The Bully Pt 17

As morning dawned, Lela and I awoke in the same bed as man and wife for the first time. I imagine most newly-weds greet each other with a passionate kiss and a declaration of their undying love. However, Lela's first words to me were a little more practical.

"I should probably test us both for STIs before we are intimate, Mark," she whispered nervously. "I am so sorry about last night. How many guys did I fuck?"

"We can talk about it later, Lela," I responded sadly. "Why don't you take a shower?"

Samantha had done a pretty good job of cleaning Lela up the previous evening, but she hadn't delved too deeply into my wife's nether regions. Consequently, as Lela stood up, semen dripped from both of her lower orifices. She gave me an embarrassed smile, and moved swiftly towards the bathroom. As she approached the ceiling to countertop mirror of the Honeymoon Suite bathroom, she stopped and was seemingly in shock.

"What the fuck, Mark?" Lela uttered in disbelief as she turned slowly towards me. "When did this happen?"

"John's CumSlut" was written in large letters across Lela's abdomen, and as she tried to wipe it off it became apparent that it was inscribed in permanent marker.

"Did you witness this, Mark?" Lela asked nervously. "Who did this to me?"

While we probably wouldn't have needed to enlist the services of a private investigator to unravel this mystery, what was the point in knowing? Lela had several phone numbers inscribed on various parts of her body, each of which would have led to an easily-identifiable member of the wedding venue staff. The pejoratives that were written in foreign languages, would also have enabled us to identify the perpetrator, again to what end? It seemed pointless to even discuss finding the guilty parties, especially as we knew definitively that at least two of them were my co-workers.

"Bottom line, Lela," I asked her. "Did anyone cross any of your boundaries? And did you enjoy your defilement?"

"Truthfully, Mark?" Lela said as she bit her bottom lip in shame. "I came as hard as I ever have in my life. If I have to avoid the swimming pools at the resort today, that is a price I can live with. Unless you want to put my CumSlut collar on me and parade me around in my tiny bikini," she added with a glint in her eye.

I felt my cock twitch in my briefs at the thought of such an indignity. Most of the wedding guests were departing today, and we would be left alone with the junior members of staff who had violated my bride. How appropriate that Lela would lay out at the pool, and show off her lewd marker inscriptions to all and sundry.

"I may keep this one permanently," Lela said with a giggle, as she pointed to the "Mark is a cuckold" cursive that reached her labia. "Maybe Ratt will tattoo this on my upper-thigh as a wedding gift? Will you take some pictures for my private gallery?"

Crazy as it may seem, Lela's fucked-up rambling had got me rock-hard, and I moved towards her in a manner that left no question about my intentions.

"We can't have sex, Mark," Lela said firmly. "Not until we both get tested. Take some pictures of me, and then you can jerk off on me."

After a brief photo session, Lela got on all fours and invited me to masturbate on her. By this time in our relationship, she was well aware that I was a cuckold, even though I had yet to admit it.

"Let's call the numbers written on my body," Lela said excitedly, as I stood over her masturbating furiously. "Invite the guys who took the time to leave their contact information back for round two."

I couldn't tell whether Lela was serious or if she was just saying what I wanted to hear, in order to climax.

"Also, I want to translate these pejoratives," she added. "See what those foreign guys really thought of the CumSlut."

"Lela, I am close," I said shakily as I felt my nuts constrict.

With that proclamation made, Lela lowered her head to the floor, moved her long black tresses away from the nape of her neck, and asked me in a sultry tone.

"What does the one say on the back of my neck, Mark? I can't see it without looking in the mirror."

"John's CumSlut," I roared, as I blew my load all over the permanent marker inscription.

It was a stupendous orgasm, and Lela seemed to thoroughly enjoy me climaxing all over her hair and neck. Once I had composed myself she asked me to take a photo of my semen pooling on the back of her neck. Then my new bride skipped cheerfully into the shower, as I contemplated the fucked up nature of our union.

We never actually rang the phone numbers written on her body, but as we relaxed in the Honeymoon Suite, Lela posted several pictures to her private gallery. We blurred the phone numbers using a photo-editing software, but Lela asked her Premium Members, who disturbingly now numbered over thirteen hundred, for help to translate the foreign language slurs.

Turns out it was "Cunt" in Latvian, "Whore" in Croatian, and "CumSlut" in Russian, although the spelling "Шлюха" was not remotely similar to the English pejorative, which incidentally was written in at least five places on my wife's body.

After Lela showered and managed to wash some of the black marker inscriptions from her torso, we enjoyed breakfast in our room and then got down to the serious business of STI testing. Lela carried her testing kit with her at all times, due to her propensity to fuck random strangers. Most of the time she possessed the discipline to test prior to every sexual encounter, but at John's behest she had allowed numerous members of the hotel staff to fuck her bare-back, and it was now time to see if there were any consequences to her reckless behavior.

"Some STIs will show up immediately," Lela informed me. "Others can take up to 14 days, so we will need to abstain from any form of unprotected sex for two weeks."

The first battery of tests returned no positive results for either of us, although it was far too early to celebrate. As it turned out, we both got very lucky on our wedding night. After two weeks of submitting sporadic blood and urine samples, the two of us testing positive for only Gonorrhoea was dodging a bullet in both of our minds. The symptoms were a little unpleasant for me, but at least this relatively easy to treat STI was not something you had to live with permanently, like HIV or herpes. Lela had some additional medical issues as a result of the wedding day gang-bang, the most pressing being painful anal fissures that took months to heal due to her line of work. I asked her to take a few weeks off of escorting, to allow her rectum to heal, but she so craved the abuse that she worked through the pain.

Lela also developed a nasty yeast infection, presumably from the copious amount of mayonnaise that had been used as a make-shift lubricant.

"So unnecessary," Lela repeated on several occasions, as she struggled to get her body's adverse reaction to the condiment under control. "John didn't need to stuff me full of mayonnaise," she informed me. "I was wet as soon as he tied my hands to the food-prep counter. He only did it to fuck with us on our wedding day."

The mayonnaise had also burned the interior walls of Lela's anal-passage, the acidic nature of its primary ingredients, eggs and vinegar, inflaming the mucosa deep within her asshole. Lela dealt with this discomfort for weeks too, and as she often struggled to find a comfortable seating position, it was a constant reminder to me of John's complete violation of my wife.

Samantha stopped by the Honeymoon Suite the following day, just before she checked out. Her primary concern was Lela's physical and mental well-being, and despite the two of them never having been close, they exchanged a hug as Samantha went to leave. Seeing the two of them next to each other caused a welling of my emotions, as I realized how thoroughly I had fucked up by leaving Samantha for the CumSlut. My thoughts were cemented as I walked Samantha to the door of the Honeymoon Suite.

"Look after Lela, Mark," Samantha whispered in my ear. "She is damaged goods."

"I will do, Samantha," I responded calmly, even as I wanted to beg her to find some legal loophole to end my marriage, and take me back into her life.

"Oh, by the way," Samantha continued. "I left my pink suit at the hotel dry-cleaning facility. It's going to take forty-eight hours to get it clean, but can you pick it up for me before you guys check out? I am asking as a friend, not your boss," she clarified.

Nodding my head agreeably, I let Samantha out of the room, and out of my life, at least on a personal level.

The day before I was due to return to work from my honeymoon, Samantha texted me.

"I don't need my pink suit back," she texted. "I have read the hotel security report and spoken at length to John, and I just wouldn't feel comfortable wearing that outfit after what it's been through. Can you please take it to the local Dress For Success store?"

"Of course, boss," I responded, trying to keep my correspondence professional. "John still works there?"

"I will meet with the two of you in the morning to find some mutually acceptable middle ground," Samantha responded somewhat tersely. "You are both too valuable to me to lose."

Two things happened after our text exchange. First of all, as I retrieved Samantha's light pink silk suit from my closet, I made the unilateral decision to keep it for myself. It was still wrapped in the dry-clean bag, and I had too many memories of that outfit to just give it to a charity, no matter how good the cause. Secondly, the following morning as I sat across from John in Samantha's office, it was apparent that she viewed us both with disdain, and as equal parts guilty in our feud.

"John is a great trial lawyer," Samantha began firmly. "Juries love him, with his rugged good looks and strong physical presence. Mark is fantastic at presenting closing statements, and we have won cases based solely on the strength of his research. So, for this reason I am inclined to keep you both on at the firm. However, the physical component of your rivalry stops today. I don't care if you are closet lovers, or are involved in some sordid love triangle with Lela, but if I see any evidence of the two of you arguing or fighting at work, I will cut both of you loose. Capiche?"

Samantha's tone was so final that John and I looked across at each other knowing full well that our collective job security was worth more than our constant battle for supremacy.

As the number one and two graduates of our year at Princeton, John and I could have easily secured alternate employment in our chosen field. However, we were currently working at the most prestigious law firm in the State, one which offered the best possible combination of pay, benefits and bonuses. I made a two hundred thousand dollar bonus for my part in winning the class-action lawsuit against Persil, and there would be plenty of other opportunities to make huge paydays.

The business model of this particular law firm was to hire the brightest minds straight out of law school, mentor them and reward them financially, in order to encourage long term retention of employees. If there was a downside, it was that upper management, Human Resources, and the partners, allowed a little hazing and some unorthodox methods of punishment to keep employees in line. Nobody ever quit the firm, so the upper management, emboldened by the lack of pushback from their subordinates, exercised free-will with regard to discipline of recalcitrant employees. Neither John or I wanted any part of getting on the wrong side of Samantha.

"Capiche," John intoned respectfully.

"Capiche, boss," I added seconds later.

"Good," Samantha said coldly. "Get to work."

John and I had just left Lela's office when I heard her make an announcement over the office paging system.

"Danny Marshall, report to my office now," was the sum of the terse public broadcast, but the impact of those seven words was dramatic.

Almost immediately, a hushed silence descended over the predominantly male office staff. Knowing glances were furtively exchanged, and someone burst into a quiet rendition of Queen's 'Another One Bites The Dust,' which elicited a chorus of muffled laughter. Most of the junior staff members, me included, disappeared into their offices as Mr. Marshall emerged from his and walked down the long corridor towards Samantha's office.

Mr. Marshall had eschewed his ever-present dark glasses for his walk of shame, and he seemed to have lost some of the intimidation factor that he used to keep everyone in line. In fact, if I hadn't shared a long and eventful history with this arrogant prick, I would have mistaken him for a junior staff member as he slinked towards Samantha's office with a furrowed brow.

I knew that Danny Marshall was a trusted, long-term employee, a former office manager who had been usurped by Samantha. I also surmised correctly, that despite being his boss, Samantha probably needed the approval of a majority of the partners to terminate Mr. Marshall's employment.

As I put two and two together, the purpose of Mr. Marshall's very public summons became apparent. I had read Samantha's journal and knew that she had the propensity to punish men by pegging them. Danny Marshall's behavior had infuriated our collective boss, and Samantha typically vented her anger by clicking a strap-on dildo into her harness, and bending the offender over something.

The entire office seemed to understand exactly what was going on, and it almost appeared that it was a choreographed ritual. The ever-present background "elevator music" that played quietly through the multitude of in-ceiling speakers in the hallways was muted, and an eerie silence descended on the workplace. I heard someone knock for permission to enter a few doors down the long corridor, and then the distinct click of Samantha's automated door lock as she allowed them in. As soon as I heard the heavy, fortified door close, I emerged from my office to see most of the junior staff gathered in the hallway just around the corner from Samantha's office.

There was a palpable air of excitement that day, although everyone remained in perfect silence. I listened on intently as Samantha began to berate Mr. Marshall. Her office door was constructed of thick, highly-polished mahogany, and entry was controlled by an automatic remote on her desk, or by a keypad from the exterior. One click of the remote, or the correct entry of a six digit code, simultaneously released multiple locks and opened the door slightly to allow entry.

I had been in Samantha's office several times and always marveled at how secure the entry seemed. Samantha gave Mr. Marshall a thorough dressing down that day, and although her words were muffled by the solid wood door, her tone left no doubt that he was in deep shit. Finally, after several minutes the room went quiet, followed by a much softer, almost timid male voice as Danny Marshall was allowed a brief rebuttal. Again, I couldn't make out the exact words, but his tone was contrite and reverent.

Smiles appeared on several faces as silence descended on Samantha's office but no-one emerged from it.

"She's going to have his ass," one of my co-workers whispered.

"Literally," another responded in a hushed tone.

As we gathered in silence in the hallway we were assaulted by various sounds and muffled cries of anguish. These appeared to confirm that Samantha was pegging Mr. Marshall over her desk. I heard the occasional slapping sound and a few muffled pleas that appeared to be for mercy. These sounds of someone in distress lasted for about twenty-five minutes and then the room went silent.

I have no concrete knowledge of what transpired in that room that day, but as word got around that Samantha's next appointment was in five minutes, the majority of the staff congregated in the hallway to see Mr. Marshall emerge from her office. I made a beeline for the reception desk. I had a great relationship with Mary, and I knew that she could access the security cameras that were all over the office. When I got to her desk there was already a small crowd gathered around her monitor which showed the security feed from outside Samantha's office door.

When Mr. Marshall appeared from behind Samantha's imposing office door his head was lowered, and he lacked his usual ever-present bravado. Avoiding any eye-contact with his subordinates who milled around the corridor, Mr. Marshall limped sheepishly down the hallway towards his office. I knew at that moment that Samantha had butt-fucked my nemesis in order to rein him in.

A few moments later Samantha emerged from her office looking completely energized. As she strode purposefully towards the reception area, her head was held high, and in direct contrast to Mr. Marshall, Samantha acknowledged each and every junior member of staff that greeted her.

"I will be in the Conference room for my next appointment," Samantha instructed Mary, as we looked on in admiration at this strong woman.

Even though most of the staff had no idea that Samantha and I used to date, my former lover briefly departed from her usual mask of professionalism. As she passed me she made eye-contact and she winked, as if to confirm the fact that she had righted this wrong. I was on cloud nine when I walked back to my office. While I couldn't be absolutely certain how Samantha had reigned Danny Marshall in, based on the purely circumstantial evidence, it did appear that she had pegged his ass.

A few moments later, as I sat at my desk grinning from ear to ear, I got a text from Samantha.

"Mark, I need help. In conference room with three of the partners. Forgot my laptop. Can you retrieve it from my office and bring to conference room? IGNORE state of office. Door code is 569320."

This wasn't the first time that Samantha had shown up to a meeting ill-prepared. Her busy schedule and the demands of her job ensured that she had numerous meetings every single day, and it was inevitable that she would occasionally forget something of importance. Today, however, she was meeting with three of the partners of the law firm, so any mishap on her part would have greater consequences.

"Will be there in five minutes," I texted back, as I hurried towards her office.

Upon reaching Samantha's imposing mahogany office door, I entered the access code. Simultaneously, multiple deadbolts were released electronically, and then the door opened slightly. A broad smile crept across my face as I processed the scene. A split-second later the circumstantial evidence of Mr. Marshall's punishment was rendered unnecessary, as I was confronted with the real evidence that Samantha had indeed pegged yet another one of her subordinates.

Lying in plain view on her desk was a large, black, strap-on dildo, still locked in place within the leather harness that Samantha would have secured around her waist. The tip of this intimidating phallus was slick with a healthy coating of lubricant, lending credence to the notion that it had been embedded within a bodily orifice. Some of the lubricant had transferred to the leather-topped desk, and there were also traces of a bodily fluid that appeared to be saliva, visible on the desk top.

I opened Samantha's desk drawer and noticed a tube of Anal-Ease with the cap still removed. There was also a leather ball-gag that bore traces of saliva all over it. That explains the muffled groans and pleas for mercy, I thought to myself, trying to suppress my chuckle. Lastly, a cursory check of her waste-paper can revealed a pair of black Calvin Klein briefs that had been ripped apart. This suggested that Samantha had gagged and forcibly removed Mr. Marshall's underwear prior to pegging him.

I was working with a very limited time-frame, so I took a few photos of the incriminating scene, grabbed Samantha's laptop and headed down to the conference room. Entering the room in a flustered manner, I began to apologize profusely.