Chapter 2

THE COMPANY

“Il n’y a qu’un bonheur dans la vie, c’est d’aimer et d’être aimé.” (There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.), by George Sand, who was really a woman, Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin.

Losing your loving sexy wife to another man would have been bad enough. Losing her to another woman might have been devastating to any male ego, especially if she was acting out some kinky lesbian sex fantasy she had without including me in it. Losing her to some polyamorous kinky mix of sexes, or even to a BDSM sex dungeon would have been bad for our relationship I guess.

BUT NEVER, DO YOU HEAR ME, NEVER in my MOST wildest nightmarish fantasies did I ever even imagine that I could lose my beautiful loving sexy wife to a faceless soulless corporate entity calling itself THE COMPANY.

To begin our little tale of shame, sorrow, humiliation, and ultimately grief let me introduce myself I’m James Adams. I’m 39, stand 6’ 4”, and weigh in at around 200 pounds. I have multiple degrees in IT and computer science and thought I was a pretty good investigator. Sure I’m no Mike Hammer, but I really did think I was a good investigator. UNTIL THIS HAPPENED.

Grade school for me was hard for me because my Dad was a cop. To many in our culture “The Man”, a “pig”, is not a popular person to be around. Cops believe it or not were very unpopular in certain circles back when I was going through grade school. Well, I guess they still are, ha, ha. High School wasn’t much better for me because I suffered a growth spurt and wound up a whopping 6’ 4”. Suddenly I was towering over almost all my fellow students, which led most of them to think of me as a semi-adult to be avoided. On the other hand, most of the adults and teachers around me were often intimidated by my very size and avoided me too.

Of course wearing coke bottle lens glasses, being too terminally clumsy to play basketball, or any other sport for that matter didn’t help any either. At the same time I was suffering through a severe case of acne that didn’t help my social standing much either. Needless to say, I didn’t date much back in high school. All of which made me develop into a real loner by the end of my high school years.

But every dog has his day they say and things certainly got better for me in the college engineering school I attended later. I drifted into IT like I was born for it. In no time I was majoring in the area of forensic computing which I really liked. By the way, forensic computing like forensic accounting only means that I can find the problem and explain it to a layman. Something that is useful in a court of law to explain things in layman terms to a jury at trial. Also while I was still in college, they came out with first thin polycarbonate contact lenses so I got rid of the coke bottle lens glasses. Then as luck would have it my acne decided, all on its own, to dry up, and my body finally caught up with my size and I developed some actual muscles and a little coordination.

All of this helped my appearance a hell of a lot, and my bruised ego a lot more. I guess you could say that I went from the Ugly Frog in the Fairy Tale to the Handsome Prince in the Fairy Tale, ha, ha. This let me develop a real personality and date more. Who am I kidding this was the start of my dating.

I eventually moved out of my Mom and Pop’s place and got myself a room off-campus. That room quickly lead into a three-year daily romp in the hay with my enthusiastic, screaming, thrashing, orgasmic, older more mature landlady dear Rose. A beautiful flower and a equally beautiful woman. I owe Rose more than I can ever repay. She taught me many ways of pleasing a woman. From her, I also learned many things about my own body. Things that I only vaguely understood at that time.

I got a Bachelor’s degree, and then a Master’s in the computer sciences. At 24, I landed a good position with a midsize startup company, helping track industrial espionage and computer fraud. I loved my work, I was well paid, I was moderately successful, and my reputation was well established in no time.

Three years later, at age 27, Mom and Dad died together in a fatal car crash. It seemed that the trucker that ran over both of them in his tractor trailer rig was on Meth and his logbook which was recovered had been falsified. The company he drove for was willing to make a 7 figure, out of court settlement, to avoid a long protracted court case and the bad publicity that went along with such trials. Understand there was nothing I could do that was going to bring Mom or Pop back, and the trucker that did it all was dead too. So after a little soul searching and waiting the insurance company offered 8 figures and I accepted the money and moved on with my life.

As luck would have it shortly after that the company I worked for at the time was gobbled up by a bigger company. That left me high and dry for a job, but I had salted most of the insurance settlement money away in federal securities, bonds, and high yield certificates of deposit so I wasn’t actually hurting for money right now. Things would get better I figured.

Since I had a little money now, I decided to get out there on my own as a private consultant in the Security Investigations Industry. The first year was bone lean and I almost went under a couple of times business wise. I had to learn to market myself from the bottom up on my own, but by the time I turned 30 I was earning well and was well established in my field as a honest hard working lone wolf forensic investigator.

Of course this, the investigating that is, led to my meeting Barbara Ann Cunningham. I was tracing cables at the time, looking for illegal wire taps, illegal date loggers, and other things on loose data lines at the time I met her. I was really crawling around on my hands and knees under a computer desk when someone sat down at it and began to clack away on the keyboard. Rolling over onto my back I looked up at these two lovely bare tanned legs. Following those lovely legs on up I became aware she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress, and because her legs were spread wide open I found myself admiring her well trimmed little runway and the totally bare slit lips themselves.

Trying to back out inconspicuously from under the desk proved to be an absolute disaster. I wound up banging my head and almost overturning the computer desk in the process. Finally, I was forced to crawl out in front of and just below the typist herself. Blushing a deep red and looking down at my size 13 shoes as I stood up I mumbled an apology as I tried to get out of this with some of my fragile dignity left intact. Of course, as you could expect, counting on Murphy’s Law, my rapidly growing erection tenting my jeans refused to cooperate with my tactical retreat. I’m sure the typist herself must have noticed my problem at the time.

The typist, Barbara Ann, for her part just giggled and said, “I’m Barbara Ann Cunningham. You’re cute. Did you like what you saw? How about we have lunch, right now and discuss it, but I have to warn you I’m very strict about my first dates. You don’t get to lick my pussy until at least the third date.” Such was my introduction to Barbara Ann, the biggest flirt I ever met, but not a cock teaser I found out by any means.

Lunch, as luck would have it, lead to a first kiss. At first, it was just a chaste peck on the cheek, but a few seconds later it somehow developed into a full lip lock as the kids are want to say. Then as things progressed it seemed to magically morph all by itself into a deep tongue probing investigation into the state of my tonsils. That kiss seemed to go on for, I guess it seemed like forever. Well until I wanted more anyway.

The second date, a few days later, was to a well advertised romantic chick-flick movie and late dinner, followed by a session of heavy petting in my car. That petting eventually resulted in a glorious cock stroking handjob for me, and two body racking orgasms for her. Those orgasms were from me, but required no more than lightly stroking her sopping-wet pussy and cute little clit. I shot my load in one of the stack of shop towels I keep around for cleaning my windshield.

Barbara Ann then wound up giving me a running commentary on my cock’s hardness, it’s length, thickness, as well as how many times she had to stroked it before I came. You could have mistaken Barbara Ann for an Olympic Judge scoring a pole-vaulter’s jump if you weren’t careful, ha, ha...

The third date was on a Friday, we had a picnic lunch in the park. Then we walked hand-in-hand into some nearby woods, where I abruptly found myself being allowed to lick her sweet wet pussy just as she had promised. Later she returned the favor as she did a 69 over me. She swallowed every drop of cum as I continued to lick on her spurting pussy. She could squirt like no other girl or woman I had ever dated. By this time you will understand that I had a lot of experience with my landlady to draw upon.

I got her back to her apartment in enough time to fix her dinner. Later, much later, she made me breakfast, declaring that she was completely satisfied with my performance in bed, but wanting more. Much more! I doubt that we got dressed more than twice that whole weekend. I provided hard pounding, woman-pleasing, sex until I had to literally crawl away from her place late on Sunday night, a totally used-up old man. A flirt she may have been, but also a near nympho in bed too.

On the fifth date, she just showed up at my place with her suitcase in hand and declared that she was moving in with me. Despite the whirlwind of sex, I discovered Barbara Ann. was articulate, liked classical and modern music, and that she could danced to just about any rhythm there was. She could dance the flamenco, or the tango, she excelled at Bellydancing and was an expert at imitating those exotic/erotic pole dancers she watched on YouTube. She had even brought her own pole when she moved in with me. Who knew they make portable poles? She was a confirmed exhibitionist also and a good stripper who liked to bare it all for my enjoyment.

You’ve probably never seen a petite, 5’ 1” featherweight bundle of energy like her working a vertical pole. My first job when she moved in was to attach the two heavy metal base plates for the pole firmly to the floor and the ceiling. She only weighed 100 pounds sopping wet, had long platinum blond hair, medium sized ski-slope shaped breasts. What some call tear drop shaped breasts, with long, sensitive, easily aroused orgasmic nipples. Mind you she’s totally nude when she works the pole. She’s simply amazing working her way up, down, and around that vertical pole anchored to the ceiling and the floor. All this while she chants these dirty limericks and smiles her Cheshire Cat grin at me as she does it for my enjoyment. If you haven’t seen anything like this I strongly recommend you check out some of the YouTube videos. It’s well worth watching.

Barbara Ann loved to put on a sexy show for me in private, or even with her girlfriends whom we would have over for a potluck fondue Friday nights. Once when we, well Barbara Ann and three girls from her office anyway, and me of course, went out to a strip club. As luck would have it they were having an “amateur night” that night.

Anyway, Barbara Ann was busy giving the other girls pointers on what the strippers on stage were doing wrong. Maybe she was doing it a little too loudly because one of the strippers challenged Barbara Ann. Their disagreement was fast turning into a real catfight when the club DJ put it on the loudspeaker, daring Barbara Ann to demonstrate what they were allegedly doing wrong. Barbara Ann didn’t bat an eye, she looked right at me and said, “I can only dance if my Master allows it.” and bowed her lovely head.

The other girls from the office and the other customers too went wild at that. “Your a sex slave Barbara Ann.” The office girls all started asking. “When did James enslave you Barbara Ann??” Jill innocently asked. “Is the sex good.” Somebody else asked. Finally, the DJ got in the act again.

“Ok, folks we have a real treat for you here tonight. This little lady is this gentleman’s sex slave and she wants to dance for us, but she needs her Master’s permission.” I was literally under and in the spotlight now. I knew that in private Barbara Ann had no inhibitions, none at all, but I had no idea what she would do in public. So playing the game, well after all she had started it, I asked her out loud.

“Do you want to dance for these people pretty Slave,” I asked with a serious face and loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Oh, yes my Master, this one wishes to dance to please her Master in all ways.” She answers without ever looking up.

“Then dance for me my beautiful one!” I hammed it up for the audience. As I learned that night Barbara Ann has no inhibitions, none at all. In fact, I also learned that night that total nudity isn’t allowed in a public strip club. Who knew? There are certain professional standards that have to be met, even if they are no more than a Band-Aid. Anyway “My Sex Slave”, as she came to be called that night, was a huge crowd pleaser. Needless to say, we left that night with T-shirts advertising the club as first prize, our table’s liquor bill paid, and an invitation to return if she ever wanted to go professional.

I’ll save the rest of the gory, sex filled details for later and just say that the wedding took place about a year later. It was a small civil ceremony before a bored, Justice of the Peace. We then took a 10-day luxury honeymoon in the Bahamas.

Until then I never really realized just how small a small bikini could actually be, while still barely covering protruding nipples and ‘the other naughty bits’ with flesh-colored Band-Aids. Band-Aids which were also used to help close her bare vaginal lips too. The same Band-Aids that kept mysteriously coming off forcing me, well somebody had to carry the box of Band-Aids, and I was the only one with pockets, to have to reapply some more on the spot ... often I must add. The sacrifices we make in the name of modern high fashion, and public modesty ha, ha.

We lived in my small apartment for a year after that. Then we bought a small house on the outskirts of the city. Barbara Ann proved to be one of those unlucky women unable to carry a child to term. So after three miscarriages and complications she got her tubes tied. With tears in her eyes, and a brief spell of depression, she got on with her life. We could always adopt I told her, but she said it wasn’t the same.

I did most of my IT consulting work from home, traveling to on-site work locations now and then as needed. She continued to work for THE COMPANY, big capital letters demanded, she said. During this time she received several promotions and had a very decent salary which helped to pay for our new home.

I was even contracted a few times by THE COMPANY to do a bit of IT fraud and sabotage work for them at their complex in town and even the other one in New York City once or twice. I was even issued an electronic admit swipecard to access the building’s security system any time I needed to. This included access to most of the doors in the two large complexes. It also included the back fire escape door and stairs too I was later to find out. Once I even thought I had lost the card and had it replaced by security. Of course I latter found the original wedged in the car seat cushions.

This wasn’t unusual in my field of work. In my investigations, I have to be able to follow the wires, cables, even satellite uplinks, and other things throughout the building. In order to follow up on my investigation I need access to the whole building’s infrastructure. It was understood that that was my job.

Understand to do my job properly I had to have access to the complex’s building plans and electrical layout blueprints and other things. I had undergone a complete background investigation, and even a polygraph interview by THE COMPANY’s own insurance carrier before I got the job. I was fully bonded after all. In my investigations, I found nothing special to be concerned about and reported so to THE COMPANY’s head of security Mr. Jones.

Life was good for us those first years, we had sex at least four times a week, with Barbara Ann still screaming and orgasming every couple of minutes. No matter how long I held out before shooting my load into her sweet little pussy she was still there for me. Up till these last couple of years, we were doing wonderfully I thought. I certainly had no complaints as I remember it.

Boy was I a stupid fool as it turned out, but I want to set the record straight here. This was as much my fault as Barbara Ann’s. It’s so easy to blame the victim when something like this happens as Mistress keeps reminding me. I was the vaulted IT expert, the forensic investigator, after all. If I had allowed this to be done to a client of mine I would have been sued and lost my license at least, maybe even doing time for criminal negligence Mistress reminds me of this from time to time.

The problems started slowly at first like all major killer avalanches do, little incidents accumulating until the whole mountain is coming down on top of you. Or maybe it was like an iceberg with most of it invisible to the naked eye underwater just waiting to happen. I guess now it started when Barbara Ann was promoted to head up a ... I mean The New Research Project Group at work that THE COMPANY was putting together. She was supposedly doing investigative studies into the sub-prime real estate field. Mortgages, derivatives, and other banking things like that at the time.

She was given permission to form up her own research team. That team included two of her favorite people from work. A fellow named Tony Brown, from the same little Texas town as her. He became her second in command, and a Deloris something-or-other became her personal assistant. I had met both of them and personally didn’t like either one. Tony was a sneaky little beady-eyed ferret type, and Deloris was a social-climbing backstabbing bitch in my opinion, but they were Barbara Ann’s friends and I wasn’t about to say anything. I personally made it a point not to control whom my wife befriends or doesn’t at work. Maybe that was a mistake on my part, but then they always say hindsight is 20/20.

At first, it was just the three of them. Then she told me they had added three more female market analysts. Then they included a 7th woman that advised them on movements in the entertainment industry, and then another, for a 8th member. This one according to my wife advised them on industrial chemical processes and the science industries in general. Finally, there were all together 11 female analysts working under Tony who had somehow managed to become the team leader now. Barbara Ann and her BFF Deloris just seemed to be part of the team now. Barbara Ann didn’t seem to be upset with her demotion and her salary didn’t change, I checked. So I didn’t say anything about it either, after all, it was her job I said to myself.

It was shortly after a big research project was completed and the subsequent team party, a party which I wasn’t invited to and didn’t attend. A party, I guess I should add, that everyone had known for months in advance that I’d be out of town for that entire week. That was when I first started to notice a change coming over my beautiful sexy Barbara Ann.

First, she started to wear her pager even at home all the time. She finally put it on a lanyard around her neck and started wearing it to bed with us. It was even there between us when we had sex. By now I knew when I heard the by-now-hated ring tone, that Disney tune from Snow White and the seven dwarfs, “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to work we go.” that she was about to be informed of a problem at THE COMPANY and would have to leave immediately to take care of it.

If she didn’t respond fast enough, Deloris called her on her cell-phone and detailed what the problem was. The words they used in their discussions were meaningless to me, as I’d never been into high-finance even before I married Barbara Ann. But as Mistress reminds me from time to time maybe I should have paid more attention to my beautiful sexy wife.

All I knew for sure at that point was the calls resulted in my wife running off at all hours of the night or day, after work, even on the weekends, and staying late sometimes. Sometimes she didn’t get home until the wee hours of the morning. Then she’d come home utterly exhausted, but still smelling fresh and clean like a damn soap commercial. Of course, I knew she had a completely private suite with bathroom and shower in her executive’s office suite it was a perk of her job I knew. I had even been in her suite a couple of times.

Anyway I began to worry, especially as she started putting in first 50, then 60 hour work weeks. Finally, she was working over 70 hours every week. Our sex life fell off to low, almost nonexistent levels of sex as she slept through most of Friday night and well into Saturday and sometimes even Sunday most weekends now.

The next series of blows came over the course of a couple of months. Barbara Ann started needing to sleep over on the job, which she could do because there was a comfortable pull out couch/bed in her office suite. Plus the building cafeteria provided what ever she needed to eat or drink.

At first it was just the occasional overnighter, then it turned into a couple of nights. Finally, it was three nights in a row. Still, I wasn’t too worried, well not too much anyway. I knew she’d be well fed in the executive dining cafeteria, and she also had good access to the executive gym and spa for exercise, even tanning and swimming in the pool for that matter, but I still continued to worry about her. I also had a growing fear in the pit of my stomach that my lovely, sexy, flirty wife, was having a long term sex affair with someone in THE COMPANY.

The trouble was that all the other signs of her having an office affair or sex with someone else just weren’t there. There was no criticisms or sniping when we were together. No hidden lingerie in her draw’s. No condoms cached in her purse. No semen crusted panties in the wash hamper. Of course, the trouble with that was that she usually didn’t wear any panties anyway. No bra hardly ever either since her boobs set up high on her chest and she didn’t need one. There were no calls on her cell phone to unknown numbers, made or received, I checked. No whispered stuff while I wasn’t listening either. No bottles or packets of sex-lube. Not anything that even whispered of extramarital sex affairs.

Outside of my not having sex with her, which very rarely happened anymore these days, there was nothing there. There was just an ever-increasing absence of my wife and a steadily decreasing chance of sex with my wanton wench.

About this time, our conversations began to be one-sided. She talked endlessly about THE COMPANY... THE COMPANY this... THE COMPANY that. Talk about debentures ... about stock transfers ... about short sales of risky investments ... about profit margins ... about anything and everything reeking of finance, and profit for THE COMPANY.

When I’d try to redirect the conversation to any other subject, my work, our home, or even sex itself, it was suddenly as if I’d started speaking Linux, or Java Programing Language, or Mandarin Chinese, or something she couldn’t understand. She’d sort of tune out, then get this blank zoned out glassy-eyed stare, and finally just wait until I ran down. When I did she’d pick up right where she’d left off ... sub-prime this ... mortgage debt that ... hedge fund investment something or other ... money flows like this ... until time for bed. When she hit the bed she’d fall deeply asleep with no cuddling or sex allowed.

Finally, I mentioned getting a trial separation or divorce at the table. She just sat there silently smiling until I ran down again. Then she continued on about how her commitment to THE COMPANY’s profit and loss spreadsheets was the highest pleasure and duty she could possibly imagine.

Serving THE COMPANY was her life now. I was sure by now that she was having an affair, probably with one of the older members of the Board of Directors. She was probably “screwing her way to the top” I was beginning to tell myself, but again I remind you there was no proof and I had looked.

Her pager kept going off so often that I began to imagine at that point that there was a “malign presence” in our home. The damn THE COMPANY itself had somehow managed to invade our property. THE COMPANY itself seemed to be doing its level best to prevent us from having sex or even a cuddle in the bedroom.

One afternoon, we were both throwing off our clothes as we ran back for the master bedroom. It was one of our rare chances to cuddle and have sex in weeks. This time we made it all the way to the bed. In no time I was busy plunging my stiff as usual boner into her as usual wet accepting pussy, seeking urgent sexual relief from a bad case of blue-balls. Barbara Ann was even screaming on her third orgasm in six minutes when her hated pager went off again.

“Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to work we go.”, that damn Disney tune again, and even with me fully erect and fixing to go for that final thrust ... that expected release ... I kid you not here ... my hyper-over-sexed wife pulled herself off my fully erect rigid cock and ran out of the house.

On her way out she snatched up a dirty shirt of mine off the floor, grabbed up a pair of her jeans off the back of the chair, and literally ran out of the house. Barefooted she ran to her car, absolutely naked, screaming something about serving the needs of THE COMPANY. Something about it was her greatest duty to serve and pleasure THE COMPANY.

I finally had a belly-full of this crap. That was the final straw and last time I personally heard from or touched Barbara Ann for quite a while. She was gone an entire week that time. She never answered any of my dozens of phone calls or text messages. On the eighth day, when I called her number I got a prerecorded message saying that “this service has been cut off at the request of the user”. That was it I guessed.

My life crashed in ruins around me at that point. My marriage to the most desirable woman I’ve ever met was over I figured. I hated THE COMPANY for what it had done to me and Barbara Ann. For the first time in my life I wanted revenge. As they say revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I had a lot of time to think, and well I got it, my revenge that is, well kinda, ... sorta, ... maybe ... I’ll let you the reader decide.

----------------------------------------------------------Weeks later feeling oddly calm and disinterested after she ran out and never came back, I went back to the kitchen to have a beer. I was admittedly depressed and drinking more than I should. As I leaned back drunkenly in my chair, looking up disinterestedly at the snow white ceiling above me, it abruptly hit me. “When did we get smoke detectors put up in the house” I asked myself. I knew I didn’t do them, and Barbara Ann, for all her expertise with financial documents, investments, and other endeavors, didn’t know one end of a screwdriver from the other.

Looking closely at the smoke detector I finally spotted the little green LED that signifies it’s activated, but I couldn’t spot any wires so that meant it was battery powered, which was certainly possible, or the AC power leads were probably up in the attic. Frowning, I picked up my beer and wandered from room to room of our house. In the end, I found an activated smoke detector in every room, including the garage, utility room, even the bathroom. What was going on here I asked myself? Who had put these in I asked myself? For that matter when had they put them in?

I waited, and waited, just sitting around there in the darkness getting madder and madder until it was fully dark in the house. When it was dark enough I put on my non-reflective black ninja suit. I had it to do my sneaky forensic IT work at night for my clients. I had found they seem to expect it for some reason. I then went to the main circuit breaker panel in the garage and flipped off the main power circuit breaker, even pulling it completely out to ensure that there was no electricity for the entire house, inside or outside.

I then checked to see if the little green LED’s were off. They were so that meant they were operating off the 110 AC house current and not a battery UPS backup system. I then moved through the different rooms with a powerful flashlight and small step-stool I carried with me for the purpose. I pulled the covers off each smoke detector in turn.

Each smoke detector had a high definition sub-miniature audio/video wide angle camera and microphone in it. I then traced the audio/video outputs of all the cameras to a very small, but very state-of-the-art expensive multiplexed microwave transmitter. A transmitter that mixed and combined all the audio and video feeds into one output via a fiber optic cable. It was up in the attic and also powered by house current too luckily.

The output from that was then fed to another high-end fiber-optic cable that terminated at the other end of the house up in the other end of the attic in a point-to-point laser transmitter. Out there somewhere else in the neighborhood was a matching receiver I figured.