The Bully Pt. 13

In a classic power move, Mr. Marshall kept me waiting for several moments before instructing me to enter, with a singular, loudly issued command, "Come."

I had been in his office on numerous occasions and was familiar with its layout. Mr. Marshall sat impassively behind his huge mahogany desk, his hands clasped in front of him, flashing that thirty thousand dollar watch in my face. He was wearing his dark sunglasses again, which only added to the intimidation factor. He had loosened his tie but this didn't make him appear any more casual and he still retained an air of superiority.

There was no sign of Lela, and I briefly contemplated whether or not she was beneath his over-sized desk. There certainly would have been room under there, and as previously stated Mr. Marshall was a blowjob aficionado, so it didn't seem that far fetched an idea.

"I need you to go to the Executive Washroom and fetch Lela's shoes," he instructed me. "Maybe freshen the room up a little before the other managers return. The key is hanging by my coat rack."

"Yes, Mr. Marshall," I responded meekly.

"Bring the key back here when you are done," he added sternly.

I knew that this was just a show of power, but in my current situation I couldn't really say no. The legal field is a male-dominated arena, pitting strong-willed Alpha Males with huge egos against each other. There had always been a certain amount of hazing in law firms. While the Human Resources Department had eliminated the worst of it, they turned a blind eye to a Senior Manager telling a recent law school graduate to fetch some coffee, or empty the trash can.

I crossed the mammoth office heading towards the coat rack. There were a variety of expensive looking over-coats and suit jackets hanging from the rack, alongside one heavily-scented black trench coat. At least I knew that my fiancée was still in the building. Lela may have slinked out of the Executive Washroom without her shoes, but in her current state of attire, she wasn't going anywhere without the protection of that long coat.

The door to the en-suite bathroom was ajar, and as I walked passed it I saw the reflection of Lela inside. She was standing with her back to me, with one foot resting on the toilet seat as she re-attached a fresh pair of stockings to her garter-belt straps. I hesitated for a split-second but was spurred into action by Mr. Marshall's commanding voice.

"Don't ogle her, boy," he barked at me. "I currently own that ass. Go and freshen up the Executive Washroom."

I wasn't enthralled with my boss calling me "boy" in front of my future wife, particularly as there was no way that Lela didn't hear it. I guess I had set the precedent by allowing Mr. Marshall to call me boy numerous times in the past, without me phrasing any objection. While Human Resources allowed a little playful banter, I was fully entitled to be addressed by my name, or a nickname of my own choosing, whilst at work.

In fact, if I hadn't been so completely intimidated by this man, and in such a thoroughly emasculating situation, I would have addressed the issue myself. I would have been well within my rights to request that my boss refer to me by something other than the derogatory label he used.

However, because Mr. Marshall is an Alpha Male and I was conditioned to being dominated, once he decided that I wasn't moving quickly enough, my boss doubled down.

"Go, boy," he said angrily. "At six hundred dollars per hour, I don't need you wasting my fucking time."

As I slinked out of the room, I heard my boss address my girlfriend in a much sweeter tone.

"You almost dressed, babydoll?" he asked Lela. "I am ready for round two."

I felt like a complete pussy as I made my way down to the Executive Washroom. Mr. Marshall had evidently enjoyed round one with my girl, whatever the fuck that had entailed. Now as I was charged with cleaning up their mess and retrieving her discarded shoes, my fiancée and my boss were about to engage in round two. In addition, he had presumably decided to purchase another hour of my girlfriend's time, and was now on the hook for twelve hundred dollars.

I can't say that I didn't enjoy having the extra cash that Lela's side-hustle provided. She worked maybe twelve hours a week, and pulled in excess of seventy-five hundred per week in cash, once the inevitable tips were factored in. When Lela first started escorting, men would buy her flowers, lingerie and perfume as tokens of their appreciation. However, as she got more seasoned and became comfortable being assertive regarding payment, the gifts ceased and the gratuities were usually cash.

It's not that Lela didn't appreciate a nice bouquet of roses, but at some point we had over a dozen vases stuffed full of expensive flowers with a short shelf life, and it became superfluous to our needs. Lela didn't expect any tips, but received them graciously, and always went the extra mile for especially generous men.

The kink in the program was John. Not only did he avail himself of Lela's services for free, but she also paid for the motel room at his direction. So, our family was thirty to forty dollars out of pocket each time John defiled my fiancée. To make matters worse, he was intimately familiar with Lela's limits, and frequently took her right to edge of what she could handle. Occasionally, after a particularly brutal session with John, Lela needed a couple of days to recover, which could potentially affect her earnings. Lastly, John had negotiated, well demanded, a ridiculous clause in his deal with Lela, that prevented her from engaging in any sexual activity in the twenty-four hour period prior to his appointment.

Some times John used Lela twice in a seven day period, drastically reducing her income potential due to his stringent demands. However, we made it work, and every week Lela was able to accumulate at least twelve billable hours, to use the vernacular of the legal field. It was the comforting thought of seven grand a week that I clung to, as I unlocked the door to the Executive Washroom.

The opulent men's room had motion-sensing lighting, and as I entered the dimmers got brighter, clearly illuminating the space. Considering that my boss and my future wife had been in this room for less than an hour, it was a total fucking mess in there. There were two empty champagne flutes on the marble countertop, and a half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon discarded by the trash can. At a cost of over three hundred dollars per bottle, you would think that Mr. Marshall would have put the remainder of the champagne in his office refrigerator.

Lela's Louboutins were on the floor inside one of the oversized bathroom stalls, neatly placed as if she had intentionally removed them, rather than lost them in the heat of the moment. I entered the stall and quickly surmised that if I had been seated on the toilet, the position of Lela's shoes would have been consistent with her lowering herself to her knees to give me a blowjob. I sincerely hoped that my fiancée had not sucked my boss off in the bathroom stall, but the evidence certainly pointed in that direction. At least the highly polished floor was absolutely spotless.

In fact, as I surveyed the beautifully appointed facility, other than the mess left by Lela and my boss, the room was fastidiously clean. The glossy walls were polished to an almost mirror finish, without any noticeable imperfections.

There was a small urinal, homage to the fact that the old-school lawyers liked to stand in a line to piss as they regaled each other with exaggerated tales of their exploits. I think that is where the expression "dick swinging contest" may have even originated. This one, constructed of white onyx, and sloped in such a way that you didn't get misted by your own urine droplets, actually seemed fit for its intended purpose.

By contrast, the vertical stainless-steel wall in the regular men's restroom was completely unfit for purpose. In fact, the urinal barely got used, and when it was, it was usually a new employee that would sidle up to the urinal and quickly back away the second they realized they were getting misted. It was a standing joke in the company. It even got mentioned on the Annual Employee Survey. Every single year. No-one ever used that urinal more than once.

I saw Lela's distinct Cuban-heel stockings next, protruding from the top of the trash can. They were torn to pieces, the only plausible explanation being that Mr. Marshall had ripped them from her in the throes of their encounter. My curiosity got the better of me and I emptied the contents of the small waste receptacle onto the marble floor. My heart sank when I noticed the discarded condom wrapper, as Lela never required contraception for oral sex with her regular clients. Most of her regulars were married men who wanted a little extra kink in their lives, and once they had undergone the initial battery of STI tests, Lela allowed them the privilege of unprotected oral sex.

Mr. Marshall must have enjoyed penetrative vaginal sex with my fiancée this morning, presumably the "change of scenery" that he was desirous of. There was no sign of the actual condom in the trash though. Maybe my boss had flushed it? I had heard that some wealthy men consciously flushed used condoms in order to minimize the potential of the working girl trying to impregnate themselves, but this scenario seemed unlikely in this case. It seemed more likely that Mr. Marshall would want to rub his use of my girlfriend in my face, by allowing me to stumble across the incontrovertible evidence that he got balls-deep in my betrothed.

There were also several used wet-wipes in the pile of debris from the trash can, some used tissues, and somewhat disconcertingly, a small tube of Anal-Ease. Even though this analgesic lubricant can be used for regular vaginal sex, it seemed very unlikely that my boss and my fiancée had employed it for this sex-act. Lela loved being used as a fuck-toy and would have self-lubricated sufficiently for penetration. She also thoroughly enjoyed getting fucked, so it made no sense that Lela would want to diminish her pleasure by administering a numbing agent to the exterior of the prophylactic. As I reached the most obvious conclusion, I brushed that horrible notion aside for a moment. The thought of my boss sodomizing my future wife was too much to contemplate.

I found Lela's panties next, hanging on the back of the door to the Executive Washroom. I hadn't noticed them as I entered the dimly-lit facility, but now that the lights were fully illuminated and the soft-closing door had shut, they were quite obvious as they hung from one of the coat hooks. Pale blue in color, soft to the touch, and heavily scented, I retrieved them from the door and reflexively inspected the crotch.

Lela loves to be used by powerful men, so it was no surprise to see that the crotch-liner was coated with her vaginal secretions. I imagine she began to self-lubricate the second Mr. Marshall entered my office in his three thousand dollar suit and began to take charge. Either way, this particular pair of panties had served its purpose and I tossed them directly into the trash can along with the condom wrapper.

Once I wiped down the marble countertop, and put a new trash can liner in the waste bin, I moved into the shower enclosure. No expense had been spared on this impressive, over-sized, marble-walled wet room, and plush Egyptian cotton bath towels hung from the heated towel rack. Two or three of these towels were laying in a heap just outside the shower enclosure, and as I picked them up to fold them for the night cleaning crew, a single used condom came into my view. So, Mr. Marshall hadn't flushed the rubber, it had merely been discarded after the sexual encounter.

The first thing I noticed as I picked it up from the floor was the voluminous load that was contained within it. Mr. Marshall was at least fifteen years older than me. Even at the height of my forced chastity, when Lela and John would permit me one orgasm per week, my seven-day load paled in comparison to the amount of seminal fluid that my boss had blown into this condom.

I held the condom aloft between my thumb and forefinger, marveling at the sheer weight of it. The second thing I noticed was that the exterior of the condom had a copious coating of Anal-Ease applied to it. It lended credence to the notion that my boss had butt-fucked Lela, but there really was only one way for me to find out, and I was in an investigative mood.

Despite being a dirty CumSlut, the love of my life was fastidiously clean when it came to sexual activity. Before every encounter Lela would be freshly showered, clean-shaven, and heavily scented. In addition, all three of her orifices would be prepared for a potential invasion. In short, Lela would brush and floss her teeth before gargling mouth wash. She would apply a flavored douche to her love-canal. And she would cleanse her anal-passage with an enema kit.

Despite her efforts to be free of any body odor, the harsh reality is that prolonged and deeply invasive anal penetration inevitably leads to the build up of fecal matter on the penetrative item. Whether it is anal beads, a dildo, or a sheathed or naked penis, a good butt-fucking will induce the slight waft of fecal matter. Knowing this, I suppressed my revulsion and sniffed the used condom.

I knew the smell the instant that I inhaled it. During my prolonged submission to John I had attempted to conceal this very odor, and as I detected the slightest waft on the condom, I knew definitively that my boss had butt-fucked my fiancée.

If I am totally honest, this revelation stung a little. I knew that all three of Lela's orifices were available to anyone with the price of entry, but this condescending Alpha Male was my boss and the thought of Mr. Marshall getting balls-deep in my fiancée's anus was distressing to me. I had to see this self-righteous prick every day at work, and even though he rarely removed his sunglasses, I knew he was probably openly mocking me behind the dark protective shield.

Once the Executive Washroom was clean I picked up Lela's Louboutin shoes and headed back to my boss' office. Despite the fact that I had only been gone for thirty minutes, judging by the smug look on Mr. Marshall's face and his relaxed body language, my boss had already blown his second load. Uncharacteristically, he had removed his dark sunglasses and he was sat in his huge leather chair, his bare feet perched on his desk as he prepped a large cigar using a double-bladed cutter.

"Take Lela's shoes over to the bathroom door," he began gruffly. "She is having a quick freshen-up. And then fetch me an ashtray," he ordered, pointing to a large credenza that occupied a corner of the office

I really wasn't happy getting sucked into this sordid power trip but I bit my tongue and placed Lela's sky-high fuck-me pumps right outside the bathroom door. Then I walked over to the credenza to retrieve an ashtray for this arrogant prick. Mr. Marshall watched me intently as I followed his instructions, reveling in the control he had over me.

"Hold it for me," my boss instructed as he lit his cigar with a flourish.

At this point I contemplated pushing back. Mr. Marshall was my direct supervisor but there was no way my duties included holding his ashtray for him while he enjoyed his cigar. My boss seemed to recognize my reluctance to obey him and he responded by staring directly into my eyes. If he had appeared menacing with his dark sunglasses on, as soon as I looked into his cold, steely eyes the intimidation factor immediately amplified.

A few moments later my fiancée emerged from the bathroom dressed in a spectacular looking lingerie ensemble. I felt my mouth get dry as I swallowed hard at the sight of her. Lela's bustier was an exquisite shade of peach, ordered intentionally one size too small in order to force her pert breasts skyward. She was wearing a matching peach garter-belt and stockings, and a tiny pair of silk thong panties that left nothing to the imagination. Her lip gloss and nail polish were an almost identical shade of peach as the new lingerie, prompting me to wonder how many shades of lipstick she carried in her oversized make-up kit. Having opted to forgo her shoes, Lela walked seductively towards my boss as he sat smoking his cigar.

"Did I buy the right size, doll?" Danny asked, enjoying my reaction as I realized that he had purchased the lingerie for my girlfriend.

"I think so," Lela responded coyly as she rotated slowly for his visual enjoyment. "More importantly Danny, what do you think?"

"I think you look fantastic in that color," my boss enthused, as he flicked his cigar ashes into the upturned ashtray that I held aloft for him. "Don't you agree, Mark?" he added with a chuckle, as my face reddened and I swallowed any remaining saliva that existed in my mouth.

Mr. Marshall kept the two of us in our respective positions of servitude for way longer than necessary, Lela rotating slowly as he lewdly ogled her, and me holding his ashtray in such a manner as to make it easy for him to merely flick his cigar periodically to loosen the ash. Finally, when he appeared satisfied that the true nature of the dynamic between the three of us had sunk in, he rested his cigar on the edge of the ashtray and shooed me away.

As if to further demonstrate his ownership of my fiancée, Mr. Marshall patted the desk and Lela gracefully climbed atop it. Then in much the same way that my dog will follow my non-verbal commands, Lela adopted the Lotus position and sat with her back perfectly straight in the exact place that my boss had touched. Lela had her back to me at this point as she faced my boss. I noticed that she hadn't removed the tags to her bustier but had merely tucked them inside the exquisite intimates.

This was an old trick of hers that she used frequently back in the day when her paramours showered her with gifts, predominantly lingerie. By not removing the label Lela could allow her clients to enjoy the visual of her all dolled up, but still retain the option to return the gift for cash the following day. In my current predicament, getting thoroughly emasculated by my boss, I needed a win and this minor act of deceit on my fiancée's part brought a smile to my face.

Mr. Marshall and Lela were whispering something to each other that was inaudible to me. Lela, deep in her role as an escort, nodded agreeably as my boss gave her detailed instructions.

"Whatever you want, Mr. Marshall," she said sweetly, electing to address him in the more respectful manner. "I thoroughly enjoyed that last time."

Lela dismounted the desk with the same amount of grace that she had climbed atop it, and headed towards the bathroom. I watched her pert buttocks sway seductively as she sashayed away from my boss. Mr. Marshall motioned for me to return with his cigar and took a couple of puffs before blowing the acrid smoke in my general direction.

"Fetch me that ottoman," he ordered, pointing towards a low-lying piece of furniture near the credenza.

As I followed his directive, my boss removed his bare feet from the top of his desk, rotated his leather chair so that he was parallel to his desk, and lowered them to the floor. I tentatively approached him holding the ottoman and he pointed to the floor by his feet. Placing it on the ground right in front of him, I watched as he raised his feet and rested them directly on the low-slung ottoman, using it as a footstool.

Right on cue, Lela emerged from the bathroom holding a large bowl of soapy water. It was evident that she was in a subservient mode and she beamed broadly at my boss, as if she was absolutely delighted to attend to his every need. I felt completely out of place in that office as my fiancée carefully placed the bowl between Mr. Marshall's outstretched legs, and then seemingly having done this before, gently maneuvered one of his large feet into the soapy water.