pwhipt on FL

"Ah, Cava de Paraje Calificado, excelente senora, muy buena".

Turning to me, the maitre d' was interrupted by Ms Genero, "times two!", she said, twiddling two fingers in the air and handing her drinks menu back assertively.

The maitre d' didn't miss a beat. "Si senora", she confirmed, taking the drinks menu from Ms Genero and turning on her heel.

The drinks, the small talk, ordering, the meal itself are a now in memory. Ms Genero talked non stop, decompressing all her business calculations and her angles in a single extended monologue. I made very sure to stay locked in, keeping steady eye contact, nodding, seeking clarification occasionally on some point that had escaped me. It was the kind of conversation I knew Ms Genero loved, with her doing all the talking and a listener genuinely invested in every detail.

With the table cleared the maitre d' returned, "Le gustaría ver el menú del desierto señora?”, offering Ms Genero the dessert menu.

I have replayed the next moments in my mind, over and over. Did I catch the most imperceptible grin in Ms Genero's expression then, or was it my imagination, a spark in the eye contact between the two women as the maitre d' handed Ms Genero the dessert menu and then one to me also.

"Give us a few minutes please." Ms Genero said to the maitre d'.

As the maitre d' walked away Ms Genero reached across the table, taking the menu out of my hands and very casually saying “... you get dessert later.” It was a meaningless sentence, my brain could not formulate an interpretation. What later? Were we going to be here a while? Did she mean tomorrow evening? After a few moments struggling to compute what she meant, I concluded that Ms Genero was simply playing the next round in our little game of my weight problem and her bullying. She was not letting me have dessert tonight while she ordered something exotic and decadent and let me just watch. The moment passed, evaporated from my consciousness and dessert proceeded precisely as I had concluded it would.

Our hotel rooms were on separate levels of the building for some obscure reason that is lost to me now, and having escorted Ms Genero back to her hotel room, as she touched her electronic door card to the security pad and the door unlocked itself with an audible click, I wished her good night.

“Good night Ms Genero.”

“Come inside for a moment Giles.” was her only response and she stepped inside, holding the door for me.

“Certainly Ms Genero.” I said, quickly stepping forward to relieve her of the force of the door trying to close itself and thinking there must be some late night last minute business admin that needed taking care of.

Following her down the short passage, I could feel my heart rate and my adrenaline surging. All my carefully hidden emotions were so very close to the surface now. Here I was within the inner intimate sanctum of my secret goddess, fighting with every fiber to stay calm and maintain my composure. Two luggage bags stood unopened against a wall, with another two lying flat on a knee high luggage rack, one of them open and half unpacked, its contents spread randomly on one of the two still immaculately made up King size double beds occupying the room. I could not help noticing among the garments spread over the bed, a number of items of her underwear and lingerie. I felt my adrenaline surge again and I was suddenly anxious that I was beginning to sweat noticeably.

In one fluid motion, the handbag flung itself onto a bed while the red leather jacket slid off her shoulders and tossed itself flat beside the handbag as Ms Genero navigated a smooth uninterrupted trajectory towards a drinks tray on the kitchenette countertop. With her back to me she poured a drink - I couldn’t see what, and downed it in one gulp. Pouring another, she turned to face me, and now carefully sipped at the dark beverage. In her boots and her white fine leather riding pants, her printed silk top and that wide belt, standing there with her drink, seeming to regard me with a mixed expression of irritation and estimation, Ms Genero was to me a vision of complete and utter loveliness, a goddess in an aura of light, an emissary of heaven sent to bring mortal men to their knees. I felt weak, physically, my knees literally trembling, mentally incoherent, I could not structure my thoughts. If there was work to do now, I was going to be in trouble.

After what seemed like a long slow minute, Ms Genero finally said “You’re a man who likes to do what he’s told, aren’t you Giles?”

I was momentarily taken aback. It was a very direct assertion. “Well, I try to be amenable Ms Genero.” was all I could proffer.

Then more assertively, as if she was in no mood for banter “You’re a man who likes to do what he’s told to do … by women!”

I went quiet then. I felt as though the universe had suddenly frozen in the eye beams of God. Ms Genero’s eyes were right on me, merciless, piercing the very core of me. She had somehow found the lock-draw of all my guarded secrets, and ripped it from its safe slot, reached into my being and put her finger on the innermost kernel of my self.

I think I stammered, reeling on some terrifying precipice, about to fall, a place of fear and lust and desperate long-unfulfilled dreams and needs “I … I like to do as you tell me to do Ms Genero.”

A long moment of silence then and feeling my gaze lower itself to the floor.

She came slowly towards me, twirling the remnants of her drink in the bottom of the glass, her shape and her aura in my peripheral vision, the sense of her full chest braced under that silken printed blouse.

“Isn’t that lovely.” she said, as if to herself.

My legs were stilts now, my pulse train a hammer in my ears, fire coursing through my veins robbing me of all my faculties. I felt utterly owned by this woman, I would do anything she told me to do. Overcome by emotion and lust and my secret worship of her, I sank to my knees in front of her with what must have been an imploring expression of complete adoration and worship on my face. I was now as never before utterly besotted with my boss, a fierce fighter in business, an assertive lady of poise and confidence, a leader, athletic and strong, the tall, dark, incomprehensibly beautiful multi-dimensional woman of all my dreams and fantasies, standing right before me, towering over me.

A slow cool smile spread across her lips.

“mmm, very good.”

I bowed, down low, my arms stretched out in front of me, palms facing up, knees buckled under me, my face to the floor. The naked emotion that flooded me was all consuming, redefining. Deep down I offered myself, wholly, completely and absolutely.

Dessert Menu, conclusion

“Sit up.” she said.

As I straightened, Ms Genero put one hand on her hip. The other, holding her now empty glass was relaxed at her side.

“I’ve decided your dessert menu for tonight … and I will make the order for you!! Here’s what’s on the menu …” As she spoke, she put one foot up on a corner of the knee high luggage rack, the figure hugging white fine leather pants showing the full sweep of her muscle bound thigh and from where I knelt the full width of her generous hip structure.

She held my gaze with a complete and absolute confidence and I could not help allow my gaze slide down her length to where the sheen of a pure white triangle curved inward to a vanishing point, a nexus of desire and a crux of infinite dreams.

“...and the order I’ve decided for you is a generous serving of My cream and spice dark forest tarte. Time to eat your dessert.”

Dessert Menu

I made dinner reservations at "Placer de comer", three Michelin stars, just off the waterfront boulevard, overlooking chic yachts and speed boats anchored in gated quays.

It was a perfunctory duty. Ms Genero had outlined a rough itinerary for her weekend business trip and as her senior PA, mine was execution of the minutiae, ready action of her errands and more often than not, dinner escort as Ms Genero required. My role was otherwise almost invisible, behind the scenes, extrapolating the trajectory of a frenetically busy and highly successful business woman in such a way that she could move smoothly and seamlessly through her arc of influence, with minimal obstruction by the vast machine of a civilization programmed to reconfigure its infinite moving parts in a ceaseless algorithm, optimizing the differentials in a mass aggregation between profit and loss, reward and punishment, pleasure and pain.

The days dealings done, unusually early this particular evening - Ms Genero often did business well into the late evening, meetings, negotiations, conference calls … she ascended to her hotel room to change for dinner, while I waited in the lobby. My one remaining duty this evening was dinner escort for Ms Genero. She might just as easily have had any number of business contacts or colleagues as her dinner partner but in the week before our flight out of her metropol office HQ, Ms Genero had casually mentioned to me that she had no plans for this particular evening in her calendar, except dinner, and instructed me “you will be my dinner escort for the evening Giles, organize a nice restaurant close to the hotel.” It was not unusual, I had fulfilled this function many times before.

For all appearances we would be just another couple, out for dinner, but as a consequence of regularly finding ourselves in some nameless eatery in some remote city, restaurant cuisine had become almost a staple. Nearly ten years her senior, I had reached an age where lucullan dining and long hours of sedentary desk bound office management had conspired to enunciate a certain aspect of my once naturally athletic but now overly long neglected physique and the dreaded lower torso paunch had almost imperceptibly begun to make its unwelcome appearance. The notion of “almost imperceptibly” was of course a fiction in my own mind and not a deformity that was going to escape the notice of Ms Genero. Ms Genero had begun innocently enough, teasing me about about my "gut" and poking me accusingly in my buttoned flannel fronts with one of her well clipped and manicured finger points. I had of course laughed off the slights as good natured teasing and tried hard to dispel any suggestion of offence taken. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the teasing grew accerbic, more pointed, taking on an edge of irritation and denigration. Ms Genero had taken to calling me “Fatso” and all the while my flannel fronts grew tighter and more pronounced.

One evening on the final day of an extended business trip that I perceived as a particularly stressful one for Ms Genero, as we were perusing the dessert menu after dinner, Ms Genero leaned across the table, snatched the menu out of my hands and announced that it was time for her to intervene, that my descent into obesity had to be stopped and as I had been unwilling to take the hints she so generously offered, she had now decided to take matters into her own hands. Ms Genero began scanning the dessert menu with the assertion that she would select a "healthy" dessert for me. Not finding anything to her satisfaction she ordered the same dessert for me as she did for herself but instructed the waitress cooly to make mine a half portion. I smiled awkwardly and did my best to project a good natured sense of amusement, making light of her carefully modulated bullying and acknowledging the correctness of her observations and the perfectly acceptable intervention that she had announced. I never was sure if this not completely uncharacteristic assertiveness on her part was carefully planned or a spontaneous outburst precipitated by the aggravations of an unsuccessful business trip.

Two weeks later on our next business excursion, she repeated the performance and as the waitress marched away Ms Genero informed me with a sly grin that next time she would decide if I deserved to have any dessert at all. I must have inadvertently emboldened her because my retort was to the effect that she was the boss and I could only serve and obey. About a month later as the dessert menus were left, Ms Genero announced, "No dessert for you tonight, that gut of yours is out of control and we need to reign it in. Tonight you only watch me enjoy myself." I am sure now that Ms Genero had come to realize I was never going to resist or confront her. My response was immediate agreement that her suggestion was a good idea and that yes I needed to work harder on my "gut".

Well accustomed to waiting on my lady employer I sat calmly in the lobby in sight of the elevator doors and mindfully observed the half hour until our 19:00 dinner reservation steadily evaporate. At 18:55 I called the restaurant to confirm the reservation, append a note of our possible lateness and just shy of an hour later noticed the elevator level indicators slowly descending. Was this her coming down at last? The moment those elevator doors slid open and Ms Genero stepped out is frozen in my memory forever. She was clad as I had never seen her before, dressed to kill. She wore knee high flat heel black riding boots and form fitting white fine leather riding pants that gleamed highlights along her thigh lines as she strode across the lobby. Perched on her shoulders was an open dark red leather jacket and underneath I could see what looked like a printed silk blouse and a wide dark belt that cinched her narrow waistline in an hourglass of hypnotic perfection. Of course I had long been keenly aware how athletic and shapely Ms Genero was but in this one transcendent moment, time stood still and I felt a surge of desperate lust instantly flood my veins. In some deep part of myself I knew then that I was secretly and hopelessly in love with this strident, authoritative and commanding woman and I would surely do anything to please her. Now more than ever I desperately needed to maintain my professional composure!!

The maitre d' at the restaurant was herself a tall and striking woman, as tall as Ms Genero, each a jet ebony brunette to their waistlines and having an uncanny similitude. The two seemed to have an immediate resonance, greeting each other warmly.

"Reservation for Genero" I said hesitantly.

The maitre d' tapped a screen, long pointed fingernails of polished ivory stark against her deep tan, clicking a rapid staccato. Then smiling warmly at Ms Genero, "Si, de esta manera" ...

Trailing the two women, I could not help noticing the dark form fitting business trousers of the maitre d’ contrasted with the white riding pants of Ms Genero. Both women were immaculately presented and the uncannily synchronous sway in both their sculpted hips seemed almost a choreography, like metronomes marking time in the arc of two most heavenly of all cosmic forms. Their twin-like physical athleticism endowed each woman with a lithe fluidity in the trajectory they both calculated through intimately interspersed tables and I found myself agog, momentarily transfixed by this rare heavenly purview of witnessing Ms Genero's sculptured musculature in her full stride.

"Le gustaria una copa senora?" The maitre d' handing Ms Genero an open drinks menu.

After a few moments perusing the list, "Yes please, a champana, sparkling, thankyou". Ms Genero made her selection, pointing to an item on the list.

She invites me to her home from time to time. I never know what she has in mind. Most often it is to work, to clean, cook, do her laundry, maintain her garden. She requires me stripped naked when I work in her home. My only garment, if it can be labelled as such, is the contraption locked onto my genitalia, a chastity cage, preventing direct physical contact with any part of my penis and making erections impossible. She has made it clear she does not want me masturbating in her house when she expaspects me to be working. After I strip, she inspaspects the cage to ensure it is attached to her satisfaction. Then I am given a detailed list of chores. I am permitted questions to clarify her instructions. Once the task list is specified she leaves me to the work. As I move through the house mopping floors, vacuuming carpets, fluffing pillows, dusting furniture and shelves, I often hear her moving in the house, inspecting my work. I have learned the painful lesson of performing my duties to anything less than an exemplary standard. Any task deemed to be sub standard earns me sudden and unexpected strokes of her cane. I might be on my knees scrubbing tiles or over the sink washing pots when suddenly she will march into the room with her cane at her side and strike me viciously across the buttocks or thighs. Madams has trained me meticulously in the protocol of punishment. I immediately cease my activity, cover my testicles with my hands, bow my head and remain still. If she desires to cane me further I will be given some number of strokes in rapid succession. Madam will instruct me to kneel or bend if she requires. After the caning Madam will cooly explain the nature of my infringement and then leave the room. On a rare occasion there will be no reason given and in those instances I must understand that the caning is purely for her own enjoyment or stress relief. These flarings of Madams sadistic tendencies are invariably a prelude to extended sessions of servitude in which I must service her physical needs and often submit to a variety of abuses.

Madam is insatiable. Her crux is a wet gash of ever voracious need. When her tensions become unbearable and she prioritizes relief above all other necesities, I am positioned in chains on my knees at the foot of her bed and made to work my tongue into her bulging heat for hours at a stretch. I live for that honor, when I am her most intimate instrument and serve at her pleasure to bring her release. Although excrutiating to endure the cage and and the bindings and be on my knees for an extended period having to respond most precisely to her sharp tense instructions for change of pace or switch of methods she has trained me in, my sense of worth and knowing my place is renewed each time she violently convulses in climax, all her wetness drenching me as she gasps and shudders in her release.

The party upstairs may go on for a few more hours. Now don't complain or I won't let you squirt your goo this month. You stay here in the basement, naked on the end of that chain like an animal, with your genitals all locked away and harmless and you wait until I decide when or if you can come upstairs. If you are very lucky I might bring a girlfriend down here to laugh at you before we bring you upstairs for all my guests to see. If I hear any more whining and complaining from you I will ask Brenda to stay at the end of the party. You know she has a mean streak and I bet she would like to take some of it out on you. I owe her a party favor for a treat she gave me a while ago. Marking up your tight buns would pay her hansomely, I know she would love that. Anyway, you be quiet now. If you listen carefully you might even hear me enjoying myself upstairs.

I am a source for her amusement, a stress release and a whipping boy. It does amuse my Domina so to see me squirm under her heel, flinch under her crop or writhe in the blunt hurt of the clips and clamps she snaps closed on my nakedness. That angelic grin, through all her mischief, lifts my soul to an elation where I accept every welt she paints on me. The frustrations of her corporate executive career frequently give rise to a slow ember of suppressed rage and on rare occasion she has me slung up on the horse or on my highest toes almost suspended by wrist bindings as she vents her pent up anger on my quivering, welted hide. I must hold then, hide my desperate grimace against her lash, knowing her need and desperately willing to absorb the exertions that bring her release and calm.

Chaste, naked at your feet and in committed obedience to you is where I should be.

I only imagine myself a servant to a beautiful woman.I am her domestic, her drudge, her mule. She does work but when it suits her to, chores, filth and labor are my todos and as it should be.

Joust

For the longest time I tried to hide my inadequacy, that deeply humiliating, most shamefull of all inadequacies, the smallness of my flaccid penis. With a not inconsiderable degree of relief, my diminishment is not at the level of a micro penis deformity but seems almost that it very nearly could have been. Erect my upright shaft does present a woman slight in build and of a diminutive hand girth with some degree of possibility for grappling between thumb and potentially two fingers, a hold just behind my cock tip, but flaccid, the button mushroom sized helmet shrunk back on a shrivelled, seemingly non existent shaftlet presents barely an acorn sized bishops head on a triangular slab of pale pubic fat easily mistaken for that billboard of delight, the female mound, over the slit of silk in any womans crotch.