Fully recovered and refreshed from his visit to Henry’s House, Simon Hargreaves gently sat down on his father’s old padded leather chair, trying not to do anymore damage to his already throbbing nether regions. With his balls burning from a whacking of a studded leather paddle, Simon needed some refreshment to recuperate and get his mind back into business mode.
Having buzzed for afternoon tea, a few minutes later, the heavy leather panelled door of his office opened and his devoted secretary, Miss Robinson, with a pair of solid black rimmed glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose and who was a member of the twin set and pearls brigade, entered the dusty office with an antique silver tray laden with jam sandwiches and a pot of Earl Grey tea. Smiling quietly to Simon, the middle aged woman placed the tray meekly on the desk and then scurried away, quickly retreating back to her computer.
Though just as he was about to bite into his crust removed triangular fluffy white sandwiches, when Miss Robinson, flushed from rushing around as wisps of mousy brown hair straying from her French pleat, returned carrying a stack of paper work.
‘Thank you Miss Robinson,’ Simon acknowledged her offerings. ‘If anyone wants me, I’m in a meeting and not to be disturbed.’
‘Of course. And when will this meeting conclude?’
‘As soon as I’ve finished these delightful treats,’ he said, grasping a delicate sandwich.
‘Very well.’ She knew the routine all too well.
‘That’ll be all for now,’ he said, beckoning her to leave.
And to his amusement, she obeyed his commands as he watched the bespectacled dull woman scamper away and close the door behind her.
Stupid woman he thought, though deep down he was glad that he had a secretary like Miss Robinson.
True, she wasn’t an oil painting, or even a soggy water colour that had been painted by a five year old child. And true, in a plain Jane nondescript kind of way, she never showered Simon with any signs of a voluptuous verbal transaction, or any flecks of bite sized interpersonal skills that lurked within her bland, cardboard box-like personality.
But the main qualities that were endearing, personified Miss Robinson to the letter, by the way she was superefficient, reliable, dependable and extremely trust worthy. Not like some of the atrocities that were sent to him from the so called upper drawer temp agencies.
In the past whilst Miss Robinson and the other two secretaries to Angus Mc Greggar, the middle accountant who dealt with a stream of reliable corporate clients and a smattering of small businesses, and Giles Henworthy, the junior accountant of the well-oiled team, who specialized in looking after a select few of irresponsible showbiz personalities, were away on holiday, the boys needed temporary cover and some of the temps they had been given were certainly not up to their high calibre. In fact, some of them were so wet behind the ears that they didn’t know if they were coming or going!
But for one little fat girl had made Simon cum! And not by her own choice, the poor innocent thing. At that time, when he was having marital problems, Simon had been given the nod that could change his life and fortunes by having a rare chance to join a men only secret society where just to be considered for the elitist membership and to be put on their waiting list, a £5,000 donation to their cause was needed.
Having passed the first round approximately five years ago, Simon was sent a black envelope with the initials M.A.N. printed in gold on the back. This is what he had been waiting for, the invitation from Masters Above Nations. Enclosed were vivid instructions on what he had to do, the date of when he had to do it and a £10,000 payment demand simply to attend the evening event.
A few weeks after the cheque had cleared, the time had come for Simon to attend the initiation masked as a black tie dinner and dance. With a suitable partner in crime in mind, Simon invited the young temp to be his plus one. She gladly accepted.
The first part of the evening went well as the select, invited guests enjoyed the good food, drinks and networking opportunities. Once everyone had finished their meals and the dancing had started, a senior member of the group pulled out the candidates and ushered them into another room. Each of the candidates were then given a blindfold to put on and were ordered to sit outside of the room until required.
Simon smiled as he knew what he had to do.
Minutes later, Simon’s name was called. He stood up and was escorted to a large wooded door. He reached out and knocked.
‘Come in,’ he heard.
The usher opened the door and led Simon into a darkly lit room with a bed in the middle. The door closed behind him as Simon was left standing alone.
‘Are you man enough to join our organisation?’ bellowed a deep voice from the dark.
‘Yes I am,’ replied Simon, knowing what to say.
‘Are you willing to do whatever is asked of you?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Even if it’s against your beliefs?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Are you ready and willing to prove your devotion to the organisation?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Then remove your mask.’
Simon obeyed the ominous voice and removed his blindfold. There in front of him was his plus one, the drunk young temp, forcibly tied up and naked on the bed.
‘You know what to do.’
The poor temp. She had no idea of what she had done when she had accepted Simon’s dinner invitation. Only Simon knew of the real intent and his true intention was now squirming on the bed. She was his contract. His passageway to his Heaven. She was just a piece of meat for him to abuse in order to be accepted into the dark, controlling organisation that ruled many businesses, politics and countries.
He knew what he had to do. It wasn’t pleasant. It was downright disgusting, terrible and horrific, but he looked at it simply as a task. An unusual task that had to be done.
Having forcefully fucked the innocent girl through the folds of her blubber to the wild applause of the audience which had sat quietly within the shadows, the initiation ceremony was complete.
Straight away the committee accepted him with open arms and thanked him for a marvellous show. And when his membership was immediately accepted on the spot, the young temp was untied, clothed and tossed aside into a dingy side ally like a used soiled tissue. It was a most horrendous incident for the young girl as it had changed her world and had scared her emotionally for life.
But it was completely different for him. Simon didn’t care about her feelings. The girl was just a vacant hole, a play thing for him to use and abuse. She was just a meal ticket to get into the club and feast on the sumptuous, willing pieces of flesh that lined the walls, the bars and bonkettes.
Simon made sure that his satisfaction from sex came first. He was a selfish bastard who always looked after number one. He never cared for anyone else for that matter, except for one person. His father.
Training his thoughts back into the room, Simon picked up his silver letter knife and with total precision, slit open the first envelope like a surgeon cutting open his patient’s stomach. Simon scanned the document and abruptly stopped in the middle as his disbelieving eyes fell on some bad news.
His stomach churned as if he was riding on a monster roller coaster, hurtling down the fragile looking steep tracks at a tremendous speed, holding on for dear life as he pulled high G’s around the tight, vertical banks whilst his shuddering body experienced the mind blowing death defying loops and origami style inversions.
Feeling very queasy, Simon slowly looked up from the letter and felt the colour drain from his weasel looking face, tasting the bile in his scrawny throat after the juddering journey.
To his horror, his ex-wife, the bitch from hell was demanding £30,000 from him. Apparently the money was to buy a completely new wardrobe of hand sewn original chakra cleansing natural fibre clothes designed by the luscious Chantra Violet, a thirty-something Scandinavian hippie chick and self-confessed sun child.
Also, Daphne needed the money for one, to sustain her weekly chakra massages that maintained the vital balance of her ying and yang. And two, to finance her essential reflexology treatments, her crystal healing workshop and cosmic colour breathing home study course.
But most of all, she had booked a fifteen day Ga Ga retreat to the Hollywood Hills in La La Land, Los Angeles, California where, in the spirit of communal communication and in the midst of a pre-fabricated multi-million dollar gothic style castle, Daphne would float about literally in a cloth sack on a detoxify your inner child self-awareness course which included the A List showbiz must do latest craze, how to release your negativity through the art of meditation, chanting and aura massaging in three easy stages.
Her mentor, the mighty Iam Coningu, a leading guru in the cosmic field of new age living and teaching was the specialist in America and she simply had to let him stimulate her brain cells with his ultimate knowledge of the universe and beyond, and manipulate her senses, energize her deflated batteries and open her vision into the mysticism of the other world.
Learn how to release her negativity my arse Simon thought as he screwed up the letter and tossed it in the dented metal waste paper bin. The fucking bitch needs to keep her negativity in! Not let the whole world see how much of a sucker she could be. But then again, she wasn’t much of a sucker with me nor for my little soldier, so why not let the bitch make a fool of herself? It could be rather entertaining. And I do need cheering up? But not for £30,000. So she can jump or levitate for all I care!
Realizing that Daphne was a hardnosed cunt, deep down he knew that her blackmail note was true. She wanted the money by the end of the week or otherwise she’d let out his dirty secret and the endless stories concerning his caveman sex life. And he knew from past experiences that she would stop at nothing until she got what she wanted.
Bitch! Where the hell am going to find that amount of money in such a short space of time? He caved in to her demands, yet again.
Tiny beads of sweat leaked out from his forehead as his calculating mind evaluated the problem, bouncing it about in his pounding head. He leant back in his large black leather chair, swivelled to face the window and pulled open the dusty brown blinds. Deep in thought, he stared across the busy square, watching the hustle and bustle of its inhabitants like tiny worker ants, scurrying to and fro, when his eyes came to rest on a small building opposite.
A wicked grin accumulated across his slimy face, knowing it was time to bump up the ante. His despicable mind quickly unfolded the ideal solution, for his special system of borrowing money in the past had worked fine and brought huge rewards. So he hoped that the unique scheme could once again work out in his favour as he needed a lot of money very quickly. And like now.
He already knew the perfect, undetectable place from where to acquire some ready money. Only this time, he would have to be extra careful and not get caught out.
And like before, he had covered his tracks perfectly in the transitional period and made a hefty profit in the process, so why not try again? Why not?
The plan was easy.
The plan was simple.
The plan was perfect.
But this time the stakes were far, far bigger and he could easily get caught out. He knew this, but he was willing to take the risk. Not just for his ex-wife’s sake, but for his sake too.
Simon yearned to break free from the blood sucking clutches of his ex-wife, only to enjoy some sort of independence. So he hoped that his artistic accountancy plan would do the trick.
Now that he had found the solution to the problem, he decided to make the bitch from hell wait a while and treat himself for once. So he called his Saville Row tailor, Gieves and Hawkes and ordered two pairs of suits, one regulation pin stripe, and one plain black.
After his expensive conversation over the telephone, he continued his self-indulgence behaviour to break the law by opening his special wooden case and pulled out a beautiful Havana cigar.
Taking great care to enjoy the ritual to the limits, Simon carefully rubbed the cigar close to his ear and listened to the perfect sound as it whispered sweet nothings to his slimy soul. Pleased with what he had heard, he then ran the tight leaf packet slowly under his nose, taking in the sweet exotic perfume as it enthused his desires and satisfied his animalistic craving.
Next he carefully shaved the end off with his gold cigar slicer and lit it in a rather theatrical manner, something that was against his nature. Taking exaggerated puffs on the phallic cigar, he inhaled the tobacco down to his contaminated lungs, clogging and filling them up with more expensive poison. As soon as he was ready, he slowly released the thick aromatic smoke through his thin, dry lips, blowing the noxious clouds out and filled the old fashioned office with a dark blanket of pollution.
With a sense of total release enrapturing his despicable body, crawling through every contemptible crevice to finally arrive at his corrupt and evil soul, a soul that was wrapped up in a contract signed in blood and was sold to the devil, Simon relished in the rich, intoxicating fumes as it saturated the stale surroundings and the sickly stained fluorescent lined ceiling. With his Oxford shoes covered feet resting on the edge of his desk and his arms clutched behind his head, Simon imagined that the smoke represented the sweet smell of success as a false sense of celebration hung low over his entire office and over himself, unwittingly suffocating him with a dose of artificial hope and a case of poor insight.
Not thinking clearly, Simon turned his dastardly thoughts to the matter in hand of raising the cash and knew instinctively what to do.
But before any of that could happen, he decided it was his turn to make the bitch from hell squirm.
It was his turn to have some fun!
After his unusual morning television programme, the de-brief and the same old heated discussions that constantly cropped up about the next edition of Daily Delights, Bradley Walters had relocated studios from the South Bank to Majestic Television’s smaller studios in the centre of London, in preparation for filming funky links and voice-overs for ‘Mad on Machines’, a late night bachelor style programme about men who were mad on machinery and anything else that was loosely associated with them.
Freshly powdered up on coke and tripping the light fantastic, Bradley, with his eyes closed and his mouth ajar in ecstasy, lounged on a small brown shabby velour covered armchair in the tiny dressing room on the fourth floor as Paige, a 20 year old eager beaver redhead on work release from Slap!, London’s top TV and film make up college, diligently caressed his throbbing manhood with her delicate and dexterous lips.
Mentally thanking her training college for the privilege of being able to work on such a great man, and for Bradley to allow her to show her appreciation, Paige peered through her long, seductive eyelashes with her sparkling green eyes and gazed lovingly up at Bradley, as her sweet rosebud lips released his red raw cock, leaving behind a slimy thread of saliva and pre cum as it escaped out of the side of her vamp-like red lipstick smudged mouth and trickled down her chin.
Bradley looked down at the obeying waif with his twinkling brown eyes and wiped the hair from her sweaty brow.
‘Don’t stop,’ he groaned, as he opened his strong tanned thighs even wider, exposing his wet rampant sex weapon to the cool temperature of the air conditioned room.
Continuing her quest and following his commands by giving head, as she was too afraid of disappointing the TV star, though secretly enjoyed the unusual work experience, Paige closed her eyes, leant forward and gloriously drank up his unique musky bouquet that radiated from his groin to intoxicate her flaring nostrils.
Though when she opened her eyes and was ready to give Bradley a second edition of her A1 lip service treatment, she had expected to see his piece of meat standing to attention, but discovered that his cock had started to whither whilst waiting for her to continue with her all important job.
Smiling back at the love God, Paige seductively licked her finger like a naughty school girl from St. Trinian’s and soaked it salaciously with gallons of spit. Fascinated with the quick deflation, Paige quickly got back on the job by pulling down Bradley’s foreskin. She then slowly circled his helmet with her moist finger and within seconds had successfully brought him back to life.
Bradley groaned with delight as the snake charmer worked her magic spell on him, hypnotizing his thick snake with her expert commands and the dexterity of her finger. His low moans rang around the room as she gripped his cock and lightly kissed the bulb of his swollen knob, holding total control over him and making him squirm with ecstasy.
Then she opened her mouth and let the hard monster slip inside her. Bradley leant back into the chair, grabbed her curly red hair with his strong, but shaky hands and pulled her head onto his cock, thrusting his groin into her heavily made up face. Harder and harder she pumped down his thick shaft, milking his udder, sucking out his spicy juices and trying not to gag as his horny friend pummelled the back of her aching throat.
But just as he was on the precipice of exploding his sticky lava out of his quivering volcano and into the dark ravines of her vacuum guzzling mouth, when the theme tune to EastEnders merrily bleeped on his mobile phone, causing him to abruptly halt his actions momentarily.
‘Shit!’ he blasphemed as he automatically answered the call.
‘Hello Bradley. Remember me?’ spat an aristocratic voice down his ear.
A sharp pain of terror ran up his spine with fear. He froze. But his loins didn’t. His cock clicked onto automatic pilot and spurted cum into Paige’s mouth.
‘Yeah. Whad’ya want?’ he grunted with pleasure as he bucked about in the chair.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten our agreement, Bradley? I will be very cross if you don’t repay the money you owe me by the end of the week, or otherwise I will simply have to take the matter further and cut our association off completely. Understand? Saturday 5 p.m. Sharp!’ the voice commanded as they hung up on him by not waiting for his reply.
Shit. That’s all I need and especially now he thought about the ominous call as he watched Paige wipe his dripping love juices from her glowing face with the back of her hand.
‘That’s enough for now baby,’ he said pulling up his pants and his tight black Armani jeans.
‘But I can do more sugar, much more,’ she purred, crawling up his aching body, frantically flapping her skilful tongue at him.
‘Not now…I’ve…er…got to go somewhere,’ he spluttered, trying to push away the love beast in front of him.
Paige hoisted up her micro mini skirt around her waist and flashed her curly red hungry pussy. She pushed Bradley forcefully into the chair and straddled his hard thighs.
‘Not so fast Bradders. I’m horny!’
‘Me too. But it’s just that I’ve just got an important appointment to keep,’ he said trying to look at his Jaeger Le Coutre watch.
‘That’s right sugar lips, with me!’
Bradley was stuck. His arms were pinned down by Paige’s hands and her moist tongue explored deep into his mouth, searching the canyons of the unknown. He didn’t know what to do. His intoxicated head was buzzing, mixed with confusion and cocaine. He looked up as the dressing room seemed to spin round at top speed, dazzling him with bright zany colours like he was floating inside a psychedelic lava lamp.
Suddenly he felt a sharp breeze across his chest as Paige ripped open his Versace shirt, firing buttons in every direction. His heart pounded with excitement. He was gagging for her to take him, ride him like a bucking bronco at a rodeo and take him on a journey of pleasure, but the coke trip he was experiencing was too much for him as his doped up brain was trying to scramble together any lurking thoughts and come up with a solution.
Instinctively he knew what to do.
It was the only solution.
Bradley gripped her arse as Paige climbed aboard the sweating writhing body underneath her. She parted her legs and straddled her target. Smiling down at her prey, she mounted the six foot stallion and slowly glided down onto his sore, wet pole, enjoying the emerging sensation as his thick hot piece of flesh entered her wanton body.
For a second she sat still on him, allowing Bradley to take a breather. Then without any warning, she started to grind her hips, gently rubbing his cock up and down, first with slow long gliding movements, then gradually building up, generating energy and stimulation, ending up as she furiously pumped up and down on his erect cock.
He knew he was weak, but he decided to let his balls come up with the answer. After all, his manhood normally ruled his head.
Why change an institution?