Authors: Allison Hobbs
Sex therapist! Sounds good to me
. “You absolutely need to have intercourse with your wife on a daily basis, but without tenderness,” she cautioned, taking her new title seriously.
“You hear that, hon? I don’t want to hear anything about headaches or any talk about your menstrual cycle. No excuses. I want my daily ration of sex without a word of complaint.”
“Oh, fabulous,” the wife said sarcastically.
To Milan’s satisfaction, the deal was about to be sealed. She
bestowed Mr. Tamburro with her most winning smile. “Sign right here.” She pointed to the lines marked with an X and sat down as the husband perused the form. He affixed his signature and then handed the pen to his wife.
Picturing the prissy Mrs. Tamburro getting her ass spanked made Milan terribly horny. The unmistakable twitching between her legs was getting stronger and more demanding by the second. She needed to get rid of the Tamburros and take care of her personal situation. “We can accommodate you next Wednesday at two.”
The wife consulted her BlackBerry and frowned. “I have an important meeting on that date. Do you have another opening—can you fit me in after five?” Her trembling tone pleaded for a different time slot.
“There you go…putting that friggin’ job before our marriage.” Mr. Tamburro gave his wife a stern look. “Listen up, Mrs. Cheater, I want you to cancel that meeting and get your buns over here at two o’clock on the dot. If you can’t make it, well, I guess I’ll see you in divorce court. I’m serious. Our prenup protects my money. You won’t get one single dollar. Let’s see how far you get with your measly salary.” He sneered at his wife and then looked at Milan. “Her job is nothing but show,” he said to Milan. “With all those degrees I paid for, she still doesn’t earn the kind of money she enjoys spending.” He poked himself in the chest. “I’m a wealthy man, but I don’t have to wear fancy clothes to broadcast how much I’m worth.”
At the mention of the prenuptial agreement, Milan felt an uncharacteristic stab of sympathy for the wife. Over a year ago, she had experienced the humiliation of being forced to sign an outrageous prenup and could relate to Mrs. Tamburro’s
dilemma. But that was all behind Milan. She’d come out on top. Now large and in charge, Milan defied anyone to try to tell her what to do. She owned a thriving business and, as shocking as it seemed, she had billionaire business tycoon Maxwell Torrance by the balls. Literally. She owned the man. She made him wear an engraved collar of ownership as proof.
Nothing had been handed to her. Unlike Mrs. Tamburro, Milan had overcome many obstacles to get to her station in life. Withdrawing her sympathy, she turned cold eyes toward the wife. “Do you agree to the two o’clock appointment?”
Tears clouded Mrs. Tamburro’s eyes. She turned to her husband. “I don’t think this is necessary. I’ve learned my lesson. Please, sweetheart.”
“It’s your choice…take the whipping or we’re getting a divorce.” Mr. Tamburro was adamant.
Resignedly, Mrs. Tamburro nodded. The husband gave Milan a conspiratorial wink and then tried to hand Milan his credit card. Milan recoiled as if handling the payment process would tarnish her. “Pay at the front desk, please,” she said with a grimace.
The moment the couple left the consultation room, Milan picked up the phone and called security.
“Royce, there’s an emergency in the basement consultation room. Get down here, fast!”
R
esponding to Milan’s urgent tone, Royce, the security guard, rushed to the consultation room. His hand was on his gun; clinking and clanging metal cuffs dangled at his side. His head turned back and forth swiftly, making the loose skin of his jowls swing in the air. With his badge, big and gleaming, and with the excessive layers of wrinkled facial skin, he reminded Milan of the old cartoon character Deputy Dawg.
Royce’s eyes, anxious and wide, swept the room searching for the source of Milan’s distress. Finding nothing out of order, he cocked his head quizzically. “What’s wrong, Ms. Walden?” Breathless from running down several flights of stairs, Royce wiped perspiration from his forehead.
“Nothing’s wrong!” she spat, annoyed by the inquiry. “I’m experiencing a personal crisis.”
Milan leaned back in the chair. Brushing her fingertips against the silk top that concealed her small breasts, she drew the security guard’s attention to her protruding nipples. Clipping the twin pearls between her fingers, she displayed her state of arousal.
Hit with sudden enlightenment, Royce exclaimed, “Oh!”
Milan rose and stuck out her hand. “Give me your cuffs,
Deputy Dawg,” she taunted. Royce’s face dropped. Visibly impacted by the cruel nickname his boss had given him, Royce was humiliated and his shame and sorrow caused his face to sag even worse. Resignedly, he unhooked the handcuffs from his belt loop and handed them to Milan.
“Hands behind your back,” she ordered, wearing a wicked smile. Then she sauntered to the other side of the desk and cuffed the beleaguered security guard. “I want to try something different today. Let’s see how well you perform without the use of your hands.”
More perspiration dotted Royce’s forehead. He looked miserable as he tried to keep his balance. Slowly and quite shakily, he lowered himself to the floor.
Milan inched up her tight skirt and snaked her hand between her legs. Her pussy, aroused from the conversation with the Tamburros, was hot and overly moist. She pulled her thong to the side and ran the length of her palm up and down her slippery entrance. Sighing with pleasure, she withdrew her hand and presented Royce with her cupped palm, which she proceeded to fit over his mouth. “Have you been a good boy today?”
As he was supposed to do, Royce slackened his jaw and nodded on cue.
“Excellent.” She rubbed her palm against his lips. “Here’s a little pussy treat for you.”
She closed her eyes as Royce darted out his extremely long and wide tongue. Quick tongue flicks sent naughty tingles up her spine. Slowly and sensually, Royce lathed her cupped palm until it unfurled in surrender. Royce was not easy on the eyes and had zero sex appeal. He’d worked two or more jobs most of his adult life. Money worries, limited exercise, and too much
fast food had Royce looking ten years older than his actual thirty-nine years.
An abundance of taste buds covered the surface of his tongue. It was a birth defect, but for Milan’s purposes his deformity was a blessing. His roughened tongue felt like moist sandpaper as it brushed against Milan’s smooth palm. The sensation was ticklish and oddly tantalizing—both gross and stimulating at the same time. As he swiped her flesh with his harsh and bumpy tongue, her nipples tightened to the point of feeling like unbearably hard pebbles. Murmuring softly, she lifted her bra and fondled her small breasts. Her soft sighs were accompanied by Royce’s loud lapping. Her pussy contracted as hot passion trickled out.
“Eat it!” Milan smashed her open palm against his mouth, grinding it harshly, commanding him to increase the tempo and intensity of his tongue strokes. Royce licked harder and faster, panting and groaning in a manner so vile and yet seductive, Milan could feel more cream oozing out of her pussy. Royce knew exactly how to appeal to her freakier side.
Royce licked her opened hand until it gleamed and then narrowed his long tongue into a curl, driving it in and out of the spaces between her fingers, making a ghastly groan with each slimy poke of his tongue.
This is so crude and depraved
. Depraved or not, Milan couldn’t help moaning blissfully. With tension building, she hopped up on the desk and hitched up her skirt. “Take my thong off.”
Relieved to dispense with the handcuffs, Royce cracked a smile. “Unlock ’em. The key’s in my pocket.”
“No! Be creative.” She slid toward the edge of the desk, leaned back, and rested on her elbows.
With hands cuffed behind his back, Royce rose unsteadily. He buried his face in Milan’s crotch and began tearing at the lacy fabric with his teeth. “Hurry up!” she ordered.
Growling now, he savagely ripped away the delicate fabric and held the lacy thong between clenched teeth. With the torn lace dangling out of the side of his mouth, he looked disgusting and rabid.
Oooh, this is so freaky and wonderful
! Milan felt like clapping with glee. Royce was behaving like an angry beast and she got shivers imagining his lengthy tongue lashing her cunt. She drew her legs up and clasped the back of her knees, spreading open her pussy and giving her cuffed captive ample access to her flooding tunnel.
He penetrated her lush lips, plunged inside, filling Milan with the unusual length and thickness of his tongue. She moaned as she humped his coarse appendage. His tongue scavenged inside her walls, scratching her itch and then scraping across her clit. She shuddered in pre-orgasmic pleasure.
Royce’s tongue became still. Milan bristled. “Finish licking, I didn’t tell you to stop!”
“Um…your juice is gushing, Ms. Walden. I was getting ready to suction it out for you,” he explained.
“Well, get to it,” she snapped.
“I was going to, but I noticed some gook sticking on your leg…I wasn’t sure—”
“Royce! Your long, flexible tongue has many responsibilities. I expect you to take care of whatever needs to be done. Now, shut your trap before I march you down to the paddling room. I’ll give you a severe spanking that you won’t soon forget. Is that what you want?”
“No, Ms. Walden. Please,” he muttered. “I don’t want a spanking; I just wanted your opinion on what I should handle first.”
Milan struggled upright and glared at Royce. “I didn’t notice you asking my opinion when you unceremoniously escorted me off these premises last year,” she said, reminding him of the humiliating day when she was fired from Pure Paradise.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Walden. It wasn’t personal. I was simply doing my job.”
“Well, do your job now.” She leaned back, resuming a reclining position.
Royce stretched open his mouth and extended his elongated muscular organ. With forceful stokes, he lapped at the smeared passion that was congealing on her supple inner thigh. Using his tongue as a cleaning utensil, he swished and mopped the area until it was spotless. Then he attached puckered lips to Milan’s heated entry, carefully sipping her juices, stimulating her, attempting to make her passion boil over.
Milan purred and arched her back as Royce slurped large puddles of lust. As she writhed on his tongue, he began to greedily guzzle her hot liquid. He made loud gurgling and slurping sounds, his audible swallowing heightening her arousal.
Skillfully, he once again curled his tongue and narrowed until it was pointed and firm. He drove it in and out, penetrating her center of paradise. Stretching his moist and erect tongue, he probed, flicking against her vaginal walls, sweeping the roof of her canal, urgently searching for her special spot.
Preparing for sharp pangs of pleasure, Milan gripped the sides of the desk and scrunched up her face as she waited for Royce to locate her hidden treasure. Royce was the only man who could hit Milan’s G-spot with his tongue. She could feel
tension building as his twisting appendage grew closer to the mark. Testing, he gave the pad of flesh he’d discovered a tentative touch with the tip of his tongue. Milan responded with a tiny yelp. Wanting more, she scooched closer, clamping her knees against Royce’s jawbone.
“Are you ready, Ms. Walden?” His breath tickled and excited her. She tightened her knee-lock. Milan couldn’t care less if she crushed Royce’s jawbone.
Desperate to be free, Royce lathed the sensitive, raised skin. Milan squirmed and whimpered as her captive stroked her spot unrelentingly, licking the walls of her pussy without mercy.
A rush of heat filled her loins. Milan screamed and then squirted. Ejaculating like a man, she shot several hot blasts of cum into Royce’s mouth.
S
he’d been waiting for fifteen minutes, biting her fingernails and shivering. Gnawing on a fingernail, she nervously peeled away opaque polish and then began nibbling at the cuticle. Her wide blue eyes bobbed around the darkened, foreboding room, taking in the fear-provoking sights: an oil painting of a naked woman bent over the knee of an elegantly attired man, his palm held menacingly high; an assortment of paddles on top of a table, a standing metal cage, and a frightening wooden bench.
Hanging from hooks and resting on shelves were a wide assortment of whips, floggers, riding crops, canes, and other pain-yielding devices. But the most foreboding piece of equipment was the wooden whipping post with its platform base and bondage ropes dangling down the sides. Though the menacing device dominated the room, the woman refused to look at it. Her wide eyes roamed the room; she visibly cringed upon recognition of each taboo torture item that was displayed.
Wearing a tailored jacket and skirt, she sat on the side of the bed eyeing the door. She rocked and hugged herself, terrified and embarrassed knowing that the eye of a camera was capturing and recording her every move.
Twenty minutes later, the door burst open. She gasped when she saw her punisher, a powerhouse of a man with a metal chain vest draping his massive chest. He slammed the door and ominously flexed his bulging biceps. A torturer’s hood, the exact shade as his onyx-colored skin, added to his menacing appearance. One mighty hand was bare and the other was covered with a black leather studded glove.
“Have you cheated on your spouse?” His voice, a rich and commanding baritone with a Caribbean accent, boomed inside the quiet, darkened room.
“Yes,” she whimpered, shrinking back, retreating until she bumped into the headboard. Though his commanding tone informed her that resistance was futile, she squirmed and wriggled and raised her hands up defensively.
“I’m here to punish you for your adulterous activities. Do you understand?” He stroked the studs on the glove that covered his right hand.
Gnawing on her ragged fingernail, she nodded with her head hung low. Somehow, the hooded black man had managed to arouse her, making the threat of a painful punishment sound sensual and appealing.
“Remove your jacket,” he ordered.
Obeying, she tugged off her jacket.
“Get rid of the blouse!”
“My…blouse?” she stammered, feeling modest, arms crossing her chest.
“Take it off!” he growled.
She jumped and then quickly unbuttoned her blouse.
“Your bra, too,” the hooded man commanded.
Unwilling to further rile the man who was hired to spank her,
she unclasped her bra, revealing creamy white breasts and rose-colored nipples, peaked from fear. Perspiration trickled down her neck; the droplets of moisture congregated on her breasts until they were soaked with sweat.
His penetrating eyes inspected her, traveling her shivering frame from head to toe. Then, without warning, the sadistic tyrant stalked toward her. Startled, she let out a sharp scream. He grabbed her by the neck with the gloved hand, the studs burrowing into her skin. She fought, trying to break his hold. With his bare hand he yanked her away from the headboard, pushed her on her back, and promptly stuffed her mouth with a rubber gag ball.
The woman choked and coughed from the oral intrusion. Tears burned her eyes. With her cries silenced, her torturer pulled her by her hair, dragging her to the foot of the bed.
Kicking and scratching, she fought valiantly, but was easily overpowered by the man commissioned to dispense punishment. Forcibly, he brought her arms down in front of her and methodically began to bind her wrists with black bondage tape. She struggled against the tape, but realizing her struggle was futile, she became still with solemn acceptance. She was captured. She was his.
He sank down on the bed and turned Mrs. Tamburro over his knees. She moaned with renewed terror. Her head dangled, her blonde hair swept the floor as blood rushed to her face, turning it beet red.
With one brawny forearm, he kept her pinned in place. He squeezed her breasts with his free hand, twisted them, soaking his palm with her sweat, and then he raised his hand and smacked her ass. She flinched and wriggled, making muffled
screaming noises as a succession of wet stinging slaps reverberated inside the paddling room.
He flattened his palm against the small of her back, moistening it as he ran it down her sweat-sodden spine. And again, he spanked her wriggling rump with a wet hand, stinging her ass badly and leaving overlapping reddened handprints on each pale buttock.
Seated behind her luxurious desk, Milan watched the spanking from a monitor mounted on a wall. Literally sitting on the edge of her seat, Milan was riveted by the kinky footage. The anonymous punisher—recommended by Mistress Veronique, whose consultant services Sumi had successfully secured—was ripped. Bulging muscles and big veins covered his body. He had boulder shoulders, bulging biceps; the muscles of his huge thighs were visible through his tight leather pants. He had to be on steroids with a body like that. He was truly huge all over, like a Mr. Olympia winner.
Watching the masked man spank the roofer’s naughty wife made Milan’s clit throb. Luckily, Royce was on hand, crouched on the floor beneath her desk with his chin resting on the leather seat, his head situated between her legs. With his outstretched, oversized, and resourceful tongue, he collected each droplet of her lust.
But she strained and gyrated, unable to concentrate on the tongue fuck she was getting while gazing at Mrs. Tamburro’s fiery red ass. Instead of getting down to business, Royce was teasing her pussy. Frustrated, she stood up. “Stop fucking around.
Find my spot, dammit. I need to get my daily erotic release.”
Royce mopped at his lips with the back of his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to prolong it until that sadist finished whipping that white chick’s ass.”
“How long have you been eating my cunt?”
He scratched his head. “About a year or so?”
“That’s right. And by now, you should be able to read my body language. Didn’t you feel me straining against your tongue?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing!” She pushed the chair away, the wheels at the bottom of the chair rolling over the panties she’d flung to the floor. “I want you to get up and march yourself to the front of my desk.”
With Milan on his heels, a repentant Royce rose from the floor and walked to the other side of the custom desk.
“Pull down your pants and bend over,” she ordered, her pussy more moist than ever, her vaginal walls contracting so violently, she doubted if she could discipline Royce without cumming all over herself.
Royce gawked at her. “Now, I’ve been doing everything I could to make up for what happened last year, but I’m not gonna bend over your desk and let you spank me like I’m a child.”
“Remove your gun, loosen your belt, and drop your fucking pants,” she hissed.
“This ain’t right, Ms. Walden. I didn’t do anything to—”
“I own you,” she reminded him, brushing her fingertips against her tightening nipples.
“I know you own me. I signed the paperwork. But my contract says I’m a sex slave, not your whipping boy. I didn’t agree to nothing like that.” He pointed to the monitor where Mrs.
Tamburro’s spanking had come to an end. Her tormentor pulled her panties up and removed the gag ball from her mouth. Curled in a fetal knot, Mrs. Tamburro trembled and wept.
“Okay, Royce. Have it your way. Go back to your post.” Milan made a dismissive gesture.
Royce didn’t move. “Are you mad at me, Ms. Walden? I didn’t deliberately try to get you upset.”
“Upset?” Milan laughed maliciously. “I’m livid!”
Royce looked nervously at the clock. His shift would be over in another ten minutes. Royce sighed and reluctantly placed his gun on top of the desk. It was best to let Milan have her way. He doubted if she was strong enough to do any real physical harm. Slowly, he undid his belt and lowered his pants. Keeping his job and the extra perks she gave him for delivering his unique brand of cunnilingus was worth a bruised ego and a chunk of manhood.