Alexa's Executive Interview

Another round of situations after humiliating situations played out before Dylan's eyes, and the involuntary reflexes of a highly entertained and uncontrollably erect penis played out in front of mine.

A nurse wiggled her toes at him while he was restrained to a medical bed.

A young, ponytailed woman in a wrestling ring hooked her leg behind his knee, immobilized him and throwing him to the floor, where she placed a bare foot on his face at her leisure.

A psychology professor had him come on stage with a female classmate to demonstrate a social dynamic, asking him kneel on the ground while she sat on a desk and dangled her sandals directly in front of his eyes.

A female dancer in a luxurious hotel suite pushed him gently to the floor, and made him watch as she danced her foot in hypnotic ways.

A group of girls wearing casual shirts and jeans at a bachelorette party ganged up on him, holding him to the floor and simultaneously making him smell their feet.

A stunningly delicate, fair-skinned princess knighted him, requiring him to kiss both of her snow-white feet in reverence. She extended them daintily, one after the other, smiling at him with the face of an angel.

A parade of exquisite fashion models took turns strolling down to the end of the catwalk, smiling down at the camera, removing one shoe, flashing her bare foot sexily, winking, and making way for the next model to do the same. Cameras snapped from all directions.

A young female police officer in an interrogation room attached a pressure cuff to his forearm, and instructed him to stare at the bare feet of an attractive assistant who rested her heels on a stool within one foot of his eyes, and displayed them in various positions.

The scenes continued this way for at least another hour. I would gladly have extended that if given the option.

As his penis flexed and held itself involuntarily in the air, Dylan would occasionally struggle and gasp through his nose. His member tensed silently in the air for such a long period that it seemed inevitable that he was about to be forced to orgasm, but after each precarious moment, the penis would relax and wait eagerly for further stimulation.

Dylan seemed not to know what to do. He was still humiliated and occasionally struggled, as though this useless measure might prove to be useful in some way he hadn't thought of. He knew that we were still watching, and his face seemed to flush and refresh its red glow every while.

I had conferred with Jessica about the closing of our meeting, and she was preparing to transition to it.

I watched the screen as Elyse, back in the studio, thanked him for his kind cooperation and assured him that he had provided enough data for a thorough analysis of his erotic interests. It was a touching note on which to end the adventure, but the automatic stimulation to the penis continued in regular intervals even as Jessica removed the helmet, leaving Dylan's mouth and head bound, but again free to listen and regard his surroundings.

I awaited the moment -- which occurred as soon as he had blinked through his adaptation to the room's light -- when his eyes looked in the direction of his genitals and saw the soles of my feet, resting one on either side of his crotch, wiggling my toes slowly. I had propped myself on the floor, and I wanted him to watch his own erection flex helplessly in front of him as I made direct and accusatory eye contact. I wanted to make him feel so humiliated that he would have a permanent memory of it.

"Mr. Tyler," said Jessica, returning to her chair. "I plan to have this examination data analyzed with full thoroughness, but I don't think either of us needs an expert analysis to see that we'd be well within our rights to issue a full harassment suit. I'm astonished, Mr. Tyler, that you chose to insult my client by insisting that you were capable of controlling your actions in her presence."

"Look at you. Look at Miss Miller's feet, Dylan," she said, her tone raising to a crescendo. "You should be handling this in a professional manner, and instead, you insist on waving your penis around like a flag."

She stopped to let her words sink in. In the silence, his scrotum was slowly tugged, and the penis jumped wildly once again. Jessica's eyes bore into his, as if waiting for him to answer for himself. Mine, also, were still fixed on his.

With snake-like elegance, my feet continued to communicate with his eyes as well.

He stared meekly at some spot on the floor and breathed in and out, as slowly as he could.

After ten more seconds of the thickest silence imaginable, his penis jumped again in the air between my feet.

"Mr. Tyler," I said to him plainly, with no change in the flexing movements of my feet.

"Would it surprise you to know that I applied to work at Able Transport because I was aware that you were the CEO?"

His eyes returned to mine, allowing him to regard my feet and his erection again. Another penile reflex asserted itself.

"I remember seeing you at the coffee shop on Fourth and Commercial," I said. "Somebody mentioned you were the head of Able Transport, and so I studied you as you read the paper. Even then, it was so easy to notice the way you looked at my feet."

I stretched my feet in luxurious tension, and his penis jumped again from fully erect to fully-tensed stiffness, this time without any aid from the mechanical trigger.

"I decided to call on my friend, Miss Jessica Rodgers, and before long, we knew exactly what files you stored on your computer, what special works of art and video clips you paid for, and what web sites you visited and at what time of day."

"It was pretty easy for us to tell, Mr. Tyler," I continued starkly, "that you longed for anyone to know what you could never tell another soul about. You, the executive. It has been the one thing that you can't afford, for the world to know that you, Dylan Tyler, are just a ticklish, submissive little boy."

Maintaining direct eye contact, I began methodically tickling both of his feet without any intention of stopping, while wiggling my own toes much more quickly in the air around his penis. His eyes widened and he started squirming and struggling, and grunting and giggling through his nose.

"Aren't you, Dylan? Look at me," I told him as he continued to struggle.

"Look at me," I said much more firmly, dragging my nails deliberately from his arches to his heels, and his eyes shot back to mine.

"Look at my feet," I instructed him. I watched his eyes lower slightly, and I lowered my head slightly to keep him fully aware that I was watching him watch them.

"After I saw you that day, I knew that you were the executive I had been waiting for. I would apply for a job, earn it, and spend each morning causing you to provide me with evidence to justify a sexual harassment suit."

"And," I continued, "you've provided me with enough guaranteed settlement money to make my life quite leisurely and still pay a generous attorney's fee."

"But I'm not going to stop there," I said, and I stopped tickling his feet. His penis swayed left and right, and then pointed back at the ceiling. The regular triggering of his penile reflex had continued through my entire ministration, and it elicited another one now. I leaned a little closer and spoke a little softer.

"Because I'm going to give you one opportunity to get out of this whole situation, Mr. Tyler."

The room had returned to complete silence, and it was plain that I still had Dylan's full attention.

"I'm going to allow you to forget this entire sexual harassment charge, and give you the opportunity to offer me... a rape charge."

His eyes widened.

"Oh, I'm not going to do anything dramatic. All I need is enough of your semen to smear on the extra pair of underwear that I brought to this meeting. Once I have that evidence, I'll claim that you attempted rape and ejaculated on them in the process. The consequences are three years in prison and a rather significant fine, but if you're willing to offer me that option, then I'll be as reasonable as Miss Rodgers was, and propose a settlement. Approximately... twenty million dollars should be fair."

Dylan's eyes turned to saucers, and he suddenly seemed to go berserk with violent grunting and struggling.

"Oh, Dylan, Dylan..." I said consolingly. "You don't have to offer me the opportunity if you don't want to."

He breathed sharply in helpless and intense frustration of more than one kind.

"I understand, Dylan. We checked during our investigation, and I know that twenty million dollars is a little more than the value of this company. You might have to borrow from some other organizations, but I know you can take care of it. That's why you're the CEO," I said.

His penis, now harder than I could ever have imagined, flexed proudly again between my still-active feet.

"If you don't want me to do that, then just don't orgasm. If you can achieve that; if you finally demonstrate that you have the slightest control over your own penis, then we will forget this meeting ever happened. All that will exist is an extraordinary video of Dylan Tyler's penis dancing to a parade of women's feet, of which I promise you that every staff member of Able Transport will receive a prompt copy if you fail to forget."

Dylan's eyes were focused quietly on mine again.

"It's a simple decision, Dylan," I said softly, stretching and flexing my feet innocently. "You understand decisions. You make important ones every day."

I brought my forefinger and thumb to the head of his penis.

"Beep," I said, quickly squeezing and releasing it. The penis shot upward, almost pointing directly to his face, and then bounced around in the air before settling again into silent, willing stiffness.

Jessica had adjusted the video camera to frame Dylan's entire form, including his bare soles and his penis and testicles, and now she used her remote to cause the chair to recline until Dylan was lying flat on the floor.

He looked up at me as I stood over him, silently. Locked in wordless eye contact, I dared him to try to win. Everything was silent, and it felt like we were frozen in time.

After the long moment, I found myself smiling at him lovingly. He was so wonderful. He was so beautiful.

I lifted my right foot, slowly spreading and flexing my toes, and placed them gently on his nose.

"Smell my feet, Dylan," I said tenderly. Though I spoke calmly, I'm sure that my excitement was plainly visible underneath my skirt.

I waited and watched his beautiful, deer-like eyes as he ran out of breath, struggling, and inhaled.

I giggled softly. Even in my peripheral vision, I could see on the monitor that his penis had been again forced to flex of its own accord, and his eyes looked terrified. His penis held itself perfectly straight, quivering with supreme tension, as though the wisp of air from a butterfly's wing could cause it to take him over. This would be it.

I watched his eyes as they stared at me in complete desperation, and I stared at his. It was the most wonderful moment of my life, and I realized for the first time that I was in love with Dylan Tyler.

I raised my right foot so that my toes were suspended directly above his wide-open eyes, and wiggled them lightly, with no more intensity than a butterfly's wing.

I saw the response seize Dylan like a relentless hug. His eyes went strangely open, and his pupils dilated. The penis had decided that it would be taking him over now, and it swiftly hardened, recruiting the entire strength of his pelvic muscles to hold it at a perfectly right angle to his body, like an iron parking meter to a sidewalk.

He struggled to disengage his pelvic muscles, seeming to plead silently for his penis to relax. I could see it still clenching itself progressively harder. There was nothing he could do to stop it. His penis would eventually relax, but by no choice of his. It would happen automatically only when ejaculation was imminent. I watched as Dylan tried, with his entire being, to prevent that moment.

I lowered my toes enough to keep them in his field of vision, but enough to let him see my face. I smiled at him softly, and with my left hand, gave him the finger.

"Fuck you, Dylan," I said.

He started to whimper, but it came out as an animalistic grunt as air was forced through his throat and out his nose.

I winked at him.

Then, his penis suddenly relaxed, allowing him to enjoy a momentary Eden. After that moment, it seized him again, and contracted as hard as it could. Dylan's sperm shot directly up into the room, coming close to the ceiling, and landed on the lapel of his suit coat.

At that same moment, Dylan's face relaxed into an expression of cataclysmically primal tension and pleasure. He couldn't help it. His hips lunged and fell in waves, having no particular synchronization with his consequent blasts of sperm into the air.

I rested my foot on his nose and wiggled my toes playfully, knowing that Dylan's inward breathing would be frequent and deep, and far beyond his control.

"Smell my feet, Dylan..." I sang once more.

And in this way, I watched those beautiful eyes, driven to helpless, pleasurable madness, as I heard impact after impact of sperm against his coat, shirt and tie.

Time passed before the impacts began to quieten, and soon, Dylan's penis could be seen on the monitor ejaculating gently onto itself. Sperm ran down its length and rested in his pubic hair, and around his tightened scrotum.

I allowed my foot to rest on Dylan's nose until he had been forced to take several more deep breaths while recovering from the physical exertion. Finally, I stepped off, and slipped my shoes on.

"Dylan..." I said, as he looked up at me weakly.

"... It has been a pleasure manipulating you."

And then, Jessica and I left the room, and closed the door.

We eventually returned to the presentation room, of course. Once we had released Dylan, he lost no time in taking the most covert route possible through the hallway. I didn't blame him at all. No one wants to be seen with a stained suit.

We went through with the settlement, but with some adjustments. I allowed him to live through the afternoon preoccupied with his financial crisis, and then sent him an adjusted proposal.

My current situation is the result of Dylan's acceptance of that proposal. I wasn't so cruel as to demand twenty million dollars, but I did allow Dylan to start by funding the entire purchase of a special piece of equipment, which he would choose.

He's working on paying the remainder of the settlement in weekly instalments which I won't mention since they're somewhat large. However, I'm confident that Dylan feels that the exchange is, in fact, fair. He visits each week to receive the special service for which he exchanges that payment.

This is the special equipment, here. There's something I like about the modern, round design that makes the man's bare feet, when they're sticking out the end, even cuter.

The other main design element is the contoured hole through a man's genitals plainly protrude. Aside from that, the body is completely contained within. Screens rest over the eyes, and isolation speakers around the ears; unless I care to remove them for any whimsical reason.

I also received a mysterious raise at work, and Dylan's daily check-ins at my cubicle leave me with the interesting feeling that I have quite a bit more authority over Dylan than he will ever have over me.

When he comes for his weekly visits, and I sit in front of his helpless and beautiful bare feet and genitals, I have the same feeling.

Many readers, as I said, would presume at first glance that Dylan Tyler had achieved a far greater degree of success in life than I. Looking over my own situation, I humbly beg to differ. But I keep that to myself.