The Bully Pt. 10

"Excuse me?" I responded quizzically. "My image?"

"For the cuckold scenes," the Director responded, to a smattering of quiet laughter. "The look on your face was priceless, buddy."

As one of the studio hands thrust a typed form and a pen towards me, I didn't have time to process what the ramifications of such consent could be, and I signed it before heading towards the door.

"Mark," John exclaimed as I reached for the door handle. "It's time for the shower scene. Are you the only one in the room that doesn't need a piss?"

Now that I was halfway out of the door, the crew seemed to abandon any sense of respect towards me, and there was a loud chorus of laughter ringing in my ears as I bolted down the stairs. My heart was pounding in my chest, a combination of desire and revulsion as I contemplated what was about to occur in the shower scene. At the very least, John was going to be in dire need of a piss, having consumed at least three bottled waters. The exact wording of Lela's initial request for me to pay for an extension of the photo shoot rattled around in my brain.

"We haven't filmed any corporal punishment yet. Or any piss-play," Lela had exclaimed. "That is always a favorite of dominant men."

I was in such an agitated mixture of arousal and torment, that I barely remember driving home. My house-key was shaking in my hand as I struggled to open my front door. I made a beeline for the liquor cabinet, pouring myself a triple vodka which I imbibed in about three minutes. As I wrestled with my urges, Samantha emerged from the office, dressed in the light pink suit that she had promised to wear. She took one look at my ashen face and a look of concern appeared on hers.

"Mark, baby," Samantha began as she approached me. "What the hell happened to you? Would you like to talk about it? A problem shared is a problem halved."

Samantha and I always enjoyed role-play, and she was quite adventurous in the bedroom. However, our lovemaking had always centered around mutual respect and the desire to take care of each other's needs. I had been in a sexually-charged photo-shoot for the last four hours, and as the vodka surged through my veins, I just wanted to bust a nut.

In an unusually aggressive and disrespectful manner on my part, I grabbed Samantha by the wrist and pulled her roughly towards me. She tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip and Samantha let out a yelp of discomfort.

"Mark," she said a little more forcefully. "Talk to me. What happened at the photo-shoot?"

Driven solely by my desire, I started to march Samantha down the long hallway to our master bathroom. For her part, Samantha conveyed her lack of consent by repeatedly digging her heels into the plush carpeting. I ignored her attempts at resistance, and using my superior strength I manhandled her into the bathroom.

"Mark. Stop." Samantha said in an agitated tone. "You are hurting me."

Truth was I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to hurt all women, especially Lela. However, as that fucking CumSlut was currently being defiled by several men, Samantha would serve as an appropriate surrogate. Once I got Samantha up against the dual-sinked vanity, I bent her over the oversized marble countertop. Without any attempt to get her consent, I hiked her skirt clear above her ass-cheeks, and began to unzip my pants. It was clear to me at this point that Samantha had decided to stop fighting my advances, and she turned her focus to minimizing her discomfort.

''Mark," she said softly, as I forcefully held her in place. "You will need some lubricant. I am not remotely wet."

Samantha later told me that she had chosen her words carefully, to clearly convey that maybe a little foreplay was in order, before the main course. However, I was in such a state of arousal that I only heard the lubricant part. Emboldened by the alcohol, I reached into the drawer to grab some baby lotion, but as a small container of Anal-Ease came into view, I made a unilateral decision to butt-fuck Samantha.

Samantha and I enjoyed the occasional foray into anal-sex, although it was usually reserved as a special treat. It was also something that typically unfurled quite slowly, in order to reduce any discomfort on Samantha's part. Today was a rage-filled encounter, and as I began to coat the tip of my cock with the analgesic lubricant, I just wanted to get inside her anal-passage and empty my swollen nuts.

Once my cock was slick with the Anal-Ease I tossed the container onto the countertop, as if to dare Samantha to challenge me. After Samantha realized that my intended destination was her anus, she did wriggle around a bit more to convey that she wasn't enjoying my aggressive actions. Ignoring her resistance, I grabbed a fistful of her hair and held her in place. The rest of it is a blur. I vaguely remember ripping her panties off, and slapping her ass a couple of times as I sodomized her. Apparently, I called Samantha a CumSlut several times just before I came deep in her anal-passage, although clearly that rage was directed at Lela.

Samantha later told me that I was unnecessarily rough with her, forcing her face into the marble countertop even after she had stopped resisting me. Apparently, I wrapped her hair tightly around my fist and forcibly yanked her head back, so that we made eye-contact just before I blew my load inside her ass. At this point Samantha had tears in her eyes, her reaction to the discomfort of being sodomized with insufficient foreplay, combined with her complete disgust at the way I had manhandled her. Of course, at the time I was too intoxicated and consumed with rage to notice, and my lack of empathy cut Samantha to her core.

According to Samantha, after I ejaculated inside her anal cavity I withdrew abruptly and went to take a shower. She remained bent over the bathroom countertop for several moments, struggling to process what had just happened to her. I never heard Samantha leave, but when I emerged from the shower it was apparent that I was alone in her home. I had only slammed three shots of vodka so it didn't take long for the effects of the alcohol to diminish. As I slowly sobered up, I was filled with remorse. I tried to justify my actions, blaming it jointly on the sordid, protracted, photo-shoot, and my rapid consumption of alcohol.

However, I knew that my behavior had been completely unacceptable and I felt disgusted with myself. I tried calling Samantha but was directed to her voicemail. Time seemed to come to a standstill as I waited for Samantha to come home, or to at least call me back. Hours later, after the alcohol had left my system, Samantha returned home and we ended up having a protracted discussion about our relationship.

I apologized profusely and we had a long, emotional talk about the events of the difficult day. Samantha chose her words carefully, but she conveyed the message clearly that my actions met the legal definition of sexual assault.

"You have only had two girlfriends Mark," Samantha said in a measured tone, allowing me time to digest her words. "And you have assaulted both of them. I think you would benefit from some counseling. I also think you need to reassess your relationship with Lela."

As we talked, Samantha claimed to understand my conflicted feelings for Lela, and I opened up considerably, sobbing uncontrollably as she allowed me to vent my frustrations.

"It's just my worst nightmare baby," I said shakily, the emotion getting the best of me. "I paid twelve hundred dollars to watch John abuse the crap out of my ex-girlfriend."

To Samantha's credit, she didn't rehash the fact that she had voiced her reservations prior to me agreeing to meet Lela there. I just felt like such a pussy for having endured that horrible experience in front of so many other guys.

Samantha and I slept in separate rooms that night, and she later shared that she hadn't made me leave out of fear that I might self-harm.

In the morning there was an awkward tension between us and I felt terrible for last night's aggressive actions. To make matters worse, it was obvious that Samantha was in a considerable amount of discomfort as she walked gingerly around the kitchen. I watched her grimace as she took a seat in the breakfast room, and I knew that I had a lot to be apologetic for. As we ate breakfast we talked at length about the events of the previous evening, and Samantha laid down some non-negotiable rules for our relationship.

Samantha and I had built a solid foundation for our partnership and we had mutual admiration for each other's intelligence and work-ethic. However, that aside, that singular event damaged our relationship irreparably, and even though we continued to cohabit, I was not permitted to drink alcohol around Samantha. In addition, I was required to secure unequivocal consent for each and every sex act between the two of us, which considerably dampened our fun in the bedroom. Lastly, I was expressly forbidden to have any contact with Lela.