Baner's Slut

The date-rape drugs described here—GHB, MDMA and Meth—are real, just, to my knowledge, never compounded for effects quite like those described.

The carrier DMSO acts exactly as described and has been used as a substance-drug carrier across the skin for years.

I have personal experience with the hypnotic state described here - In the hands of an unethical and skilled master hypnotist one can, over a period of months, actually cause a person to be given a post-hypnotic suggestion from a state of trance, mainly by getting the person to believe that the events and/or persons happen a long time ago and not to be concerned about them... and to forget about the thought as soon as possible.

In like fashion, also as a personal experience, a similar state of obsessive behavior (often financial) can be induced in a person, to cause them to make millions of dollars for someone else while working many overtime hours and making a lot less for themselves.

Hyper-sexuality, or nymphomania, is a real disorder in women. They can become a slut at a moment's notice, but then revert to a posture of innocence in a heartbeat - It is uncommon but not rare.

Other than these facts, this is just a fictional story and shouldn't be believed at all ... or should it?

This is a sex story. There's a lot of it here. For those who still want wall-to-wall ultra-graphic sex on every page, I ask that you get a life. For those who are easily offended because I didn't write exactly what you wanted to read, I'll say the same thing.

*****

I lost my sexy wife to a faceless corporation.

Losing your wife to another man would be devastating. Losing her to another woman, as she acted out a lesbian fantasy, might be worse, as would be losing her to a polyamorous or kinky mix of sexes, or even to a BDSM dungeon of perverts.

But NEVER, in my wildest nightmare fantasies, did I ever even imagine that I could lose my sexy wife of 5 years to a faceless corporate entity called The Bank.

To begin, I'm Casimir Ellis McCorkindale. What can I say? Dad was Scottish and Mom was Polish. Dad was a police detective and Mom worked as a teller in a local bank branch, so I grew up picking up bits and pieces of the police investigative process and more bits about the flow of money and investments that made up a successful bank.

Middle school was the usual hell because of my name and because Dad was, to many in the 70's and 80's, a 'pig cop,' working for 'The Man.'

High school wasn't much better, because, at 6' 6" I towered over all my peers, which led them to think of me as an adult to be avoided, while the shorter adults around me were often intimidated and avoided me too. All of which made me into a loner. Having coke-bottle glasses, being terminally clumsy and a suffering through a severe case of acne didn't help. I didn't date much and jacked off a lot.

Things got better at the tech school I attended for college. I drifted into IT and then, within that area, into forensic computing, which I liked. Sometime while I was in college, they came out with thin polycarbonate lenses and my acne dried up, which let me date more. I eventually got myself a room off-campus, which turned into a six-semester daily screaming, thrashing, orgasming sex-match with my older landlady. I learned a lot about pleasing a woman from her.

I got a B.S. degree and then a M.S. in computer sciences, and, at age 24, I landed a position with a mid-size company, helping track industrial espionage and computer fraud. I was successful, pretty well paid but, at age 27, Mom and Dad died together and the company I worked for was bought out. I got on with my life pretty well, with a moderate inheritance but decided to get out on my own as a consultant to industry. A lean year happened, as I had to learn to market myself, but, by the age of 29, I was earning well.

This, though, led to my meeting Anitra Torsdottir. I was investigating cables for illegal date loggers, working under a desk, when someone sat down there and began to clack a keyboard. Turning, I saw two lovely tanned legs, 'way up to her V pussy, which was well trimmed ... and bare at the slit. Trying to back out (impossible, unless I could seep through a solid wall) I had to come out in front of and below the typist. Blushing, I stuttered an apology, as I tried to get out with my rapidly-growing erection.

She just giggled, and said, "I'm Anitra Torsdottir. You're cute. Did you like what you saw? How about we have lunch, right now. You don't get to lick my pussy until the third date."

Such was my introduction to Anitra as a big flirt (but not a cock tease).

Lunch lead to a kiss. At first a chaste kiss on the cheek. A few seconds later, a full lips kiss. Then a deep tongue kissing investigation as to the state of my tonsils that went on for, oh, forever.

Second date, a few days later, was to a chick-flick movie and dinner, followed by a heavy necking/petting session in my car, resulting in a glorious cock-stroked hand-job for me, with two shattering orgasms for her after my stroking her sopping-wet pussy and clit. I shot all over the steering wheel. It didn't faze her a bit, as she commented on my cock's hardness, length and thickness, as well as how far and how much I came. We even had fun wiping up my jizm off the car's inside windshield ... twice.

Third date, on a Friday, we had a picnic lunch in the park and walked hand-in-hand into some woods where, abruptly, I found myself licking her wet pussy as she had promised, while she did 69 to me, and swallowed every drop. I got her back to her apartment in enough time to fix her dinner. Later, she made me breakfast, declaring that she was completely satisfied, but wanting more. Much more! I doubt that we got dressed more than twice, that weekend. I provided pounding, woman-pleasing sex, until I crawled from her place on Sunday night, an old, totally used-up man. A flirt she was, but also a near-nympho, too.

Fifth date, she showed up with a suitcase in hand and declared that she was moving in with me. Despite the whirlwind of sexing, I discovered Anitra was articulate, liked classical and international music, and that she danced to various streams of rhythm, like flamenco, belly-dance and an expert imitation of exotic/erotic pole dancer and a to-the-nude stripper.

Possibly you've never seen a petite, 4' 10" bundle of lightweight 105 lb. energy, brown hair flying, medium-sized ski-slope shaped boobs with long, sensitive, easily aroused orgasmic nipples ... and totally nude, working her way up, around and down a pole, as she chanted dirty talk and smiled her 100-watt grin at me as she did it.

If not, I strongly recommend you do check someone like that out. Just not with Anitra, I thought then.

I'll save the rest of the gory, sexy details and just say that the wedding took place in about a year, as a small civil ceremony, with a Unitarian pastor and a 10-day honeymoon in the Bahamas. I really never realized just how small a bikini could be, while still (barely) covering protruding nipples and 'the naughty bits' with a bit of cellophane tape to help close her vaginal lips. The tape kept coming off, too, so I'd have to put some more on ... often.

We lived at my apartment for a year, and then bought a small house at the outskirts of the city. Anitra proved unable to carry a child to term and so, with tears and a brief depression, got her tubes tied. I did my IT consulting from home, traveling to on-site work now and then, as needed. She continued to work for The Bank (capitals demanded, she said) and received several promotions.

I even was contracted by The Bank to do a bit of IT fraud and sabotage work there, and was issued an admit card to the system and back stairs. I found nothing special, and reported so. We sexed at least four times a week, with Anitra still screaming and orgasming every couple of minutes, no matter how long I held out.

Up to our last 2 years, we were doing well and I had no complaints.

Boy was I stupid, as it turned out.

The problems slowly started when Anitra was promoted to a team research position at The Bank, doing investigative studies into sub-prime real estate mortgages, derivatives and 'tranches' (whatever they were). She formed a research team, to include two favorite people: a team leader named Ahmed Momed (from Texas) and, for her personal assistant, a Harriet somebody. First, it was just the 3 of them. Then they added three more analysts, including a sixth guy that advised on the entertainment industry and another, for a 7th, who advised on industrial chemicals and the science industries in general. Finally, there were 11 analysts working under Ahmed plus Anitra and her BFF Harriet.

It was shortly after a big research project and subsequent team party (which I didn't attend, being out of town that evening) that I started to notice a change coming over my Anitra. She started to wear a pager even at home, and often I heard the by now-hated ring/beep, as she was informed of a 'problem' at The Bank and had to leave immediately to take care of it.

If she didn't respond fast enough, Harriet called her on her cell-phone, and detailed what the problem was. The words were meaningless to me, as I'd never been in high-finance before, but they resulted in my wife going off at all hours of the night after work, and staying late, often until the wee hours. Then she'd come home, exhausted, but still smelling fresh and showered, as she had a complete bathroom in her executive's office.

I worried, especially as she started putting in 50- and then 60-hour work weeks. Our sexing fell off to low levels, as she slept all of Friday nights and well into Saturday. The next blow was that, over the course of a couple of months, Anitra started needing to sleep over on the job, which she could do because there was a comfortable couch in her office. First it was just the occasional overnight , then a couple of nights and finally three nights in a row. I knew she'd be well fed in the executive dining cafeteria, and she had good access to the executive gym for exercise and the spa, for tanning, but still, I continued worried and with a growing fear that my lovely, flirty wife was having a long-term sex-affair at The Bank.

The trouble as that all the other signs of her having sex weren't there. There was no criticisms or sniping when we were together. No hidden lingerie. No condoms cached in her purse. No semen-crusted panties in the wash (trouble was that she usually didn't wear any, and no bra hardly ever, since her boobs set up high on her chest). No calls on her cell phone to unknown numbers, made or received. No whispered stuff while I 'wasn't listening'. No bottles or packets of sex-lube. No anything that even whispered of sex outside of my cock in her, now rarely.

Just an increasingly absent wife and a steadily decreasing chance to sex the wanton wench.

But, about this time, her conversation began to be one-sided. She talked endlessly about The Bank. About debentures. About stock transfers. About short sales of risky investments. About profit margins. About anything reeking of finance, and profit to The Bank. When I'd try to re-direct the conversation to any other subject, including my work, home or even sex, it was suddenly as if I'd started speaking Urdu or Mandarin Chinese. She'd just wait until I ran down and then pick up of when she left off ... sub-prime mortgage debt ... hedge fund investment ... money flows ... until time for bed, when she'd fall deeply asleep with no cuddling or sexing.

I even mentioned a trial separation or divorce, once, but she still just sat there, slightly smiling, silent, and then continuing on about her commitment to The Bank's profit spreadsheets and how 'serving The Bank was the highest pleasure and duty she could imagine.' I was sure she was having an affair, probably with one of the older Board of Directors and probably screwing her way to the 'top', but, again, there was no proof.

Her pager kept going off, to the point I imagined there was a 'malign presence' of The Bank in our house, doing its best to prevent us from having sex or even a cuddle in the bedroom.

I finally had a belly-full, one afternoon when we had a rare chance to cuddle and have sex. Clothes were thrown off as we got back to the master bedroom, and I was plunging into her in a agony of relief. Within a few minutes, with Anitra screaming on her third orgasm in six minutes. I was erect and swelling for the final thrust when

BEEP, her pager went off and—I do not kid you—my hyper-sexed wife pulled herself off my rigid, about-to-cum cock, pulled on a shirt of mine, grabbed up a pair of jeans, and then ran out of the house and into her car, nearly naked, screaming something about 'serving the needs of The Bank was her greatest duty and pleasure'.

That was the last time I personally heard from or touched Anitra.

She was gone an entire week. She never answered my dozens of phone calls. After the 8th day, I got a recorded message, saying that 'this service had been cut off, at the request of the user.'

My life was suddenly shit and my marriage to the most desirable flirt I've ever met was detonated toast. I hated The Bank for what it had done to Anitra and me. I wanted revenge.

Well, I got it, kinda, sorta ... but not as I remembered who and what she was!

——————————.

Feeling oddly calm and disinterested, I went to the kitchen to have a beer, and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. Then, abruptly, I thought, "when did we get smoke detectors put up in the house. I didn't remember doing it and Anitra, for all her expertise with financial documents and investments, didn't know one end of a screwdriver from the other." Looking closely, I traced faint lines from the ceiling detector over to the house wiring. Frowning, I went from room to room of our house, to find a house-current activated detector in every room, including the garage and utility room. What was going on here?

I waited until full dark, just sitting around, then putting on my non-reflective black 'ninja' suit (for when I had to do my forensic IT work undisturbed at night for a client). I went to the main circuit breaker panel and flipped off the main circuit breaker, even pulling it out to insure that there was no electricity for the entire house, inside and outside. Moving through the rooms with a powerful flashlight, I climbed on a small step-stool and pulled the covers off each detector.

Looky, looky, when I found four high-def sub-miniature video cameras for each 'detector'. I traced the video leads to a very small but expensive transmitter, also powered by house electricity, feeding a high-end fiberoptic cable.

Oh, yes, there was a 'malign presence' in our house, recording every moment of closeness between Anitra and me. Probably some perverts from The Bank on the other end of the terminal, laughing and smirking as they activated her pager, time after time, whenever we started to get sexy.

Using some sensitive instruments in my professional tool bag, I easily figured out that my car had been fitted with a GPS monitor, and that my tool bag was fitted the same way. These I disabled. Checking carefully, and now knowing what to look for, I detected signs that there had been a try at prying open the heavy door of my home 'workshop' . This had failed, because of my near armored construction and because the inside was a double copper-mesh Faraday Cage, double-grounded to earth, as a precaution against electronic snooping. All my computer files were double encrypted with a private/public key and were not hacked, and attempts to install a data-line key logger were foiled, as well, by my continued use of anti-hacker utilities.

Now at a slow red burn, I waited until the next day. Then, late in the afternoon, I took three random cab rides, to the back emergency fire-escape stair of The Bank. One quick jumper cable across terminals defeated the simple alarm system. Once inside, I found the remote panel and disabled all the cameras in the stairwell. Then, climbing to the 6th floor, I went to the back door of Anitra's office, remembered so well from my last visit there.

Opening the door by a crack, I saw my lovely wife's backside, keyboarding away at her desk terminal ... sitting there stark naked, with her tits bouncing in excitement. Through the open office door, her personal assistant Harriet came through, also nude, and opened a big cabinet along the wall, next to a door, just ajar. Harriet reached into a large box snd took out a small item, like a smoker's nicotine patch. Then she opened a packet of alcohol wipe, which I smelled and cleaned a place of Anitra's bare flank. She peeled off the protective backing and affixed the dermal patch to Anitra's skin, saying, "OK, girl, lets go and get you some good guys to help you serve ... The Bank."

Anitra got up with Harriet and gently swayed out of the office, wearing, I could see now, a pair of come-fuck-me pumps with stiletto heels. She seemed calm, wearing nothing but the shoes and a giggly smile.

I darted into the office and, looking around, saw the other door ajar. Checking inside, I found a very high-end high-def set of videocams, complete with full color and audio. I was familiar with all of this, through my IT work, so it was the work of moments to turn on the sound and cameras, and to figure out the zooms, angles and such.

I caught Anitra and Harriet, still nude, as they walked up to the research department's big worktable. Waiting there were Ahmed and the other 12 guys and girls, all naked and with the guys sporting big erections. There were three older men and a few guys of middle age. It looked like my wife was gonna be a sex-slut in a corporate orgy.

Ahmed gestured to Harriet, who said to Anitra, "WHISKEY TANGO FUBAR". Anitra blinked, and then her face changed, lips pouting and opening a little as she said, "OOOHH KAY, lots of cocks here. Let's PARTY!" Then my ex-wife-to-be became a super-slut, as she started to nakedly pose for the horny men, posturing and hip swinging. She got down on all fours and, on the table surface, crawled around, hips thrusting and ass in the air, licking cock-heads presented to her. In about ten minutes, she'd orally serviced two dozen men and a few women.

She lay back on a thin mattress. Threw her head back. Arched her back, thrusting her boobs up, and pulling on her already-distended nipples. Worked her humping hips in a parody of loving sex. Raised her legs and opened them in a wide 'V.' Last she reached down, along the tops of her legs, right along her hips and, with her fingertips, pulled at the flesh around her cunt (loving wives have pussies, but slut-whores have cunts), exposing the bright pink inner lips and open fucking tunnel, now drooling with slippery juice.

She screamed, "Fuck me. Fuck Me. FUCK ME. Please, somebody, anybody, I don't care, COME AND FUCK ME NOW!!"

Ahmed did, bareback, with his all-too-average 6" dick, which he entered and pounded into her, as she licked Harriet's pussy from below, while all the others gathered round and watched, making crude comments and cheering. It only took about three agonizing minutes before Ahmed came inside Anitra's wide open cunt, pumping semen into what had been my loving, faithful wife's unprotected pussy. Harriet cried out in orgasm, and squirted all over Anitra's face and torso, soaking her up-thrust tits.

Then the rest of the crew started to gang-bang my soon-to-be-divorced hot-wife. She was penetrated by ones, twos and by three men at once. All of her holes were filled, over and over, with spurting jizm. Her tits were squeezed and her nipples pulled, twisted and sucked. She drew men into her sucking ass, and the semen of each shot into her ass oozed out. She took cock after cock and deep-sucked each, swallowing a lot but loosing some, to spill out of her mouth and drool down her chin, dripping off over her up-thrust tits.