Michaelene's Will o' the Whip

Chapter One-2

Sssswish! Sssswish! It made an ominous hiss.

Enamored of her three birch switches, Michaelene was particularly fond of this piece. Three feet long, it featured a rubber handle, was highly flexible, and lightweight. Best of all, it boasted a wicked power that left a perfect red welt. A good reminder for her meek sub-hubby.

Usually, it took days for the marks on Todd’s fanny to fade, which gave Michaelene not the slightest pause. Long ago, her husband had become damaged goods in her eyes. And tonight, she was determined to let her disappointment show, plying the switch with more than customary vigor. Todd’s resulting screams rent their A-frame, and could be heard from the outside, had anyone been listening.

No one was listening.

Swish—Ka-rack!

Todd screamed.

Swish—Ka-rack!

Todd screamed again.

When she was done, Michaelene left the weeping Todd pinioned to the bed and donned her newest strap-on, a dildo modeled after an old time guitarist’s plaster-casted p***s. Kneeling behind her husband on the bed, Michaelene lubed the dong before sending it up into his rectum.

“I’m going to make you my b***h, Toddy,” Michaelene said, ever so sweetly. “It’ll help dry your tears. Because for now, you’re forgiven.”

As she pressed the daunting instrument inward, Todd’s sobs shifted by degrees into pleased, audible squeals. Once Michaelene was sure Todd was in a docile state, she pulled out, removing her dildo harness and lingerie. After puffing on her cannabis pen, she made Todd kneel before her in her special chair, to thank her for his whipping.

Once that was accomplished, Michaelene let him suckle her n*****s, first one and then the other, before settling back for a long, luxurious round of c*********s from her dutiful sub hubby.

“Your tongue, Toddy,” Michaelene said. “Hurry.”

***

A year earlier, because Patrick Accuardi didn’t want to live in the same town as his ex-wife Edwinna, he relocated to the coastal enclave of Newport, accepting a position as a welfare eligibility worker for the state of Jefferson.

Besides having a good medical and dental plan, the job put money aside for his retirement and the salary afforded him enough to pay child support for his daughter, Kirsten.

Tall, slim, blond, and blue-eyed, Patrick had something of the intellectual about him, with a studied manner and wearing longish hair. His chief ambition was to carve out a literary career. More than anything, Patrick enjoyed writing. The hours he spent at his keyboard were the most satisfying in his life, aside from s*x.

The state job was just a job. He was sympathetic to the clients, but had no illusions. Patrick’s fellow workers were a mixed bag, with a bunch of awful co-workers—stupid and incompetent, toadies and informers.

Or all of the above.

The rest were more or less average. In terms of friends, he connected with none of them. And it didn’t seem likely to change. One day, however, things did change.

Patrick’s supervisor Bob Edward stopped by his cubicle to make an announcement.

“I’ve hired a replacement for Marge Hemheimer,” Bob said, naming a woman who’d retired. “The new girl’s name is Michaelene Austin. She starts tomorrow.”

“Okay” Patrick said, looking up from his computer.

“You won’t need to cover Marge’s caseload anymore,” Bob said. “That’s got to be good news.”

“That is good news Bob,” Patrick said. As was always the case when he spoke to Bob, Patrick kept his responses succinct and deferential.

Patrick’s supervisor at the office was a deeply unhappy man, and for a good reason. In his early twenties, Bob had completed a church-sponsored program that converted him from a guilty homosexual into a brain-washed, religiously-fanatical faux heterosexual.

Bob had subsequently gotten married and fathered two children with a woman resembling a muscle-bound Ellen DeGeneres. She too had undergone the church conversion program, in her case turning her away from lesbianism.

Among the byproducts of the conversion was that Bob had developed a grating, girlish voice that sounded like fingernails on a blackboard to Patrick’s sensitive ears.

“I was hoping you’d be able to assist in Michaelene’s training,” Bob said. “The on-the-job part, anyway.”

“I’ll be glad to help,” Patrick said. “As always.”

“Thank you,” Bob said, stiffly.

“You’re welcome,” Patrick replied.

Bob returned to his private office at the corner of the building. Patrick sighed and began tapping on his keyboard. He hoped the new hire wasn’t from the same old mold as so many of his fellow employees.

Even the nice ones were a dreary lot. The majority were fat broads of one sort or other. Physically fat or fat-headed. The men were, if anything, worse.

But since the women in the office outnumbered the men by two to one, Patrick dealt mainly with the women. Often they were dull, needy, noisy, and incessant snackers. The one who occupied the next cubicle over from Patrick’s was a classic example.

Her name was Barbara Clark.

At age thirty, Barbara was as obese as a pregnant hippo. Nevertheless, more than once she had advertised to Patrick her s****l availability. He had declined as graciously as he knew how.

Barbara had black hair, was fond of tight-fitting clothes, and wore white swan glasses. In terms of personality, she was the opposite of the jolly fat lady. Barbara was in fact as mean as a rattlesnake and the welfare clients unanimously despised her.

Also dysfunctional but in a different mode was another eligibility worker nearby Patrick’s cube, Gary Oates. Gary was ugly, thin, myopic, and astonishingly stupid. His oily black hair was worn in a comb-over and the dandruff his scalp generated was colossal.

Gary was Bob’s pet. He overlooked the fact that Gary’s mantra when it involved dealing with the clients consisted of one word, repeated three times:

“Deny, deny, deny!”

Chances were any new staffer selected by Bob Edward would conform to the rest of the crew.

Patrick expected no less.

His own selection the year before had been practically accidental, the very last hire of Bob Edward’s predecessor, the alcoholic Marion Blaine.

Upon accepting the job, Patrick told himself he’d have years of self-sufficient employment ahead, if he behaved, kept his head down, and avoided entanglements. Following this plan would provide time to complete the writing project he had been diligently slaving over for several years.

In the meantime, Patrick diligently did his job, burning eight hours a day carrying a caseload of welfare recipients, accommodating his co-workers, and devoting his spare time to writing. On Sundays, he drove the 140 miles to Slateville to spend afternoons with his daughter, Kirsten.

She had recently turned eight and was a bookish, pretty, brown-haired girl, interested in many of the same things that interested her father.

First, he would have lunch with Kirsten and then they would do something together. A favorite of the girl’s was a trip to the downtown library. But there were other enjoyable activities as well. Slateville was a large enough city so there was always something they could do, rain or shine.

Life therefore went on for Patrick Accuardi. A failure in love as well as (so far) in his life, he considered the book he was writing his ace in the hole.

It might never pay off but then again… it might.

Within months of his arrival in Newport, Patrick made a couple of male friends, Nick Powell and Harry Billings. It so happened that Harry was Patrick’s next-door neighbor, a smiling, bearded man Patrick’s age who likewise had gone through a messy divorce. Nick too, was divorced. On most weekends the men vaped, drank, listened to music, swapped stories, and hung out together at the various watering holes Newport abounded in.

Nick was interested in dating, an interest Patrick did not share. He’d had enough feminine trouble, courtesy of his ex Edwinna, to last a lifetime.

It wasn’t that Edwinna was dominant that put Patrick off, for in truth he desired a woman who exhibited loving authority. What Patrick objected to was the creepy way she went about it. She had a mean streak unleavened by other, more gentle feminine virtues.

There had been no doubt that Edwinna was a supremely intolerant harridan when it came to Patrick. She complained about him constantly, and misunderstood him entirely.

Patrick wanted avoid another Edwinna-type experience. Had it not been for Kirsten, he would have been happy to never again have any contact with his ex-wife.

Being in Edwinna’s company more than a minute was invariably excruciating. The bottom line was that Patrick hated his ex-wife with every fiber of his being and regretted impregnating her more times than he could count. The lone consolation had been that Kirsten seemed more to take after her dad than her mom, growing into a quiet, creative child with no patience for the self-absorbed histrionics her mother enjoyed indulging in, given the slightest opportunity.

Still, Patrick was intrigued when a woman struck up a conversation with him at the grocery store. This was Myrtle Holland, similarly divorced and lonely. A librarian at the middle school, Myrtle was vivacious, pleasant, intelligent, and had a face that went easily to smiling. Although more than a decade Patrick’s senior, Myrtle suddenly fit into his life like a round hole takes a round peg.

For nearly a month now, Patrick had joined Myrtle in the evenings, when his writing stint was done, for wine and s*x. The age differential appeared to have little effect other than to increase the pleasure they took from coupling.

Divorced ten years, Myrtle was eager for a connection that was fun, flattering, and uninhibited. In the beach town where they lived, their affair was a secret. As far as Patrick was aware, Nick and Harry were the only ones who knew of it, considerately keeping this knowledge to themselves.

It wasn’t a big deal one way or the other, but Patrick’s job as a worker at the office was such that he preferred not to be seen squiring Myrtle around.

Newport was just too gossipy.

Myrtle likewise had reasons for keeping the numerous Newport snoops in the dark about her liaison with Patrick.

Myrtle’s position at the middle school exposed her to parent groups, teachers, churchgoers, school administrators, and colleagues. Carrying on a relationship with a younger man risked making Myrtle the butt of mean-spirited jokes. Already, she was packing to leave, and looking forward to her new posting in Jefferson City, as it promised her more pay, more authority, and better benefits.

It was a regret for Myrtle that this affair had developed so late in her Newport stay. On the other hand, if her horrid ex-husband ever found out about her sleeping with Patrick Accuardi, there’d be difficulties.

Not any kind of trouble that Myrtle couldn’t handle, but the man would make nasty remarks to their daughters and that would piss her off plenty.

Keeping company with Patrick could not have been a greater contrast to putting up with Myrtle’s gross, oafish ex-husband. Patrick was cool, cute, smart, tall, and sexy.

Myrtle loved these qualities in him. And on top of that, she adored the s*x. Patrick was currently teaching her all kinds of bedroom tricks she’d never experienced with her ex, her sole previous partner.

As a woman with a master’s degree in library science, leaving Newport was Myrtle’s chance for a lucrative salary and a secure future. But she was sincerely disappointed to be leaving behind her sweet new boyfriend.

***

Later that night, Myrtle again knelt on all fours, facing the head of her queen-sized bed, sucking Patrick’s rod. His head was thrown back, hands on his hips, while his organ moved in and out of Myrtle’s avidly sucking mouth. Not quite naked, Myrtle’s bralet remained on, because she was slightly embarrassed about her pendulous boobs, with their big, dark n*****s. She drew her mouth away momentarily to ask, “How am I doing, lover?”

“You’re doing great Myrtle, but see if you can take it in a little deeper, if you don’t mind.”