The Bully Pt. 14

When I got home Lela was absolutely furious with me.

"I told you not to get involved, Mark," she said angrily. "I asked you just to go with the program but you couldn't resist pushing back on your boss. Danny was a great client and a very generous tipper. Yes, he pushed my limits on occasion, but you know how wet that makes me. I thoroughly enjoyed being humiliated and demeaned by him."

"It's just so hard because he is my boss, Lela," I said weakly. "What do you want me to do?"

"We are going to agree to do whatever Mr. Marshall desires," Lela said firmly. "What are his demands?"

Before I could bring Lela up to speed, she had moved on.

"I can replace Danny's income," she began in a business-like tone. "However, ever since the Joshua Tree retreat, I have been making about ten grand a month from your co-workers. It is good for my business to hang around your office. The logistics of entertaining all of those horny young lawyers outside of the office is mind-boggling. In addition, being barred from your workplace will severely limit the spontaneity factor."

"The spontaneity factor?" I asked with a confused look on my face.

"Mark, when an ice-cream truck pulls up in a random neighborhood, how many of those residents do you think were actively contemplating a cold treat? They see the ice-cream truck, they watch their neighbors make a decision to enjoy the opportunity, and they themselves follow suit and make a spontaneous purchase. Your coworkers do exactly the same thing when I show up at your office on one of my appointments."

"Enough, Lela," I said as my jealousy started to envelope me. "I don't need to know every detail of your business. Bottom line is, between the two of us, what can we offer him?"

"Well, Mark," Lela said coldly. "Unless you are planning on giving your boss a foot-worship session followed by a rim-job, I think the question is what can I offer him? Let's just invite him over, ply him with a little wine, and hash out a deal. I will do whatever it takes to soften him up."

As I pondered Lela's coolness under pressure, the legal-minded side of me emerged.

"Whatever deal we cut needs to be in writing, cover all eventualities, and be valid for a finite period of time," I said firmly. "I can't tolerate what I went through with John again, years of servitude with no end in sight."

It was Lela who reached out to Danny. She already had his cell phone number and they had some shared history, and a warm personal relationship. Lela texted him an invite to our home for the following evening. Mr. Marshall's response was immediate, but phrased in such a way that it appeared to be some kind of test.

"I will be there at seven. Wear something yellow."

When I read Mr. Marshall's text my heart sank. The phrasing was reminiscent of the way John used to dictate Lela's outfit for their sexual encounters, and I wondered exactly how much of my ordeal John had shared with my boss.

The following evening, as seven o'clock came and went, I was pacing nervously around our living room, peeking through the Venetian blinds every few minutes. Lela was upstairs, applying the finishing touches to her hair and makeup. I had experienced the same conflicting emotions watching her ready herself for another man, as I used to feel when John practically owned us as a couple. Extreme jealousy combined with the titillation that only a man with cuckold tendencies would ever feel. I was boiling inside with rage, but I had been erect all afternoon, leaking pre-cum into my underwear.

Lela had followed Mr. Marshall's directions to the letter, and was dressed in yellow from head to toe. From her soft yellow Louboutins to the pale yellow ribbons that held her long black hair in girlish pigtails, she looked exquisite. Even her nails were painted a pale shade of yellow and her lips were glossed with a frosted-lemon lipstick. Lela possessed the uncanny ability to look coquettish and slutty at the same time, and as I watched her yellow garter-belt straps peek from under her gingham check dress, I wanted to fuck her so badly that my nuts ached.

Finally, as I was in danger of wearing my living room carpet out, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled into our driveway. Inexplicably the headlights were on high beam, and I was unable to make out anything as I peeked through the blinds. Mr. Marshall emerged from the Lincoln about ten minutes later, and I wondered whether he was making us wait because he could, or if he was squeezing one more billable hour out of his day before he dropped the hammer on Lela and I. As he approached our front door I noticed that he was arriving empty-handed, the leverage that he held over us evidently empowering him sufficiently that he no longer felt the need to observe social norms and arrive with a gift, or at least some wine.

I opened the door to my boss with a healthy dose of trepidation and my heart pounding in my chest. Right inside the entryway to our home is a sign requesting guests to remove their shoes. The Aloha sign, very popular in the Hawaiian Islands, depicts a man removing his flip-flops with the slogan "Hawaii style." I watched as Mr. Marshall observed and processed the sign and completely ignored it, thereby setting the tone for the evening.

To say it was awkward to invite this man into my home would be a complete understatement. It was excruciatingly humiliating to offer him a glass of wine, and even more emasculating to bring it to him once he had settled himself into my favorite recliner and rested his outdoor shoes on my footstool. At least he had arrived without his trademark dark sunglasses, although I couldn't make eye contact with him.

A few moments later, Lela entered the room, looking absolutely phenomenal in her head to toe yellow ensemble. She glided gracefully towards Mr. Marshall and welcomed him to our home, in an extremely subservient manner. The power dynamic between the three of us was evident, and when Mr. Marshall patted one of the armrests of my recliner, my fiancée lowered herself gracefully and knelt passively by the side of my boss' chair.

"Do you want me to take my shoes off, Lela" he asked in a friendly manner.

"It's up to you Mr. Marshall," Lela responded in a deferent tone. "The night is still young but I know exactly what you expect of me if you decide to remove them," she added, as she licked her lips in an exaggerated manner.

All three of us were merely playing the game, adopting our assigned personas as we moved towards the inevitability of the evening. There wasn't any protracted negotiation, as Mr. Marshall held all of the cards. He had a simple decision to make, either terminate my employment and end any hope of me working in the legal field, or dictate the terms of our capitulation. As he sipped his wine, Lela and I flattered him, cajoled him, and were embarrassingly obsequious in our interactions with my boss.

I heard him address my fiancée when I left to get another bottle of wine from the refrigerator.

"Lela, I make my best decisions when my nuts are drained," Mr. Marshall announced crudely. "Can we get a little privacy?"

At this point I was prepared to take our dog for a walk but Lela seemed intent to punish me for getting us into this fucked-up situation.

"Why don't you send Mark to the local self-serve carwash to freshen up your Town Car?" she suggested, as I listened on in horror.

Mr. Marshall's Lincoln was very big and very black, and would be a nightmare to wash and dry in the dark. I prayed that he would allow me just to take the dog out for an hour or so.

"Great idea, Lela," Mr. Marshall responded with a chuckle. "I was looking at it today thinking that it is time for a detail."

When I returned from the kitchen holding two glasses of chilled Cabernet, Lela beckoned me towards them and having apparently gained possession of my boss' car keys, tossed them in my direction.

"Do you need any gas, Mr. Marshall?" my fiancée asked in a respectful manner.

"Supreme" he responded. "From Shell."

With that succinct instruction delivered, Mr. Marshall turned towards my fiancée and leaned in for a kiss. Lela responded favorably, lowering her perfectly manicured hand to my boss' crotch as she knelt next to his recliner.

That black Lincoln was a bitch to wash and dry. The car wash had a coin-operated vacuum too, so I removed Mr. Marshall's golf clubs from the cavernous trunk, climbed inside it and vacuumed it to perfection. Part of my attention to detail was driven by my elevated energy level brought on presumably by stress, but I also didn't want to give my boss any reason to complain. I did most of the work in the self-service car wash before relocating to a brightly illuminated WalMart to ensure that there were no streaks in the flawless gloss paintwork. Once the Town Car was shined to perfection, I drove to the local Shell station and emptied almost eighty dollars of Supreme Premium Unleaded Gas into the fuel tank.

I was exhausted by the time I was finished, both physically and emotionally drained. A quick look at my Casio watch showed that I had been gone for a little over two hours, so I decided to head home to see exactly what accommodation Lela had extended to my boss. Whatever it was, I would deal with it as long as I could keep my job at the law firm.

After I parked the shiny black Town Car in my driveway, I approached my front door with trepidation, electing to knock on it prior to entry, just to demonstrate my respect for Mr. Marshall's privacy. There was no sign of my fiancée or my boss in the living room, but I noticed Lela's tiny yellow thong panties laying by the armrest of the recliner. A cursory glance at the seat of my leather recliner revealed a large wet spot in the middle of it, and I went to get some wet-wipes to clean the viscous fluid up.

Had either my fiancée or my boss spilled wine on the seat of my recliner, I would have given it a quick wipe with a paper towel and been done with it. However, this mystery fluid was milky white and in attempt to assess its origin, I sniffed it. The secretion emitted a strong scent that I recognized as Lela's, so I wiped it up before it stained the semi-porous leather. I cleaned my footstool too, as Mr. Marshall had entered my home without removing his shoes and had subsequently rested them on my low lying stool. When I opened the armrest of the recliner, I saw a discarded used condom in my cup-holder. It had been tossed in there without any consideration, and semen had leaked from the open end inside the molded plastic receptacle that would have typically contained pop-corn. As soon as I ascertained that round one had occurred in my favorite recliner, this would forever change how I felt about relaxing in that particular spot.

Once the recliner was cleaned to my satisfaction, I picked Lela's discarded panties up from the floor and headed upstairs. My fiancée's hair ribbons were laying on the stairs, and there was a trail of Lela's discarded clothes strewn from the top of the stairs to the threshold of our bedroom, the door of which was closed. Based on the physical evidence, Lela and my boss had fucked in my chair, after which my fiancée performed some kind of strip-tease for Mr. Marshall, playfully shedding her clothes as they ascended the stairs to my bedroom. I didn't know whether to knock on the door, text Lela or wait to be summoned by them.

The light was on in the upstairs hallway and I think they must have seen my shadow under the bedroom door, because my boss called out to me.

"Is that you, Mark?" Mr. Marshall said in an authoritative voice. "Sneaking around outside the bedroom door trying to eavesdrop on us?"

I froze as soon as he called me out, but the silence was deafening and time stood still as I pondered how to respond.

"Yes, Mr. Marshall," I squeaked, my voice cracking under the stress. "I washed and fueled your car and wanted to know if you guys needed anything."

I heard my fiancée giggle out loud at my obsequious comment, and almost simultaneously my boss let out the disparaging remark "pussy," which elicited another giggle from Lela.

"More wine," Mr. Marshall instructed, as I stood silently outside the door.

My legs were shaking as I ascended the stairs holding two glasses of chilled Chardonnay, which I attributed to a combination of jealousy and humiliation. It was bad enough that they had fucked in my favorite recliner, but I couldn't imagine what my boss and my fiancée were up to behind the closed door of my bedroom.

I gently kicked the base of the door to signal my arrival as both my hands were full.

"Come," Mr. Marshall beckoned me as I leant my hip against the door to slowly ease it open.

I was dreading the sight of Lela with another man, in our shared bed, so I entered the room very tentatively. Mr. Marshall was sitting upright on my bed, his muscular upper body supported by two pillows as he leaned against the headboard. His legs were bent at the knees, with his feet flat on the fitted bed sheet. He was butt-naked, with just a small hand-towel covering his genitals. Judging by the contented look on his face, my fiancée had completely drained his nuts.

"Lela is taking a quick shower," my boss said in a friendly tone, before extending his hand out for his wine glass. "Leave her wine on the bathroom countertop."

Once I returned from the bathroom, I noticed my fiancée's Sybian machine sitting in the corner of the room. It was plugged into the electrical outlet and the hide saddle had obviously just been treated with leather polish. The large phallic attachment was visibly lubricated with some Vaseline. Once I tore my eyes away from the sex-toy, my boss pointed to the floor at the side of the bed, and I followed my fiancée's cue from earlier, and lowered myself to my knees in his preferred spot.

"You should be very grateful to have a fiancée like Lela," he began condescendingly. "She obviously cares a lot about you because she has put her heart and soul into trying to persuade me to give you the lesser of my options with regards to your punishment. If I didn't know better I would think she was trying to soften me up a little. I always make my best decisions when my balls are completely drained, and we are well on the way there."

I swallowed hard at his provocative words. I knew he had enjoyed at least two orgasms, and apparently he wasn't done for the day. Once my boss knew he had my attention, he straightened his legs thereby exposing the soles of his feet. I wanted to convey to my boss that I was listening intently, so I maintained eye-contact with him, although my head was slightly lowered out of respect. When Mr. Marshall looked at his legs, I followed his lead, recoiling in disgust as I noticed traces of my fiancée's lemon frosted lipgloss all over the soles of his feet.

"I like the way your future wife worships my feet," he said with a smirk. "She is so submissive with the right man."

A few seconds later, Lela emerged naked from the bathroom, holding her wine. She completely ignored me as I knelt by the side of the bed, moving seductively over to the Sybian machine that had been strategically placed for the visual enjoyment of my boss.

"It's your turn to get off, Lela," my boss informed her. "Mount the Sybian."

My future wife took a large swig of her wine before placing the glass on the floor by the side of the sex-toy. As she parted her thighs to mount the large phallus that protruded from the top of her leather saddle, I could see that her inner-thighs were coated with her vaginal secretions.

"I don't think I need the Vaseline, Mr. Marshall," Lela said with a laugh as she looked my boss directly in the eyes. "I am already fucking soaking wet."

"You will be thanking me for my considerate nature in a few moments," he assured her. "I am in the mood for something different today. I want to watch you get sodomized, Lela," my boss instructed my fiancée, as if she had no say in the matter. "Be a good girl and hop on. I am going to take a piss."

As my girlfriend lowered herself tentatively onto the large phallus, it was apparent that she was grateful for the copious coating of Vaseline that Mr. Marshall had thoughtfully applied. Lela was no stranger to anal-sex, but the attachment that Mr. Marshall had selected for this butt-fuck session was enormous. My boss got up from the bed, and letting the hand towel fall to the floor by my feet, he walked right past me. Mr. Marshall's cock was flaccid, and as it hung between his muscular thighs, I could see it was coated with my fiancée's dried vaginal secretions. In addition, there were traces of my fiancée's lemon lipstick all over my boss' stomach, cock and partially drained nutsack. Lela had kissed my boss all over his groin area, and as he passed me I saw the same traces of lemon lipgloss all over his buttocks and ass-crack.

I knew that Mr. Marshall was an Alpha Male but it still surprised me that he seemed so at ease in my bedroom. In fact, such was his level of confidence that he didn't even close the bathroom door when he took a piss. As I knelt on the floor in my boss' designated spot, I felt that the sound of his urine stream hitting the toilet bowl water and the moans of discomfort coming from Lela as she impaled herself onto the large phallus, were practically competing for my attention. By the time my boss re-entered my bedroom, my fiancée had managed to wedge the oscillating phallus all the way inside her anal-cavity, although judging by the pained look on her face, it was creating some uneasiness for her.

Mr. Marshall didn't seem to give a fuck about Lela's comfort, and I watched the dynamic between my boss and my fiancée as he got back into my bed, still butt-naked.

"I'm ready for showtime," he said excitedly, as Lela obediently reached down for the remote control and turned the oscillating attachment on to one of its lower speeds.

Lela's eyes widened considerably under the new stimulation and my boss offered his approval of my fiancée's compliance with a simple request.

"Good girl, Lela. Take your time. I want to savor this moment."

Lela followed his instructions perfectly, bringing herself very slowly to the boil, as Mr. Marshall continually offered her new direction.

"Toy with your nipples," he said at one point. "Get them erect for me. Good girl."

Lela followed my boss' orders perfectly, tweaking and sucking her nipples for his amusement until they were rock-hard, jutting out in a lewd display of her arousal. Mr. Marshall made my fiancée perform an extended ritual of submission, that included her spreading her labia wide open, toying with her clitoris and finally inserting two fingers deep inside her pussy as she slowly went down the road to release. As the vibrating phallus stimulated the nerve endings in her anus, Lela lewdly masturbated for my boss, completely ignoring my presence as I knelt by the side of the bed. Danny actively encouraged Lela to be vocal, and as she continued to self-lubricate, the sight, sound and aroma of her arousal permeated my bedroom.

I could tell that my fiancée was close, as I saw her abdomen tighten, and she closed her eyes. Also observing Lela's elevated level of excitement, my boss decided that he wasn't ready for the fireworks yet.

"Enough, girl," he ordered. "Turn it off."

Lela opened her eyes and conveyed a look that was part disappointment and part confusion, but as Mr. Marshall stared impassively at her, my fiancée nodded her understanding and reached down to turn the Sybian machine off. My boss turned his attention to me as I knelt by his bed.

"Now, we are ready to negotiate the terms of your complete surrender to me, Mark," he said coldly. "My nuts are drained, I have the full undivided attention of the CumSlut, and you hopefully have absorbed the power that I hold over the two of you. You may speak."