The Peter Principle

She pressed her body against his, wrapped her arms about his neck and slowly drew his mouth down to hers. She kissed his lips, her hot tongue darting in and out of his mouth. She pressed her unshaven bush against his Brobdingnagian shaft, which extended from the lips of her kooze to her triply-pierced bellybutton.

She pressed his body tightly against her and ran her fingernails up and down the length of his torso. She was dripping with desire now. She could restrain her urges no longer.

"What say we repair to the therapy room, my valiant savior of fumbled files?"

"After you, my beauty," Robbie said, his hands executing a flourished gesture, as though she were the Queen herself."

"That goes without saying, mah charming beau. Do follow me." She opened the door to the therapy room.

The room had green walls, green furniture, green everything.

"We call this the green room, Robbie," Dr. D'Great said. "Do you know why?"

Robbie was somewhat at a loss, but offered a tentative guess: "Because it's green?"

"The green room is a name for the waiting room for guests on TV talk shows. And that is precisely what we are about to do, you and I. We are going to be on TV. Isn't that exciting? Green is also the color that calms most people down, and that's another reason entire room is painted in this color."

Where had Robbie seen such a room? Let's see, there's the Boise State blue-mold color football field, where no opponent stands a chance, insofar as the Boise players cannot be distinguished on basis of vision, olfaction, or IQ from the rotten cheese-like surface they play upon.

Ah, now it came back to him. It was like the giant green screen on Tosh.0, which allows Daniel Tosh to insert his own image into any virtually any scene he chooses.

Suddenly Robbie's stream of consciousness (or, perhaps more accurately, trickle of protoconsciousness) was interrupted by the clamor of of invading helmeted Spanish Conquistadors, who wielded chains, spears and various other implements of destruction, including curved axes, shackles, and torture devices. It seemed the unknown curator of OrwellCorp's weapons department had very eclectic tastes when it came to torture hardware.

They slapped a horned Viking helmet on Robbie's head. (Had they run out of Conquistador helmets? It didn't matter - he liked Viking helmets and usually wore one when Jackie blasted out an aria or two during her occasionally fatality-producing finales.)

"We are about to shoot a TV movie for educational and outreach purposes. It will also be an integral part of your psychodrama therapy, Robbie. Do you like TV shows?"

Robbie nodded. "Very much, Dr. D'Great."

"You're going to play a Viking lord who bought a defective compass from a double-dealing Gypsy in Gotland. As a result, you wound up in Tenochtitlan just as that very Gypsy is about to be sacrificed to the Aztecs' Sun God.

"Do you like Gypsies, Robbie?"

He hung his head and shook it.

"How about Aztecs?"

Robbie wasn't sure about this one. The Aztecs were Native Americans, or at the very least Native Wetbacks, and Dr. D'Great was in the Human Resources Department. He gave it his best shot: "No, Catherine, I do not like those Aztecs, not with eggs and not with ham."

"But would you like them with... No, forget about it."

She hugged him and he could feel her sumptuous breasts pressed around his right arm, and her right hand traveled up his leg for a reunion with the Great White Cock. She could not close her fingers around its girth, but she figured that would be OK. It wasn't as if a hand job was going to be a primary feature of this particular performance.

"We have written a script for this show," Catherine said. "However your personnel file indicates an unfamiliarity with the alphabet beyond the letter G, and so you will have to ad lib your performance. Do you know what 'ad lib' means, Robbie...Why do I even ask?

"I will play the part of the Gypsy wench who cheated you. You have to pretend that you are very, very angry at me. You can slap me around and scream at me, but mostly I want you to take your long, long pole here and shove into me as hard as you can, over and over and over again. Don't stop, no matter how much I may scream, cry, beg or cough up blood. Call me names, slap me, and humiliate me in every way you can think of.

"I want to be a worthless piece of throbbing dirt when you are through with me, ready to be used by the endless line of Aztec priests and Conquistadors that will follow you."

Catherine grabbed his head and pressed her forehead to his. "Please tell me you will do this for me. It means a lot for me and it means a lot to the company."

A couple of tears flowed down Robbie's cheeks, but he silently nodded. They told him what he needed to do for the first scene.

Scene 1

"Roll'em," the Director said, and Robbie heard the sudden whirring of security cameras. Thousands of green micro-drone cameras took to the air, disguised as locusts, houseflies, and various other insects.

"Bring the witch in," intoned the Conquistador general and the Aztec High Priest together, their booming voices united in this one common cause.

The Conquistador brass and the Aztec priests dragged the still naked Dr. Catherine D'Great to the Altar of the Sun. They chained her wrists together in front of her so that she could not move her arms. At least she should be able to cup anyone so bold as to violate her mouth. They chained her legs apart, completely exposing her private parts so that her soon-to-be rapists could savor the delights awaiting their already erect cocks. The Aztec priests and Conquistador soldiers then stood before her and shed their armor and clothes so that she could see the lances that would pierce what was left of her cunt after the great Robert Crachit fucked the living daylights out of her, whether Catherine be dead by then or by some miracle still alive.

Crachit, playing the anomalous Viking king in these rites, unrolled a scroll that he as an actor could not read but had memorized:

"Be it known that this witch sold me a defective compass back in Gotland, see. She cheated me and my brother, see. We were going to Martha's Vineyard, see. Instead, we wind up here in Pallookaville, see.

This Viking king looked at the battleaxes and spears glistening in the morning light.

"Don't get me wrong, see. I got nothin' against wetbacks and valley girls. You guys have a real nice sacrificial pyramid here. Real nice. I was just lookin' for a place with a nice cool ocean breeze, that's all. No offense."

"None taken," said the Aztec High Priest. "But can we get to the matter at hand?" he asked, gesturing at the chained naked girl before them.

"Hey, that compass is not defective," said Catherine in her role as gypsy. This asshole doesn't know his alphabet beyond G. It's not my fault that this moron thought S stood for north."

"It's pronounced 'norte'," said the Aztec High Priest. "Besides, we don't really have much of an appeal process when it comes to human sacrifice."

"Fine," said Catherine, "just go ahead and fuck me to death, please."

"You don't even wan' us to tear out your still beating heart and offer it to the Sun God?"

"No, I'm afraid of sharp things and I really, really like sex."

"So be it. Let the gods make it so, with a little help from their friends."

Robbie looked at Catherine's naked body spread upon the altar. So that was how a real woman looked. His royal scepter climbed to fifteen inches.

He had never before seen all of a woman's junk, save for a brief glimpse of the cheerleader of whom he dare not speak. But there before him, laid out in all their glory were what he suspected were Catherine's anus, clit and cunt, orifices helplessly open to him and subject to any and all violations Robbie might inflict upon them. And there were what could only be Catherine's breasts spread out on the altar beneath her. And at the other end, her precious mouth.

With the one exception duly noted above, the only woman Robbie had ever seen naked was his roughly spherical 750-pound wife Jackie Crachit (nee Sprat). It was hard to make out anything in that throbbing ball of flesh. Once or twice, he had glimpsed what might have been nipples emerging from between her folds of fat only to disappear once again into the pulsating orb of corpulence that was her flesh.

Sex had been difficult too. Robbie had tried many times to find her gash with his behemoth phallus, but always in vain, with the seeming exception of the coupling that led to tiny Tim. Robbie had no explanation for this seeming immaculate conception, nor for the infant's successful emergence from the deathtrap of Jackie's corpulence.

Robbie was usually able to get off by sliding his dong up and down the various folds of Jackie's fat, lubricated as they were by sweat and the remnants of her last sundae of the night.

However, even these pleasures were now denied him, as Jackie had recently discovered an autoerotic way of sliding one fold of fat along the crease formed by two other folds. Judging from her orgasmic cries, the crease in question must contain the erogenous trifecta of her vagina, clit and anus. Robbie wondered if she would eventually managed to achieve a topological contortion that would bring her mouth in contact with the three just-mentioned erogenous zones, a feat cruelly denied to humans, but seemingly granted to every dog on the planet, no matter how mangy the cur. One thing was all too clear, Jackie Sprat Crachit had no further need for the miserable Robbie Crachit.

Oral sex was likewise out of the question. Any attempt to provide Jackie with this treat was fraught with peril. Robbie was pretty sure that any aspiring cunnilingist would never return from the folds and canyons of her body.

With regard to Robbie's chances of ever being able to receive oral sex from his devouring wife, it is true that Jackie's mouth usually remained near the outer boundary of her flesh for reasons of biological necessity. Sometimes it was even visible to outside observers. However, in addition to suffering from morbid obesity, Jackie also suffered from Abnormal Oral Ingestion Reflex (more widely known as Bullfrog Syndrome) and would instantly swallow any object that came within three feet of her mouth in a flick of her tongue.

Worst of all, each time Robbie tried to mount his wife for any purpose she rolled like a ball, forcing his sternum and rib cage to absorb all 750 pounds of Jackie's weight. His orthopedist had warned him that his rib cage and lungs would undoubtedly collapse if he did not desist from these copulation attempts.

Robbie snapped out of these reveries, realizing that he was on a movie set and he was the star. He quickly got back in character.

"Hey, Priestie, said the Viking King, "how about I get a little taste of oral sex first? C'mon, show me a little courtesy here. I never get any respect. No respect at all."

"Come around this end, big guy and I'll give give you some respect," Catherine said.

Robbie walked around to the front end of the sacrificial victim. Catherine looked at him and said, "I can't give you the whole nine yards today, Robbie. Can't even give you the foot and half you're gonna need for Scene Two. But I'm working on it. I am training with a master sword swallower right now. I am also learning how to voluntarily dislocate my jaw, if it need be. As far as my anus is concerned, I am undergoing a reaming out process that should enable you to penetrate me to full depth, right up to the ileum. Past it if need be, but I hope it doesn't come to that."

A green camera drone disguised as a housefly suddenly entered her mouth. Catherine did not seem in least surprised.

Back in the control room, the mission specialists began to chat excitedly:

"Oral Drone Alpha reports entry."

"Copy that, entry by Drone Alpha."

Catherine got back into her role as sacrificial victim. "Just lower your throbbing balls into my chained hands, my lord," she told him.

Robbie complied immediately. Catherine seized his orbs and began to squeeze them rhythmically.

"Now, I want you to ram that gigantic cock into my mouth, as hard as you can. Disregard my screams. Now matter how hard I beg you, show me no mercy, my lord, for I know I have wronged you." She opened her mouth and showed him a maw that would shame that of any king cobra, a blackness of such depths as to make Robbie's very soul tremble.

He hauled back and shoved his massive battering ram into Catherine's willing mouth. Somehow she was able to open her mouth even further and enclosed its massive head with her lips. She nursed on it and licked it as her hands tortured Robbie's balls.

Just then Robbie felt something unexpected. If he was not mistaken, the High Priest's considerable schlong had just entered the hitherto unexplored temple of Robbie's very own anus.

"Second contact point initiated."

"Roger that."

Robbie hauled off and rammed his massive shaft as hard as he could into Catherine's mouth, but it seemed as though he was coming up against a brick wall.

"Drone Alpha has confirmed uvula penetration."

"Catherine, this is mission control. Calm down. Remember your relaxation exercises."

Meanwhile, down at her south end, Catherine suddenly felt an unexpected double-penetration of her ass and cunt. She hoped it was by that cute Conquistador with the curly blonde hair and the nice smile. Who ever it was, he sure as hell knew to wield a dildo-enhanced cock.

"Penetrations Three and Four confirmed."

"Copy that."

A particularly brutal thrust gained Robbie's cock passage through Catherine's throat and entry into her esophagus.

Robbie looked up and saw a conga line of alternating Conquistadors and Aztec Warriors, each one buggering the next, a tail seemingly dancing out of Catherine's ass. The High Priest was now pounding his way in and out of Robbie's ass at full force.

"Penetrations Five, Six, Seven... Oh, the hell with it."

Suddenly, Catherine brutally squeezed Robbie's conjones and his tool erupted, sending an avalanche of hot cum straight into Catherine's stomach. As she came, her orgasm set off a chain reaction in the conga line, with one dancer after another shooting his seed deep within his predecessor's ass.

Last, but not least to shoot was the Aztec High Priest, the master of this ritual. Robbie felt the heat of the master's juice as it poured into his anus and covered the walls of his large colon.

Promotion

"Congratulations on a fine performance, Robbie," the temporarily unshackled Dr. Catherine D'Great said, anticlimactically shaking Robbie's hand as she sat in one of the director's chairs, wearing only a small robe that did nothing to conceal the delights of her exquisitely sculptured body. "Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, what was up with that green fly that flew into your mouth?"

"That was just a drone camera, just like ones in our employee restrooms, which by the way explains the 'insect infestations' our employees are always reporting. The only difference is that it takes pictures from inside your body rather than outside. Would you like to see?"

She pushed a button and the 65-inch plasma TV screen came to life. It showed the inhumanly stretched interior of Dr. D'Great's mouth, as illuminated by one of the two spotlights on the drone. It showed her uvula approaching as a frightening speed. The probe then rushed past her throat, and the walls of her esophagus filled the screen, rushing at the camera at a blinding speed until they were washed white by a liquid that could only be Robbie's jism. (The counterhypothesis that it was in fact Catherine's puke would be ruled out on the basis of a DNA swab to be performed later.)

"But this tape shows only me, Robbie. I'm an old hand at this. How about you? Let's take a look." She pushed another button on her clicker of the damned.

The screen now showed the inner lining of Catherine's mouth and displayed her tongue and teeth as her mouth opened. The green room was briefly visible before the giant head of Robbie's cock filled the screen. Its single eye cast a look of defiance at the forces denying it full entry into the delights of Catherine's oral passage.

Then the floor of Dr. D'Great's mouth suddenly dropped (due to a voluntary dislocation of her jaw) and Robbie's tool rushed at a breathtaking speed down her oral tunnel. Of course, only one outcome was possible now and the giant TV screen went white under a deep coat of the jism spewed by OrwellCorp's Assistant Senior Clerk for the Re-Collation of Fumbled Files.

Robbie remembered how Catherine's lips had held him inside her for a long time, her tongue gyrating along the length of his shaft, trying to coax every last drop out of him. He remembered how her arms had tried to reach up to hold him and press his head against her, but was prevented from doing so by the chains on her wrists that limited her to emptying his balls, a duty she performed with the skill of a long-practiced milkmaid.

Still making no attempt to hide her nakedness under her flimsy robe, Catherine said, "What to see something cool, Robbie? Look at this!" She pushed another button on her clicker, and the scene changed to show assorted Conquistadors, Aztec functionaries, one lacivous chained-down naked gypsy, and a Viking king wearing nothing but a horned helmet, not that any off-the-rack costume could have contained the Viking's magnificently swollen shaft. Robbie was amazed at the detail of the Aztecs' sacrificial altar and pyramid and the surrounding countryside. "See what green-screen technology and computer-generated imagery can do, Robbie? Here, look at this."

She pushed a button on the clicker, and the scene changed to show Robbie's immense phallus entering Catherine's inhumanly stretched mouth. But the background was changed, and the scene suddenly shifted to show this courageous feat of fellatio as taking place in the intimate privacy Robbie's and Jackie's titanium-reinforced bed.

"How did you do that? I have never been unfaithful to Jackie. What if tiny Tim sees this?" Robbie cried out in horror.

"Relax, Robbie, we didn't break into your house. You know that green fly you've been having trouble swatting? It's one of our camera drones. We have to monitor all employees' behavior both inside and outside the office to ensure that it complies with OrwellCorp's standards and practices. We also monitor associates' health behaviors for the purposes of insurance contracting. This is covered on page 237,549 of your contract and as well as in Paragraph 324.600.9FFB, which appears on page 6491 of the the third volume of the Handbook for OrwellCorps Associates. Surely you remember signing these agreements several years ago.

"This is just standard behavioral monitoring practice in our industry, Robbie. It in no way violates associates' right to privacy, as confirmed in numerous court cases and financial settlements involving OrwellCorps human relations practices.

"We would never do anything that would intrude on your privacy, Robbie. We also would never use this photographically-enhanced video to blackmail you into maintaining your employment with our firm, even though we could, Robbie. We really could.

"As one bonus of this monitoring, we have validated your statement that your wife's body is, to a very good approximation, spherical in nature. And we can put to rest your concern that it might implode gravitationally. She would need to gain a very substantial amount of weight for this to occur. Also, well be before she collapsed into a black hole, the Earth and our entire planetary system would be sucked down the maw of your wife's devouring stomach. So we would have a number of additional worries if her body were to collapse in this manner.

"Robbie, I am sorry to tell you this, but your wife's vaginal aperture would never be able to accommodate a penis with a four-inch diameter. I am afraid that I must disagree with Bilie Jean's findings - the kid is not your son."