The Theft of Our Lives 01

"Ray, you can keep your job, albeit, with a few changes in responsibility," he stated plainly. "Of course, you'll no longer have any responsibility for the accounts, but I don't think that's unreasonable, all things considered."

The veteran businessman holding our lives in his hands paused, letting the graciousness of his concession wash over himself with gloating generosity.

"As for you Emma, you too can assume your own 'position' under me, and the company as well," Hank indiscreetly suggested, employing the benign euphemism but making it quite clear what he meant.

"I know you are, how shall I say, 'highly coveted' by the executive team, at least the men, but possibly a few of the women too," Hank complimented, with his forthcoming double-entendre not lost on my staggered wife. "I'm sure the entire senior staff would enjoy having you."

Neither Emma nor I spoke, simply listening as we saw ourselves reeled into Hank's lair, victims of my stupidity and prey to his vindictive nature. Then, he threw down the hammer breaking our will and sending us off the deep end of despair.

"Of course, the alternative is prison and a shattered family," he rejoined with hollow pity.

"Oh, dear god," Emma sighed involuntarily at that awful prospect, inadvertently providing her answer.

I knew it, and apparently Hank knew it too, because the next words out of his mouth confirmed his certainty of our decision and intention to seal the deal.

"So, Emma, about my offer at the picnic, there's no need to go to my bungalow. You can demonstrate right here and right now," my wicked boss revisited the torrid subject that so insulted my proud wife only a week ago.

"Huh," she gasped, knowing instantly what he wanted and fearful of taking such a dishonorable step, while in his office, of all places.

"Stand up, Emma, I want to get a good look at my newest acquisition," he ordered imperatively with the confidence borne of his victory.

"Ray?" my distressed wife said weakly, looking in my direction for some sign of resistance that wasn't coming.

"Don't even think about it, Ray," Hank admonished firmly, nipping any futile act of rebellion in the bud.

I stayed seated, afraid to move to the love of my life's aid and instead looking into her frightened green eyes with a silent message of resignation telling her all she needed to know.

"Good boy," my boss sneered in a most condescending tone.

Knowing she'd get no help from her spineless husband Emma slowly rose to stand shaking at her full magnificent height. Hank looked her up and down, admiring every glorious inch and openly lingering on the swell of her ample bosom more obviously than ever, before returning to her anxious emerald eyes.

"Now, undo the buttons, dear. Take off your blouse and show me those great big tits, just as I asked at the picnic," Hank instructed, taking pleasure in speaking the words.

"Ohhh, please?" Emma implored helplessly, even as her hands unwittingly rose to the neck of her pretty blouse in following his directive.

Hank said nothing, simply staring expectantly, with her acquiescence the signal of acceptance of our servitude to my daunting boss, rather than suffer the destruction of our family.

With trembling hands, the buttons agonizingly came undone one after another revealing the white cotton of her functional bra. Pulling the hem from her tan pants, Emma reluctantly slipped the blouse from her shoulders. Oddly, in the manner typical of a mother earned over the years, she neatly folded the garment and placed it on the sofa end table.

"Nice, take of the bra too," Hank remarked, his leering grin making clear it was an okay start but to keep going to the good part.

I stupidly gazed at Emma's disrobing with dismay and anger, mostly at myself, while also disturbingly noticing a subtle tensing of my average prick that I could never mention to my mortified spouse. It was a sensation I can't explain or justify, and frankly, I struggled to admit it to myself, but there's an illicit eroticism watching my cherished wife stripping at the behest of my boss in his office with me as impotent witness.

Emma glanced at me for just a second, whether for strength or comfort, I don't know. Not finding whatever it was she needed and knowing Hank's patience was thin, she forlornly slipped a strap of her bra from first the right shoulder and then the left.

Lowering her head in shame and unable to look her tormentor in the eye, she then reached behind her back to undo the triple-hook catch on the sturdy undergarment, releasing the tension on the fabric allowing it to fall from her prodigious breasts granting Hank a glorious view of his long sought-after prize.

"Whew," Hank drew in a deep breath at the sight he'd dreamed about since meeting Emma at a get-together years ago when I first joined Allenby Consolidation.

I swallowed hard at my beloved's exposure, sorry for her humiliation and embarrassment, but strangely proud to be married to such a desirable woman, so committed to her family she'd submit to the terrible conditions of this warped arrangement with our awful new master.

Emma's breasts are truly spectacular -- large pale globes staying dense and firm over the years despite childbirth and age. Her marvelous jugs project prominently forward with a gentle slope bearing their impressive size and weight, topped with poker chip-sized dusky rose areolae, currently set flaccid and centered by thick eraser tip nipples.

Perhaps in a sign of gathering strength, she nobly resisted the urge to cover herself with her arms, instead raising her stately frame and standing proudly upright, with shoulders squared thrusting her magnificent tits outward in an act of resistance designed to tell Hank he could take from her body what he pleased, but he'd never conquer her spirit.

Emma looked breathtaking -- gorgeous and powerful, but Hank wanted more, and most certainly that included breaking her defiant soul.

"Those are truly unbelievable, Emma. Honestly, simply a remarkable set of tits. You really are the total package," the deviant asshole extolled sincerely, reducing her to only a desirable bag of bones without other intrinsic worth.

My dignified wife supremely placed her hands on her broad hips at the affronting comment, but I knew within she was emotionally traumatized suborning to his control and arrogance. Philosophically, she's a feminist and an egalitarian, so found such treatment degrading, diminishing, and extremely offensive.

As is common in strident people, beneath their core beliefs is often a sense of vulnerability and weakness. It's as if they overcompensate in addressing whatever feelings of inadequacy or sensitivity they possess. Unfortunately for Emma, that attitude only spurred the competitive juices in my Alpha-male employer, with Hank growing more determined than ever to break her to his service.

"Toss the bra to me," he directed, holding out his hand expectantly from his place at his desk.

Distressed and angry, my athletic wife chucked the garment at his head like a fastball, beaning him but also sending a smile across his face -- perhaps for her display of contempt, but as likely for the delightful exhibition supplied by her huge jugs bounding actively on her chest with the action.

"What's it say?" Hank asked plainly, reading the label but intending to force my spiteful wife into speaking the words out loud in further attempting to reduce her resolve.

"Made in the U.S.A.," Emma spat the country of manufacture, understanding his demand but her sense of indignation not willing to play along.

"Cute, you're funny. I like a sense of humor," he guffawed good-naturedly, then turned extremely serious again. "What does it say?"

"Umm, 37 double-D," she answered more contritely, embarrassed to say aloud the measurement of her tremendous bust even though I was the only other person in the room and already knew the answer quite well.

"Again," Hank prodded for fun, but also to teach her a lesson about smart backtalk.

"37DD, Hank. I have big tits, alright? Is that what you want to hear?" Emma snarled dangerously, refusing his reprisal and coming perilously close to upsetting the man holding our future in his hands.

"Something like that, but watch the attitude," my boss snapped, before resuming a cheerful tone.

"That was my guess, by the way. At least the DD part, and I'm rarely wrong," he acknowledged with a certain pride, then continued his humiliating instructions for my recalcitrant wife.

"Give 'em a shake," he ordered, adding an imperative to his directive. "Now!"

Uncomfortably, Emma did as she was told, faltering a little in hesitantly shifting her torso left and right sending her impressive melons jostling aimlessly in a display causing my wife a chagrined gulp at her subservience, while Hank only smiled and shamefully, my cock twitched in my slacks once again.

I've learned during our 20-plus year marriage that Emma's outward self-confidence and strong presentment are a mask for an inner submissiveness only a dominant personality can tap. As the child of a 1980's feminist upbringing, I was never that man.

Born to an earlier generation, Hank was of a different mold, and boldly pierced my susceptible wife's veneer of strength and assurance with each demeaning task he demanded.

"Emma, my new pet, I'm going to ask you to assume a specific position," Hank announced with growing impudence, extending his reach with every word in bending my unsettled wife to his desires.

"I say 'ask' because you must always understand you do this by choice, not command," he explained undoubtedly. "Admittedly, your options aren't good, but you must always remember everything you do is by choice."

I saw the deflated look in Emma's eyes immediately, sensing her attempt at controlling our situation slipping away and crestfallen at losing the psychological cover of pretending she had no choice, although as a practical matter she didn't other than go to jail and destroy our family.

"Stand upright with feet at shoulder width, clasp your hands behind your neck, extend your elbows to either side, and push those big, beautiful tits squarely front and center on unfettered display," Hank explained with a grin, waiting expectantly for her to obey.

My stunned wife did nothing, perhaps contemplating his intent or more likely, balking momentarily at the lewd exhibition.

Emma understood that the position, while similar to the proud pose she assumed of her own accord upon removing her bra, was designed for precisely the opposite purpose. Hank's sole intent was to focus undeniably on the size of her immense breasts, emphasizing them as her primary asset in defining her merely as the owner of a big set of knockers and nothing else.

She didn't quite know what to do, desperately wanting to rebel is my guess, but instead simply hesitating.

"Your choice," my awaiting boss reiterated.

'I'm doing this to save my family,' Emma chanted internally in a newly realized mantra.

Then, in a slow symbol of defeat she did as requested, grudgingly raising her arms in assuming the position as suggested, setting her magnificent jugs conspicuously on view jutting forward in their undisputed glory.

"This is your presentation pose," Hank informed her with a knowing triumph. "You'll assume it whenever I say the word, 'Present.'"

I saw the desolation in Emma's pretty green eyes at her submission and it was clear to Hank no verbal acknowledgment was required as she unhappily complied.

"Very good, my pet. Now, shake them again," he congratulated, arrogantly using the belittling label.

Coerced into another step down her road to servitude, my unresisting wife again did as she was told, turning unsurely from side-to-side forcing her fleshy globes to collide into each other gloriously, providing a show that even I had to confess was eye-catching.

"Okay, now that we have an understanding, drop the pants too. I need to see the rest of the package I own," Hank ordered summarily, growing stronger with each unalterable dictate in commandeering my abating wife and slowly reducing her to purely an alluring sexual commodity.

Relinquishing the humiliating 'presentation' pose, Emma faltered in dropping her hands to the snap of her slacks and nervously undoing the zipper and lower them to her ankles, kicking off her pumps, then stepping out, folding and neatly placing them on her growing pile of clothing.

Clearly not expecting the afternoon's extraordinary events, Emma wore a simple, modestly cut pair of white cotton bikini panties. Functional and not designed to entice, they nonetheless looked wonderfully erotic on my wife.

I'm not sure why the image of my sweet wife uncomfortably standing nearly naked in my employer's office turned me on so much, but the curly wisps of chestnut brown hair escaping the sides of the front panel were mesmerizing, indicating she didn't even so much as trim her abundant, natural bush, creating a rise of her curved mound inviting to my discerning eye.

"Present!" Hank snapped, testing his new instructions in gauging her responsiveness and unwilling cooperation.

I was learning Hank liked power as much as sex, and compelling Emma to do his bidding was as thrilling to him as her forthcoming supplication to his desires, of which I now had little doubt.

It was like telling a dog to rollover, as caught by surprise, she immediately returned to the humiliating position as requested, spreading her legs to shoulder-width and setting her arms in place with shame filling her eyes but understanding the cost of refusal.

"Well done, Emma. You learn quickly. I like that. I like it a lot," my boss praised, heartily approving her obeisance.

Indignity flushed Emma's body at the unwanted plaudit, but Emma maintained her posture until the next order was issued by the increasingly pleased company president.

"May as well jettison the panties too," Hank advised a moment later. "No sense in hiding what we all know you'll ultimately show me anyway."

It was a dismissive statement my august wife would normally defy, but instead, perhaps recognizing her powerlessness and the unacceptable alternative, Emma grasped her underwear by the waistband, summarily lowering it in a halting move over her generous hips, then sleekly down her sinewy thighs and off her feet.

Emma Tyler, my beloved 39-year-old wife and mother of our two adult children was now apprehensively standing stark naked in my boss' office. Worse, it was done at his direction against her deeply-held principles, propriety, and moral upbringing.

I knew then, if not before, we were lost. Emma probably knew it too, but we simply had no choice. We were trapped and our family was ensnared with us.

"Present," Hank said one more time, confident of her obedience without need for further intimidation.

My heart dropped but my prick rose as Emma took the pose again, presenting her nude body in all its splendid beauty and desirability. Breathing deeply with anxiousness and shame, the involuntary response unfortunately sent her huge tits rising and falling spectacularly.

Hank's focus, however, was now on the dense growth of willowy chestnut hairs at the center of her pelvis, as Emma maintains a naturally thick bush that's well-kempt and not unattractive, with lush curls covering the curve of her mound, although currently somewhat matted by the impression of her panties.

Sadly for my wife, with her legs indecently parted, the nest isn't quite enough to completely obscure the ragged petals of her slack labia, peeking discreetly and neatly framing her womanhood in defense of her female core.

"Well, look at you now, Mrs. Tyler," our captor chided with reprehensible cruelty. "So respectable and sure of yourself in denying me the pleasure of viewing your luscious body only a week ago, but not so haughty now, it appears."

Emma dropped her shoulders perceptively at the denigrating comment, inadvertently waggling her massive boobs in unintentional recognition of his dominance.

Authoritatively assuming his position as our master and the wielder of our family's destiny, Hank waltzed confidently to stand before my taller wife scrutinizing her head to toe. The two made quite a contrast, with Emma's 5'10" frame towering over my 5'7" boss, but the power dynamic flowed in exactly the opposite direction.

It was clear Hank was pleased, but also quite excited.

"You really are charming, I have to say," he complimented, quickly descending into the crudity of his base persona. "Those big tits and your overall body, I mean, wow, seriously, you are highly fuckable."

Struggling to not break into tears while bravely holding her presentation pose, Emma still slumped momentarily at the comment, with her knees buckling slightly knowing that fucking the bastard was likely her future.

"Truly, these are a tremendous set of yabos," he applauded immaturely, presumptuously placing his wretched palms beneath the sumptuous outcropping of her lovely breasts, flagrantly lifting them in appreciation of their substantial size and heft.

Emma flinched involuntarily at his touch, and I knew she desperately wanted to back away and give the sonofabitch a piece of her mind, not to mention a knee to the crotch. She's proud as a woman without flaunting them, but also sensitive about the size of her breasts. Allowing him to paw her precious bosom was against every impulse in her being.

"Jeez, I love big tits, and these are the best," Hank exclaimed with juvenile enthusiasm, squeezing her meaty mounds zealously in revealing his weakness for female flesh.

Emma blushed with the compliment but stoically endured his groping, with her greater objective of saving our family in mind. Still, I saw her anguish at the insult and distress at his familiarity with her ripe body.

"I'm not so sure about that bush, however," he objected while considering briefly what to do about it. "I like 'em in all styles, sometimes full, sometimes trimmed, or sometimes even shaved completely."

"We'll see," the man followed contemplatively.

My conservative wife gulped at that prospect, always keeping her mound in its pristine, hirsute state. Losing her dense growth of vaginal hair wasn't an appealing idea, but she'd deal with that if or when it happened.

"Eyahhh," she squeaked when Hank's hand found her sealed pussy slit, audaciously drawing along the ridge of her fleshy petals probing for an entrance into the dry seam.

I wasn't sure if her response to his move was from shock or disgust at his boldness in exploring her so personally.

"Hmmm, I hope you lube up easier than this, but I suppose that will come with use," my analytical boss critiqued with dehumanizing disregard, once again portending her distasteful future.

Emma visibly faltered under the exploitive barrage of Hank's dominating commands, shuddering involuntarily in a manner I'm sure he enjoyed.

I saw it too, and honestly, I don't know how well she'll hold up under the increasingly intimate scrutinization of her most private places by a man she actively loathes.

"Over to the desk, pet," Hank said firmly in what was certainly an order rather than a request. "Bend over the top at the end and grip the edges on each side."

"Huhh, seriously?" Emma exhaled and questioned sadly while obediently walking to the big walnut executive desk, mentally and emotionally preparing herself to assume another disgraceful position displaying her feminine wares.

"No, no, not right up against it. Back away a couple of feet. Back off, stretch out that long frame and bend over while gripping the edges -- forty-five degrees," my purposeful boss corrected when Emma braced herself solidly against the end of the desk.

Emma isn't overly fond of doggy-style sex, doing it occasionally for my benefit. I suspect she's self-conscious and uncomfortable about the way her huge pendulous breasts sway beneath her prostrate chest in the position.