The Bully Pt. 15

Lela still kept her private gallery active, and as the number of premium members swelled to over four hundred, news of her vocation, and her perverse sexual proclivities spread through our relatively small city. I would occasionally run into someone that I knew had enjoyed her services, which always made for a humiliating experience on my part. For the most part the awkward exchange would consist of a knowing nod, or maybe a congratulatory "you lucky bastard" issued with a broad smile.

Occasionally the encounter would become a little more uncomfortable, particularly if Lela's apparent lack of sexual limits entered the conversation. On more than one occasion I had to correct someone, after they had wrongly asserted that it must be nice to have a girlfriend to whom nothing was taboo in the boudoir.

"Lela doesn't fuck black guys," I would intone dispassionately, as if her one 'red line' somehow made her more virtuous.

Truth was, Lela's intention to draw the line at intimacy with African-Americans wasn't even based on racial bias. In fact, some of our favorite porn involved black guys, particularly the genres in which African-American men were pampered and worshipped by one or more white females. Lela would often masturbate to interracial pornography, and we even had a couple of close black friends.

No, Lela's insistence on not being intimate with black men was solely due to the negative experiences shared by the other escorts at her agency. As Lela was inducted into the escort business, she was regaled with tales of disrespect, misogyny and ungentlemanly behavior, and made the decision not to engage with black males.

In some respects Lela's decision to avoid paid sexual encounters with African-Americans only served to increase the pressure brought to bear on her to change her mind. Lela had stated her racial preferences clearly in her profile, and the allure of forbidden fruit meant that she was presented with some obscene offers.

The obscenity of these offers was both financial and literal, and while I was shocked at the amount of money that some of these black guys offered Lela to be her first interracial partner, I was equally stunned by the graphic nature of the propositions. Apparently more money meant more entitlement, and many of these black men viewed the sexual accommodation of white women as reparations for historical injustices.

To make matters worse, Lela's psychiatrist, who was responsible for my girlfriend's emotional stability, spent the majority of her counseling sessions having Lela detail the specifics of her latest paid sexual encounter. Peppering her with invasive questions seeking to gather the sordid details of her submission, it was evident that he was getting off on her admission of lewd behavior. In fact, once he found out that Lela refused to session with black men, he turned his focus to persuading her to change her mind, informing her of the benefits of interracial sex. Lela tolerated this unprofessional conduct for a few months, but after numerous extremely embarrassing counseling sessions, she switched to a female psychiatrist.

Lela's private gallery, which was a no-holds barred look into her depravity was replete with videos of John dominating her, and Lela often invited me to view them with her. I hated watching those disgusting clips with Lela almost as much as I hated myself for getting erect as we did so. Lela would caress my stiffening cock through my jeans as we absorbed her submission to the man I despised. Then, as I continued to view the horrible scenes, Lela would get me off in one of my favorite ways, like the Rusty Trombone or the Klixen blowjob experience. It was always a bitter-sweet encounter, although the second I blew my load, I felt nothing but disdain for myself.

Most of the time, Lela and I enjoyed a respectful, loving, mutually beneficial relationship, but as her need to be dominated surged through her soul like a demon possessing her, I would notice a startling transformation in Lela. She would retreat from me, becoming non-communicative no matter how much effort I put into engaging her. Then she would inform me that she was booked in at the Four Seasons or the Hilton, and some random guy would completely fuck her up.

My friends, family, co-workers and professional acquaintances all tried to talk me out of marrying Lela. However, she was my first true love, and I truly believed that she would eventually tire of the physical and emotional abuse that her paying clients would heap on her. Despite the advice from everyone that cared about me, I was actually trying to accelerate the timeline of the wedding so that I could get Lela out of her twice-monthly obligations to my boss.

Mr. Marshall truly was the elephant in the room, and as he continued to fuck with me with limited push-back, his demands increased. I had already added Lela's menstrual cycle to the law firm's master calendar, a mysteriously uniform account of her periods. The calendar showed me as its creator, and as it was labeled simply 'CS' for CumSlut, it created way more questions than it answered. Once word got out that it was a detailed and accurate prediction of my fiancée's menstrual cycle, it became the most viewed document on the shared portal. I lost count of how many times my co-workers asked me if Mr. Marshall had made reservations yet for his next encounter with my fiancée, because they wanted to book time with Lela without interfering with our boss' schedule.

As Mr. Marshall gained more control of Lela and I, twice a month I was required to drive my fiancée to a Five Star Hotel of his choosing, whereupon she would be instructed to wait in the bar for his text. I was expected to carry her overnight bags up to his suite, despite the fact that all of the hotels had a concierge, and porters available for this specific manual task. I wasn't allowed to use the elevator either. It would frequently take me three trips to get everything upstairs, as Lela didn't travel light and I had to carry the Sybian machine to my boss' room also.

"I want you to work for this, Mark," Mr. Marshall would tell me. "You fucked up royally and I get to enjoy your betrothed twice a month. I want you to do the heavy lifting as a reminder that I let you off the hook easily."

Once I had manhandled Lela's luggage up to the top floor, where the best suites were always located, I had to let Mr. Marshall know that my future wife had arrived and was waiting in the bar for his enjoyment. My boss made a habit of inviting me into the opulent hotel suite, so that I had to visualize the surroundings in which he was about to use my fiancée. As he became more confident that he had completely extinguished the flame of resistance within me, Mr. Marshall pushed my boundaries further.

First of all he began to require me to clean and assemble the Sybian machine, before placing it in his preferred spot. If Mr. Marshall wanted to utilize the hotel bedroom mirrors to enhance his visual, I was required to straddle the sex-toy so that he could check the reflections were clearly visible. One time he made me run a warm, scented bath for Lela, as she waited downstairs in the hotel bar for my boss to summon her. Another time I spent twenty minutes in his hotel suite creating a walkway of rose petals from the threshold of the hotel suite to the King Size bed that dominated the bedroom. My boss occasionally made me unpack my fiancée's suitcases, taking great delight in watching me as I hung her lingerie and fetish-wear up in the large closets of the respective opulent hotel suites. In fact, despite the fact that I would eventually learn the details of the encounter from either my fiancée or my boss, dropping her luggage off was undoubtedly the most humiliating aspect of the date.

I never knew whether to shake his hand or wish him luck when I left his suite, so my boss controlled that detail too, scripting a scenario in which I would wait patiently by the door after I had done his bidding.

"Is there anything else I can do for you this evening, Mr. Marshall?" was my required line.

"No, that will be all, boy," he would respond condescendingly, as he thrust a five dollar bill into my hand. "Hopefully there will be plenty more tips earned this evening."

Mr. Marshall liked to control every aspect of his overnight dalliance with my future wife, from what Lela wore, to how she was scented, and even down to her alcohol consumption as she waited for him to summon her.

"Lela is a call-girl, Mark," he would taunt me when we were alone at work. "It is only appropriate that she should wait in the bar, on-call for my enjoyment."

Lela never knew how long my boss would keep her waiting, but it was clearly an exercise in control. My fiancée would wait patiently, drinking whatever drinks the bartender served her, as she fended off multiple advances from the wealthy businessmen who would stay at the luxury hotel. Lela shared with me that she enjoyed the experience, and it made her wet to be another man's plaything, especially as Mr. Marshall never gave her any indication of the timeline. At some point after I dropped her off at the hotel, somewhere between five minutes and two hours later her phone would ding, and she would receive Mr. Marshall's suite number via text message.

Unencumbered by any baggage other than her designer purse, Lela would freshen up her make-up, spritz herself with a liberal dose of Mr. Marshall's favorite scent, and then take the elevator to his suite. According to my fiancée, the evening would start with a brief one-sided conversation with my boss, during which he would outline exactly what he was in the mood for and where the opportunities to earn extra credits lay.

Mr. Marshall's model of gratuity, based on effort, attitude and attentiveness, mirrored most of the service industry but created significant tension between Lela and I. Occasionally my future wife would come home with a tip of several hundred dollars, and I would be in a considerable amount of turmoil as I contemplated exactly how she had earned it. Of course, being the manipulative cunt that I knew her to be, Lela would offer up weak excuses in her defense.

"Danny was just feeling extra generous today, Mark," Lela would assure me, trying to downplay the enthusiasm with which she had participated in his preferred perversions.

As my fiancée systematically checked off every box on Mr. Marshall's sexual bucket-list, methodically eliminating his few remaining unfulfilled fantasies, the gratuities flowed freely, and my agitation increased. As a result, Lela became increasingly closed off with me regarding her encounters with my boss, confiding instead in her therapist who she saw twice per week. I needed to know these details in order to preserve my sanity, and after Lela became tight-lipped, it was Mr. Marshall to whom I turned for the specifics.

"I don't claim to understand the mechanics of being a cuckold, boy," Mr. Marshall said once, as I knelt in front of his desk for one of our twice-monthly meetings. "However, I have so much fun with your fiancée that I am dying to tell someone, so it may as well be you."

Mr. Marshall was a very structured man and he liked his work days to be scheduled in advance. Inevitably, because he was my boss I got with his program, and twice a month I found myself on my knees in his office as he regaled me with tales of his sexual exploitation of my fiancée.

Leaving out no details, Mr. Marshall would paint a graphic picture of what Lela had done to accommodate him, including exactly how my future wife had earned her tips. Sometimes my boss would sit on the edge of his desk and I would kneel at his feet. Other times he would sit in his large leather chair smoking a cigar, as I knelt in the middle of the room listening intently. Occasionally, if he was the only senior manager on site, which happened fairly frequently, Mr. Marshall would smuggle Lela in to the office.

On those occasions Mr. Marshall would remove his shoes and socks, and my fiancée would wash his feet as I watched on forlornly. Even though the cuckold in me craved the details, being forced to watch became more painful than pleasurable. Particularly as Lela and I never knew how far my boss would push her. Part of it was dependent on how much time we had until one of the Senior Managers or partners returned. Part of it was dependent on the reaction that Mr. Marshall got from me as he enjoyed taking me out of my comfort zone. Part of it was dependent on Lela's mental and physical condition as my boss walked the fine line between crushing my fiancée's resistance, without breaking her completely. Mr. Marshall was aware of Lela's fragile mental state and her suicide attempt, but he couldn't help thoroughly demeaning her, and he loved nothing more than forcing me to watch.

To complicate matters, Lela loved being dominated and being subjected to dehumanizing behavior, so much so that she ignored some of the warning signs of her mental illness.

"That is why you are here, boy," my boss would tell me. "To make sure I don't push the CumSlut to the breaking point."

One morning, Lela returned home from her night with Mr. Marshall with nearly two grand in tips. As hard as I pressed her for the details, my fiancée avoided all of my questions about how she had earned them. Apparently she knew what was in store for the two of us, because she didn't seem at all surprised when Mr. Marshall texted us both to be in his office at 10am. Reflexively, I opened the master schedule for the office, groaning at the reveal. On today's date, all of the Senior Managers were in court all morning, the partners were offsite, and the CumSlut was on the part of her menstrual cycle that enabled her to be a three-hole woman.

At the appointed time, I knocked tentatively on my boss' office door, as he had a large "Meeting in progress, do not disturb" sign hanging from the door knob.

"Enter," he said forcefully, aware that as the senior ranking member of staff currently on duty, no-one else but me would have attempted to disturb him.

As I entered my boss' office I saw Lela on her knees in the middle of the room, having already been smuggled in through the emergency exit by Mr. Marshall. My boss gestured to where my fiancée was kneeling and I lowered myself to my knees right next to her. Lela extended her arm to my side, and we held hands in solidarity.

Mr. Marshall didn't waste any time rehashing the details of his night with my fiancée in the Hilton Suite. As he reveled in his dominance of my girl, it became apparent to me that he was pushing Lela too hard. Mr. Marshall had apparently checked off every single one of his unfulfilled fantasies, as he promised me he would. Presumably, there wasn't much left for him to subject Lela to, other than the truly depraved acts. It was when he brandished the latest attachment that he had just ordered for the Sybian, that I knew that I had to extricate my fiancée from this predicament.

"This is going straight up your asshole the next time we are together, Lela," my boss taunted my fiancée.

That oscillating phallus was just way too big for anal-entry and all three of us now knew exactly where that monster was heading. Mr. Marshall went too far that morning, emboldened by our collective lack of pushback. Motioning for my fiancée to get up from her knees and approach his desk, my boss ran her through the usual humiliation of washing and drying his feet, before giving them a loving worship session. Then, as if to test me, he looked me right in the eyes and spoke.

"Lela, you are going to suck my cock this morning while your future husband and I discuss my long-term plans for you," he said authoritatively.

I knew that my fiancée had some serious reservations about this request, even as it was phrased as an order. It was one thing for Lela to offer herself up to my boss twice a month, in the privacy of a hotel suite, by way of compensation for my fuck-up. That is something that we had both agreed to, in writing. Another to submit to a client who was paying her hourly rate of six hundred dollars. However, my boss seemed intent on continuing to push my fiancée out of her comfort zone, without stumping up the price of entry, so Lela looked to me for guidance. I was fully aware of the stakes involved and the risk of denying Mr. Marshall access to Lela, so I nodded my consent and my boss continued with his plan.

"On your knees and scoot under my desk, Lela," my boss ordered my fiancée, as I looked on helplessly. "You know exactly how I like it."

If there was a silver lining it was that I didn't actually have to witness the event, although from my vantage point less than five feet away I knew exactly what my future wife was doing. In fact, both Lela and my boss had described in excruciating detail how Mr. Marshall liked to be orally edged to completion.

With this disturbing idea lodged in the forefront of my mind, I heard his belt being loosened first, the distinct sound of metal on metal as the heavy Gucci buckle clanked away under the desk. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered. A few moments later, as Mr. Marshall's eyes widened, I could hear the soft noises of my fiancée tenderly licking and kissing my boss' cock, as she began his preferred method of edging.

Once he realized that I was planning to stay on my knees while my fiancée orally edged him, Mr. Marshall relaxed and began to tell me of his long-term plans for Lela.

"As you are well aware, Mark," he began cheerfully. "I own the CumSlut twice a month until the day you get married. I know my time with her will eventually end, and I am contemplating giving your fiancée a permanent reminder of our time together. I am undecided whether to use a tattoo, branding or some other form of body modification. However, I want it to be something that you see every time you make love to your wife, and I am willing to hear your thoughts on the matter. And the CumSlut's too," my boss added as an afterthought.

To her credit, as the two principal men in her life discussed potential life-changing body modifications, Lela didn't miss a beat. As an awkward silence hung in the air, all I could hear was the increased cadence of my fiancée's lips as she transitioned from kissing my boss' cock to giving him a full-on blowjob. A few minutes later, as Mr. Marshall writhed in ecstasy in his oversized leather chair, he blew his load straight down my fiancée's throat, and new sounds of Lela gagging on his ejaculate emerged from under the huge desk.

"You can get back to work, boy," Mr. Marshall said dismissively, as the distinct sounds of my fiancée licking up the rest of my boss' load filled the room. "Take this with you," he added, tossing me the huge phallic attachment for the Sybian machine. "I will put it to good use in two weeks' time."

When Lela and I got home that night, for the first time in years I saw true fear on my fiancée's face, and this prompted me to suggest moving our wedding date closer.

"If we got married next month, Lela," I began tentatively, knowing how important the big day was to my fiancée. "Yes, some of the details would be a little rushed and we might have to make some compromises. However, you would only have to spend two more nights in a hotel suite with Mr. Marshall, and then we would be off the hook."

"That asshole could do some serious damage in two nights," my fiancée responded fearfully. "Particularly if he knows his freebies are ending. He is out of control, Mark, and I am scared to death of him. Did you see the size of that fucking new phallus?"

"Let's not tell anyone at the office about our wedding plans until you have fulfilled your monthly obligation to Mr. Marshall," I suggested. "We can send everyone else an invite, and let my co-workers know a few days before. The only person that I am going to invite from my office is Samantha."