textfiles/sex/EROTICA/E/executiv.txt

                  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..."