Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final - Sex Stories

Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final

... fucking muscles. Girls who use strap-ons have an even longer road. 'John' looks like he was engineered to thrust. Everything he lacks in feminine allure, he gains back as masculine power. It's utterly alien to me. Even though it doesn't turn me on, it's captivating.

It's not worth belaboring that everything I say and do now is fake. 'John' has claimed all the power and control. I'm nothing but a raw nerve and an open wound, barely covered up by a memory of my own personality. How many points on the board for him? All of them. I have no claim to 'Jane,' but I feel like a suicidal cuckquean -- the real kind, not some dipshit with fetishist's remorse.

"So," he says. "Your question. How did you put it? 'Just fucking your girls.'"

I swallow hard. It doesn't even occur to me to take another swig of my drink. I just nod. I'm scared of what my voice will sound like if I try to use it.

"An understatement," he says, still the model of seriousness. He's playing a familiar game, and he's good at it. I think about Jack, behind me, on the bed, not cumming. That adds a fresh pain to the mix. More points on the board for him.

"First and foremost," he continues, "the job is to leave the world below behind. This compound becomes your world -- the garden, the cave, the glorious fuck pad. Luxury becomes your baseline. One thing that you will lose almost entirely -- save for, I don't know, half a day per week -- is solitude. My girls will be all over you all the time, and the job ...

... is to love them fully and without fail. You don't get bored of them. You don't get annoyed with them. You love them, always."

"Fuck them, you mean," I croak out. I was right to be worried about my voice.

He eyes me, and just keeps on sodomizing his platinum-blonde supermodel -- the one who, not so long ago, let me fuck her throat like a pussy, roughly. "No. I mean the kind of love that revolves around sex, but isn't just sex. I mean giving them what they need. Good girl, bad girl, naughty girl, silly girl, cat girl, baby girl -- hell, some weird kind of girl that one of them hasn't even come up with yet, but might next week, and you need to get onboard. You need to learn how to fuck each of them the way they want and need to be fucked, and I know you know that that's not a static proposition. Will they help you? Of course they will. It's still on you. It's stillyour job."

"And what are the hours?" I ask. I try for sass, but I'm still not there. I try something else, mentally. I dig deep. Jack would be disappointed in me, but Jack's not here. I'm alone. I have to do this myself.

Fucking men, I think to myself.Fuck this guy. Fuck his whole deal. Fuck his slightly bigger cock. Fuck his unearned wealth. Fuck his literary bullshit. Fuck his fortune-cookie pseudophilosophical ranting. Takes one to know one. He's full of fucking shit.

If he notices any change in me, he doesn't let on. Instead, he takes my question deadly seriously, and responds in kind. "Six hours a ...