So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie)

I had just gotten home when I got a text message from the boss, so I ignored it. Fuck him. I was the head of the Zippers and Closures department, which is much less impressive than it sounds, especially considering that I’m the only employee in the department. I had to decide what to make for dinner: a box of Organic Vegetarian Black Bean, or Portabella soup? My job was also not especially remunerative.

He was a pretty hands-off boss. I think he’d inherited the company from his dad. He had been on-site today, and had deigned to breeze through my department. My “department”, I should say in quotation marks, because the Zippers and Closures Department seriously consists of my desk in an appropriated storage closet.

So, by the time I had selected the Portabella Soup, and decanted it into a pot and turned the heat on under it, I finally got around to reading the boss’ text.

HE WAS MOTHERFUCKING ASKING ME OUT.

I hope this isn’t inappropriate, BUT… Would you like to have dinner with me, tonight, at the Basil Leaf, say, 7:30?

Fuck yes I would.

I had of course fantasized about him, flirted with him, even masturbated to him.  But he was way out of my league. So far out of my league it hadn’t ever occurred to me he might possibly even be interested.

And the time now was… fucking fuck, 6:45?? I’d never been to the Basil Leaf; it, like my boss, was way out of my league. It was supposed to be pretty amazing. For a suburban Italian joint. I took the world’s fastest shower and brushed my teeth. I picked out a pair of sexy, lacey, skimpy black underpants, and wedged myself into that Red Dress. You know, the one that I would fit into by next summer, IF I lost ten pounds?

And then I got my ass out the door and onto the road, because this department head was going to have a fancy dinner and some horny casual first date sex with her boss tonight. Goddammit.

There was traffic, of course, and by the time I arrived, it was already 7:40. The sign said, “Closed for Private Event”, but the parking lot was full enough that I had to park out by the coyotes.

The place was packed, and I felt extremely self-conscious. I hate being late. But the maître d’ welcomed me effusively and ushered me through the crowded room to a two-top on a raised dais in the very center of the dining area. “The Sir is running a bit late,” he told me. “But he assures me he will be with you very shortly. In the meantime, would the Miss care for a drink, and perhaps an appetizer?”

Why yes, I would like a drink.

The maître d’, who stood seven feet tall and had the hollow cheekbones, sunken eyes, and ashen complexion of a three-day old cadaver, brought me a tall (and extremely expensive) glass of red wine while I perused the menu. Holy mackerel, a dinner here would cost me a month’s rent! And then some!

The maître d’ shuffled apologetically back to my table with a basket of bread, and informed me that “Sir regrets to inform me that he is still running late, and desires that you order without him.”

Well, fuck him. I ordered scallops over angel hair, with a side salad, and another glass of wine. It was delicious, and I felt only slightly self-conscious eating alone in the middle of a crowded roomful of people.

The cadaverous maître d’ returned to my table with what I assumed was the dessert menu. I was already contemplating the tiramisu. “With your permission,” he intoned, “Sir desires that you be cleansed and purged prior to his arrival.”

Well, ok then.

I became aware that my table was gently lit with a tasteful trio of spotlights, illuminating me for the rest of the restaurant to see. Self-consciousness and visceral horny lust boiled up inside me, battling for my libido like an acid and a base poured into a tumbler and shaken not stirred. When a new server showed up, a skinny girl who looked like she had just turned eighteen, wearing a slinky black dress that did very little to contain her large and free-floating boobs, my self-consciousness slunk back into a corner, and lust won out. For the moment.

She had a pretty page-boy haircut, too much eye make-up, and a glance at her hands made me think she might actually be much older than I had initially thought. She carried a large galvanized steel bucket full of sudsy water, and a loofah. A train of white-aproned assistants followed her bearing towels, sponges, and other accoutrements.

The table was cleared off quick as lightning, and the tablecloth whisked away. “You’re sexy,” the girl whispered privately in my ear, “Really and truly, you’re sexy as all fuck.”

She helped me out of my red dress (no mean feat!) to a smattering of applause. My panties came off next, I was obscurely glad that I had shaved, and I found myself kneeling naked on top of the bare wood of the gently illuminated table. I felt like I was glowing, with the radioactive heat of the lust building up inside my cunt. I could feel every eye in the place examining my naked body, and I did not dislike the sensation. Not one bit.

 My wrists and ankles were gently but firmly placed in restraints and secured to D-rings discreetly inset into the tabletop. “It’s just temporary,” she whispered in my ear. “It’s better this way, trust me.”

My tits hung pendulously down, as did my gut. My rump was thrust up in the air. I felt naked beyond naked, vulnerable and exposed. Which, I’m sure, was exactly the intent.

My cunt, by the by, was totally into this: it felt swollen and juicy and wide-open, and my clit felt like a an enormous marble, swollen and desperate for stimulation. My asshole winked at the crowd “Hey, I’m up here too!” Apparently I was into this.

The girl wrote something down on a tiny piece of paper, and slipped it into my handbag. “Look me up later,” she said with something that might or might now have been a shy little smile. “For now, just try to relax.” She was unfolding a crinkly package and putting on sterile purple gloves. “I’m serious.”

Working quickly, she painted an antiseptic substance up and down my cunt, and then dipped surgical tubing into a packet of lube. “Breathe out,” she commanded, and then deftly inserted a catheter straight up my pisser.

It didn’t exactly hurt, but holy cats it was uncomfortable. And deeply embarrassing. Yellow urine immediately filled the line. As soon as the urine reached the bag at the far end, she clamped the tube so no more urine could exit my bladder.

“There,” the girl said, satisfied with her work. She pulled off the sterile gloves, and replaced them with an industrial yellow pair that looked like the kind you might scrub toilets with. I had a bad feeling that I knew what was coming next, and I must have whimpered audibly.

“Hush now,” she said, gently patting my butt, “it will all be over soon.”

She smeared lubricant all over my anus, and before I had a chance to fully process what was about to happen to me, another tube was inserted straight up my ass. It had a large bulb on the end, and the girl had to struggle with slippery fingers to get it past the gateway of my clenching anus. She was relentless though, and soon enough it was nestled inside, and then I was being filled to the brim, filled to the point of bursting, filled to practically overflowing, with gallons and gallons of warm, soapy water.

Oh, God.

The urge to evacuate quickly became so strong that it overrode any sense of shame that might have remained, lingering in some corner of my soul. I needed to shit, to blow out my bowels, audience or no, and an inflated plug in my ass was preventing it. I moaned out loud, and my body shook in desperation.

“Here,” she said, “Swallow these.” She placed a pair of lavender lozenges in my open mouth, and I hastily swallowed them down, desperate for some, any, relief.

I was allowed to stew like that for just a moment, my misery on full display of the crowded restaurant. I was conscious, just barely, of being incredibly sexually excited, more physically turned-on than I could remember ever being, not since I had first discovered the joy of kinky carnal pleasures in the back seat of Jamie-Lee’s hastily parked Honda Civic so many years ago.

But the moment was fleeting. My stomach cramped like it had been hit head-on by a freight train, and a wave of nausea washed over me that was the furthest feeling from sexy imaginable.

“Hold it in,” the girl admonished me, “Just for a second more.”

I struggled, cold sweat beading up on my forehead, gasping in air as my insides cramped and heaved. It seemed like ages, tens of minutes, though in retrospect I doubt she left me hanging more than thirty seconds.

Just in time, she placed an empty bucket in front of me, and I vomited out a fifty-five dollar serving of scallops and angel hair. The relief was indescribable, and she gave me a tall glass of mineral water to drink and clean out my mouth with, which I promptly puked up as well.

After throwing violently up, emptying everything and then some out of my stomach, a wave of euphoria washed over me, something like I imagine a heroin rush must feel like. I felt the girl unstrapping my wrists, and strong hands pulling me into an upright position.

A galvanized bucket was shoved roughly in between my legs. At the same time, the catheter up my urethra was deftly extracted, and the plug in my tortured asshole was yanked out. I exploded.

Humiliating isn’t even the word. As the whole restaurant watched, a torrent of brown water, piss, and raw sewage violently exited my body. Oh the sounds! The awful sounds! The smells! It seemed to go on and on. But the humiliation was nothing compared to the sweet, sweet relief I felt as my body emptied itself. My ankles were released, the foul bucket rushed away, and I wept as I collapsed onto the tabletop.

Firm, gentle hands washed me with hot water and honey-scented soap, scrubbing every inch of my body, rendering me clean and pink. I was toweled off and left, a quivering mass of very clean jelly.

Lurch, the maître d, cleared his throat. “The gentleman regrets to inform me,” he intoned, “That he will be unable to attend this evening. He hopes that you will accept these in his stead.”

The cute girl with the big, perky tits and the pageboy haircut stood by the table, holding a highly polished silver platter in one hand. On the platter stood three large, extremely realistic silicone dildos. They were totally identical except that they were each marbled a different color. I’m guessing that they were exact replicas of the boss’ penis. Although my experience with men is that they tend to exaggerate just a tad.

Now, as a girl who likes cock –a lot— and who prefers a nicely shaped Medium, these things were on the Dear Lord size of Extra-Large.

There was almost no preamble. She slathered lube all over one of the toys, and in one smooth movement, shoved it right up my ass. The restaurant collectively gasped.

“Open wide dear,” she said, and stuck the blue-and-white dildo into my mouth. I was almost too surprised to gag. A harness of some sort was slipped over my head to hold it in place.

The last dildo went up my cunt, which was plenty wet and slippery, but a mighty tight fit with the other monster cock up my asshole. It went in though, and it didn’t feel bad one in there my friends, no not at all.

There was a buzzing noise, and she applied the tip of a small but powerful chrome-plated vibrator to my engorged clitoris, fucking my cunt with the dildo at same time. I swear, I didn’t take but two seconds, and I was coming, shooting off like a sixteen-year old boy in the back of a parked Honda. My climax rolled through me, hard and furious, my body shaking all over and maybe even squirting a big, drooling and gagging on the silicone cock in my mouth as I railed through wave after wave of orgasm. She kept the tip of the vibrator pressed against my clit until I collapsed, weeping piteously.

Applause filled the room, and somewhere on the very edge of my consciousness I was aware of it, and strangely gratified. I was washed and toweled off a second time, competent hands helped me back into my red dress (but not my panties), and after a rather epic struggle with the zipper up the back, I was summarily escorted out through the crowd of diners, head spinning, knees wobbling, barely conscious.

Not even an after dinner mint.

More or less the next thing I knew, I was sitting on my ass on the asphalt of the parking lot, next to the dumpsters, breathing the night air, feeling the night air on my sore and naked cunt, and wondering what the fuck had just happened to me.

I had to rub another one out right there with my fingers before I returned to my car and drove home, hands trembling the whole way.

A pot full of completely ruined, burned and blackened portabella soup was waiting for me, but I didn’t care. I put the pot in the sink to soak, and went straight to bed, and I don’t think I’ve ever slept better in my life.

The next day, nothing was different at work, but that Friday my paycheck was significantly bigger than usual, and I thought I had an inkling as to why.

A few weeks later, I got another text from Boss, apologizing for standing me up, and asking if we could try for dinner again, at a different fancy restaurant this time.

I typed back ‘Sure’. But I didn’t hit the Send button. Not just yet anyway. I already had a date.

END