The Boss By Timothy Reisling Betticut

The Boss

 

By Timothy Reisling Betticut

 

 

 

The red head’s jade eyes popped wide, “Not in the other room. NO! Not

dressed like this! Not to him.”

 

 

*** *** ***

 

 

Tim came to Simone for counselling after the new rule.  Mc Cormick

said no smoking anywhere at the bank. And Mc Cormick was one damn strict

CEO. Tim couldn’t stop. Cold turkey, gum, funny sucking things, mail

order stuff – nothing worked. His job. Too much tension. Banks didn’t

need commercial loan officers in real estate. After the S&L’s nova’d

and the markets went south, heads rolled. He was the last in the

training program… holding on somehow. Any way. Sell money. Find

qualified borrowers. But don’t get burnt. Of course he smoked. Twenty

nine years old, the last five with the bank since M.BA. Had to hold

on.

Now how to stop?

 

 

Ashley recommended Simone. Snug butt Ashley in her skinny skirts and

heart breaking heels. Secretary to no one, yet on somebody’s pay roll

at the bank. On the days she bothered to come at all, she sat looking

sexy and bored. Ashley, a lightening rod for the sexual passions of

every man in the division. Mysterious Ashley caught Tim sneaking a

smoke in the janitor’s closet. Hell, where else? The washroom was too

public and the Loan Division was thirty stories up surrounded by

sealed

glass.

 

 

Ashley told him how she’d been hooked, gone to Simone for counselling.

“You know,” she spoke with the squeal actresses use as a short cut to

make you think ‘dumb broad’, “My life really changed after that. Like

magic or something. I never,” she looked down at the golden spandex

dress struggling to dampen down her involuntary jiggling, and for just

an instant, Tim thought she was about to fondle herself. “I never used

to be anything like…. like this  before Simone.”

 

 

“My, you are a pretty boy!” Pretty? Tim sat awkwardly in the damned

hospital smock, buns wriggling on the cold metal seat as the leather

coated brunette circled, heels clacking on the clean white tiling.

 

 

“The EKG and blood workup looks fine. You don’t exercise?”

 

 

Tim blushed. It was always hard for him to keep meat on his five foot

five inch frame and when he didn’t work out, his metabolism burnt off

calories faster than a dog eats supper. “Uh…. I used to. I will

again, but the job…..”

 

 

“Ah-huh. You weigh only one twenty five, a good weight if you were a

young lady Mr. Mitty but….. In fact, with your eyes, hips and

lips…. Hmmmmm.” Simone looked up from the clipboard clutched in her

long red nails, “Yes, Ashley was right about you. You may be able to

help her out of a jam.”

 

 

“Pardon?” Was this woman nuts? He was here for smoking counseling.

Help

Ashley out? “I, uh…. Well about my smoking?”

 

 

Simone blinked and leaned in to press her hand along Tim’s jaw,

running

her thumb against his cheekbone. “Nice, you could open envelopes on

that edge, and your eyes are so big. Green too.”

 

 

“A family thing. So what about my smoking?”

 

 

Three weeks later. Daily therapy sessions at Simone’s. Tim no longer

smoked. No desire. It was Friday. He was recovering from a deep

hypnotic trance listening to Simone’s voice count him back…..

“three,

two, one…… wake up Sweetheart.”

 

 

The dress was provocative. Very full skirted over a cloud of

petticoats

– red polka dots. Rustling satin. Spiked heels, white stockings

anchored to red garters that peeked below the flirty skirting. The top

wrapped taughtly about quivering C cups that seemed to spill

unrestrained into the shiny material.  White lace at the neck and

cuffs

matched the floppy lace red polka dotted bow that held curls back off

a

face that shone like a finely buffed gem.

 

 

“How does a whore smell?” Ashley giggled, whipping her long blond

curls

around.

 

 

“Uh-uhn. Ohn mae meh smehl lah a whoe,” Garbled words ooze around the

big ball gag. Terror, big green eyes peer wildly through the fog of

red

hair.Wrists tug futiley cuffed harshly just above the jiggling

skirtings, feet teetering over the sharp heels.

 

 

“Actually it’s a mixture of scents,” Simone grinned and passed the

crystal bottle to her blond friend. “Here spray  her good, then let’s

dab on some of this.” The slim brunette smiled and held the gaze of

the

terrified captive as she slowly tugged at her own hem, teasing it up

over her bare crotch. Still staring at the cringing prisoner, she

plucked at the string dangling from her glistening bush, drawing the

juicy red/brown cylinder free of the moist canal. “This’ll make’re

riper’n a cat house in August.”

 

 

“Nuhhhhh. Uhhh nuh. Doh do ih uh meh Simoh. Ohhhh Pleee! Nuh. Nah

Tha…..” Even through the gagging Tim recognized that his voice

seemed

high pitched like the chipmunk squeak actresses use as a short cut to

make you think ‘dumb broad’

 

 

On a leash! A @#$%$@ leash! Swishing and clacking on these pointed

toes. The things are calf killers. This corset’s cutting through.

OOOUUUCH! Shish, swish, wish, clickety, jingle. This red bimbo hair’s

too long. Blinding. And the earrings are longer. If they get caught in

anything a lobe’ll go. It’s a dangerous getup. Too risky. Broadcasting

on every sensory channel. Look hot, sound hot, feel hot and smell like

a slut in heat. A trip on the heels and wham! Double bound wrists.

First the cuffs, then through the belt in back. Worse, the opera

gloves

are too tight anyway. Hardly any finger movement.

 

 

Double risky. It’s too sexy. It’s yowling for a raping. Glimmering

heat. Dress and shoes are too red and shiny. Legs and gloves are too

white and shiny. Lips are too bright and shiny. Too swollen. Too wet.

Too dangerous. And on a #@$%^&%$%# leash!

 

 

Don’t want sex. Not like this. Not with him. He’s too tall. He’s too

strong. He’s too handsome. He’s too manly. Hell. Anything equipped

like

that is too lethal. Got to resist this.

 

 

How to resist? With jiggling C cups flashing in front and a cloud of

short pettis framing each step, this is too inviting. Gag’s gone but

what words’ll stop a screaming jet? And this getup’ll get a jet up in

any stud’s pants. Every little move is painted bigger by the dress and

legs and hair and paint and smell….. Words? And this voice. After

the

pill, it squeaks like a cartoon chipmunk. Cartoon chipmunks don’t stop

a lot of screaming jets.

 

 

If only the hands could pull loose. The cuffs are locked. And the

belt’s tied in a double knot and floppy bow around front. Pulling at

the mess just sets hips and skirts a dancing. Oh, how the lights flash

off the shiny satin.

 

 

No. Got to say no so it sounds like…… no. This voice makes it

sound

like yes. This dress, the hair, the dangles and heels. They all make

it

sound like yes. Does the word no come out of lips this swollen? Does

it

come from under tits this full? Look how the  nipples strain at the

fabric. How they poke to be seen. Don’t want him to lead into the

bedroom. Got to pull back, but the heels are too high. Can’t fall. Not

the bedroom! In spite of the struggles, maybe because of them, it’s a

vision of yes……. If even a maybe will do. But a tiny squealing,

wait….. don’t….. no…. please…… Gets interpreted through the

folds and scents, the curls and rhinestones, the satins and legs

to….. now…. yes…. please…..

 

 

He’s pulling the leash. Snapping forward and clacking along, the bed’s

looming bigger. They want this to happen. A man’s loving. One who

doesn’t know. One who’ll be surprised when he unwraps the package.

Unpredictable. Maybe loving, maybe violent. The bet’s that he’ll be so

horny, that the packaging will be so effective, that his rush won’t be

stoppable. That he’ll take what he finds and damn the indignities. But

if he won’t? If he’s enraged? If the man loathes men? Will he mug the

redheaded slut? Will he do unspeakable things? Or Both?

 

 

Simone wants this to happen. She dressed up the redhead. Buckled the

wrists. Fluffed up the package to full power and handed off the leash

to the guy Ashley brought home. Now’s they’re sitting in the living

room, smirking at the couple as he jerks at the leash and the fluffy

redhaired bimbo squeaks and pulls and peers in horror first to the

girls in the living room then at the bed looming closer. Shaking the

mass of curls and skirting, trying to dig in the towering spikes,

pulling against his great hand as he’s reached the covers and pulls at

the pillows.

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