The Bully Pt. 26

"Once a week, Mark," Samantha blurted out, her brain scrambled from the pressure I was putting her under. "You can fuck me once a week at my place. I will wear some sexy lingerie for you and you can enjoy me in any position. Either hole."

"Not enough, Samantha," I said authoritatively. "Right now, under the heady combination of stress and your potent pain medication, you are not thinking straight. In a few hours you will gather your senses. Your brain will start working and you will be able to accurately assess and absorb your potential losses. At that point you will realize that your offer of a once a week fuck is insulting. This mistake will cost you dearly for the rest of your life. Even long after you retire."

"I wasn't trying to insult you, Mark," Samantha whispered in a respectful manner. "I am trying to negotiate."

"You are not in any position to negotiate, Samantha," I said with a laugh. "Look at you. You are on your knees in front of someone who holds your life in their hands. And you have the gall to offer me the occasional pump and dump."

I had chosen my words carefully, and my use of the term 'pump and dump' caused Samantha to reflexively scrunch up her nose. Samantha had used the same disparaging descriptive on several occasions to describe Lela's approach to sex, and it was clear that she thought that the expression was demeaning to women. Judging by the pained look on Samantha's face, I had her on the ropes, so I kept pummeling her.

"I did a little research on our defined pension plan too, Samantha," I added cheerfully, as I approached her from another angle. "Under the law, your 401K contributions, despite being pitifully meager for someone of your age and income level, are fully protected, regardless of any criminal convictions. However, our Law Firm's own defined cash balance pension plan, the one that will enable us all to live an extremely comfortable lifestyle after we retire, is subject to an ethics clause."

Pausing for effect, as Samantha absorbed the latest bombshell, I watched her shoulders slump in defeat.

"The disclaimer is extensive as you can imagine, Samantha," I said in a confident tone. "I have memorized it but I won't bore you with all of the minutiae. However, disbarment is one of the cited reasons for losing your cash balance pension plan."

"Oh, fuck me," Samantha said nervously.

"So when you finally get out of prison following your conviction and disbarment, you will be ineligible for any defined pension benefits, Samantha," I said, dropping the hammer on my boss. "That will be the hardest pill for someone like you to swallow, Samantha. You have put all of your eggs in one basket and I have the power to take that from you."

"Mark, please," Samantha begged me one last time. "I have been there for you in some of your darkest moments. I consider you a good friend. We used to be lovers. Don't ruin my life. There must be something I can offer you in exchange for your silence."

"There is," I said calmly. "Your body and soul to use as I see fit. Complete capitulation to me. Accommodation of my every desire. You as my personal fuck-toy."

"Mark," Samantha pleaded, "Does our shared history and friendship mean nothing?"

"Friendship," I exclaimed. "That is rich, Samantha. Twenty minutes ago you were berating me. Threatening to butt-fuck me as punishment because you are a misandrist. Now the tables have turned, and you are going to be my plaything."

Samantha never verbalized her agreement, but her body language said it all. Fully aware that I held her financial well-being, her license to practice law, and her freedom from incarceration in my hands, Samantha lowered her head in submission.

"Good girl," I said, knowing those words would inflame her. "I am going to give you a few days respite to allow you to wean yourself from your pain medication, and to gather your wits about you. Your transition into my fuck-toy is going to be mentally taxing on you, and I need you to have a clear mind as you navigate your descent into depravity. It will give me time to select an appropriate moniker for you too, as I plan to re-Christen you the way I did with Amber."

"Mark, please," Samantha cried out in frustration. "I can get my head around being your primary sexual outlet, but please don't humiliate me unnecessarily. You know how intertwined my identity is with my birth name. I shared that with you in confidence, as a close friend. Please don't use that against me."

"Our first order of business, Samantha," I responded, completely ignoring her pleas for mercy, "is to punish John. Tell him to book three weeks vacation, starting the first part of next month. John is going to need some time off to recuperate. We are going to give that asshole a harsh round of Bastinado, right after you butt-fuck him in front of me."

After I outlined my plans to Samantha, l left her alone for just over a week. I needed to see how she reacted once her stress level dissipated, and her brain emerged from the fog of her pain medication. I wasn't sure if she would seek legal advice, turn herself in to Human Resources and the California State Bar in attempt to mitigate any sanction against her, or quit her position.

After about ten days had elapsed, Samantha waited until most of her subordinates had left for the day, and then called my cell phone and politely asked me to come to her office. Her tone was respectful, reverent almost, and I began to realize that my boss had evaluated her options, and decided to get on my program. Samantha was a fair boss, but she had always insisted on being in charge, especially when it came to her male employees. Usually, if Samantha needed me to come to her office, she would get on the overhead paging system and announce her wishes firmly.

"Mark, my office, now," was Samantha's typical way to summon me.

That's why it piqued my interest when Samantha called my cell phone, and asked me politely if I was not busy could I come over to her office?

In the past, I would have dropped everything and hustled my ass over to my boss' office. However, in an overt display of control, I took my time to saunter over there, stopping first in the Executive Washroom to freshen up. By the time I arrived at the imposing mahogany door to Samantha's office, several minutes had elapsed. I imagine that my relaxed approach to her request that I come to her office, contributed to Samantha's general uneasiness at the ongoing power transfer between us.

Normally I would have knocked on the door, and Samantha would have kept me waiting for a few moments before unlocking it remotely from her desk. There was also a large numbered keypad to one side of the door, which only Samantha was permitted to use to enter her office. I still had the combination to the keypad, as Samantha had once asked me to retrieve her laptop several years prior. Breaking protocol, I punched in the six digit door code, 569320. Simultaneously, multiple deadbolts were released electronically, and then the door opened slightly.

Samantha seemed surprised by my entry, and rose uneasily from her chair, as I secured the door behind me. Taking control immediately, I spoke authoritatively.

"Come," I said, beckoning my boss towards me with my index finger.

Samantha offered no resistance as she made her way out from behind her huge mahogany desk. She had regained most of her mobility since her accident with the scalding coffee, and was walking without assistance.

"Kneel," I said, pointing to a spot on one side her expansive office, that was not visible from the office door. "Good girl."

I knew that the addition of the words "good girl" would infuriate Samantha, as she hated nothing more than condescending males. However, even as her brow involuntarily furrowed, there were no other signs of protestation, and my boss raised the hem of her tailored skirt, and gracefully lowered herself to her knees.

"It appears that you have had time to digest the gravity of your situation, Samantha," I began, once she was kneeling before me. "Hopefully, you have come to your senses and made a decision about your future?"

"Yes, Mark," Samantha responded in a respectful manner. "It's astounding what people will do when they have limited options," she added, regurgitating the very words I had used to describe my relationship with the Wisconsin runaways.

"I knew that once the initial shock of submitting to me wore off, you would approach your new life-style choice in a rational manner, Samantha," I said, my voice dripping with condescension. "Rest assured, nothing will change at work. I will continue to defer to you for as long as you are above me in the hierarchy of this organization. I will address you as Samantha at all times, and treat you with the respect that your position deserves. No-one needs to know that you are my fuck-toy."

Samantha visibly recoiled when I used the word fuck-toy, although she didn't offer any verbal resistance. I waited a few seconds to allow Samantha to absorb how much control I had over her.

"Capiche?" I asked firmly, turning Samantha's preferred method of extracting agreement from her subordinates, against her.

"Capiche," Samantha whispered submissively, in just the same manner that John and I used to when our boss laid down the law.

"I am only going to tell you things once, Samantha," I continued, as if I were talking to a recalcitrant child. "Ask questions if anything is remotely unclear. If you fuck up, I am going to punish you. I will give you advance warning whenever I plan to enter your office. That will give you time to freshen yourself up, and to get in the position that you currently occupy."

"You honestly want me to kneel in the corner of my office and wait for you to enter, Mark?" Samantha replied, showing her first sign of frustration.

"Every. Single. Time." I intoned slowly, for maximum effect. "If you wait in the exact same place that you are now, you are not visible even with the door open. No-one else has the code for your office door," I reasoned. "I will check the master schedule to make sure that the partners are off-site, which seems to be most of the time lately. As the ranking Executive you can demand privacy at will. Also, I will give you a few minutes notice so that you can gloss your lips and make sure that you are presentable for me. Capiche?"

"Capiche," Samantha replied dejectedly, as the extent of my control became increasingly evident.

"I don't want you wearing panties to work anymore, Samantha," I added casually, interested in how much I could move the goalposts without push-back. "If I want to bust a nut I don't want to be worried about the exorbitant cost of your underwear. Save your expensive Agent-Provocateur intimates for your dating life. When I am around, I expect you to go commando. Capiche?"

"Capiche," Samantha said quietly, her voice getting weaker with every one of my sternly-issued directives.

"Talking of intimate apparel, Samantha," I continued, covering way more ground than I thought possible in our first meeting as dominant and submissive. "I expect you to wear garter-belts and stockings to work every day. No tights, no pantyhose or stay-ups. Capiche?"

"Capiche," Samantha responded in a barely audible tone.

"Hair and make-up," I continued. "I am not a big fan of mascara so go easy on your eyelashes. When you arrive at work I want you to wear clear lipgloss. When I give you the ten minute warning that I am heading to your office, you can scent yourself and gloss your lips to match your garter-belt and stockings. That way I will feel like you are truly making an effort to please me, which is important to me. I want you to accentuate your youthful appearance through skillful application of your make-up. If you need to have a professional help you, so be it. But get it right. And quickly. My last girlfriends were both teenagers so I am attracted to a youthful look. Bambi always went light on the make-up and I loved jerking off onto her young face. I don't expect you to look nineteen, Samantha, but I demand that you make the best of your looks. Capiche?"

"Capiche," she replied, as if on auto-pilot.

"I am going to take a picture of your make-up each day when you arrive at the office, Samantha," I informed her. "Over time we will work together to get you looking exactly the way I want you to. Capiche?"

"Capiche," Samantha said quietly.

"Oh, that reminds me," I added casually. "Have you lost weight recently, Samantha? You look fantastic now that you are a little skinnier."

"Thank you, Mark," Samantha responded quietly, averting her eyes from my gaze as she did so.

"Embellish," I ordered her. "And you may speak freely, Samantha."

"I have lost over seven pounds since you first threatened to blackmail me, Mark," Samantha began shakily. "The stress that I have been experiencing has been truly debilitating. My constant worry has caused a severe loss of appetite, and I have been throwing up on a regular basis. My doctor has prescribed me a mild sedative, and I believe that I am over the worst of it."

"What do you currently weigh, Samantha?" I asked, completely ignoring her medical condition and her apparent physiological response to her predicament.

"One hundred and twenty two pounds," Samantha answered. "I am the lightest I have been since I graduated High School. My doctor said that as soon as I adapt to the stress, I should return to my normal weight of one hundred thirty pounds."

"I like you thin," I proclaimed, further exercising my control over Samantha. "I want you to maintain your current weight, Samantha. I will give you a little wiggle room but make sure you keep below one hundred and twenty five pounds. Capiche?"

"Capiche," Samantha responded, clearly over the depth of my control.

"I will weigh you every Monday morning when we arrive at work, Samantha," I announced, ramping up the pressure. "Keep a digital scale in your office bathroom so that you don't lose track of your progress. I will let you know if I decide to make any further adjustments to your physical form, that may necessitate a slight recalibration of your weight."

"Adjustments, Mark?" Samantha whispered nervously. "Like what?"

"All kinds of potential adjustments," I continued slowly, for maximum effect. "I may decide to impregnate you sometime in the future, Samantha. If that occurs, I will allow you to put on a reasonable amount of body weight, for the sake of the baby's health. I may decide to increase your workout regimen, which would certainly necessitate a reassessment, as muscle weighs more than fat. I may decide to surgically enhance your breasts, and would permit you to adjust your weight goals accordingly, particularly if I choose an E cup for you. The 500cc saline implants each weigh over one pound so I would factor that into your adjusted weight goal."

Samantha didn't rise to the bait although she wore a thoroughly demoralized look. Her face was bright red too, presumably from the casual nature with which I informed her that I could potentially force her into the indignity of E cup tits. The shame of being owned by me was palpable in her body language and general demeanor.

"You say you are the same weight as the day you graduated High School, Samantha?" I enquired, keeping my foot firmly on her jugular vein. "Do you still have any of your clothes from back then?"

"No, Mark," Samantha said, as her face continued to flush. "My mom is the sentimental one in the family. She still even has my hope chest. My mom kept everything, my school uniform, my cheerleading uniform, my graduation cap and gown."

Our extended one-sided conversation lasted a little more than thirty minutes. During that time, as Samantha knelt passively in the middle of her office, I extracted multiple concessions from my boss, and ex-girlfriend. Samantha asked a couple of questions for clarification. However, most of the time she just knelt in silence, that was broken occasionally by her uttering her understanding in a single word response, Capiche. Once in a while, if I needed to extricate more information from Samantha, I instructed her to speak freely.

After I had finished my protracted diatribe, I took a few pictures of Samantha's face, instructing her to smile broadly, even though she was clearly experiencing several conflicting emotions

I was erect the entire time that I rearranged Samantha's universe, but thought it prudent not to introduce the sexual component of our fledgling relationship too soon. Right now, it was all about control. Setting the groundwork for our unorthodox union, and outlining my expectations. I even decided to alter one of my directives slightly, to fuck with Samantha, just because I could. It happened right as I was leaving her office.

"I have changed my mind about you being commando, Samantha," I said with a smile, just before I opened her office door. "I want you to wear crotchless panties to work from this day forward."

I didn't wait for Samantha's response, leaving her office the way I had entered it, with purpose and as if I owned it. Samantha had made it patently clear how she felt about the demeaning style of underwear, and I considered this the first test of her submission and obedience. I knew that Samantha didn't own a single pair of crotchless panties. However, despite vowing that she would never wear them, I had put her in the unenviable position of having to go to the mall after work, and purchase a few pairs of the humiliating intimates.

My first day as Samantha's new owner felt like an unmitigated success. I had laid out the ground rules for our interaction in the work place, managing to walk the line between demonstrating my control of Samantha, and respecting her as my boss in front of the other employees. Time would tell, but for the first day in over four years I felt optimistic. I had the ultimate leverage over my boss, and Samantha was acutely aware of the truly life-changing consequences of disobeying me. I was going to push her boundaries hard, constantly moving the goalposts the way John did, when he enslaved me sexually for seven years.

My long-term goal was Samantha's total capitulation to me. I wanted to make her my fuck-toy, to smash through all of her self-imposed hard-limits, to own her so completely that I could use her as I saw fit. Maybe I would allow other men to use her too, as I forced her deeper into submission. Samantha had flashed me a death-stare upon seeing Lela's condition right after Snake's Bukkake party. Her disdain for me was palpable and she couldn't contain her revulsion at the facilities of the Dolphin Motel. Snake was long gone, as was Joker, but maybe I could ask whoever was running the gang to put together another Bukkake event in room 46, using the lovely Samantha's beautiful face as the target for the mass jerk-off session.

Alas, I was getting ahead of myself. I needed to focus on the short-term goals. The first of which was to fuck Samantha over her desk while she was wearing a pair of crotchless panties, the one type of underwear that filled her with such revulsion.

I was nearly always the first employee in the office in the morning, arriving most days around seven am, two hours before the doors were open to the public. I was also invariably the last to leave. Work had become the central focus of my life, and it was not uncommon for me to work seventy hours in a single week. Blessed with an almost photographic memory, I could get a prodigious amount of research done in a single day, and my mental capacity allowed me to do most of the heaving lifting when it came to preparing for a case.

I was invaluable to the firm and also to Samantha, and the hours that I spent in the Law Library, researching case precedent, often paid dividends when we were in front of a jury.

Today was different because I was actually excited about the prospect of going to work, particularly as I had given Samantha specific instructions the day before. I wanted to assess the level of her obedience, and also her attention to detail. I arrived at the office just before seven, and let myself in through an electronic keypad. Samantha showed up to work about thirty minutes after me, and I knew we were likely to be the only two employees in the office as it didn't officially open until nine.