THE EXECUTIVE
By V.P. Viddler
Her name was Lynn, and she was a highly successful corporation executive, with
an extravagantly lavish office high up in an important midtown building. Company
heads did her bidding; co- workers and underlings shook at a look from her sharp
brown eyes.
But right now she was on the floor of that office, on hands and knees, crawling
in front of the two impassive men sitting and watching her. She was crawling
slowly around the room and crying. Her blouse was unbuttoned, her breasts
falling out, bare, swaying as she moved. Her panties clung about her knees. Tim
had told her to pull them down as she was crawling, to leave them around her
knees. Lynn's light brown lustrous hair was falling about her face. Her skirt
did not conceal her moving, smooth, curving thighs.
Crawling for the two watching men, Lynn was moaning, gasping, sobbing. Lynn
hated Tim for doing this to her. And she hated herself for allowing it.
For wanting it.
For craving it.
The second man was Arthur. Arthur had not known Lynn before this. Tim had
brought him to her office and said he was going to exhibit her for him. And that
was what he was doing.
Exhibiting her.
To this stranger.
Showing her off. Showing how she would do anything he told her. Showing what a
base, filthy, dirty animal slave Lynn was for him. Showing how she could not
stop herself from giving in to his degradation of her. His humiliating
debasement. His parading her body, her soul, her absolute sublimation in
accordance with his commands.
It was the middle of a highly busy and important day at her firm. "No," Lynn had
said, trying to say it firmlly, stomach turning, sinking, not looking at this
Arthur's face. "No, I can't. Not now, Tim, I can't. And anyway--"
And Tim had smiled. And simply locked the door. And sat down. And waited.
And Lynn had started to tremble.
To whimper.
To shake her head.
To pant.
To sob.
All without saying a word.
And Lynn had begun to beg.
As Tim waited.
And finally Lynn had sunk to her knees on the floor.
"What do you want me to do?" Lynn said.
"You see?" Tim had said to Arthur, and Arthur was grinning happily.
Tim had told her what to do.
And Lynn now was crawling, with her luscious breasts dangling, and her panties
binding her knees, crying, showing that she was nothing but a crawling,
obedient, animalistic slut slave, who would do anything in the world without
being able to stop defiling her own selfhood.
Lynn, crawling, sobbing, moaning, knew what was coming. Arthur was to be the
beneficiary of Tim's vanity and Lynn would be his tool. Tim would watch
approvingly as Lynn satisfied Arthur in any way he sought. And all ways. With
her body. With her mouth. With her anus. With her vagina. Arthur would have them
all. And breasts, thighs, buttocks, hips, hair, nipples, anything Arthur wanted.
And Tim would have them also. Lynn knew she would soon be sandwiched by the two
of them, screaming in pain and helpless frantic, unwilling passion, while out in
the office work went on without her. Climaxing involuntarily as Tim and Arthur
laughed, Tim forcing his penis into her mouth until she was gagging on it,
howling around it until his gism choked the howls and forced her to swallow or
strangle.
Hours of fucking, sucking, crawling.
And finally, when both men had drained themselves again and again, Tim's
ultimate way of reviving his passion and flaunting his mastery.
The pain.
The awful unbearable searing agony of Tim's cigar. Ground out against Lynn's
cringing flesh. Anywhere.
It could go two ways. Or both. Arthur holding her hands behind her back as she
stood, or above her head as she lay, as Tim slowly and gloatingly brought that
glowing cigar closer, closer to Lynn's shaking body. Or, possibly worse--Tim
forcing her to do it to herself. Waiting, watching her with his cigar in hand,
waiting for Lynn to grind it out on her own nipple. Slowly. Gradually. Twisting
and screaming "NO..."
