Broadcast Lust Ch. 06

Chapter 6: Helen Gives Mark Destroying Lessons

Thursday, September 14, 8:36PM. The Law Offices Of Garfinkel, Carlton, Deutsche & Lole, a few minutes after Mark videos Helen and considers sending it to her husband.

Mark Watkins bellowed like a wounded bear as my perfect shin crunched satisfyingly against his testicles. He went corpse-white as the blood drained from his face and every muscle in his body tensed. He dropped my phone and collapsed to his knees in a strangely pious pose (right next to the shattered picture of myself and Miles on our wonderful wedding day) and made small, pitiful noises that pulled the corners of my mouth up into a taut, satisfied smile.

I'd kicked Mark Watkins (my client Sara's estranged husband who I'd just had rather tremendous and unexpected fornication in my office with) in the pendulous orbs attached to his rather gorgeous and perfectly-sized penis for two simple reasons:

1. Because he was threatening me and I simply don't let anyone threaten me without being severely punished for it as a matter of policy. I woke up after our unexpected (and unexpectedly astonishing) liaison to find him standing there with my phone in his hand and decidedly un-masculine and unattractive tears dripping from his eyes. He was making torturous blubbering noises that my post-coital mind was eventually able translate into something similar to "Give me one reason I shouldn't send this video of you eagerly sucking my cock to your husband right now."


Honestly, I couldn't think of any particularly good reasons. I mean if it was me I would have already sent it and I certainly wouldn't be crying. Why was he crying? Does he have any idea how much this blubbering ruins things for me?


Sigh.


Being a reasonable woman, I took three swift steps forward and kicked Mark Watkins fiercely and enthusiastically in the balls, making sure to impact his scrotum with the sharp bone of my shin and not my fragile, sensitive toes. 


I've always found a swift kick to the balls to be a wonderful way to handle men who are foolish enough to think they have the power in any number of situations. It's like a commercial break in their hilarious self delusion — a chance to stretch and consider and realize again how small and insignificant they really are. Kicking boys in the balls worked wonderfully on the elementary school playground and it continues to work wonderfully now. A good ball kick is really an essential tool for any woman making her way in today's professional world. If you don't have a well- practiced ball kick in your "toolbox" you really should. It's invigorating and useful and proper technique should be taught to young women in school.

But anyway . . .

2. The second reason I kicked Markus Alexander Watkins rather viciously in the testicles (I only wish I was wearing my pointy shoes, but I'd not had time to find them since all the violent and astonishing and unexpected sex) was because I truly enjoy it. I'm an enthusiast. There's something about kicking a man in the balls (either metaphorically or quite literally) that has always, always, always made me feel astonishingly happy. If I didn't have such self control I think I'd just be kicking men in the balls every single day just for the thrill it gives me every time as they crumple and whimper and beg and make unintelligible high-pitched grunts that vaguely sound like "whhhhyyyyyy?"


...

Sorry, was just reminiscing for a second.

Anyway, as I was saying . . 


I watched Mark's pupils dilate and his adams apple bob convulsively and took pride at a ball-kicking done well. (It was Youtube worthy, really.)

Oh: Important . . .

My favorite part about kicking a man in the balls, by the way, is the delay. I love how there's a period of a few seconds after the impact where the ball kickee stands there on soft knees all confused. You can see the gears in his little masculine head spinning and whirring and trying to decide if something terrible has happened to his precious cock or not like he's suddenly a penile trauma Sherlock Holmes.

And then (wonderful) the dawning horror and (what I'm told) is aching, terrible nausea.

And moaning. And tears. And helplessness. Oh, it's delightful.

I smiled and wished I had popcorn as I watched Mark Watkins' jaw go slack and his eyes widen so he looked like Edward Munch's painting, "The Scream." I stared fascinated at his pink, innocent tongue lolling in his mouth and felt his — sigh — still- warm ejaculate flowing lava-like down my leg and over my torn and ruined Victoria's Secret stockings. I felt the throbbing, satisfying, alien ache he'd left in my ravished body where every inch of my skin wanted more, more, more. I bit my lip and shivered and remembered what Mark Watkins, husband of Sara Watkins, my client, had done to me and made me do to him.

How he'd treated me like a common, stupid slut. How he'd ignored me when I tried to take control. How his strong hands tightened on my wrists and around my perfect throat.

How his cock pulsed inside me when he grunted and roared and came. How he'd truly fucked me the way I hadn't been fucked in so long. How he'd made me feel so soft and taken and happy.

Mark Watkins had made me respect him in a way men simply don't. Or simply can't. I had high hopes for him. But then I kicked him in the balls. And now he's just another whining animal checking to make sure his testicles haven't exploded.

Sigh.

"Guhh . . . oh, fucking hell," he mumbled like a child having a tantrum on the floor. I watched him wretch and dry heave and hold his poor testicles like a little boy who pulled the wrong girl's hair at recess. I tried to savor his well-deserved suffering. I tried to feel the delight I usually experience when I put a man in his place.

But instead I felt something strange and awful: A sudden disgusting desire to hold his head and stroke his hair and pull his face to my breasts and tell him everything is going to be alright in a soft, kind, motherly voice. To kiss his eyes until the tears go away. To kiss his mouth and drink in the delicious taste him and feel his sharp stubble against my cheek. To inhale his masculine musk that set off fireworks in my brain and fire in my belly and made me feel soft and feminine and weak and owned and happy.

Some disgusting part of me wanted to push him down on the rug right then and there and crawl on top of him. To ignore the ache between my legs and take him into me again. To feel safe and small as that heat builds in my abdomen. To not have to be in control. To give myself to him forever (or at least as long he continued to earn it.)

But mostly I wished I had pliers.

Pliers I would use to grab Mark Watkins' pink little tongue and pull. Pliers I would use to make him shut up forever. To punish him for how much I want him. To make sure he can never tell anyone what I'd said to him. What I'd done to him. Who I'd been for him. How I'd looked at him. How I'd smiled at him. What I'd begged him for. How I'd screamed.

I bent at the knees and picked up my phone in the Italian leather case Miles had gotten me (it has my initials, HLM, engraved in gold on the front.) I needed to see this "blackmail" of his myself to assess what damage it could do to my reputation and position and lifestyle if he sent it to my dear, dear Hubby. He had a text message open with the video attached (Hmm, so at least he was seriously considering sending the video. I'll give him points for that.) I double tapped to make the video fill the screen and hit play.

"Who do you belong to, Helen," the powerful, dominant man in the video whispered in a voice that sent tingles through me. I watched in horror as the well-fucked mess of a woman on the screen smiled like a dog hearing her master's voice. She smiled wide enough to show her teeth as she kissed and licked and nuzzled his sex-slicked . . . what should we call it that isn't too disgusting? His sex-slicked "member." That's euphemistic enough. She seemed to like the taste, I noticed. She seemed torn between absolute exhaustion and hunger for more. She seemed boneless and limp and utterly relaxed.

"You, Mr. Watk . . . Mark. I belong to you. I'm yours," she moaned like a whore in some perverted copy of my own voice. My stomach convulsed as I felt shivers run down my spine. This girl in the video had my own voice but higher. Happier. Softer. My own voice

with all the strength and harshness and power and stress taken out of it. My own voice but ruined and devastated and satisfied and weak and "in love" and nice. Disgusting.

"Good girl, Helen. You're a good girl. Now go to sleep. You deserve sleep, beautiful," he whispered with something close enough to tenderness to push a dagger through my heart. I clenched my jaw to fight back little whispers of tears as I saw the shear humiliating joy on her face — on my face as the beautiful, happy bitch on the screen drifted off to sleep like a child hugging her teddy bear knowing Daddy is nearby and she's in the safest place in the world.

I looked down at my torn blouse and ruined bra and devastated office. I watched the writhing shadow of a man holding his nuts. I felt cold and sad and alone.

"I didn't send it yet," Mark said as he gathered his legs underneath him and stood up like something close to the real man in the video — Which I already knew because I just saw the message in the phone. Seriously, Mark? I'm taking some points back.) 


He continued dramatically: "I couldn't. I'm not like you. I don't get off on hurting people like you do. On fucking destroying people for a paycheck. But I've got a copy. And I've got pictures. And you look beautiful — I'm sure everyone will want to see them. So you go home to your husband and you pretend this never happened and you go to bed tonight knowing I can ruin your life the same way you ruin men's lives every fucking day. You go to bed knowing I can fucking destroy you any time I want, Helen. Knowing one of your victims did this to you. Knowing how much you enjoyed it. You lay in bed in terror because I can show the world who you really are anytime I want. And the only reason I haven't yet is because I'm not as much of a bitch as you are."

It was a good speech. He delivered it with passion. I liked it.

But then it got awkward. He just stood there and stared at me with something approaching defiance like I was supposed to respond to his performance in some way. What did he want? Was I supposed to beg? Scream? Cry? Applaud? Kick him in the balls again? Was I supposed to be terrified or something? So very confusing.

A beat, and then . . .

I did nothing (usually a safe bet.) I stared at him and secretly hoped he would do something and waited with sad anticipation for him to break like men always break if you simply have the patience and the will.

A longer beat. A long moment of nothing in my ruined clothes with my breasts hanging out and small bruises on my arms and the tickle of his ejaculate on my thigh. And then, finally, after an interminable time, he took his sad eyes and gorgeous (but now bruised but probably not seriously damaged) cock and delightful shoulders and cruel hands and grabbed his pants and his jacket and stared at the floor instead of at me as he left.

Which was just . . . ugh. Not a fan of this behavior. No points. But then . . .

I hate to say it, but I missed him. I ached for him. I yearned for him. And I hated him. I hated him for what he made me feel and I hated him more for not having the balls to follow through and be a man and punish me.

I mean, I kicked him in the testicles and instead of teaching me a lesson he just threatened me dramatically and left with his head down like a sad puppy.

Doesn't he have the balls to try to destroy me? Or at least try?

But no, threats. Hollow, stupid threats meant to terrify me because he could destroy my marriage or damage my professional reputation or other things he thinks I should care so much about.

Like I told you, I don't like threats at all. Threats are promises made by cowards. How could I be expected to respect a man who resorts to threats? How can I have such feelings and fantasies about a man too afraid or too nice to follow through? How could I spent weeks dreaming about him and obsessing over him and thinking of wonderful, terrible things he could do to me . . . only to have him cry and whimper and crumple like another sad, broken doll?

It's infuriating.

The video could cause problems. Ethics violation if it gets out. And even if it doesn't Miles would be humiliated. Devastated.

He'd be furious.

Wouldn't he? This would make a man truly furious, right? Video proof of his beautiful

wife worshipping another man's cock? I thought for a moment.

And then I opened my phone and found the blackmail message Mark had started to my dear Hubby, Miles.

I attached the video (I really did look beautiful in it, by the way. Very natural. The lighting isn't quite right, but that's nitpicking.)

I stared at the blinking cursor on my phone and thought of poor Miles probably working out in the garage all covered in muscle and sweat with those worry lines standing out on his forehead the way they have been lately.

I hovered my thumb over the screen like I was about to swan dive with perfect form off a bridge. I took a deep breathe and felt a delicious flutter of anticipation at the excitement that would come next. I let myself feel hope just a fleeting moment.

And then I hit "send" and felt my pupils dilate and my mouth go dry. I put my phone on silent so as not to be disturbed, stretched my sore back and got to work putting my office back exactly the way I like it.

********

I'm not a bitch I'm just extremely good at my job.

Men have such a hard time understanding that — that a beautiful woman can also be smart and tough and necessarily cruel. I sometimes think it would be easier for men if I were hideously deformed. It would be easier for them to be chewed on and toyed with if they didn't want to fuck me so badly. If they didn't jump and cavort and beg for my attention, even if it's my hate.

Men.

Men leer at me like I'm here for them. Like I should twirl my hair and lick my lips and stick my breasts out and giggle for them. Like being stared at and lusted after each and every day is some kind of wonderful gift they're giving me. And I should just be so very grateful and smile and swoon and make sure to say thank you every time some CEO tries to grab me my ass or a pack of college kids scream what they want to do to me or somebody's miserable dad drunkenly corners me, stares at me with depressing earnestness and says

"You're a ten. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. I wish my wife was like you."

"Oh, really? Wow! Thank you so much! That really means a lot to me! I was having a kind of a challenging day what with being carnally ravished by my client's husband (which is definitely an "ethical violation," isn't it?) and then blowing up my life by sending a video of me with this man's cock in my mouth to my sweet, sweet husband. But I feel better now because of you. I feel better now because no matter what, I still get to be me (which is generally wonderful.) And you still have to be pathetic and stupid and sad and easily manipulated by my breasts."

Anyway . . .

I don't hate men. How can you hate men? Hating a man is like hating a hammer. How can you hate a tool? That would just be silly. Men are a precious natural resource to be protected and cherished and exploited by women who look like me.

I admit, back in college I used men, but only because they were so desperate to be used and so excited when I did. It was really a public service on my part.

I mean, my whole life Men spent so much time staring at me and telling me how pretty I was that eventually I decided I should take financial advantage of the situation. After all, I had something valuable on the open market (my "beauty") and rather than just give it away to the leering perverts at the gym I decided reasonably that I should get paid for the aesthetic service I was providing.

So I modeled. I became a model. A very successful one.

I took off my clothes and put on skimpy, slutty things and bared my skin. I let men take pictures of my smooth, toned body in exchange for large piles of money and heaping gobs of power. And yes, I admit sometimes I lay in bed and let my fingers tease and twitch as I imagined all those men out in the world staring at my ass and my tits and my perfect, perfect face and grabbing their tiny, pitiful penises between thumb and forefinger as they imagined "FUCKING" me and "USING" me and making me their "WHORE."

And what can I say? It's probably not appropriate for me to admit, but I liked it. I liked all those men thinking of me. Sometimes I'd lay in bed at night with the pictures from the magazines and billboards and national ad campaigns and I would think of them: all those tall, short, fat, fit, beautiful, ugly men with their engorged cocks all over the world. All abusing themselves while thinking of me. I'd think of other women's husbands and boyfriends pumping away at their boring, flabby, useless wives and girlfriends and coming sadly in those stupid, inferior women while wishing it was me. And I'd smile and tweak the nipples of my perfect breasts and glide my nails along my smooth, flat stomach and curl my fingers into my beautiful, perfect pussy and tease myself to a delicious, perfect orgasm knowing tens-of-thousands of men would mutilate themselves, bankrupt themselves, destroy their lives, murder their wives . . . for just one perfect night between my perfect thighs.

Sigh.

The actual modeling part somewhat annoying.

But I was always professional. Every shoot I showed up on time and I stood under the hot lights in the little outfits and stared at the boring people and tried to be nice to the other models (which was not easy with their anorexic minds.) And I posed and smiled and contorted my flesh and counted down the moments until Mr. Photographer put his tongue back in his mouth and said he was satisfied.

So yes, I sold myself to men and became a mute, unattainable object of their lust. And I did it for money. A lot of money.

My modeling money paid for college and law school. It paid for a condo in the city when I was just 20. I made more money than my daddy ever did and I did it just by "being hot" and smiling and bending just so at the waist.

For a while I let an "older gentleman" pay my bills and buy my jewelry and masturbate his soft, old cock while he watched me bend and twist and do yoga in tiny lingerie. His name was Gary and he was too old even to be "distinguished" anymore. Just wrinkles and big ears and sad, desperate eyes. He wasn't even a rich guy, I don't think. Something in him just enjoyed being taken advantage of by a beautiful young woman.

Gary liked to beg.

"Please, Helen," he'd mewl as I jackknifed at the waist and smiled at him through my legs in nothing but a teeny, tiny white thong. "Please let me touch you. Just this once. Just your arm. Or your stomach. Please. Please," he'd whisper from his hoarse throat so very close to tears with such agony on his face.

But no, that's not what he was paying for. I just waggled my finger at him like he was a bad boy and told him to clean up his mess and leave another check and his presents on the counter and go home to his sick wife. And I told him he was disgusting for wanting to do such dirty things to a girl younger than his daughter and watched his chest rise and fall and his old tongue lick his chapped lips and his hands shake and grasp with delightful erotic shame.

And I laughed. Not with Gary or the other men who stared at me and fantasized about me and paid me and let me cut in line and did favors for me and gave me gifts and confided secrets in me and told me I was "everything I ever wanted in a woman but didn't think existed" like some line from a bad (or even good) romantic comedy.