Unwilling But Able Ch 02

The weekend was interminable. Thankfully, I didn't see too much of the missus; she went shopping with her girlfriends Saturday, then that evening I went out with my mates and got absolutely blind drunk, spending most of Sunday trapped in the bathroom and hurling like a champion. It was the best way to avoid her, I reasoned. I couldn't hide my guilt otherwise.

Monday came, and the day passed too quickly. The dreaded hour of five o'clock -- the hour when I had been ordered to meet Valerie, my boss and tormentor, the woman who knew about my use of company computers to download and upload explicit material and who had used it to blackmail me into submissive, sexual deeds -- the hour was nearly upon me, and I had not properly decided my course.

How could I go forwards? How could I go on? If I did not do exactly as 'No-Vadge Valerie' told me, if I dared to disobey: she would have my job, she would accuse me of attempting sexual transgressions against her, and she was good enough a lawyer that she would make the charges stick. She could ruin my life, destroy me forever, at a flick of her whim. But if I did what she wanted...

I loved my wife. I didn't want to cheat on her -- the very idea made me sick to my stomach. How I regretted my actions, the actions which had brought me to this point. Was it worth it? The seven hundred hours of illicit internet use, viewing pictures, reading stories, uploading stories, webcamming most indecently... I would gladly give it all back, have it all taken away, if it could save me from where I was now.

All the same, much as I wanted to do what was right, I knew I wasn't going to do the right thing. I wasn't going to stand up to Valerie, and confess all to my wife, and take all my punishments like a man.

I couldn't do it. I was too much a coward. I tried to tell myself it was because I loved my wife too much to hurt her, to ruin her, to drag her down with me when I lost my income and we would default on the enormous joint mortgage that we could barely afford as it was... first and foremost, I knew it really was because I was a coward, a liar, a dog. I was every bit the bitch that Valerie had labelled me. I deserved everything she dished out; I deserved every second of the very worst she could imagine for me, the very worst and more.

Before I really knew it, I had found myself back in the basement level of our building, in the dank little cubicle in a corner of the archival sections where I had committed all my sins. That was where Valerie had ordered me to be, at five o'clock... and she didn't make me wait long.

I heard her high heels clip-clopping down the darkened, abandoned hallway -- I heard her coming long before she got there. How had I not heard her approach last Friday, before she busted me naked and enormous and ready to come in front of my webcam? Had she tip-toed down the hall, hoping to catch me in some masturbatory act?

She kicked the door open, and simply stood there in the doorway: the architect of my doom. She loomed terribly, seeming to me bigger than she really was: a five-foot-six giant, clad in a nondescript charcoal pants-suit, her shoes a similar charcoalish colour, all of it designed to flatter her not at all, to hide the rather nice figure I had seen on Friday night when she had given in to her desires and stripped before me, as she pleasured herself while she made me pleasure myself in front of her.

She didn't let me dwell on the memories too long: "Strip," she commanded. "And in future: be naked before I get here. There's nothing I want to do to you that will involve you wearing your clothes," she promised.

I said nothing as I obeyed. Though I couldn't help but dwell upon what she had said: 'in future...' She was going to draw this out. She was going to keep dragging me back. This was gunna be hell.

She watched me in silence, taking in every piece of my body as it came into view: my chest, my stomach, my arms and legs... my butt, as I let my shorts drop, and then my cock as I turned to face her again.

"You're getting hard," she observed, dispassionately -- and it was the truth. Despite all my fears and misgivings, my wayward cock was swelling, growing perversely, starting its inexorable ascent towards its full skywards-pointing glory.

She looked up to catch my eye, all contempt and scorn. "You are such a bitch..." she murmured, with spite. "I can't believe you like this."

I felt compelled to defend myself. "I don't like this," I demurred. "I hate it."

"You love it," she nearly snarled -- though I think she took some delight in that I was prepared to speak up, to try to defend myself. "Look at you! Look at that swelling cock of yours! It's calling you a liar, Jizzy Jeremy!"

"I hate this," I told her again, my voice level, quiet, not forceful -- I had no force in me for a strong argument, but I had to try. I had to speak up. "I hate this. I love my wife, I wish... I wish..."

"Shut up!" she snapped. "You love this. Your cock loves it, so you must love it. Look at you! You're as hard as can be -- longer and harder than any cock I've ever seen!"

I sighed -- I wasn't sure how to explain away the actions of my wayward cock, how to explain it to her or to me. "What my cock loves, and what I love, is not always the same thing," I tried.

"Bullshit. You are such a man," she sneered, most derisively, making it sound like an insult. "You're an animal. You might try to tell yourself that you're not, that you're a good person, that you love your wife and you wish things hadn't come to this... but you're an animal. Your cock proves you an animal, and a liar," she nodded, with a terrible, twisted grin.

"Your cock loves this," she went on, when it became clear I had nothing more to say. "Your cock loves it. Your cock loves the shame, the indignity, the humiliation... look how hard it is! How long, fat, throbbing it is! And I haven't even got started!!" and she was almost hooting with black triumph.

I hung my head. She was probably right. I probably was little better than a useless, snivelling, fuck-hungry beast -- I was ready, for whatever she was going to do to me. I was defeated; I was a broken man; and she knew it.

"Enough talk." Quickly, she unbuckled her pants and let them fall, stepping out of them and out of her shoes; I saw that, juxtaposed against the drabness of her suit, she was in fact wearing a very delicate, very sexy little number of black lace, a sheer and sensual pair of panties that surprised me -- I'd never thought of her as the type.

"I'm going to show you how pathetic you are," she told me. "I'm going to use you and abuse you for all you're worth, and you're going to love it. Just watch, and say nothing."

And with that, she began to touch herself. She used two fingers of one hand, to touch her spot through her underwear: starting gently, sensitively, very arousingly, and my cock almost ached as I watched her.

She watched me while I watched her. She stared me down mercilessly. I couldn't meet her eyes, and I didn't really want to -- I was mesmerised by her fingers on her spot, in watching her touch and pleasure herself, so I locked my eyes on that and she didn't tell me to look away, for which I was glad.

"I want you to know..." she said, after a couple minutes' of silently pleasing herself. "I want you to know, I've been looking forward to this all day. I've been thinking on it... remembering what I made you do, last week... and it's been getting me wet, Jeremy," she informed me, in a voice low but not beguiling -- foreboding, actually, her tone not sexy but worrying, as I knew something bad was surely to come of it.

"I've been wet, almost all day..." she murmured, purring like the devil's black cat. "I've been touching myself, in my office, hiding my crotch and my fingers behind my desk... I've come at least half-a-dozen times today, touching myself and touching myself...

"And all the while, as I've dripped wetly and I've squirted and I've come, all the while: I've been wearing these knickers," she told me. "They've been wet... and then dried a bit... then wet again... and now, they are filthy," she whispered. "They're filthy with the smell of my drying juices; they're thick and crunchy with the salts and the dried-out, layered moisture of my sex... you can smell it, can't you?" she observed.

I most definitely could smell it. It wasn't a bad smell, but it was a strong smell, a very strong smell, the unmistakable and undeniable smell of a woman's hot wet sex. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to react to it, how she wanted me to react to it, but...

But I liked it. I had always liked the smell, the feel, hell: even the taste of a woman's sweet, thick nectar. I secretly loved to go down on a woman, and I tried to treat my wife to a bout of oral pleasure as often as I could, though she seldom let me because I would drive her beyond distraction each time and she hated to lose control like that.

"Look at your cock..." whispered 'No-Vadge Valerie', and I realised the thing had grown: over and above my usual generous norm, it was a twitching, throbbing monster. "Oh you sick little puppy," she accused me. "You love the smell, don't you? You love the smell of my day-old, drying, thick sticky juices. You sick little puppy!" she cried again, working at herself rather viciously now; the fact that I liked it was working for her, she seemed to simultaneously hate me for liking what disgusted her and also to find my arousal a wicked turn-on, and she was pushing more and more of the thin black lace into her cunt in seeking out her pleasure.

I envied her, that she was able to touch herself. I dearly wanted to touch myself too, I had wanted to touch myself from the moment I had stripped nude, but even though she had not broached the subject I knew I was not allowed to do so -- such a release would surely be forbidden. But still, I wanted to do it; my breathing was shallow and ragged, my agitation was clear, and my arms fought themselves back as I struggled and strained against the overwhelming urge to wank myself into oblivion.

And she knew it. "I bet you want to abuse yourself," she murmured, her own breathing hard and heavy as her pleasure built upon itself. "I bet you want to beat out a thick wad of sticky white cum, don't you...?"

I couldn't help myself: I nodded, my mouth open now, nearly gagging for the desire.

"Don't you dare touch yourself," she grinned, thereby confirming my suspicion -- I winced in genuine pain, but I obeyed.

"Yeah..." she almost moaned, as she kept working at herself, touching herself wantonly and without shame in front of me, as my cock ached and burned and yearned for the attention I was forbidden to give it. "Yeah, you love it. Don't you, bitch?" she asked of me. "You love it, and you hate it, all at once..."

I felt like I might come, even without touching myself. I felt like I might spontaneously come to orgasm, right there, right in front of her, with my hands tucked behind my back and clutching each other tightly to help me fight the urge to wank. It was such an excruciating, terrible, wonderful, beautiful sensation, and I watched with ever-building fire and ire as No-Vadge Valerie worked herself, and worked herself, until finally she tipped her head back with her mouth opened in a silent "O" and she came, she came quietly and gently but with a genuine release, and she rubbed her soiled underwear hard and unforgivingly up and down her slit, working as much more moisture as possible into her panties...

...panties which, I could foresee, she had further plans for.

But she made me wait. She made me wait while she wound herself down, slowly and deliciously from her silent little high, content for a minute to ignore my presence as she revelled in a marvellous little afterglow of which I was ever so jealous. Presently she regathered herself and caught my eye again, with an unkind grin growing on her face.

"Right," she said, and she peeled her underwear off. She literally had to 'peel' them away -- so slickened were they with the day-long flow of her juices, they clung sticky and unyielding to her snatch, the crotch finally coming away almost as she had the rest of her knickers pushed down to her ankles.

And she tossed them to me. "Put them on," she said, simply.

I had caught them, as a reflex; and as I reflected on her order, I reflected also on the feel of them in my hands, the crotch having landed in my fingers. They were slicker, more wet, more strongly-smelling and, frankly, almost greasy with the day-long accumulation of her wetness -- I simply boggled at them, and boggled further at the mere idea of what she wanted me to do with her underwear.

"Put them on," she said again, more forcefully.

I came slowly out of my stupor, though I was almost giddy with incredulity, almost overwhelmed by the sheer kinkiness of the situation; I lowered the item to my feet, slipped my legs in, and pulled them up into place. They were small and tight on me, but the material was sufficiently elastic and stretchy to accommodate my frame -- though my cock bulged comically against the material, stretching it almost to breaking point, looking like someone had pitched a two-man tent over the Washington Monument.

"Yeah..." she said, biting her lip with pleasure at the sight of me in her soiled undergarment; and it finally occurred to me that she was naked from the waist down. I snuck a look at her as she drank in the sight of me: she had a pretty little gusset, our Valerie, with a light covering of recently-shaved pubic regrowth showing her lips all puffy, pink and exposed, a slight sheen of moisture still evident.

"Now..." she added, and I realised an instruction was forthcoming. "Now... I want you to rub it in. Rub my filth into your filthy cock," she ordered, almost slavering at the idea of it. "But..." she added, as I reached tentatively for my extraordinarily tender, throbbing piece; "but... don't come. Don't you dare come. I don't want you to come yet. If you come, you're fired. Understood?"

I nodded, almost unable to speak. And I did as I was told: I took a hand, just the one -- for fear that two hands might bring me to the brink twice as fast -- and very softly, very gently, I rubbed the crinkly, crusty, slickly moistened lace into myself, moving my cock around as much as I could within the tight confines of her knickers, kneading the moisture into my tightly-drawn ballsack, all for her viewing pleasure.

"Ugh..." she nearly whimpered, and she was touching herself again, not caring that I saw her doing it: that I could clearly see her fingers toying and playing with her lips, dipping into her depths, pulling and tweaking at her gorging clit. "Yes," she breathed. "That's it, bitch. Rub it in. Rub my filthy juices into you. Feel it. Feel my moisture, the crustiness; smell it, smell the stench of my dripping cunt... yes, yes!"

It was a curious insight into Valerie, that she was unintentionally providing. I don't know why she was coming down so hard on herself, describing her delicious, juicy moisture in that way: it was a strong odour, but not a stench, she did not have a stinky sex -- it was a sweet, beguiling, enticing smell, made all the more strong and alluring for the day-long accumulation she had worked so hard to achieve.

And as she watched me rub it into myself, as she berated me and derided me and derided herself -- "yes, smell it! Smell the stench! Rub it in, rub my filth into you! Yes!!" -- I attempted to fathom: why did she describe her personal, beautiful issue thusly? Why did it rankle her so? Did she really think it irked me -- that I was appalled, disgusted by what I was forced to do, in any way?

I most certainly did not find it a turn-off, not in any way, shape or form. I was, in fact, struggling valiantly not to get myself fired -- I was ready to come, beyond ready, I wanted and needed a release bad, so bad. Having to hold it back, to find some way to move my cock against the slightly crunchy moisture of her panties as I wore them and massaged them into my cock, trying to do so without driving me over the edge -- withholding it made it all the worse, driving me beyond my limit and teasing me terribly, wonderfully and awfully, so bad it truly was painful...

"Enough!" she finally cried, and I could have kissed her except she probably would have killed me for it. "Take them off..." she ordered as she kept on fingering herself, and I quickly complied, hearing the urgency in her voice: she had further plans, and I was to obey before her next orgasm arrived...

"Okay... and now..." and she gasped, she heaved, and for a moment she could not speak for the incredible, mounting, doubling pleasure she delivered to herself, as she fought down an orgasm of her own...

"Now: put them on your head," she told me. "Put them on your head, with the crotch over your nose, in front of your mouth..."

She must have thought this would be the death of me. In fact, I did groan terribly at her order, though of course my groan was motivated by a terrible, exquisite expectation as I did as I was told, as I slipped the moisture-heavy garment over my ears and into position on my head...

"Now SNIFF," she barked. "SNIFF them. SNIFF my stench!"

And I did. I took both hands, I pressed the slick crusty crotch hard against my nose, right across my nostrils...

...and I inhaled her glorious, pervasive, incredibly arousing scent, the scent she for some reason called a 'stench', the scent that on its own very nearly made my cock explode.

"Yes!" she roared, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. "Yes!! Sniff it in! Sniff my stench! Sniff the stench of my filthy horrid cunt, you fucker! Now LICK it!!"

I already was licking it: secretly, just the tip of my tongue beyond my lips, secretly tasting of her though she hadn't told me to and it may well have cost me my job and my wife and my home and my life, but I had to -- I had to taste of it. And now, in obeyance and seeming submission, I licked it up: hungrily, greedily, I lapped at the layered greasiness of her day-long issue in full view for her edification...

...and she came, she came to see me licking it, lapping it up, eating up that which she found abhorrent and torrid and turgid, the sweet and salty and overwhelming juices of her sex, she nearly fell backwards over herself as she braced against a shelf and she came, she hollered and howled wordlessly as she watched me eat it up hungrily, greedily, wantonly.

She had hardly begun to wind down, when she realised that her orders had not had the desired effect: I was not being belittled, humiliated to the extent that she required.

"You like it!" she realised, almost with horror, with revulsion. "You like it, you dirty sick fuck! Well if you like it so much --"she strode suddenly towards me, she pushed me down on my knees, and suddenly her puffy dripping snatch was right in my face "-- then eat it up, bitch! Eat my cunt, eat it through my panties!"

And so I did: using the slicked, slightly-encrusted crotch of her panties as a shield, I licked at her, I licked at her pussy. She pushed my head roughly into her, slapping my hands away when I reached for her legs for balance -- I was not to touch her, there was to be no skin-on-skin contact. She reinforced the fact: "Don't you touch me! And don't you dare touch me with your tongue, either! You cannot touch me! Lick me through my filthy panties -- lick my cunt, you fuck! Lick me up, fucker! Lick me!!"

I obeyed, most willingly now -- how I loved to go down on a woman. And the added thrill brought by the submission, the powerlessness, the ultimate kink of her demands... my cock ached, burned, yelled for attention but she had ordered me not to do it, I was not to touch myself, so I left it alone though it nearly killed me to do so...

...and I did as I was told, I left the crotch of her panties as a shield between my tongue and her snatch -- but even through the material, through the layers of moisture previously applied by her dripping cunt, I could feel her heat, her moisture, I could smell her scent more clearly, the smell hotter, fresher, so enticing...