks of gray that could easily be covered up, her hair was silken, long and flowing. Actually, it was her best feature next to her legs.

Running my fingers through her hair, I pushed most of it back and off her face, while commenting, "You really have soft hair. You just need to trim it a bit, maybe shoulder length or a bit shorter. You have a high forehead, must be all that gray matter of yours. So, give yourself some bangs. They'll redirect everyone's focus back to your eyes, instead of toward the top of your head. I can tell you spend a lot of time brushing it out and caring for it. Why do you wear it up the way you do? I would think you'd want to show it off."

My intensions in all of this were not to sexualize her. I just wanted to lavish a little bit of attention on her so that she'd lighten-up for a change. Maybe if I made her feel more like a woman, albeit briefly, she'd at least stop being the officious bureaucrat other times. Maybe over time, and with enough positive attention, she'd strike a gentler attitude and persona to others. And maybe, just maybe, the staff wouldn't feel they had to walk on egg shells around her.

As such, I did not try to influence her emotions or increase her arousal in any way with my mind. However, I felt something within her as I stroked her hair back. There was sensual warmth. It was a feeble ember, barely warming her groin, and a single, small misstep on my part or a sudden bout of conscious on hers, would extinguish it, but it was there, deep inside her—and it was growing.

"I...I put it up this way mainly to cover the gray."

I sensed that was a lie, but let her keep her little deception. Instead, I said, "If that's the case, I would think highlighting these gray streaks with a slightly lighter brown than your true color would be easier."

"Spend all my time coloring my hair as if I had nothing better to do, like those other women..."

"Oh, I don't think it would take up too much time. How much time does it take you to put it up the way you do in the morning, ten, maybe twenty minutes? It seems to me that if you color it, you only have to spend ten to twenty minutes on Sundays, instead of every morning. My suggestion sounds more efficient. Don't you think?

Plus, you have the added bonus of not looking like you're some weird cone-head ready to launch yourself into space.

"You know, I never noticed this before, but with your hair down, it takes the hard edges away from your face. It softens you, and brings out your natural femininity."

She blushed, and then asked with schoolgirl excitement, "How light should I go?"

It was then that I noticed something about her that I'd never have guessed of her. Stroking her hair brought out an aroma I had failed to notice before. It was a delectable perfume she barely applied, and would only be detected if one stood very close to her.

I leaned in closer, to where my nose barely brushed the nape of her neck, and took a deep breath.

"Is thatCartier?"

"Oh, I wish. It's onlyChanel," she said with some disappointment, and then quickly added, "Number twenty-two, though. You have an appreciation for such things?"

"In a way; I know the value of such things." I touched a finger to her chest, just over her heart, as if I were pointing to that softer person she hides, and said, "It's an indulgence you give to that woman within you. Isn't it? One of the few you allow her. You are full of surprises."

She wanted to respond, but her heart was racing too fast. As such, she only stood silently staring at me, trying to gather her emotions lest she reveal too much of herself.

"It's a very expensive indulgence, as well," I continued, as I ran my hand down her side until it came to rest on her hip.

"Well it's not as if I can wear it all the time," she responded, defensively.

That was a major tell. The old girl finally dropped her guard.

"I see, you only wear it for those special occasions with special people."

She struck her defensive pose again—head down with arms crossed.

I thought I had lost her with that last statement. Maybe I shouldn't have told her that I'd guessed her mind?

It's just as well I break it off, now. I don't want our tête-à-tête going too far. Best to end it here, with only a little bit of good-natured, harmless flirting. Maybe it will be enough to get her to lighten up a bit.

I took my hand off her hip in order to give her glasses back, and started to apologize for being so forward, when she snatched my hand back and kissed me.

It was such an innocent kiss. There was no tongue, but her lips were soft and warm—such a stark contrast to the hard edges of her body and the cold flint of a heart she tried so hard to project.

I felt that electric current again, and images morphed into view in my mind. Blurry images of her fantasies, which I could never bring into focus. It was as if I were viewing them from a great height. They had grown just as cold and distant as the persona she made of herself.

I genuinely felt sorry for her, and for her husband. The images I saw told me they were both guilty of the sorry state of their marriage, allowing themselves to slip into the oft common trap of dual marital neglect. Moreover, neither of them knew how to get themselves out of the self-imposed exile from warm sexuality without feeling ill used by the other. They were both too proud to make the first move in forgiving past injuries, yet too beholden to their marital vows to cheat or to divorce, so they existed in limbo, doing nothing.

She put my hand back on her hip and held me there, and then put her other hand right over my heart. When she felt its heavy thump and the deep draughts of my breath, she heaved a heavy sigh of her own.

I ever so slightly pushed my thoughts into her, just enough to help her arousal along and to help her disregard those vows she held so dear.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.

"How long has it been since your husband touched you?" I asked.

She didn't answer, not because she was afraid or ashamed to, but because she couldn't honestly remember.

"I wonder if you'll surprise me further. I'm betting that underneath that skirt you're wearing something sheer and lacy, something as delicate as that perfume you're wearing."

"I'm sorry," she said in embarrassment, as she lifted up her skirt to reveal a pair of plain, old, frumpy panties.

I laughed, and played off her embarrassment, "This is what I'm talking about when I criticized your style of dress. These panties you're wearing are all wrong for you, too baggy for your body. They make you look like one of those Indian fellows, who wear the traditional, blousy loincloth. Take them off right now...That's right, just let them slip to the floor."

She let her panties fall to her ankles, and was about to drop her skirt back down out of modesty, when I cupped my hand between her legs.

"Hold your skirt up for me. Now widen your stance...That's good," I said quietly to her, almost as a whisper into her ear.

I slowly ran my finger along her outer labia.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked, guessing my thoughts.

Her pussy was as cold and dry as a Siberian ice field.

"It has been a long time for you. You know Bea, your vulva is like every other muscle in your body, if you don't use it, it atrophies. Eventually it just withers and dies. Such a shame too, because it seems like such a pretty, little pussy."

Pulling my finger out from between her legs, I placed them along her lips, while commanding gently, "Wet my fingers."

She tried to pull away from me, while saying, "Here, I have some lotion in my purse."

I held her fast, however, and placing my fingertips back onto her lips, commanded, "No, saliva's better. Wet my fingers!"

She took a quick swipe across my extended fingers with her tongue, and barely moistening them with her efforts.

"Come on, Bea, you can do better than that," I scolded her, laughingly.

This time she let her tongue linger.

I used what little saliva she put on my fingers and wet her clitoris. Most of her moisture was wasted in this first pass, however. It took me some time and considerable fumbling to find her little button, as it lay dormant and sleeping, still nestled deep within its hooded shelter for all these many years.

"More," I said, bringing my fingers back up to her face. As she opened her mouth, I slipped two fingers inside before she could bring out her tongue.

This time, she slathered a bit more saliva onto my fingers.

Besides thoroughly saturating her clit, which had started to harden, I applied the excess saliva around her hole, slipping a finger inside. Her own juices had yet to flow, so I couldn't spend too much time fingering her before going back for more saliva. As I brought my fingers up for more, I commanded, "Suck on my fingers the way you suck on cock."

I held my hand steady as she slowly bobbed her head back and forth along my two fingers. I could feel her applying a bit of suction, as she slathered more of her spit on my fingers.

As she sucked, she tried to put on a slutty, sultry demeanor—doing obscenely long, exaggerated licks with her tongue, or staring directly into my eyes as she pulled my fingers in, down to the knuckles. Unfortunately, playing at the 'slutty seductress' didn't suit her. All it really did was made her look comically awkward; much like an awkward look of a child who plays at 'adult' by wearing their parent's clothes.

I kept encouraging her, though, telling her how hot the slutty Beatrice looked and how hot she was making me.

After sucking on my fingers, she would lean closer to me and kiss as I dipped my hand down to play with her pussy. It was nice, and she did it sweetly. Just a soft pressing of her lips against mine each time, accompanied with only a little bit of tongue through slightly parted lips. I think it was her way of making our tryst more of a romantic adventure rather than just about sex.

I enjoyed our little back and forth so much that even well after her own juices began flowing, I continued to bring my fingers up to her mouth just so I could continue bringing out clumsy, slutty Beatrice and her soft kisses.

She was getting so close. She leaned into me while gripping at my arm firmly. Her knees wobbled comically, and she whimpered softly though her kiss each time I returned a finger to her clit.

I'd tease her at this point, saying, "This is wrong, Bea. I don't think we should continue on like this. Maybe we should stop."

"No...don't," she would beg.

"Do you like it when I touch you here, or there?" I asked, shifting my finger between her clit to her now dripping cunt hole.

"Oh, yes," she answered, ambiguously.

"Yes what? So you want me to stop?" I continued to tease.

"No!" She yelled abruptly, almost in a panic, and then said with more restraint, "Please don't stop."

"Then tell me what you like best."

She was almost in tears, "I like all of it, Will, please, god, don't stop."

I flicked my fingertip rapidly across her now swollen clit while slipping two into her cunt. I felt the muscles in her thighs tremble violently.

Whispering into her ear, "This is just with my fingers. Think of what my cock would feel like inside you."

That visual I just put into her head was too much for her. She came immediately; her wobbly knees finally buckled out from under her, as she slumped to the floor. I followed her down, half supporting her while continuing to finger her clit. I almost had to, really, as she grabbed the wrist of my massaging hand so that she wouldn't lose that blissful contact with me. She stifled a cry each time she came by biting her lips. They ended up red and raw, and at one point I thought she'd draw blood, biting herself as she did.

She came to rest on her knees, momentarily breathless and satisfied, and for the longest time stayed motionless, still clutching my arm while panting with eyes closed.

Kissing her on the cheek, I asked with a touch of amusement, "That was nice, Bea, wasn't it?"

She didn't answer right away, not until her breathing returned to normal. Finally, she asked in a barely audible whisper, "I suppose you want me to perform fellatio the way Miss Brody did, as recompense?"

She said it with a fake tone of disapproval and distaste that at the same time dripped with fervent, sexual anticipation. I found it amusing she didn't imply displeasure at giving me a blow job in general, but how I had Candice suck my cock, specifically.

As much as I wanted to hear her gag on my erection before begging me to slide it farther down her throat, I thought it best not to take things further than they already had gone.

I politely sidestepped any more involvement with her by appealing to her sense of duty to her vows, "I can think of nothing I would like better, but I don't think we should. Let's not do more things that we'll have to lie about to our spouses. Okay?"

She nodded her head slowly. She knew it was the right thing to do, but still couldn't completely hide the disappointment in her eyes.

Kissing her cheek again, I whispered into her ear, "There is one thing you can do for me. Stay as you are, with your hair down and your panties off. When you get home, put on something that makes you feel sexy and naughty. Then, no matter what your husband is doing, press yourself against him and tell him you have to taste his cock or you're going to die.

"Now, what are you going to tell him when you get home?"

She repeated the words back to me, and just like when she tried acting slutty, her words came out stilted and awkward, but at least they were sincere.

"That's good," I encouraged her, "If that doesn't make him hard, nothing will. Now, before he can say anything, slip down onto your knees, pull out his hard-on, and give him the best blow job that you can. Take your time so that both of you can savor it, and above all else, look into his eyes as you swallow his load. You have no idea how good it makes us feel when you swallow. It's like you want and need us, completely; that sucking us off wasn't some begrudging obligation for you, but done for your own pleasure, as well.

"Can you do that for me?"

She couldn't hide the faint twinge of disgust, but she nodded her head, anyway.

"And after that, lead him to the bedroom, and allow him to oil you up and massage you. And as he's massaging you, don't just lie there; play with his cock and balls. Better yet, make him stand in front of you while he rubs your back so that you can fellate him until he gets hard again. And he will get hard again, trust me. Then, make him fuck you until morning."

After pushing all those blissfully erotic thoughts and feelings into her, I had no doubt she would do as I wished when she got home. Whether or not her husband could see past former marital grievances and accept my gift was another story. I suspect that if he isn't a total dickwad, douchebag, they'll have the time of their lives.

In the subsequent days, Beatrice took my fashion advice to heart.

She bought a pair of those frameless eyeglasses, and once the first compliments from the office staff came her way, she never wore the cats-eyes again. She kept her hair down, cutting it to shoulder length in back and leaving bangs in front, while coloring her gray streaks a dark bronze that matched her natural mousey brown color well. Sometimes she even curled it when she was in a playful mood at the start of the day. The hem of her skirts got a little higher---showing off those nice legs—and the openings of her collars got a little lower—although she had very little to show in that area.

More importantly, Beatrice was coming to work with a lighter heart—always smiling and quick to laugh. Beatrice Croynski was transformed. 'Beatrice the crone' had lovingly become 'Beatrice, the bitchin' boss lady extraordinaire' by those who worked closely with her.

Soon after our brief affair, I overheard a couple of the secretaries commenting on Bea's transformation, and both were trying to guess who was 'doing the job' on her. Between their muted giggles of relief that 'Beatrice the crone' was no longer dampening their spirits at work, they decided that if they ever found out who it was, everyone in the office should chip in and buy them a timeshare in the Caymans.

Well thank you ladies, but I was just doing my part for office morale.

********

The remaining weeks passed quickly, and it was coming near the end of Karen's training.

I'd just given her a bath, and she sat on the edge of the tub while I put lotion on her chafed knees. As was usual for her lately, she sat quietly, watching me intently.

"I see the hair is growing back. I've been neglecting your pussy for too long."

She wanted to say something snotty, but thought better of it, and only gave me a wry smile as a mild rebuke.

I laughed because of the look she gave me, and said, "Yes, I've been neglectful, but it was for your own good. That will change tonight. Now, spread your legs and I'll shave you."

Yes, she was exercising greater control over herself and over her thoughts, more than I had hoped when I started her training. Even now, as I shaved her pubic hair, I barely detected a rise in the level of her arousal; whereas a few weeks ago, this simple act of grooming would have redlined her into the figurative stratosphere of peak arousal.

She was softly humming with eyes closed—Debussy'sClair de Lune. It was a mental routine she developed. Something she did that helped her control the growing sexual urges within her, as well as kept those darker, more dangerous thoughts from creeping into her mind.

Yes, she was in good control. My only fear now: did I go too far in breaking the thoroughbred? Did I break her spirit too much so that she would fear letting herself go when she was ridden? This is what I would find out tonight.

"Sir, what do you mean by, 'that will change tonight?'" she asked, still with closed eyes, and said in a tone of barely hidden excitement.

"It means you've pleased me these past weeks, and it's time for you take your place by my side again. Do you think you're ready?"

I felt her heart skip a beat and her arousal jump at the news that I was pleased with her.

"Oh yes, Sir!"

"I think so too. Now, keep your eyes closed."

With that pronouncement, I slipped her wedding ring back to its proper place.

She opened her eyes to look at her ring, and started to cry. Then, cradling her left hand to her chest, she lifted her eyes toward mine. She didn't have to say anything, her look told me everything she was feeling.

Kissing her gently on the lips, I said "I love you, too." Brushing some of her hair that had fallen over her face, I continued, "From now on you don't have to call me 'Sir' or 'Master.' Well...Maybe when you're being my cock slave, but not other times."

"Am I still your cock slave?"

"Of course you are."

She asked, meekly, "Not Jackie or the others?"

It appears she guessed what I was doing with my evenings.

"They are as well, but not the same as you. They are for us to play with. All of them are, really, as you will see on Saturday."

She looked at me, inquisitively, not sure what I meant by 'Saturday.'

I smiled at her before answering, "We are having another party. I've invited twenty or so people."

"Who?" she asked, trying to hide the stress in her voice.