by Valentine Bonnaire c. August 2013 email@example.com
Dick Sesspool had never been one to really have a girlfriend. Nobody looked at him twice in sexual ways and somehow he had managed to get to his fiftieth birthday without ever losing his virginity. Instead he put his energy into work, rising steadily until he was the head of one of the largest corporations in New York. His wallet was stuffed with bills ripe for the spending, and in the end that is what women wanted from him. Nothing but the money, money, money.
It was on Madison Avenue that he first saw the shoes. They were inky navy suede and the heels towered like the glittering skyscraper where he sat, day in and day out behind his ebony glass-topped desk. It was 20 feet long and designed by the new firm Weimaresque. They were all the rage that year in certain circles. The desk was meant to accommodate 30 clients easily. He liked to rape companies, and he was very good at that. His staff would go in grinning as if they carried knives made of surgical precision steel. The female executives were the first he fired. The staff brought him lists of department heads and pictures of their faces. Because he was such an ugly man, both inside and out — the best looking people felt the axe first with each company he crushed.
“Staying late tonight, Dick?”
Brenda flounced in her usual way down the long glass corridor that separated the offices of the big men in the corporation. She’d fucked every one of them, starting with the tallest first, but never Dick. She’d been the one to redesign the space for the executives, choosing just the right shade of cream for the walls and the Bauhaus inspired steel chairs that left everyone a little bit on edge. Minimalism was the order of the day, most days, especially when they were making a clean sweep of some company or another.
Dick’s expense account paid for her Chanel, although she was far too buxom to pull it off properly. By the end of the day her tits were nearly popping the buttons apart, and her lips, redrawn with endless berry-brown liner and over glossed thickly over gave her the appearance of a tired well-fucked clown in circus-colored tweedy checkers.
“Call Tintian’s and have the bistro plate sent up before you go?”
“Sure Dicky, anything for you.”
She leaned across the wide glass surface toward him, pressing her full breasts against it and arching her back, in a sloe-eyed leer like a turned out doe from the forest of elsewhere.
“Dicky needs anything else?”
“I saw some shoes yesterday,” he drummed his fingers along the glass.
“Want me to pick them up?”
“They were navy, with silver spikes. Get your size, and a pair in size five.”
He extracted five thousand from his wallet and pushed it across the slick glass surface of the desk at her. Brenda fanned it out in her hand, and tucked it against her mulberry silk blouse as she stood back up. Her breasts seemed like caged animals next to all that money. Even her nipples were hardened little rocks under the camisole. They looked like they could speak but he wasn’t exactly a breast man. Dick sent her often on little jaunts to shop, especially if the day had been stressful. He liked to think it was payback for all the bitches who had ignored him in life. Brenda was easily controlled and stupid. He’d seen how she liked to collect lipsticks in the shape of men’s cocks. He’d seen how she had tantalized Trent with one, rubbing it over and over her lips at the board meeting last month as if she were going to go down on it.
“I’ll have the scallops tonight.”
“Where did you see the shoes?”
“Chez Frou-Frou, I think it was.”
“Oh, I know that place.”
“I like the way they do the window design, Brenda.”
“I always wanted to…”
Brenda nodded and smiled at him broadly. Her eyes were glimmering wet pools as she met his gaze, fanning herself with the thick handful of very green bills.
“Why don’t you take tomorrow off and make a day of it?”
“I’d love that.”
“I thought of you when I saw the shoes.”
“You can go now.”
Brenda looked crestfallen all of a sudden. All the men in the company had been so easy. She had cared less about which one of them she’d taken, cared less about their wives and partners, cared less period. Men were always easy prey.
“Don’t forget Tintians on your way out.”
It wasn’t long before the doorman led the waiter up to Dick’s office on the 90th floor. Tintian’s was famous for that. He carried a silver platter and several acqua and white crisped striped bags looped over each arm. Dinner service was provided just as it was in the restaurant proper, with linens, silver and Tintian’s trademark gold rimmed bistro dishes. The waiter stood against the wall to admire and serve each patron, as if they were in the famed restaurant itself.
The scallops swam in what looked like foamy come, but was actually an infused sauce that was meant to mimic waves. Dick savored each trembling morsel as he lifted it to his lips. Looking at the come on the plate almost gave him an orgasm each time. It was as if he had discharged it, as if his power to ruin companies right and left gave him the biggest most powerful cock in all of New York. He laughed as the waiter poured out more champagne flown in that afternoon from France. Each sip seemed to make his tiny nub of a cock harder. Food did that for him. Food and the thought of a woman’s ass. When he thought of women he never thought of their faces. In his mind he saw only their asses, huge great asses of such trembling proportions naked and bent over — and ass upon ass ready to sit on his face. He wanted to be smothered in flesh, their cheeks draping over his own. Each bite of the foam, each seafoamed morsel was what he imagined it would be like with his face buried deep between her thighs. Not buried with his little useless nubbin of a cock, but with his face lapping the remains of what the other men’s cocks had buried deeply inside her.
He’s seen the pictures in his father’s study many years before of such women. Their asses seemed to balloon out from the tiniest feet encased in stockings and heels. For years he had dreamed of asking a woman to fulfill this dream, but until Brenda he had never had the courage. He had watched her ass bounce and sway side to side as she jiggled down the hall in the expensive Chanel suits he purchased for her. He had watched her leave the offices of his partners and the members of the board knowing that she had fucked all of them, one by one.
As he looked at the last of the scallops floating in the foam he thought of their come inside her, flowing out and dripping down her immense thighs in thick white foamy strands that he would like to lick clean.
After nine succulent courses he was finished at last. He watched the waiter slowly remove everything and then Dick watched him exit softly with the doorman. The lights glittered all over New York like tiny fireflies in the darkness. He lit a cigar and retired with a brandy on one of the sleek low couches with a catalogue of very fancy European leather fashions he kept locked in his files. It was from the Maison d’Italianese in Paris. They were known for the exquisite bones of their women’s lingerie. They sold only two things. Navy leather or pearl leather. They made only about fifteen items and all of them were available in just these two colors. So fine was the work that one corset might cost upwards of $15,000 American dollars. The Maison was known throughout the world for having the finest attire, just as Dick wanted to be known for having only the finest things, no matter who he had to rape financially to get them.
He smoked slowly as he turned the thick matte glossy pages. The models were presented as he liked them, shown squatting from the rear in their little pearl boots and dangling corset strings or bent over so the full fleshy pink curves were like immense dimpled balloons dancing before him. He intended to choose a corset for Brenda. It would match the shoes he had sent her to get. The shoes with cruel studs and jewels that lined the heels, encrusting them for nine excruciating inches. The shoes that he wanted to worship, lying at her feet while he licked the bottoms clean and kissed the sides. The shoes that she would leave for him so that he could come inside of one while he thought of her over and over and over. Thought about her ass and all the men who were fucking her, all the men that he was in charge of daily, their cocks moving in and out of her leaving trails of shimmering come.
He’d seen them in the men’s room. How large they were as they stood at the urinals next to him, he knew he could never measure up. He could only imagine what it must be like to be them, taking her, fucking her bent over their office desks each afternoon while she held her little red cock-shaped lipstick in her pudgy hand, and her mirror in the other.
The heated thoughts of the men’s cocks plunging had finally done Dick Sesspool in. The images in the catalogue were so large that he placed it over his face, imagining that her buttocks had descended upon him, were sitting on his face, semen dripping all over him as he jerked his nubbin of a two inch cock to a climax, the pearled fluid splishing along his thigh.
Maybe he would give the corset to Brenda as a Halloween gift, that could be a pretense. He could work it out by having a costume party at work, close the offices all day, make sure the two of them were alone with champagne late into the night.
Maybe he could convince her to don a mask, and garter belt, and stockings to go with the shoes. It was two months away. He could find the time to orchestrate it. Maybe he could coax Trent into fucking her first, maybe he could walk in on them accidentally after everyone had a few drinks, maybe it would be Trent’s come dripping out of her that he could taste, like seafoam curling over scallops.