A Bottle Of Beer

A Bottle of Beer

by Mistress Elise Van Hitte as told to slave wr maxwell

Recently, I look forward to the Congresswoman’s junkets, boondoggles, fact-finding tours, pointless conferences and other vacations at the public expense. I, and her sub-male husband Alan, can always count on them lasting at least a week and possibly more, depending on the number of resort beaches in the host country. Nothing ever dangerous, like Damascus, Beirut, or Singapore, always someplace glamorous like Paris, Rome, Venice or Tokyo. All expenses covered by the U.S. tax payer. While the cat is away, the rats will play, and play we do. I can always count on one session with Alan’s ass per vacation.

This was no different. He made the appointment right at the end of the trading day. The clang of the exchange’s obnoxious gong covered Alan’s voice on the recorder and I guess he knew it because he repeated his request.

“Yes, this is ah, Miller, and I would like to schedule a session with Miss Elise for tonight at 7 o’clock, at my apartment in the Chatwick Building. Call me back to confirm, or reschedule. 555-2378. It’s been a hell of a day, following a hell of a week, and I need you to massage the knots out of my neck before going back to the floor on Monday.”

Alan Miller is a senior broker with Goldman, Lemann, Wells and Wells. In fact he is the grandson of the second ‘Wells’, which explains why Alan is still employed there; he owns 7% of the firm. After the sub prime meltdown on Tuesday, the run on gold on Wednesday, the launch of the Attorney General’s investigation on Thursday, and the subpinieas being delivered by bonded courier before noon on Friday, my phone has been ringing off the wall. The stress level on Wall Street was about 1000 times more than on a typical triple witching day when futures contracts came due on stocks, bonds, and commodities.

I thought to myself that Alan sounded more coy than usual, either because he was not alone, or because he thought his phone was tapped. He had never referred to our BDSM sessions as therapeutic massage before and my work night never starts before 10.

I dialed my answering service and said, “Call Mister Miller and reschedule his appointment for 11 tonight and tell him there will be a 10% surcharge for same day service.”

Yes, I think of my sessions are a psychiatric ‘service’ for those who think they truly need punishment, although they are not covered by health insurance plans and the legality is often in a grey area. The extent of grey is dependent on the judge behind the bench for the hearing. While I have never met a client in court, I have as- sociates who have, and the outcome is always embarrassingly in favor of the ac- cused.

I thought to myself, “What have you royally fucked up this time, Mr. Miller?”

My answer was on the evening news. “. . . It is rumored that Goldman, Lemann, Wells and Wells, one of the top 10 investment banks in the country, will be filing for chapter 13 protection on Monday unless a government bailout can be worked out over the weekend. In their last quarterly statement, GLWW had $1.7 trillion dollars in assets, but, when asked about their liquidity, the board chairman, Mr. Hi- ram Levine said, and I quote, we are too big to fail. If we go under, then 63% of the public pension plans in the country go under, too.”

Thats my answer. Alan needs to have his ass good and spanked before the Secretary of the Treasury and the Chairman of the New York Fed both take turns giving him the shaft. I just wonder how much of GLWW’s troubles can be linked directly to Alan’s bungling and if I was going to be paid in cash, or worthless stock certificates.

I called the answering service. The usual sweet voice had been replaced by the raspy croak of Miranda, the owner. “Yah, what you want?”

“This is Mistress Elise Van Hitte. Any Messages?”
“Whats your code?” croaked the voice above the chatter of a dozen other voices.

Usually the workers recognized my number with caller ID, but Miranda was old fashioned and preferred the old access code.

“Seventeen, forty-one, thirty-seven”, I replied.

“Oh yah, sure. Yous got lots of messages today, Mistress Van Hitte. You want me to read then to yous?”

“Not right now. Did a Mr. Miller call?”

“Let me see. Miller, you say. Ah, here he is. 4:50. Miller said 11:00 will be fine. The front desk will be informed. Blah-blah-blah. My door will be open. Then the usual bull shit about being a very bad boy.”

“Thanks. Tell your girls, no more bookings for this evening. Mr. Miller will be getting the full treatment. It may turn into an all nighter,” I said and disconnected the phone.

In light of the recent financial news, I decided to wear red; dark red, peak-a-boo lace cat suit over a bright red leather bra and zippered red panties. A vivid red suede mini skirt and my trademark black leather, thigh high boots with the handle of a crop poking out the top. At 10:00 I call for a cab, don a camel top coat, and wait in the lobby of my Brooklyn apartment. I get a few stares from some of my neighbors coming home late from supper and drinking, but its not anything they haven’t seen before. Just the same, I button the 3 buttons on the coat and pull the belt tight around my waist. Most of the necessary tools of the domination trade are tucked neatly into pockets of the lining of the coat. Rope, paddles, handcuffs, nipple clamps, nut crusher, strapon dildo and harness, you know, the usual.

This time, I bring the large dildo, because after the last session, Alan complained that the dildo was too small. Hey, if he wants the big one, its no skin off my butt. All the big stuff will be at Alan’s apartment, locked away from his wife’s prying eyes, behind the false wall of the front closet. For a stock broker, he had a nice col- lection of dungeon furniture; all hand made, collapsable, and very convenient. What Mistress wants to go walking down the street pulling a saint Andrews cross or spanking bench behind her.

The cab was a little later than I expected, so I mentally deducted 20% from his tip. “Where to?”

“Upper West side. The Chatwick Building.”

“Chatwick? Never been there before. You got a street number?”

“340 West 72nd Street, and try to get there before 11:00. I meeting a client about a business proposition. We either get it nailed down tonight, or his business gets shafted by Uncle Sam on Monday.”

“Sounds serious,” says the driver as he runs a red light. I arrive at 10:59, and restore the cabbie’s usual 20% tip.

The lobby of the Chatwick is spectacular. Italian marble floor mosaic depicting various greek and roman goddesses granting the naked mortal men at their feet the pleasure of their sensual beauty. The men can look, but if they try to touch a goddess, then they get turned to stone. Evidently, several of them tried and marble statues of naked youth line the long hallway to the front desk.

“Good evening Miss Elise. Mister Miller is expecting you,” says the receptionist.

I nod and walk past him, the concierge desk, the security guard and go straight to the elevator bank. While the Chatwick is not a high rise by New York standards, it is old; pre-war, pre-WWI. Elevators back then were these caged affairs with operators in the car. Thank goodness these had been updated to modern standards; I hate being in a cage. But the first pair only go to floors 1 thru 6, so I stride to the second pair which serve floors 6 thru 11. The penthouse apartments have their own private elevators which have to be unlocked with a door key, or so I was told. On my first session with Alan, the security guard had to explain this to me. Well, maybe he didn’t have to explain it to me, but wanted to explain it so he could look down my blouse. I just assumed a rich stock broker like Alan would be living in a penthouse, but the guard explained to me that all the numbered apartments used common elevators. Since I was going to 1108, which was 1 floor below the penthouse level, I should take one of the cars in the second set of elevators.

After a minute, I arrive on the 11th floor, just as a blonde, bouncy Brooklyn Decker look alike was coming out of Alan’s apartment. She was a little disheveled, for a supermodel, and her hair definitely had the freshly-fucked look that you never see on the runway.

As we passed in the hall she said, “he’s all yours.” I just smiled.

At room 8, the door was open and so were Alan’s pants. His cock was hanging out of his boxers and was still dripping cum.

On your knees, bitch, strip, and lick that cum off the floor. “Yes my Goddess. You are early.”

“No I am not. Your cock is late. Didn’t that Brooklyn Decker look alike call girl get you hard enough, quick enough, to finish with her before our appointment?”

“Not as quickly as you do, Goddess.”

“Nice try, slave.”

“But that was the real Brooklyn, not a body double. She said she might be on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit edition in February.”

“I don’t care about fucking her, fucking SI or fucking swimsuits. Now lick that scum off the floor before I slip on it, slave. If I get a bruise on my ass from slipping on your cum, then there will be hell to pay. Understand?”

Alan obeyed, but in his effort to clean the floor, he just made the wet spot bigger.

“Dry it with your wall street standard, 300 tread count, white button down shirt, slave. From what I heard on CNN, you may not be needing them any more.” I told him as I tossed his $500 shirt to him.

“That’s better. Now clean by boots, slave.”

Alan started wiping them with his shirt and soon a black streak of boot polish had stained the shirt beyond any hope of it coming clean. I pulled the riding crop from my right boot and started running the business end of the crop over his back paus- ing to playfully tap at some of the welts from our last session. I removed the nip- ple clamps, handcuffs, a ball gag and a blindfold from the coat’s secret pockets.

“Thats enough, slave. Take my coat and hang it in your closet.”

Alan stood, head looking at the floor, took my coat and hung it in the entry closet, along with an assortment of other outer garments. Alan returned still with his head lowered, but not as much. It was obvious to me he was looking at my breasts, even though he tried to hide his indiscretion.

“Do you like what you see, slave?”
“Ah, yes, Goddess. You look beautiful as ever, Goddess.”

“Thank you. Now turn around, put face on the wall, spread your legs and put your hands behind your back.”

“Are we playing good cop, bad cop tonight? Where is the other cop?”

“No. Just bad cop. Get used to this, because after you fucked up the market today, you’ll need the practice wearing hand cuffs.”

I shoved my knee into the small of Alan’s back as I snapped his wrists into the cuffs. He had lost his erection and his cock and balls swung freely between his spread legs. Next came the ball gag, bright red hard rubber and a little smaller than

most. I spit on it before shoving it into Alan’s mouth. He protested, as usual, and I had to lever his jaw open to get the ball in. Alan hates being gaged with anything other than a dildo gag. He grunted his protest. Next came the blindfold, which was a simple, double layer of back satin about four feet long. I tied it behind his head and slapped his shoulders with the extra long ends.

“Turn around, slave. Have you set up the spanking bench like I asked?”

Alan tried to talk, but all his words were indistinguishable. Then he just shook his head ‘no’.

“I really like your bench. Get it out of the closet and set it in the middle of the great room.”

He protested.

“Come on Alan, you’ve set up that bench so many times, I bet you could do it in the dark. I bet you could do it blindfolded and with your hands behind your back. I spun him around twice, to increase his disorientation, and shoved him in the direction of the closet.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be right here if you get lost.”

I walked over to the wine chiller and selected an Italian white. I proceeded to uncork the bottle and pour myself a goblet. Nice, crisp, fruity, really good stuff. I made a mental note to bring the bottle home with me, if I didn’t finish it.

Alan found the closet and was pushing the coats aside with his shoulder to get to the back panel with the secret compartment. From previous sessions. I knew the was where Alan hid all his dungeon furniture from his wife. I came over to watch. He was trying to open the latches with his hands, even though they were behind is back. There were a number of them on each side of the closet. To unfasten the lowest ones he had to sit on the floor and back his ass up to it. The middle latches were easy enough, although he looked like a hairless bear trying to scratch his back on a tree. But the top 2 latches were a bit too high to reach with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“Huemp mee” he pleaded.

“I’m not going to help you. If you had gotten prepared for your session like an obedient slave, instead of playing hide the salami with Brooklyn Decker you wouldn’t have this problem. Maybe you have some other body part that can reach

the latches; certainly not your pathetically short dick. Think about it. You are a bright Harvard grad with a degree in economics. This should be a piece of cake for you.”

Alan collected his thoughts, tried head butting the latch. No luck. Using his chin. Same result. He protested some more, but I poured another glass of wine and laughed at him.

“You know, slave, a chimpanzee can open a jar with his feet, when his hands are full of bananas. Maybe you should go back and re-learn something from your pri- mal ancestors.”

He got down on his back, inched his way to the back of the closet - feet first - then with his elbows on the floor, he climbed the wall until his feet could kick the latch open with the heal of his foot. He looked quite ridiculous with his little dick swinging back and forth as he kicked. Finally all the latches were open and he could remove the back panel.

Alan was working up quite a sweat, but now his goal was in sight, figuratively speaking since he was blind folded. The closet held six different pieces of BDSM furniture. He felt around for something familiar and grunted a question.

“No Alan. That is part of the pillory. I want the spanking bench. You know it has those real dark stains on the wood from all your sweat.”

Yeah, like he’ll be able to tell the difference between a dark stain, or a cherry fin- ish, or a light blond finish with his fingers. Eventually, after fumbling around, touching various items and grunting asking me for direction, he came upon the folded legs of the bench.

“That’s it,” I said. “Now drag it out and into the big room. I’ve already moved the coffee table out of the way. But watch out for the two sofas.”

Fortunately, Alan did know his way around his apartment and once in position, the spanking bench practically unfolded itself.

“Good boy. You deserve a reward for all that effort. Sit down and tip you head back.”

Alan complied, and I pulled my breasts out of the body stocking, unhooked my bra, and proceeding to rub my tits all over Alan’s sweaty forehead. Alan knew immediately what his ‘reward’ was and nuzzled his face into my breasts.

“Yes, such a good boy. I know how much you worship my breasts. Can you lick them?”

Alan’s tongue out from under the ball and started licking my nipples. This was in- credibly difficult for him, and I was astonished he would strain this much for a taste of me. But I soon got bored with it and poured myself another glass of wine before getting to the real domination.

I removed his gag, painted a few drops of wine on to my nipple and let him suck.

“Oh thank you Goddess, but I’d really prefer beer. I have several dozen imported German beers in the other refrigerator.”

“Suit yourself. Go and get yourself a beer - any one like - but I will not be your waitress, barmaid, or serving wench.”

Alan got up and walked backwards feeling with his hands for the furniture and showing off his shrunken cock in the process. I knew he was trying to locate the gap between the cabinets that would lead him to the kitchen area, but was going to help him a bit.

Funny thing about Alan’s kitchen; I don’t think he had ever prepared a meal in it. Sure he had hired chefs for his high-brow, brokerage parties and I’m sure he had heated up leftovers in the microwave, but never actually cooked anything himself. Everything in it looked brand new; plates, stemware, and silver service. Plus, the cleaning staff must spend hours and hours on the appliances keeping them in showroom condition - except for the beer fridge. It showed smudges on the stainless steel and the teakwood inserts on the door handles showed lots of wear.

The beer chiller was an unusual configuration, as refrigerators go. It had no freezer compartment, but looked like 3 hotel mini-fridges stacked on top of each other, but with a near seamless gleaming mirror finish metal front. Each unit had its own digital temperature readout; 51.2 for the top, 43.3 for the middle and 35.7 for the lower. I never asked Alan why anyone would want beer warmer than 50 degrees. Heck, my dad would pour a beer down the drain if it ever came that close to room temperature.

Next to the beer chiller was an open cupboard with dozens of different shape, style and size of drinking steins; anything from plain cream colored, thick walled ceramic models to the most elaborate Bavarian silver topped steins with hand painted miniatures of 18th century hunting scenes.

By now, Alan had felt his way into the open kitchen area and was tacitly inspecting the back wall of the area - feeling for the beer chiller.

“Ah ha, there you are,” he exclaimed in triumph, and opened the middle door. “But Goddess, you are going to have to help me with this last part. I am looking for a Reissdorf, a particular Kolsch style of beer from a brewing company in Cologne, but all the bottles are the same shape and I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“Tough.”
“Please come and help me,” he begged.

“I’m not your servant. But, since I need to freshen up my wine anyway, I’ll come and help.”

The digital temperature readout was flashing 45.4, 45.5, 45.6 and rising since Alan had opened the door. I peered in and found most of the bottles were labeled ‘Kolsch’.

“I see Linenkougle, Pinnsnerr and Von Engledorff but no Reissdorf. Oh there it is, in the back. There is only one bottle left, but 4 or 5 of the others. Are you sure you want this one?”

“Yes. Its one of my favorites and I discovered it last fall at Oktoberfest in Munich.”

I slid the half liter bottle out of the fridge and Alan closed the door. The temperature readout immediately started falling from 46.2, presumable to settle back to 43.3.

“But how are you going to open it, Mr. Wall Street beer snob?” I asked.

“Hummm, that presents a problem. Most of the German brewers have not converted their bottles to the barbaric American twist caps, which I could probably man- age despite your handcuff, so could I prevail on you once more?”

I had refilled my wine glass and, in the process, drained the bottle. “No,” I said over my shoulder as I walked back into the living room.

Alan put the bottle back into the middle chiller, walked over to the 5 foot wide, double doored, Sub-Zero model in the middle of the back wall and pulled two bottles of common, everyday Miller beer from the door.

“Okay, then it’ll be domestic beer, not because it is better, but because of the pack- aging.”

It was amazing how he knew the location of every appliance that contained beer.

Alan set both bottles on the island counter and with his back to me, opened one of them. He turned, bent his head down, (and his rounded ass up), and felt around with his tongue in mid air searching for the bottle’s mouth. Once found, he sucked the long, clear neck of the bottle into his mouth and chugged it - well most of it. A large amount of foam spewed out of the corners of his mouth and his nose, which splatted on to the marble kitchen floor. When the bottle was empty, he let it fall to the counter top. Wastebaskets appear to be optional.

“One dead soldier,” he muttered, turned his back, and searched for the other bottle.

“I got it, my brewery slut. I don’t want you so drunk you won’t feel the punish- ment I have in store for you.”

I finished my wine and set the goblet on the kitchen island, then unlocked one of the handcuffs. With the beer bottle in one hand and his cock in the other I lead slave to the spanking bench.

“Lay face up, but with your head off the end of the bench. You have some work to do before your punishment.”

Alan lay on the bench and I locked the free cuff back on his wrist, but under the bench. He was essentially my prisoner again and his balls were well within reach of my crop. I had Alan hold the crop between his teeth while I slipped out of my clothes. I moved so that my pussy was an inch from Alan’s nose, then removed the crop from his mouth.

“Do you smell that, slave?”

“Oh yes, Goddess. Its the promised land - your delicious pussy.”

“And how should a slave treat his Mistress’s pussy?”

“As long as she wants.”

“Good answer. Someone has been well trained, and I’m sure it wasn’t your wife.” “No ma’am.”

“Now stretch your long tongue out to ‘the promised land’, and if you are a slacker, I will not hesitate to whip your balls,” I said and gave slave a smart tap with the end of my crop.

“Ouch! What’s that for?”

“Emphasis. Now get to work, slave, and show me you are good for something other than losing millions of dollars in the market.”

Alan licked up and down, side to side, and after I turned, he did the same to my rear. I had several very satisfying orgasm as I played the crop over his limp cock and defenseless balls.

“Its funny how your cock can stand tall and proud for that slutty Brooklyn Decker and her plain vanilla sex, but as soon as your dick gets threatened with a good whipping, it tries to hide.”

Alan made no comment.
I un-cuff Alan and had him turn over.
“Fun time is over, slave. Prepare yourself for the main event.”

Alan dutifully straps his feet into the stirrups, placed one hand into the wrist shack- le, and waited. He was still blind folded and I pulled his head up by his thinning hair to see all my pussy juice on his face, and to check the blindfold.

Confident he can’t see a thing, I opened the drapes and turned on the room’s track lights, which I aimed directly at him. He looked like an actor on stage ready to deliver his well rehearsed soliloquy. The homeless people in the park across 72nd Street were in for an award winning performance tonight.

“But can I have my second beer, Goddess?”

“Of course your butt can have your second beer,” I replied, twisted off the top, spit on his obviously well abused, little bitch-pussy, and insert the long neck of the clear bottle into his ass.

“Ahhh! Thats not what I meant,” protests Alan. “Damn thats cold.” “Shut up and take it like a man, bitch.”

I hold the bottle in with one hand and fastened a belt around Alan’s waist. Next, since I don’t want to hold the bottle all night, I tape it in place with duct tape; wrapping several layers around his ass and the spanking bench, and a layer be-

tween the waist strap and the back legs of the bench. All the while, Alan’s ass is leaking beer, so I push on the bottle until all of the neck is up his rectum.

I lower the front of the bench so he is more properly displayed to any of the night time dog walkers, joggers and riffraff across the Street who happen to look up.

The leakage has abated, but not stopped completely. I shove it in a bit farther until his rectum is embarrassing the barrel of the bottle, which is still 3/4 full. While it is ironic that Mr. Miller has Miller beer in his ass, the classic brand for ass-fucking would be butt-wiser.

I step into the harness of my strap-on dildo, switch on the tiny vibrator in the base, cinch up the straps and start mouth fucking Alan. I know he hates this, because the vibrator rattles his teeth, but fuck him - and I do - the vibrator is for my pleasure, not his. I get a nice little orgasm before replacing the ball gag and moving on to the next phase of slaves punishment.

The carbonation in the beer has pushed more than half of the bottles contents in- side Alan’s ass.

“Now we will use this bench as it was intended to be used, to hold your little bot- tom at the perfect height for a good paddling.”

I rotate the bench so it is at right angles to the windows then get a few of my favorite impact ‘tools’ from my coat pockets. I start with a relatively benign leather ping-pong paddle. This implement is far from my favorite, since it is too short, too light and the grip hurts my hand, but, or should I say butt, it is good to warm-up the slave’s ass before going to more brutal items.

I spend a few minutes getting Alan’s ass nice and pink, then slip on my lace body suit. After all, this is Alan’s show, so he should be the naked actor. Next I use the shaft of my crop to build up parallel rows of angry red welts on his butt. This takes good aim as well as an accurate stroke. I don’t want the welts to cross, at least not yet.

I mark slave’s left butt cheek and his right butt cheek separately and stand on each side of the bench to do so. By turning the bench, my body does not block the voyeurs. Slave yelps into the ball gag after each stroke, but not so loudly as to wake his neighbors in apartments on either side. Not only do I mark his nicely rounded ass, an ass any woman would love to have, but I lay down a series of welts

on his upper thighs. This is not as painful on a man, as it is on a girl, but I make sure he still feels them.

Next, I take a break, of sorts. I find Alan’s liquor cabinet and grab a bottle of im- ported vodka. I return to Alan, who has gotten bored from the lack of attention. I take a good swig of vodka and spray it on Alan’s ass. He screams into the gag. It is always so satisfying to make them scream. I do it again, for effect, and again to relish in his scream.

Since Alan’s second beer is 3/4 empty, I open another bottle of wine, for me. but don’t even bother with a glass. I just tip the bottle back and drink. I really needed something to take the taste of the vodka out of my mouth.

I liberate a long rattan stick from a tall vase and wonder to myself if Alan’s decorator knows of his masochistic side.

“Alan, darling, these are going to be very painful, but I want to count them - each one of them. Understand?”

With the rattan, I simultaneously lay 5 vicious strokes on each leg and butt cheek. The rattan welts cross all the welts inflicted by the shaft of my crop. At the inter- section of the welts, a tiny open wound develops. His ass and thighs each have 5 perfect rows of blood-red circles. God I love my work.

I let Alan recover while I drink some more wine. “God this is good stuff. I’ll have to member to steal a bottle of this one, too.”

I shake the beer bottle in Alan’s ass as I drink the wine. After the agitation, all the liquid beer is inside my slave and only foam is in the bottle.

Alan has no idea what just happened - him receiving a beer enema - and I’m sure the small discomfort in his rectum is over shadowed by the pain from the spanking, cropping, and caning.

Now comes the dirty part. I find a pair of long rubber gloves in the kitchen. Next time I’ll bring my own. I remove Alan’s gag and his blind fold, then show him the rubber gloves.

“Do you know what comes next, for a bad little stock broker?” “No. No Mistress. Not fisting. I’m not loose enough for that, yet.” “Not fisting, but I’m sure you are not going to like it.”

I move the bench so Alan’s beer bottle plugged butt hole is as close as possible to the windows. I cut the duct tape and pull out the bottle. Alan’s ass spews beer and runny shit all over the window. So much of the neighbor’s view.

I un-cuff Alan and say, “what a bad boy you have been. Now get down from that bench and lick up that mess this very instant!”

Alan reluctantly does as I command.

“If you do a good job, I’ll let you have more beer, and this time I’ll let you drink it. Maybe even that Reissdorf you wanted so badly.”

This seemed to provide all the incentive he needed. He plastered himself on the window and started licking the panes with abandon. If anyone was watching, it must have been quite a site. Now to be completely honest, the whole area would have to be gone over with windex, but Alan was getting the drips and chunks. The short window sill, about six inches off the floor, had small puddles of shit tainted beer, but Alan slurped them up as if he had no taste buds at all.

“Such a good slave. Now get back on the spanking bench and I’ll give you your reward.”

Alan climbs aboard and I lock him in, but then the intercom sounds.

“Mr. Miller, this is Frank at the security desk. We have had a complaint from one of the building tenants. As far as I am concerned, you and your girl friend can do whatever you want in the privacy of your own apartment, but could you please close your window blinds. That is all I’m saying. Have an enjoyable evening, sir.”

Ha! So someone was watching. I cut off the lights in the living room, went to the windows, cupped my hands around my face and looked out. There on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street was the uniformed building security guard and a small crowd of on lookers pointing up at the 11th floor. Oh well. Not my problem.

I closed the window draperies before bringing the lights back up.

I went to the middle door of the beer chiller, removed the last bottle of Reissdorf opened it, pulled Alan’s head back and gave him a good long drink until foam started coming out of his nose.

“God, Elise, that is a bad thing to do to a great beer,” said Alan after I pulled the bottle back.

“Oh yeah. Whats so great about it?” I asked.

“Well, despite costing $45 a half litter bottle, it won a gold medal at each of the last ten Okoberfests, and has the most complex set of flavors of any brew I have ever tasted.”

I took a small sip, swirled it around in my mouth like a wine taster, and spit it all over Alan’s face.

“Not bad. A bit like Michelob Ultra, but with the subtile flavors of fear, submission, total humiliation and a Munich whore’s pussy. Now I understand why you like it so much.”

I pour the rest of the bottle down his throat and cast the empty into the waste can.

“I am an all American girl and you should start buying American. Here is an ex- ample of how satisfying and American bottle of beer can be.”

I grab the empty bottle of Miller beer off the counter, grease it up with organic, hand churned butter from the sub-zero and ram it up Alan’s ass. But not neck first; that would be too kind - bottom first. Alan screams in total agony, then nothing. It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. I get my cell phone and start snapping pictures of the bottle sticking out Alan’s ass. I even do a few selfies, making sure the label on the beer bottle is in plain sight. And a few pictures of Alan’s face as he lays unconscious and drooling on the bench. He is still breathing, so I’m not worried, but there is some bleeding around the edges of his sphincter - no big deal. I’ve given him worse. Consider it a red badge of total submission / courage.

I un-shackle Alan, retrieve my handcuffs, paddles, dildo, crop, cane, gag and blind- fold, then prepare to leave. I take the thick envelop from the table by the door, count it and leave my red panties in its place. A fair exchange for a four hour session. I button the 3 buttons on my trench coat and leave. Just as I close the door, I hear the sound of a glass beer bottle hitting the floor and a groan from Alan.

Down on the first floor, I have the concierge call me a cab and chat with Frank, the security guard.

“Miss Elise, I hope you had a profitable evening. Will you be visiting Mr. Miller again soon?”

“Maybe. That all depends on Mr. Miller’s schedule. But I think he will be in Ger- many soon. You know how he loves their Octoberfest.”

“Oh, yes. It has become such a tourist draw, Munich will be starting it in Sep- tember this year and ending in November. All to give them 6 weeks of beer drink- ing, instead of the normal 4 weeks in a month.”

“Oh those clever Germanys. With that sort of imagination, how did we ever beat them in the war?”

My cab arrived and Frank walked me to the door. He asked, “I know your are not really Mr. Miller’s girlfriend - you are some kind of a call girl. So how much does a roll in the hay cost?”

“Tell me Frank, how much do you make an hour?” “About $12.25 an hour. Why do you ask?”

“Because it would cost you about 1,000 hours to afford a night me, but besides the money, you wouldn’t like it.” As we got to the door, I grabbed his crotch and felt his hard cock beneath the fabric of his trousers. “And you’d have to cut-off this thing, first.”

I laughed and walked to my cab.

On Monday, Alan Miller, and seven other high-level executives from Goldman, Lemann, Wells and Wells were arrested by the FBI and charged with securities fraud. Alan Miller was the only one in the group convicted and was sentenced to 12 years in Federal prison. Coincidentally, 12 years is the average payoff duration for a government backed student loan.