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Punishing Tara And Amy



By



Kim Hardwick

© Kim Hardwick 2015. All rights reserved.

Author's note: All characters are adults, aged 18 or older.



I don’t claim to be a moral man. As a former altar boy who hasn’t been to mass in years, I hardly stand as a poster boy for chaste and devout Catholic living, nevertheless, the idea of having a sexual, possibly romantic relationship with a married woman gives me pause.

With married women, the specter of jealous husbands yielding to their homicidal fantasies is a present danger. Additionally, the emotional turmoil resulting from a sudden attack of guilt on the part of the whore as she’s trussed up in hemp rope, with a handcuff tossed in for good measure, cannot be underestimated.

My varied experiences with women of all political persuasion as well as cultural backgrounds have confirmed my suspicions that deep down, all women hunger for a strong masculine hand; an unyielding man who can and will use force to repress a woman’s natural tendency towards insufferable bratty behavior.

In fact, contrary to popular fiction, the older the woman, the brattier and more obnoxious her attitude regarding men and how she interacts with them. Younger women, in spite of their occasional bouts of ‘attitude’, tend to have an innate, naturally subservient attitude towards real men.

As Mrs. Jones continued to prattle on about she believed I would be better served with an upgrade to a Viking island stovetop (15,000 BTU burners) instead of my original choice of Vulcan commercial grade stovetop (35,000 BTU burners, complete with all insulating safeguards), I was faced with a most delectable conundrum. A married woman in her mid-thirties who was incredibly attractive, yet at the same time, obviously tone deaf when it came to dealing with men.

What to do? Most men would quietly acquiesce and sullenly accept the change of plan imposed on them by a human being possessing a vagina. They would undoubtedly whine and possibly raise an objection, but in the end, being the well trained little ‘boys’ that they had allowed themselves to be, would hoist the white flag of surrender and allow the weaker sex dominate them and impose their choice upon them.

What a vile and rancid example of manhood, if you ask me.

“Mr. Smith, I’m so excited with this plan. With a redo of the ceiling, including the installation of hidden lights, combined with the overhaul of the walls and general paint scheme, your loft would become a wonderful dwelling worthy of Town and Country.”

Mrs. Jones, all five feet four or so of her, stylishly coiffed hair, seductively snug fitting blouse and skirt, was certainly animated. It was obvious by her erect nipples, slightly garish perfume and her habit of shifting about on my leather sofa, that the thought of using other men’s money to decorate luxury apartments acted as an aphrodisiac. She was a money hungry harlot who had no compunction when it came to discarding her morals. I narrowed my eyes as I realized that she was nothing more than a two-bit slut; a cum slurping whore.

“Your proposals are very interesting, Mrs. Jones; however, I must insist on keeping my original choice of burners. I do have my heart set on the Vulcan range; I simply cannot cook or heat water with any stovetop putting out less than 30,000 BTUs. Considering that your choice of a Viking residential range only offers a maximum capacity of 18,000 BTU, your proposal is, to paraphrase my parish priest, ‘fucking dead in the water’.”

She pouted her fleshy lips, lips that have obviously measured countless cocks and performed even more rim jobs, and stared right at me. I was half expecting her to scold me for naysaying her. Or perhaps my use of a vulgar term so caught her off guard that she was temporarily speechless.

“But Mr. Smith, the cost of upgrading the thermal specifications of your kitchen, not to mention obtaining the zoning variance would be a nightmare. On the other hand, my proposal would cut all the red tape and still provide a visually compelling modern kitchen that any successful couple would love!”

I smiled at this whore and accepted the fact that she had just knowingly crossed her pain Rubicon. Saying no to me four times in one afternoon was not only unacceptable, it was downright churlish.

We smiled at one another and I was certain that in her devious female mind, she was satisfied with another conquest. After all, most men find it difficult to say no to the call of the Siren. Unlike Odysseus, I did not need to have myself lashed against the mast to resist her lure. The fact is, I live for these moments; the chance to provide needed training to the vast horde of spoiled, unrepentant sluts threatening to overwhelm our Judeo-Christian culture. Like Siegfried, who battled dragons, I was ready to slay the odiferous lure of erect nipples and wet pussy all in the hope that one day, all women could be properly trained.

“Mrs. Smith, if you would be so kind as to follow me to the kitchen, I will show you why your plan, as enthusiastically as you champion its virtues, simply will not do.”

I stood up and headed towards the kitchen, not even bothering to see if the slut was following me. of course she was going to follow me; the lure of the huge commission would be too much for any woman to resist, let alone a sexually frustrated man loathing vixen.

“As you can see, Mrs. Jones, the overall look, and feel of my kitchen would suffer irrevocable harm from installing any burner other than a genuine professional model such as the Vulcan. I would be happy with a suitable alternative, such as the Wolf, Southbend or Garland. But Viking? Please, don’t make me laugh.”

I turned to confront her and was mildly surprised to see she wasn’t standing behind me, at my beck and call. In fact, I heard the sound of the elevator gate stopping at my floor (I own the building and maintain sole occupancy of the top three floors of the eight-floor building. I do love my privacy).

“Mr. Smith, I’m so sorry that our professional relationship must end on a sour note, but I simply cannot work with a client who insists on rejecting my plans for a do-over. I will send you an invoice for my services. Thank you and good day!”

And with that, she closed the elevator door and left for whatever God has forsaken appointment she had. Staring at the gated door, I smiled at her spunky attitude. For a woman, she sure had balls, I thought. Shaking my head slightly as I walked over to my humidor to extract a Partagas Churchill cigar, I wondered how long it would take for her to contact me again. However much I admired her determination not to let a man ‘dominate’ her and dictate how she was going to change my place, the fact remains that she is, in the final analysis, a woman. Which means that she’s going to analyze what happened today ad infinitum and then she’s going to discuss this with her girlfriends? Women just cannot accept the fact that there are certain men out there who just won’t stand for their bullshit.


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