The Bully Pt. 17

"I am so sorry Samantha," I began. "I completely misread the schedule. I thought your meeting with the partners was in your office and I was waiting outside your door with the laptop. My apologies for the inconvenience. Totally my mistake."

Heading back to my office emboldened by Samantha's actions, I did something quite rash on the spur of the moment. Using one of my secondary email addresses, I sent Danny Marshall several photos of Samantha's desk, drawer, and trash can, to let him know that I had witnessed the aftermath of his violation.

In the subject line of the email I typed "Evidence for HR" with a smiley face emoji.

Whatever transpired behind that closed door permanently changed Danny Marshall's behavior in the office, and from that day forward he never gave me any shit. He never mentioned the sordid photos I sent to him, and even as I addressed him as Danny in our interactions from that day forward, he never gave me any pushback. I was so happy to have that arrogant prick off of my back.

A few days after the pegging incident, John and I were ushered into the Human Resources department. After being greeted by Stephanie, Samantha joined the three of us. Samantha never actually admitted that she had pegged Danny Marshall to get him back on her program. However, as John and I listened on in disbelief, Samantha and Stephanie made no attempt to conceal the fact that the law firm was willing to tolerate such unorthodox behavior, in order to preserve the hierarchical structure.

"With the money you throw at these guys, you should feel entitled to own their asses, Samantha," Stephanie said with a giggle, clearly enamored with my boss' control of her subordinates.

Once that chilling proclamation was made, Samantha did what she always did to suppress any discord between employees. She simply threw more money at the problem. Under the watchful eye of Samantha, John and I both signed two legal documents. The first increased both of our salaries to $220k per year, restoring the parity of compensation that John had initially denied me. The second was an agreement of mutual consent to actively strive to create a harmonious atmosphere in the workplace, and not to pursue any legal action against each other for our past indiscretions.

With the slate wiped clean, and our compensation parity restored, I only had one thing to worry about when it came to John. Admittedly still a huge concern in my life, I needed to figure out a way to keep him out of Lela's panties.

Unfortunately, John wasn't the only person trying to get into Lela's panties without paying. When Lela and I filed our first joint tax return, my tax preparer, who I had entrusted with my Federal and State returns for many years, asked way too many questions about the source and legitimacy of her income.

"Of course, the income is primarily cash," I finally said in exasperation. "Would you charge the services of a submissive escort on your credit card?"

I was still young enough not to give retirement any serious consideration, but after much prompting from my tax professional, who was also a qualified financial adviser, I agreed to undergo a complete financial welfare assessment. It wasn't cheap, at fifteen hundred dollars, but it refocused me onto my retirement goals, and I considered it a good value. Until it came time to pay this supposed professional, that is, when to my complete shock, he offered a quid pro quo deal.

"How about I enjoy two hours with Lela?" he offered without any shame, "in exchange for my tax preparation services and financial advice. That's seven hundred and fifty dollars per hour," he added, as if I was incapable of doing the basic math. "Talk it over with Lela. I have the rest of the afternoon free, if that is agreeable to the two of you."

I guess it was just part of being married to a submissive escort. I questioned whether I would have felt any differently if Lela had been a professional window cleaner, and my tax preparer had offered to trade my financial welfare assessment for her services to take care of his office windows.

I had never had to worry about this kind of embarrassing situation when I was dating Samantha. She was the consummate professional, and even though men desired her, few were confident enough to put the moves on her. I guess that is why her body count was only seven. It was at times like this that I knew that I made the wrong choice, and that I would always regret messing up my relationship with Samantha.

Even though Samantha remained totally professional at work, she still trusted me implicitly. So it was no surprise that when she next found herself in a sticky situation, it was to me that she turned. Samantha was in the middle of a very important legal case, and showed up to court with the wrong paperwork. She called me in a panic just before the court was in session, and the call went to my voicemail.

"Mark, I am in courtroom four and I just realized that I left the papers I need on my desk at home. Is there any way you could swing by my house and grab the legal briefs for the Thompson case? I have what I need for the morning session, so if you could get it to me by noon, I would appreciate it. The spare key is in the outdoor key holder."

I was happy to help Samantha in any way that I could so I sent her a brief text, "On it, boss."

It felt strange pulling into Samantha's driveway, and as I went through the rear gate to get the spare key out of its holder, I had strong feelings of melancholy. I still loved this accomplished, professional woman, and yet I was married to that fucking filthy CumSlut. I was surprised to see that Samantha hadn't changed the access code to the outdoor key holder, and within seconds I was inside her house, heading towards her home-office.

Samantha has always been extremely organized, so it was no surprise that I was able to locate the Thomson file immediately, exactly where she had said it would be. I broke into an involuntary smile when I saw her huge mahogany desk, recalling the time that Samantha bent over it in that alluring light pink silk suit. That seemed so long ago, and I was a boy back then, not a fully-developed man. Samantha had offered me the world that day, hiking up her short skirt and inviting me to take her from behind, in which ever orifice took my fancy. I felt my cock stiffen as I remembered her provocative words.

"Do you want to come inside me or on my face?" Samantha had whispered. "Whatever you want, Mark. Today is all about you."

I was fully erect now as I started to have a quick snoop around her house. I hadn't had an in-depth personal conversation with Samantha since the fateful events of my wedding, so I had no clue if she was dating anyone. Driven partly by curiosity and partly by my throbbing cock, I entered her bedroom, the scene of so many of my firsts. I had experienced my first Rusty Trombone in that very shower enclosure, I mused.

The whole house was orderly, immaculately clean, thanks in part to her regular maid service. Also whichever young stud she currently had under her thumb was probably cleaning the glass walls in the shower, after his once a week hand-job. The bed wasn't made properly, and judging by where the pillows were situated Samantha was probably running late and simply pulled the comforter up to hide the disarray. That would explain her forgetting that important file, I mused.

Being a bit of a clean-freak myself, I pulled the comforter completely back with the sole intent of straightening it up. However, as her personal massager and a pair of silky panties came into view, I was immediately sidetracked. I knew from experience living with this spectacular woman that Samantha didn't masturbate when she had a lover. In the same way that she had used John's face to achieve release every Friday night, she had probably used other young men from the colleges in which she taught an ethics class.

I picked up the personal massager and sniffed the end of it. Samantha's vaginal secretions had long since dried, but her aroma was unmistakable. I turned my attention to the tiny pair of blue silky panties which were lying in the middle of the bed. Picking them up I noticed that they too had Samantha's scent of arousal all over them and the crotch bore the evidence of her recent orgasm. I gave them a cursory sniff, which turned into a deep inhalation of her aroma as I held them to my nose for several moments. My desire was starting to affect my judgement and I briefly contemplated stealing the soiled intimates. Fortunately, I stopped myself before I did something stupid, as those missing panties would not have gone unnoticed by Samantha.

Instead I headed for the laundry hamper in her closet, intending to have a quick sniff of her dirty panties before leaving her residence intact. As luck would have it, apparently it had been several days since laundry day, as the hamper was almost full. I could feel my heart beating in my chest as I rooted through my ex-girlfriend's dirty laundry. This was wrong on so many levels, but driven by my desire, I kept looking until I hit the jackpot and retrieved my favorite pair. Emerging with the light pink silky panties that Samantha had worn exclusively with my favorite pink suit, I held them aloft, closely examining the tiny intimates. They too bore traces of Samantha's scent, albeit not quite as strong as the recently worn blue silky ones lying on her bed. Still on auto-pilot due to my throbbing erection, I grabbed Samantha's perfume from the bedside table and liberally spritzed the light pink panties, cursing myself as I soaked my hand in the process.

On impulse I stuck them in my pocket, and headed out of the door. Of course, men are visual creatures and as I pondered the fact that I now had physical possession of Samantha's light pink silk suit, and one pair of matching panties, I wanted the rest of the alluring outfit. Maybe I could dress the CumSlut up in pink and fuck her from behind, imagining that it was Samantha.

I re-entered the bedroom and made a beeline for Samantha's massive walk-in closet. It appeared that Samantha had acquired even more sexy lingerie than when we cohabited, and I had a long lingering look through the drawers full of intimate apparel. I found the matching garter-belt first, and then the silky push-up bra. Searching for a pair of pink silk stockings, I stumbled across the ribbons that Samantha had tied in her hair, and stuck them in my pocket. A few moments later, after rooting through several more drawers, I found the pink silk stockings. Also, three more pairs of silky panties in sufficiently alluring colors that I couldn't resist stealing them. I finally decided to call it a day, more than satisfied with my haul.

Samantha was so grateful when I showed up at courtroom four with the missing file for the Thompson case. In a rare departure from her professional demeanor of late, Samantha gave me a really affectionate hug, although I was aware that she was also sniffing me.

"Are you wearing my perfume, Mark?" she asked with a confused look on her face, as she followed the source of the scent with her nose, until she finally arrived at my hand.

Samantha held the back of my hand up to her nose, inhaled the obvious traces of her perfume, and then looked at me with a scowl on her face.

"Were you in my bedroom, Mark?" she asked me in accusatory manner. "Did you go snooping through my closet? Sniffing my dirty intimates in the laundry hamper like you used to when we lived together?"

I felt my face redden and I knew I had a "guilty as charged" look plastered all over my face.

"Relax, Mark," Samantha said with a giggle. "I am not accusing you of anything. We can talk about it later, after I review my security cameras. Thanks again for your help today."

I was rooted to the spot, unable to walk away as I processed the revelation of Samantha's security cameras.

"Dismissed, Mark," Samantha said with a wave of her hand, continuing her quest to remind me that she viewed me as her subordinate not her ex-boyfriend. "Get back to the office."

After being summarily dismissed by my boss, I decided to avoid Samantha for the rest of the day. I knew that she would be in court until four o'clock this afternoon, but the expectations of a long day in the office meant that we would still have at least three hours together. I got in my car with the intention of driving to work, but as soon as I inhaled the aroma emanating from Samantha's dirty intimates, I had a change of plan, and drove home.

When I returned home, I was in an agitated state. I laid the spoils of my fishing expedition through Samantha's closet on my bed, and pondered my next course of action. I knew I had to get back to the office, but my more pressing concern was my pulsating cock, which had been erect for the last two hours. Throwing caution to the wind, I unzipped my pants, withdrew my hard-on from the confines of my underwear, and reached into my bedside table for my KY lubricant. Then, kneeling directly over the assembled lingerie, I began to jerk off.

Predictably, under the visual stimulation of Samantha's pink lingerie, and the strong scent of her perfume that permeated the room, I blew my load all over the silky intimates within seconds. Immediately after my climax, I began to regret my decision-making process. As I went over my options, I briefly considered returning the stolen items. However, as I surveyed the damage, that would surely have involved some laundry, and quite possibly more interaction with Samantha's security cameras, if they existed. Either way, I needed to get back to work, so I grabbed the soiled intimates and stuffed them under my bed, before taking a quick shower.

Inexplicably, the following morning it seemed like a good idea to wear Samantha's panties to work, and as I slipped them on under my suit pants, I struggled to keep my erection in check. The silk felt divine as it caressed my nutsack, and as the thong-back lifted and separated my buttocks, it was a constant reminder that I still had strong feelings for Samantha. It was quite titillating to be in the workplace wearing Samantha's intimates, particularly as she was still my boss despite the fact that we were no longer lovers. A pattern of me wearing her underwear beneath my suit quickly emerged, and selecting a pair that matched my mood became part of my daily ritual.

Samantha let me sweat for several days, failing to even acknowledge my presence as I instinctively knew that she had incontrovertible evidence of my indiscretions. Four days after I had stolen several pieces of Samantha's intimate apparel from her closet and laundry hamper, she sauntered into my office and closed the door behind her.

"When I asked you to go to my home and grab my briefs," Samantha began coldly, "I was referring to the legal documents, not my underwear."

Pausing to allow her words to sink in, and to enjoy the physiological changes in my body as my face reddened and my mouth got dry, Samantha tossed a large Manila envelope on my desk. I knew what it was the second I saw it, and before I even touched it, I could tell that it was heavily scented in her fragrance.

"Report to my office at the end of the day, Mark," Samantha said firmly, before exiting my office.

My hands were trembling as I picked up the heavy envelope. I kept swallowing in an attempt to induce the production of saliva, but my mouth remained bone-dry which was a testament to my elevated stress level. The envelope was covered in Samantha's perfume, and I questioned whether this was to emasculate me or to arouse me. I opened the top of the envelope and poured its contents on to my desk, covering the top photo reflexively the second I observed the compromising position that I had been captured in.

After ensuring that no-one was outside my window, I took a long look at the first photo, printed as it was on eight by ten inch glossy paper. In this picture I was holding a pair of tiny blue silk panties to my nose, and apparently sniffing them. Only Samantha and I would have known that these had been lying under her comforter, soaked in her juices from her morning masturbatory session, before I had violated the sanctity of her bedroom. This photo on its own was damning, incontrovertible evidence that I had snuck upstairs, entered her bedroom and sniffed her soiled intimates in search of my jollies.

However, there were nearly twenty more high-resolution pictures, additional pieces of evidence in the indefensible case against me. My heart sank as I pored through the remaining images, cursing under my breath for putting myself in this position. I had recently been released from seven years of blackmail and servitude to John, and had endured all kinds of humiliation at the hands of Mr. Marshall. Now it seemed I had put myself in yet another vulnerable situation, this time with Samantha.

Graduating Stanford second in my class, was a impressive achievement. However, in the legal profession, success in the classroom did not always translate to results in the courtroom. My departure from one of the premier legal firms in the country would bode poorly for me, particularly if the reason for my termination was obsfucated. I needed to right this wrong, and put this embarrassing situation to bed, today.

As I perused a picture of me on my knees, elbows-deep in Samantha's laundry hamper, I closed my eyes to try and block out the disturbing visual. Samantha's high-resolution security cameras must have been hidden all over her bedroom and closet, because they had captured me from multiple angles, in all kinds of indiscretions. I had been caught red-handed rooting through her lingerie drawers, holding up various intimate items for inspection, sniffing her soiled pink panties, spritzing said panties with additional perfume, and generally being a fucking pervert.

It got worse. Inside the envelope was an invoice, correctly detailing the exact items that I had pilfered, and a demand for immediate replacement of those items. As I looked down the list, it was apparent that I had taken intimates that were branded with luxury labels. Agent-Provocateur, La Perla, Simone Perele, were all unknown to me but they sounded European and expensive. I wasn't concerned with the replacement cost, I just didn't want to have the conversation with Samantha. Ideally, I wanted her to send me a text.

"Mark, you owe me $350, and here is my Venmo information."

However, I knew I wasn't going to be let off the hook that easily, so I braced myself for an uncomfortable after-work meeting with my boss. I tried to get some work done but my head was spinning under the weight of the situation. I found myself viewing the incriminating photos several times as the day unfurled, my erection straining against the fabric of my suit pants as I did so.

To make matters worse, Lela called me late afternoon to ask me to make reservations for the Honeymoon Suite at the Hilton that night.

"High roller, Mark," Lela whispered excitedly, as I crumbled under the additional stress of knowing that some random rich guy was going to subjugate my wife that night. "Ask the concierge to sprinkle pink rose petals all over the bed and to leave two Magnums of Cristal on ice in the bathroom."

While I really didn't need the extra stress associated with having to make hotel arrangements for my wife and her wealthy dominant, I took some solace in the fact that I knew that it wasn't John who was going to abuse Lela tonight. John only checked in to seedy, low-budget motels with my wife, and while I knew that he wasn't a high-roller, it didn't matter because I knew that Lela didn't charge my nemesis for his regular sessions.

As the afternoon progressed, and the first members of the legal team headed home, I wondered how long Samantha would wait before summoning me to her office. It seemed as if she was content to let me stew in my juices, because it was a full thirty minutes after everyone had left before she called me.