Chapter Two
The three months crawled by slowly. I'm sure Jack and Stacey noticed my
frustration. Tears would often well up in my eyes when they made love in front
of me. I was glad Stacey was happy, but couldn't I get a little reward for not
complaining?
After three months I was starting to lose focus on my duties. My seams weren't
always straight. Mr. Jackson certainly noticed that! My panties were
constantly wet. Another reason for punishment. And my fingers shook so much in
the morning that I could not apply my makeup perfectly. A very big no-no.
Finally, Jack had had enough. After Jack's third orgasm (and Stacey's
umpteenth), he lay back on the bed as I bent over and lit his cigar.
"Little dickie, it seems we have reached a point of diminishing returns. You
know, one reason I control your release is because you serve with such
enthusiasm when in need. Ahem! ... ashtray?"
"Oh! Excuse me, Mr. Jackson!" I said, bringing the ashtray beneath his cigar.
"Where was my head?"
"That's my point, dickie. Your need is now obstructing your common sense." He
thumped his cigar and I barely caught the ash. "We may have to cut back on the
Viagra." He chuckled.
"Yes, sir," I said, my cheeks blushing a deep crimson.
"dickie? How many letters in "yes sir?"
I though a bit. "Uhm ... six, Mr. Jackson."
"For speaking without permission, I will grant you masturbation rights in six
hours. If you had kept your fucking cake hole shut, you'd be spewing in your
pumps by now."
I almost stomped my foot in frustration, but withheld my emotional outburst.
After all, he could have said six days!
"Well, contrary to popular belief, I do have a heart. It's your birthday today,
right?"
I hesitated before answering, then felt safe in doing so. "Yes, sir! Thank you
for remembering."
He waved off my thanks. "Stacey told me last night after you cleaned her pussy
and went to your room. She thought a nice wank would be the perfect present for
you. You know how sentimental women can be." Stacey was sound asleep at his
side, her hand resting on his cock.
I nodded tentatively, careful not to speak.
Jack puffed on his cigar in contemplation. "Maybe you could tie a nice pink
ribbon around your dickie. We'll have a cake -- with candles. You can make a
wish. And then you can open your present." He seemed to be enjoying himself.
"It'll be your day, dickie. Now open wide. I have to get some sleep."
It was a little ritual Jack employed whenever he finished his cigar. I opened
my mouth and he placed the lit end into my mouth. I closed my lips around it
and ran as fast as I could to the kitchen before it burned my tongue. Then I
snuffed it out in the ashtray. I cringed at the horrible taste in my mouth.
How could men smoke those disgusting things?
