This is the continuing story of Beth Sands, a sexy company president, and her domination of Michael, a young employee she'd enslaved with her sexy calves, socks and feet. It's helpful to have read the prior stories but that's the nutshell summary. This chapter contains more of the same - female domination of a male, with enforced cum-eating and oral slavery - and contains male-to-male sexual contact. Please enjoy if this sort of thing appeals to you, I offer the synopsis as warning to those who may not, and enticement to those who do...
*****
Michael wanted the job as Elizabeth Sands' administrative assistant more than anything in the world. Wasn't what he'd been through enough proof of that?
He'd become her slave, her willing and eager and thoroughly humiliated sex slave, taken prisoner by her dominant mind, her incredible, lean and strong 60-year-old body, spectacular calves, her smelly black socks and hairy pussy and commanding asshole.
He'd done everything he'd been told to do, which this night consisted of sucking another man's cock as he was blindfolded, and eating his cum as his leggy boss jerked the man off with her solid, superbly proficient calves.
Now he walked out of the restaurant's back room of the hotel where his humiliation had begun the night before, on his way to her penthouse suite where she waited with Bradford, the impossibly annoying suck-up kiss-ass who was after the job as well, and whose spunk Michael was still wiping off his face.
And all he could think of was how much he wanted the job - and to continue as her very submissive, eager sex slave to her lovely calves, sinfully smelly socks and deliciously dominant mind. He wasn't sure which he wanted more - and then was rattled by the realization he wanted the latter more than the former.
"God, what the fuck's happening to me?" he groaned, punching the elevator in the hotel lobby outside the restaurant he'd just been shamed in, feeling his cock stiffening in his pants. "Christ..."
He got into the elevator and pressed the key to the penthouse on the 30th floor. It wouldn't light up. He pressed it again and again, getting more frustrated. A hotel worker walked into the car, and Michael asked him what was wrong with it.
"Are you a guest in the room?" the snooty punk asked indifferently.
"Yeah," Michael lied.
"You have to swipe your key card to access the penthouse," the punk said, pointing to the holder.
"I'm a guest of the hotel..but not the...but my boss is there, I'm supposed to go..to have a meeting, now," Michael said.
"Then you'll have to call your boss to come down and get you, won't you," the punk said, holding the door open for Michael, cocking his head outward as signal he exit the elevator and stop bothering him. "House phone is right there."
He pointed to a nearby table as the door closed, a snarky smile on his face as Michael stepped out. He picked up the phone and rang the penthouse.
"Hello, Mrs. Sands' assistant, may I help you?" Bradford's bright voice answered
His heart sank.
"What the fuck, you're not her assistant yet, asshole," Michael snapped.
"Oh, Michael, how good to hear from you, we thought you'd forgotten," Bradford laughed, Michael's heart sinking further, sensing by the 'we' that his ship had sailed. "What's kept you?"
"Look, you fucking kiss ass, I'm trying to get the fuck up there, but I can't because you need a fucking room key card to use in the elevator, so get your sorry fucking ass down here now, goddammit!"
"Michael, do you think that's the tone of voice you want to use with me?"
Beth Sands' voice was icy cold. Bradford had passed off the phone.
"No! God, no, Bet...Mother, I'm so sorry, it's just that..." he babbled, using the name she insisted he call her since she started tormenting him the night before.
"You need a keycard, right? Well, I'm certainly not coming to fetch you, and young Bradford here...well...," she hissed, Michael's imagination running wild with what young Bradford was doing at the moment, likely pawing at her luscious body as they both mocked him. "He's busy at the moment...mmmm, that's nice, Bradford, you do such good work, you're so good with your hands!"
"But..." Michael stammered.
"Take the stairs," she growled before slamming down the phone. "If you're not here in three minutes, I'll assume you don't want the job that Bradford is so eagerly applying for!"
"But!"
Click. But not before he heard Bradford's sycophantic laughter.
"Mother fucker!" he snapped, bolting for the staircase.
He ran as fast as he could, taking two and sometimes three steps at once. He was in good shape, young, fit, he knew he could do 30 floors in three minutes. He calculated as he ran, but with every floor, he slowed, tiring. He looked at his watch as he jogged, sweat pouring off his face. He made the 20th floor in a couple of minutes, and knew he'd be fucked if he didn't pick up the pace. He forced his legs to move swiftly, panting for air, his clothes soaked with perspiration.
He made the 30th floor, finally, but to his horror noting he was 30 seconds behind. He leaned on the penthouse door, gasping for air and pounding on it as well as ringing the bell.
The door opened. Beth Sands stood, still in the same black business suit she'd been wearing all day and through dinner. She was barefoot, save for those familiar, nasty black socks. She did not look pleased.
"You're late," she said plainly. "Thirty-seconds late. But you made a valiant effort, and that counts for you. Your tardiness counts against you. What you do in this room will make all the difference. Come in, and do go freshen up, I don't want you dripping your sweat all over the place."
"Tha...tha..." he wheezed, walking in, the door closing behind him.
He staggered to the hallway bathroom, dousing his face and cleaning up with a towel. From the majestic living area he heard laughter and low voices, the tinkling of glasses and the vision of his professional future dimming by the second.
He walked into the room where Bradford and Beth were sitting quite cozily on the sofa, drinking champagne. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, his breathing still labored.
