A Satyr in Full

Satyr n.:

1) hairy one. Mentioned in Greek mythology as a demigod composed of a man and a goat.

2) A man whose licentious behavior mostly resembles that of the Sylvan deity (

see

Tim Crane Jr.).

* * * * *

At the divorce hearing my future ex-wife Maria said through her Zsa Zsa Gabor accent and thick blood red lips, "heez built like a cardboard box on veelz." And she was right. I am short from pygmy genetics, square from an attempt at division three college football, and brown because my White momma liked Black men. My ex also didn't fail to tell the judge that I possess the hypersexuality of Don Juan tweeking on Viagra and yohimbe milkshakes in a Bangkok bordello. And though she couldn't give me what I needed, she thought it wasn't quite right that I "fuck Ana (her twin sister), Teresa (the older sister with the mastectomy), Katerina (I loved mom), and Rosaria (the plump Mexican housekeeper) like common whorz." She took everything including my job as a junior partner in her father's law firm. I wasn't bitter, but I was 31, newly poor, homeless,

and

Mercedes-less. I was now exiled from the cabal of downtown lawyers. All that could change had to change. Especially the car part, Timothy Julius Crane Jr. does not travel by bus. But I had to that Friday when I went to Royal Chevrolet-Cadillac to pick out a new ride.

I wanted a new Corvette, but I got a used Cavalier. It's all I could get with the cash I wrestled from my ex-wife in the agreement. It was a convertible though, so the world could see what a block shaped loser I am. In the waiting room of the finance office my eyes caught hold of a young blonde, 20 at most, with short shorts and a yellow Hello Kitty top. I wanted her. I could imagine taking her in the backseat of my new / used Cavalier. Making her suck my cock until I blew so much effluence in her shiny strawberry hair that she'd swear it was shampoo. That is...until her husband or uncle Chester or whatever sat down real close in the next scoop fiberglass seat and whispered something that tickled in her ear. She smiled and clinched her tiny Powerpuff Girls backpack-purse. I shrank into my seat. Other than Britney and Chester the waiting room was empty until a large woman dressed in a long-sleeve black crinkle velvet dress walked in.

Her black bunned Victorian countenance darkened the room. Her antique dress fastened tight at the neck, spread smoothly over an ample bosom, cinched at the waist and nearly dusted the floor over the tops of her spiked lace-up boots. She was big and tall, maybe fifty, matronly attractive--like Jane Seymour as a size 16; milky alabaster skinned, and rich. The ridiculous ring on her right hand gave away her status.

"Colombian emerald, five carats, marquis cut, white gold setting," I said. She looked at me in a way I haven't seen since I was 13 and caught masturbating to a padded bra ad in a Sears catalog. She pursed her lips to say something but declined. The gray polyester clad finance guy interrupted, "Ms. Morgan, we got you all ready, come on in."

Ms. Morgan stood and strode majestically toward the finance office. I hadn't noticed it before she sat down, but her ass was enormous! I imagined her harboring a nest of blue birds in the bush between her cheeks and never knowing that they were there. Before she entered the office I caught her sharply beaming over her shoulder, countering my obvious stare, establishing what I would later come to understand as her dominance.

Britney and uncle Chester were pissed. How could the old lady have gone ahead of them? It didn't matter for long because no sooner had she entered than she left, finance manager in tow. He was begging her to have a seat, that he'd lose the warranty or change the rate or some other shit. Ms. Morgan wasn't having any of it. She shouted the magical words that forever engendered my servitude: "You'll see my lawyer!"

I settled the dispute for her. Right then, right there, with the efficiency and decorum that normally had alluded me in my short law career. Alexandra Morgan, distant, distant descendant of 19

th

century robber baron J. Pierpont Morgan and queen of retail dry cleaning in the tri-state area, made me her lieutenant. But life was not easy as the assistant to someone with the power and suspicions and appetites of Alexandra Morgan.

I moved into the guest floor of her suite atop the Morgan Commons Hotel on the third day. The first week consisted of simple matters like drawing up eviction notices for the slack dwellers of her rental properties. All of the tenants paid up or moved out but one, this trio of chemistry students I dubbed the Gorgon Girls. They refused to answer the door yet always pressed their faces against the glass of the far bedroom window. As I backed out of the driveway their distorted faces and unkempt hair reminded me of the sisters of Medusa.

In the end, I staked out their cars, following them to work just to speak with one. I caught up with the chubby, Goth Korean girl, Natalie, at an S&M club where she worked as a bartender. Natalie cited state law chapter and verse that 'a written notice of eviction must be served at the tenant's home in person.' She stated that she didn't care who the evil witch sent, they'd pay when they were goddamn ready. I retreated, figuring that she and her friends must be veteran rent squatters.

After work I normally swam or lifted weights then ate dinner with Alexandra and her regional managers in the hotel restaurant at night. These were middle-aged men who feared their master's shadow. I shared no such dread. I, Tim Crane Jr., had successfully bounded from rich bitch to even richer bitch without touching ground. I did not sense the reason for their fear, although I did find it strange she wore a version of that full-length black dress everyday.

I asked around the hotel about the dress and roots of Alexandra Morgan. I got conflicting stories from everyone it seemed. The Guatemalan gardeners said she was an ex-communicated

monja

, a nun, who had left the order for a man who died and left her a rich widow. The Puerto Rican laundress swore Alexandra had never married but was raised in a New Orleans convent run by the strict Ursuline order. She claimed that the money initially came from the inheritance of a rich uncle but had flowered into an empire built upon the sweat of immigrant labor. I got the whole truth from a private investigator who owed me a favor: Alexandra Taylor Morgan was sent to live with the Ursuline order at the tender age of 13 after awarding blowjobs to her father's board of directors like handshakes. She later attended college at Loyola of New Orleans but was expelled for running an escort service specializing in discipline. Alexandra Morgan finally took a degree in business from down the street at Tulane. A sizable portion of her estate was inherited ten years later after a plane crash killed both her parents. She had worn black ever since.

On the second day of the second week Alexandra invited me to her office in the hotel basement. She asked if I was enjoying my new job.

"Yeah," I said. "It's a little slow compared to my regular corporate practice but I'm sure you have more in mind."

"I do. But I noticed you didn't take care of my house in Oak Village with the college girls. I know it may seem minor but I suspect they sell drugs. Do you happen to know the seizure laws regarding property engaged in the illicit sale of drugs? I expect complete accounting for the pretty sum I'm paying you. Is that clear?" Before I could answer she ordered me to strip.

"I think maybe it's this stuffy suit that is holding you back from your complete potential. You look big and strong but not tough. Just because you're a Negro, do you have to dress like a monkey?" she asked facetiously. I noticed a wink of her left eye.

Wink or not I was incensed. I wanted to slap the bitch down a flight of razor edged stairs. Besides, my ex-wife had paid a lot of good money for the Brooks Brothers suit that I wore. It was lightweight wool, tailored to make me look (hopefully) taller. I wasn't taking it off and if this woman wanted to fuck, well, she could forget it. I was a professional and had decided the days of fuck lust ruining my career were over forever. Alexandra corrected me.

"Darling, I retain a team of lawyers for my business concerns," she said. "What I need is someone who can help with the delicate details of my existence and lawyer-client privilege to back it up."

I had no idea what she meant. She gave me the stupid Timmy face and said, "Mr. Crane I need a cock to fill me, someone to hold my checkbook while I sign, a bodyguard when I travel among the needy, and a procurer of young pussy. I think you'll do. I had you checked out, you need money and no one will hire you. You like to fuck your wife's relatives, tree stumps, cows, small sheep, the occasional knot hole...now strip Timothy Crane Jr. before I change my mind." I got down to my boxers and socks, pride be damned. She smiled, motioning with a long French manicured nail to take off the rest. I complied.

My cock stood out like a sagging tree limb. I was vaguely turned on by her tough cunt manners and the fact that her cloaked black form hinted at the kind of White woman my libido always hungered. But I was still in possession of an ounce of self-respect that prevented a hard-core hard-on. That is until she said, "I need you to jerk it...it's a small one...yeah...jerk it just until you're about to cum...I want to see how big it will get...Or...maybe we can't be friends?" I think I detected another wink.

I stroked it slowly but it stayed a little droopy. "Look," I said. "I appreciate what you're doing for me but I need to have something to think about. Take off that mourning dress, give me something to work with."

It took her three minutes but she undressed. Under her regulation heavy black smock she wore a red silk ribbon corset and black stockings held up by garters that left rings around her thighs. That's it. No panties. She was everything that a man with my hypersensitivity was afraid of seeing. Alexandra was all woman in every direction. Broad shoulders and ponderous breasts with upright brown-red nipples gave way to a tiny stomach paunch and wide hips. I stroked my cock slowly with my left hand and it hardened like steel rebar.

She knelt, sucking in the length of my eight inch cock to the balls, which she held in her right hand while cupping my ass with her left. I saw what she meant by too small. Alexandra could swallow a fire hose right up to the truck. After her eighth trip down my shaft I was on the verge of steaming her bowels with jism. Abruptly she stood, gathered our clothes and left the room. She came back with a large box that she placed on the desk. It contained everything I would need for my new life. Alexandra put her hands on her hips in the doorway and said, "Nice cock, now get dressed we've got work to do."

With that move she had me. Alexandra Morgan was made of whipcord stuff and she had knew it. She could cling to the edge of the cliff, maybe hang off by her jewel encrusted fingers, but never venture over unless it was to her benefit, her plan. I would gain the upper hand someday somehow. Will might have been the talent I lacked, but I promised in the future to master.

Among the items in the box I found: black slacks (three pairs, pleated), five black silk polos (monogrammed with the corporate logo), thin black socks, shiny black Kenneth Cole shoes, shackle style handcuffs (2 pair with key), a Glock 9mm (with ammo), a red ball gag, a brown calf skinned wallet filled with an assortment of credit cards and various licenses (including my new business card stating nothing but my name and a number), a tiny Nokia cell phone, a leather strap with tassels, a digital camera, batteries, a pack of condoms, and lastly but most ominously a 12 inch black vibrator still in its package. She told me to make a kit out of the nonclothes items and to have it on hand at all times. I was also to wear only the clothes provided. No underwear ever. To make sure she staged midnight inspections from time to time. The punishment for wearing non-approved gear, like my workout clothes, was an evening spent eating out her thick black beaver while she read the Times. She never returned the favor on my blue balls. Alexandra knew my predicament and took full advantage. I was being made over in her fantasy image.

Like a leather Boy Scout I always came prepared for a day of action. I kept my gear in a folding doctor's bag in the trunk of the car. To the kit I added my videocam (another steal from the days of ex-wife Maria). Some days I drove her around the city in her new Cadillac DeVille. We visited all of her cleaners in the tri-state at least once a week. This woman, who had so much money, thought nothing of being hands on. And now that she had a lawyer with her 24-7 she didn't need to weakly declare 'You'll see my lawyer', instead it became a questioned threat 'You

see

my lawyer?' and a stroke of the crease in my pants.

After that initial encounter I did regained some moral strength. I settled into a regimented program of celibacy. I even threw away my collection of homemade porno and Polaroids (I did keep the pictures of my ex for sentimental reasons). I only masturbated once a week, Sundays, to stave off the desire that had previously wrecked my marriage and career. My favorite fantasy centered on Alexandra finishing her blowjob and frosting that unmercifully tight bun of black hair.

One day near Oak Village, the wrecked suburb lost in time to the less fortunate, Alexandra asked me to pull into the driveway of the dilapidated yellow tract house rented by the Gorgons. Alexandra informed me that she would show me how to take care of these girls. I knocked on the door. No one answered, but not surprisingly I saw the curtains in the window move.

"Open the door," Alexandra said sternly. I looked at her quizzically. The girls had recently installed a series of dead bolts for which I had no key. "Kick in the goddamn door fuckhead!" she said. I responded by throwing my 250 pounds of steely tallow against the hinges. The cheap pine door splintered, sending the three coeds sprawling backwards into the doobie smoke black living room. The girls recovered and took off in the direction of the bedrooms. Like a linebacker I pursued, knowing somehow that this is what Ms. Morgan would want. I tackled the first one, a tall brunette and handcuffed her to the second one, a short gawky blonde creature. Over my shoulder I witnessed Alexandra's monster thighs straddling the back and pulling the red streaked hair of Natalie, the Korean.

After I unhandcuffed the girls, a not too calm discussion followed about the girls' inability to pay rent for two months straight. The girls were terrified. The brunette cried an ugly streak. They used every excuse known including the near truth ("we smoked our rent"). Alexandra shut up the blathering girls when she said the debt could be forgiven if they just followed her instructions. Relief came over the girls. I sensed something kinky was about to go down.

I was ordered to go to the car, bring back my kit and set up shop in the first bedroom. By the time I came back the girls were eerie calm, naked, sitting on the unmade bed. They weren't as bad looking as I had first thought; it was the feral nature of their hair that had led me to pronounce them ugly. The two white girls were skinny with medium sized tits. Natalie was exotic and built like a miniature version of Alexandra; she stood five feet at most. I tried to deny what I saw, remove myself from the context of the situation; not give in to that devil within. Alexandra had wasted no time in preparing herself; she stood there with her hulking juggs hanging out over her corset not bothering to take off her boots. I brought in the kit. Alexandra reached in and took out the leather strap, a ball gag, the rubber vibrator (I didn't remember taking it out of its package), the blindfold, and both sets of shackles. She told me to take the rest and leave.

"Close the door and get rid of that smelly tobacco!" she screamed.

I understood that Alexandra was a power freak but this was even more than I could fathom. I had the full range of emotions flowing: Revenge told me to go get the videocam to catch my mistress getting her rocks off with three young girls; lust told me to go in there and demand those young bitches do me too; fear told me to go back to work and do what I was told. I decided to do all three. I'd get the camera, tape a minute or two of Alexandra the social climbing dominatrix in action (for blackmail and to jerk off to later), and clean house so my master would be pleased.

After I got the camera out of the car, I went to work cleaning up the drug paraphernalia and junior chemical lab from around the house. It took an hour and a visit to the dump. These girls were disgusting. Chicken bones and bong water and Valium and some other kind of pills littered the floor; the place reminded me of a hash gallery from a Dutch painting or maybe the den of a lesbian Manson family. When I returned to the house I heard a scream. I didn't flinch. If Alexandra was going to make a mess of those bitches, I wasn't going to stop her. I sat back on the couch and smoked a righteous joint I had rolled from a private stash I found in the girls' freezer. It smelled funny but I could tell it was going to make for an immediate high. But then I recognized the yelp as Ms. Morgan. I grabbed up the camera and tried to crack open the door. It was locked but with the use of my new American Express card I gained entrance.

To my surprise the coeds had seized control of the situation. The prim Ms. Alexandra Taylor Morgan was handcuffed and on her knees with her arms behind her back, her super thick ass high in the air. She reminded me of an overplump ostrich being raped. Instead of a hole to hide her head in however, the girls had substituted the fat Asian pussy of Natalie. No one seemed to notice that I was in the room recording. The other two girls stood on either side of the bed. They looked at me with a glassy-eyed stare, then went back to work. The big black vibrator was on high and the brunette kneaded it in and out of Alexandra's reddened pussy. Meanwhile, the blonde was beating Ms. Morgan relentlessly with the leather strap. I set the camera down on a pile of dirty clothes and chemistry books, making sure the bed stayed in frame.

"You wanna join?" said the brunette.

"Don't mind if I do," I said. The words stirred the black helmet of hair on the other end of the bed.

"Tim, Tim is that you? Thank God! Get these girls off of me! They're on some kind of drugs, who knows what the fuck they're going to do?" she screamed. I could tell she was on the verge of terror. This was good. Maybe I could give her the push.

"Sounds like fun Alexandra, mind if I join in?"

With that I unleashed the fury. First, I placed the ball gag in Alexandra's battered fat mouth. I didn't want to hear her berate me for not being gentle. I removed the clips that held her giant coiffure in place. Her gorgeous mane, once unfurled, extended to the crack of her ass. I then shackled the tallest match for Alexandra, the brunette, in a 69 with my employer on top. The blonde was of no use. Whatever they had toked had made her as violent as it had made the others horny. I suspected she was the one who had begun the revolt. I sent her into the hallway where she commenced to diddle herself in the floor length mirror while making faces. I closed the door and stationed Natalie on the other side of her friend, at the face of Alexandra, with that big black vibrator. She immediately set to punishing the brunette's pussy while Alexandra looked on in a mixture of terror and foreboding for her own cunt.