Safeword: Rosso Corsa

SUNDAY AFTERNOON: my session with the neighbor's trophy wife—tied to bed.

LIKE CLASSIC CARS, CLASSY LADIES NEED WARMING UP BEFORE USE.

The lady had been properly tied to the king-size bed, spread-eagled, ass up, not too tight, not enough to make her uncomfortable. A soft pillow had been slipped under her hips, not to make me too uncomfortable when I -- very soon -- would fuck her. A silver butt-plug had also been fitted into her asshole, to make us both very comfortable when I -- soon after - would be fucking her in the ass. But before that, warming up. The suggestion shining on the silver screen was clear enough, but, just in case, my dear neighbor Bob had provided a nice accessory.

A vintage wooden paddle was sitting by her magnificent ass. The ass I had been dreaming of almost every night since our neighbors had moved into our suburban neighborhood. The faint tan lines left by her classy bikini -- the bikini I had admired so often as I was cutting my grass over and over again by the fence dividing our properties - added some thrill. This was not a lady accustomed to showing herself in the nude. Not by her swimming pool at least. Not elsewhere, probably, especially to a humble worker like me. Yet, she had been showing herself off more than enough. I have been waiting for her to step out of their swimming pool every day from a distance, savoring in advance the magic moment: the busty goddess stepping out of the swimming pool, her scantily hidden bosom gloriously dripping after her customary twenty laps.

But now, she had no way to hide, had she? And being a night watchman bears the advantage of being full of testosterone in the early afternoon, just when hubbies are hard at work.

I am hard, as well. But not at work.

*

Until yesterday, she was just a forbidden dream. An obsession of sorts, making me dream of her all night, just remembering her daily appearances. Making me have my late breakfast one-handed as I was waiting for her to exit the pool and start basking in the sun in various interesting Yoga positions -- some of them almost Gorean slave poses. I gave up Internet porn, after so many years. And if someone asked me about selling my property -- whose value had skyrocketed after several new riches had moved into our once run down but now gentrified neighborhood -- I just answered that it was not for sale. All for the fascination of an impossible dream.

But today, the very concept of the impossible melted in front of my eyes. In front of my cock, actually. Sunday morning. As usual, I was lovingly making my vintage Mustang shine, as my neighbor was also washing his vintage cars. Sharing a passion for mechanical beauty brings us guys closer, even if his cars were way out of my league. A Ferrari Testarossa and some other European fancy roadsters were hosted in his large garage. As I automatically ogled his trophy wife in her black bikini, he didn't appear as jealous as I had imagined. On the contrary, he got closer and dropped a key in my hand.

"Ah, DeShawn, my friend. I'll be away on business for a couple of days." Uncharacteristically, he winked as he whispered: "First stage, three o'clock."

I had read somewhere that certain husbands get aroused by the idea of having their wives fucked by strangers -- or even by neighbors. Their hot wives, as they call them. But until then, I had always believed it was just a legend. Instead, my dear neighbor Robert -- Bob as a fellow lover of sports cars - apparently was just one of them. So, I obliged. Very punctual, at three -- exactly one hour after he had left in the red Ferrari -- I opened the forbidden door and stepped up the grand staircase. And there she was, all tied up and ready. No black bikini today, just a red corset, silk stockings, and black heels with red soles. Her ass was moving slightly right and left, up and down, making her well-defined slit peek and shine.

*

My cock was demanding to be freed from its denim prison, so I quickly discarded my jeans, shirt, and skivvy, keeping only my boxer on -- you never know, I had already escaped my lovers' nests through the window as angry husbands were barging in through the main entrance. I examined the paddle. It was a vintage thing, and the word 'BITCH' was carved through the cherry plywood. They were so romantic, then in Victorian times, when men ruled the world and educating wives through spanking was a sweet pastime! As I caressed her round buttocks, I felt her shiver in response.

Was this a trap? Was my friend Bob looking at us through a camera hidden somewhere?

Maybe he was, and he interpreted my uncertainty, because - almost as an answer - a new line appeared at the bottom of the screen. It read 'SAFEWORD: ROSSO CORSA.'

Ha! That was interesting. A little embarrassing imagining the cuckold jerking in his seven-star hotel somewhere in the Gulf staring at his screen just about I was about to fuck his trophy wife. Embarrassing, but somehow reassuring. On the other hand, it would make no sense for such rich people to blackmail a humble black night watchman -- former night watchman actually, as I had just been fired.

I was just happily fucking my female co-worker during our night shift as a gang of thieves was removing all the wirings from the offices we were supposed to guard. Not our fault. The global market of raw materials had pushed copper prices through the roof.

The previous recommendation was now blinking on the screen, communicating some urgency.

LIKE VINTAGE CARS, CLASSIC CUNTS NEED TO BE WARMED UP BEFORE USE.

Just then, I felt the lady adjusting under my hand, and my brain stopped functioning independently, forgetting Bob and his camera and his jerking, becoming a blind executor of my cock's will. Not completely blind actually, nor dumb, as her moving ass and faint moans were already resonating in my balls.

So, I paddled her on her left buttock. She jumped slightly. Then, after a suitable time-lapse, I paddled her on her right buttock, harder. She jumped again, her moaning intensifying as the letters started to appear, slightly paler than the bright pink mirroring the paddle on her magic half-globes.

BITCH! BITCH!

She was a double-marked bitch now, but I guessed she needed closer contact to be warmed up properly. The paddle was nice but impersonal. So, I caressed her buttocks again, leaving my palm on each for a short while, until I felt that shiver again, reverberating in my balls. I slapped her with my hand, and again she jumped, then I proceeded in a steady, slow rhythm, counting mentally until I reached twelve.

For a reason I didn't grasp, I stopped at twelve. Exactly twelve. Just then, a new line appeared on the screen:

SPANKINGS COME IN DOZENS, LIKE ROSES.

I stopped. So, it was twelve more or enough. What to do? But of course, the screen had the answer, as the first line appeared again:

LIKE VINTAGE CARS, CLASSIC CUNTS NEED TO BE WARMED UP BEFORE USE.

The C-word was blinking.

Her ass was already hot, so I reached between her legs, gently parting her wet lips. They opened obediently. She was responding nicely, but I was getting more and more inspired.

"Very well, my lady... a dozen more, maybe? Would you care for counting the slaps for me?"

She whispered something like, "Fuck you," then gave me the finger, complete with top-class nail art. She was wearing soft leather restraints on her wrists, bearing an impressed prancing horse, the famous Ferrari's Cavallino Rampante logo.

"Oh! This is very unladylike, Ma'am," I whispered, removing the red ball that gagged her. Just then, I noticed a small beauty mark, just above her lips, on the left, Cindy Crawford style. A small, nice crease appeared nearby. Was she smiling?

I left the blindfold in place -- an old, vintage Pan-Am sleeping mask. Her short geometric hairstyle was shining, as was my glistening finger as I set it in front of her lips, slapping her slightly as a suggestion. She obediently licked it -- although I avoided pushing it into her mouth -- she had dazzling white teeth, and they seemed quite efficient. Later. Then, I started a fresh dozen, keeping a slow steady rhythm...

After two more slaps, she started counting.

At twenty-four (actually twenty-seven, counting the uncounted slaps) I stopped again, and--again inspired--I slipped my finger into her pussy, finding it wetter than before. This time I reached for her clit and circled it three times.

The combined effect of spanking and clit-circling seemed to have the desired effect, because she arched her back, raising her butt even more, as a new line appeared on the screen, anticipating what I was already about to do.

DO IT. NOW!

I had just a moment of uncertainty -- leave the butt plug in there or slide it out. And oddly, the screen answered.

LEAVE IT THERE. AND HURRY UP, BOY!

Boy? Boy? But I was past manners by that moment, so I launched my boxers across the room as I gently filled her, as a long deep moan underlined my slow but continuous motion.

STEADY. STEADY NOW.

Steady? What? Now, was I a horse? A bronco? I had to exchange some words with my dear neighbor Bob. Or maybe a couple of punches -- the kind true men exchange to fortify their friendship, followed by a couple of cold beers, of course. However, the suggestion was good, so I resisted the temptation to pump her hard and instead stood, almost immobile. And I immediately learned why he had instructed me to leave it there. I felt a distinctive vibration, right there on my cock. And I recognized it. It was the distinctive rhythm of the Ferrari twelve-cylinder engine revving up. Coming from the butt plug. It was almost too much, and the screen understood that:

STEADY! STEADY!

And I stopped there, right inside her, as she exploded into a high-pitched orgasm. I had always praised myself as a skilled lover, but this afternoon I was so incredibly inspired. As her movements subsided, the vibration stopped as well. Wow. How was it activated? Anyway, I kept still. The afternoon was long, and I wanted to savor it all throughout the evening.

MONDAY MORNING: meeting the President

The alarm clock rang at noon, just in time for me to dress up in my best interview suit—my only suit, actually. I jumped up and reached for the shower. I shook my head as I remembered the unbelievable, but my cock knew better. He answered immediately, an instant morning hard-on as I peered through the old curtains at my neighbor's swimming pool nearby, but no black bikini there today. I guess she was still sleeping, aching at all the right places.

I started my beloved Mustang and--as the Cobra Jet V8 engine was warming up--I gave a last look at the mirror, checking my famous dazzling smile just in case. If the interviewer was a female, it was an asset. I had an afternoon interview at the newly opened offices of HM Interfaces, a successful ICT start-up that was opening its new production plant on the outskirts of our city, once part of the rust belt, now rejuvenated by the surge in the consumer electronic market.

After having been checked in by a suspicious guard, I was allowed to park my Mustang in the 'employees' parking lot, not far from the dark crystal cube that hosted their brand new offices. I was slightly ahead of my appointment time, so I stopped to admire the yellow Lamborghini parked in the reserved stall marked CEO. Not my cup of tea, as I love American cars, but I had to admit this Italian thing from the seventies was something worth looking at.

The interview was as short as they come--just the preliminary document check--and I imagined that the reason for my previous dismissal was known here, so they didn't want to hire me for that little mistake.

"We don't need a fucking fucking night watchman," as the paunchy security manager had told me emphasizing the double adjectivation. Asshole! I was wondering if he had fired my bosomy colleague as well, or was just fucking her as an indemnification.

So, I was quite surprised when the well-dressed interviewer told me I was hired.

"Hired? Really?"

He smiled and winked as he made me sign a contract. The wage was twice my previous one, so I signed before he changed his mind, without reading the small print.

"And the President wants to talk to you."

"The President?"

"Sure. You are hired, and the President wants to talk to you. What is the part of the sentence you don't understand?"

I candidly asked, "No test? No interview?"

"Oh, you have already passed the test."

The interviewer was gently smirking as he inserted the contract I had just signed in a folder on which my name had already been printed, giving it to a secretary. I saw through the mirror he was having a good look at my muscular ass as he was getting back to me. I used to get nervous when males looked at my ass that way, but I had since realized that it is a good omen: for some mysterious reason females like certain males' asses--my kind, actually--and what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. He was still smiling the Cheshire Cat's smile when he told me again, "And the President is waiting for you."

"The President?"

He rolled his eyes, lecturing me as if I was a dumb boy. "The President. You know, this firm has a President. And. The President. Wants. To talk. To you."

I nodded. I realized I appeared stupid, but it had never happened before. No manager wants to meet the new night watchman, usually. Not even security managers. Let alone Presidents. Especially Presidents of would-be unicorns like this one. But if he wants to meet me, fine with me.

"Sure. I am just surprised that the President wants to meet me. Does he meet newly hired watchmen often?"

"No. She."

"I beg your pardon."

"She. The President. She."

And indeed, he was a she. The classy secretary in a little black dress let me into a top corner office bringing the folder, announcing me as if I was a British Count admitted to a Royal audition as I was waiting outside, studying her round ass.

"Ms. President! Here is Mr. DeShawn Jackson."

The President was silhouetted against the window, looking outside toward the parking lot. She was wearing a corporate dress: a black pencil skirt and a white silk blouse, complete with a fuchsia jacket I suspected was Valentino's or some other Italian fashion house, although I am not as proficient at detecting classy clothes as I am at recognizing classic cars... but that corporate dress was as sexy as hell.

As she looked at me I noticed the tiny beauty mole just above her lips, on the left side, Cindy Crawford style. My jaw dropped. She smiled.

"Ah, Mr. Jackson. Welcome to our firm. We are pleased to have you as our newest employee."

She was looking at the yellow Miura, just leaving the reserved parking marked CEO. The driver was my dear neighbor, Bob. That explained it. He had made his trophy wife President of the firm he had founded; probably just a public-relation appointment, yielding tax advantages to the firm and fringe benefit to the wife.

"Thank you, Ma'am. Oh! I see your husband, the CEO, is leaving..."

She kept smiling.

"I am the CEO. And Founder. And President."

I was finally understanding. "And he..."

"... is my car mechanic. Roberto is of Italian ancestry, you see, Mr. Jackson. His father actually worked at Lamborghini. He manages my collection of classic cars. As a vintage car collector, I need the very best mechanics."

I nodded, chuckling, as she gave me a once-over. I shuffled my feet, trying to adjust my cock that was autonomously waking up in my pants, hoping she was not detecting the bulge. She did, and arched her eyebrows as she was eying my trousers' ruined line, she continued, "The very best of everything."

The very best was my nickname when I was serving in the Marines Corps. It was used by my female comrades, and it didn't refer to my performance as a rifleman. Well, not the M27 rifle at least. So, my reputation has preceded me. Being appreciated is always welcome. Well, almost always... I wondered if the President knew about the details of my honorable discharge. How I was about to be dishonorably discharged for screwing a marine female too much... the wife of my commanding officer. And how the mentioned lady avoided the dishonorable discharge which would have hindered my employment opportunities because she had meanwhile outranked her cuckolded husband. Women outsmart men, of course, and this is what happens when you let them free to climb the military career ladder. So, I left the Corps unblamed. I just had to promise the lady officer that I would visit her anytime I was in Fort Lauderdale.

I sighed at the remembrance, almost unaware that the President was again addressing me.

"By the way, do you know what our firm designs and manufactures, Mr. Jackson?"

I managed to keep calm. Professional. But my cock was not behaving.

"Yes, Ma'am. HM Interfaces. Advanced human-machine interface systems."

I had googled the firm, and that was what I discovered. Human-machine interfaces; whatever it could mean.

"Right. We work for the military, but now we are about to enter the consumer market. We will launch an IPO, soon. There is where the real money lies, you see."

I nodded knowingly. IPO? She kept smiling a little condescending smile as she continued:

"We are prototyping our new system of brain communication, direct brain-to-screen. And now, we are testing our newest brain-to-brain communication system."

"Brain to brain?" Was that SciFi or what?

"You know, Mr. Jackson, sex products have always been the market area in which novelties have been prototyped. And the top management of a firm needs to be involved in the testing, of course."

That explained why I had felt so inspired. Brain control. She had directed me. As I understood what they had done, I felt offended... more than offended.

"So, I have been your... your puppet..."

I was increasingly pissed off.

"Your serf. Your slave. Your guinea pig."

I didn't know I knew so many synonyms, but she was not impressed by my fluency, because she kept smiling softly as she echoed, "...pig. Well, I'd recommend you use the term 'employee' from now on. You see, Mr. Jackson, the trade unions could complain."

Meanwhile, she was shuffling through a folder holding my newly signed contract, and a few eight-by-ten glossy photographs, and I recognized myself doing crunches in my garden, bare-chested, in my ranger panties, my shining abs showing as I was sweating in the morning sun.

"And you have spied on me!"

She just nodded, smiling that unnerving sweet smile.

Was that sexual harassment? Was she abusing me? In any case, that was too much. I was about to resign, right then. The haughty bitch! I had never been submissive, and a guy has his dignity to defend.

Then, I heard a faint roar. An Italian twelve-cylinder engine, starting up. And it didn't come from the Lamborghini outside. She was wearing the same leather bracelets with that Ferrari logo. Suddenly I was inspired. I grabbed her wrists, dragging her toward the leather ottoman sofa, ignoring her protests.

"Mr. Jackson! What do you think you are doing?"

I opened a drawer; somehow, I knew what was inside. A delicate slap on her cheek was enough to convince the President to open her lovely mouth; I had to admire her sculpted red lips. A distinctive shade of red, Rosso Corsa. Just before I put the red ball between them I noticed that tiny smile line by her beauty mole. She continued to protest faintly as I fastened her arms to the hidden carabiners I somehow knew were there, in the perfect position.

I was enjoying the view of her elegantly curvy body wiggling, her corporate dress enveloping her as the aroma anticipates the pleasure of a forty-year-old whiskey. I was inspired again, so I reached for the zipper behind her pencil skirt and slid it down her silk-clad long legs. Then I folded it carefully on a nearby Van der Rohe steel-and-leather chair. I didn't know I was able to fold a skirt so neatly -- nor to recognize a Van der Rohe chair.