The Five Steps of a Man's Fall
Keywords: Steps, of, Five, Fall, Man's, The, a,
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*PROLOGUE*
In order to chart The Fall of a Man one must first select a suitable candidate. A man on the top of his game. A man who believes he is in control of his own destiny. A dash of arrogance helps. Generally, the farther they have to fall, the harder they land and the more spectacular it is to regard for the spectator. Call it schadenfreude. Call it slowing down to stare at a car crash. We enjoy it.
It is, however, impossible to predict such a Fall. So many pieces of a puzzle must fall into place. Fate plays it's wicked role. Coincidence can never be ruled out. But when a man falls, he falls far, lands hard and stares up the walls of the hole he tumbled down, wondering how he ended up there. If the Fall is complete and decisive he will fear that he will never rise again. What's more, he will fear that he doesn't wish to.
Take a man like Victor V. Brochard, for example. A short time ago, he stumbled. He slipped up and took the first wobbly steps towards his Fall. It wasn't his fault. It never is. But he wandered into a pocket of time that would prove to turn his life upside down against his wishes. A little erotic quantum space from which there is no escape.
Let us peer through the window of Victor V. Brochard's life right this minute. There he is on his bed. On his back, propped up on some pillows. Victor is in his late 40's. Fit, all things considered, not unattractive at all and greying at the temples. He is naked.
Between his legs a naked female form is hunched over, with her back to us. You'll notice her back first. It is a beautiful back. Perfect olive skin, tanned to perfection. Her torso tapers gloriously towards a narrow, girlish waist, only to flow out again when it meets her round, firm ass.
There is little doubt what she is engaged in at this moment. Her black, curly hair hides her face from us, but it bounces playfully in Victor's crotch. With every gentle but insistent bob of her head, her curls spring to life. Her body reveals that she is in her prime. It's hard to say, but we guess at early twenties. It is when we are afforded occasional glimpses of the girl's breasts that we can confirm our suspicions. They are round and firm and tremble tightly as her body moves. Definitely early twenties. Tits rarely lie.
Look back at Victor V. Brochard. Look at his face as he stares down at the girl in his lap. There is pleasure on his face, as one might expect of a man getting his cock inhaled by a sweet young thing. But I beg you to look closer at his expression. Do you see that odd blend of pleasure, confusion and disbelief? The pained expression of a man who is unable to act. Unable to stop the tide. Unable and unwilling to return to his life as it was only a short time ago. Paralysed by unsuspecting desires and needs that he could never have prepared himself for.
Even when Victor cums his expression remains the same. In awe. In fear. In submission. The orgasm rocks his mind and body and soul and the girl appears to suck every droplet of his cum into her mouth, still hidden behind her hair. Victor is unmoveable. If you look closely he appears to shake his head every slightly. Disbelief.
Victor has fallen and can't get up. He is resigned to his fate.
But that is now. Before The Steps began. Let us leave Victor to it for now and explore the beginning of the Fall.
*STEP ONE - THE CATALYST*
The journey is like any other at this point. It requires a catalyst. A seed from which to grow. As a rule, the catalyst is unexpected. It appears suddenly. Like a sudden glimpse of knickerless cunt when the hem of a dress is lifted by a breeze.
In this case it was innocent enough. Victor V. Brochard wanted for very little in his life. He ran a profitable art dealership and had made his fortune. If you saw him on the street you would smell the money and the attitude that accompanies it. We could call him arrogant despite the fact that 'arrogant' is a label given to self-confident people by insecure souls. Victor filled a room with his presence and his perceived arrogance and he knew it.
He had laid down his own rules for living and didn't give a shit if anyone else disapproved. He demanded excellence and settled for nothing less in every aspect of his existence.
At the moment Victor's primary complaint was, "you can't get good help these days." His house on the Mediterranean coast was large and he couldn't seem to find a good maid. He had hired and fired over a dozen over the past year and was good and tired of it. Either they were too lazy, too incompetent or too inclined to theft. Bloody irritating.
His friend Jens had just the thing. Jens was sympathetic about his complaints about finding a decent maid. He had, after all, had the same problems. Hasn't everyone? But he told Victor that he could send over a maid who kept a house of any size spotless and who fulfilled her duties to perfection.
There was a twinkle in his eye as he relayed this information to Victor one evening at a bar. Victor didn't ask him to elaborate - he had an inkling as to what his friend was hinting at. Dabbling in fun and games with your maid was not a foreign concept, of course. At this point, however, getting his hands on someone who could clean was paramount. Finding girls who could suck golf balls through garden hoses were a dime a dozen. Wealth is a magnet to young, willing things. That fact was well-known to Victor.
Jens promised to send her over to Victor's place, whispering that it was best that he let her go from her current employment at his house - too much friction with his young wife, Nadia, apparently. Victor thanked him and looked forward to receiving her.
While Jens went through young girlfriends like Thierry Henry scores goals, Victor was marginally more stabile in his domestic status. Like many a Frenchman before him he had acquired a Danish wife - Marie-Louise. She was 35 these days and Victor encouraged her to keep herself trim and slim and aesthetically appealing. He stumbled upon her at a party some years ago and she serves her purpose well. In return for a life of ridiculous wealth and luxury Victor gets a hard-bodied blonde who has excelled at pleasing him in sexual matters. It is mutual. Victor isn't a monster, after all. He enjoys very much giving her pleasure. He just likes to keep the pecking order in... well, in order.
Victor, where he is now, is no doubt looking back in the rear-view mirror of life to the moment he agreed to overtake Jens' maid. It is odd that fateful decisions can always be traced back to a specific and numbingly concise moment in time.
The die was cast. The catalyst appeared and was accepted. However inadvertently.
*STEP TWO - THE AROUSAL*
In Victor's world punctuality is next to cleanliness. He was most pleased when the doorbell chimed at 8:59 the next morning.
At that precise moment he had just floated back to earth after yet another splendid orgasm. Marie-Louise was scooping an errant strand of his cum off of her chin. The rest was on it's way down her throat. Victor had woken her with his stiff cock in her cunt but then decided that he wanted to cum in her mouth. He had worked hard at teaching Marie-Louise exactly how he liked his cock sucked and she had almost perfected the technique.
Victor spotted a dribble of cum on Marie-Louise's tit and he rubbed it into her firm tit with his thumb. The doorbell chimed again.
"Get that, will you darling?"
Marie-Louise pulled on a housecoat and padded out of the bedroom. He heard her voice mingle with the girlish voice of the new maid when she answered the door.
"Hello. We've been expecting you."
"Hello, Mrs Brochard. I am Giselle. Mr Jens Fischer sent me."
"Do come in."
Victor slipped on a pair of shorts and a polo, double-checking himself in the mirror, ensuring that he was the very image of authority and cool. He smiled upon discovering that he was. As ever. He headed out to the kitchen where his wife was chit-chatting with the new girl.
He wouldn't soon forget his first impression upon seeing this Giselle. She was far from your ordinary maid - who tended to be older, uglier and scruffier.
"Victor, this is Giselle. Giselle, this is Mr Brochard. Giselle is from Polynesia, Victor."
"Polynesia? How lovely."
Victor extended his hand and Giselle shook it firmly and with steady eye contact. Again, most unusual, thought Victor as he appraised the girl.
A girl. Mid-twenties. Olive-skinned. Long, curly, jet-black hair around her shoulders. Those were the dull, practical details that Victor first noticed.
But she was more than all that. This girl was exquisite. Petite to perfection. Wearing a light, airy summer dress with a floral pattern. Long, tanned legs and round, pert breasts.
She was pleasing to Victor's eyes. Especially her eyes and lips, which were now the focus of Victor's attention. The lips were full and thick and moist. The eyes hazel and wide as saucers. She had an odd combination of looking shy and yet completely in control at the same time.
Victor was taken aback but did he best to conceal it. He was so used to wretched looking girls and women from the wrong side of the tracks tidying his house up. Why this little bundle of sensuality hadn't been picked for marriage by some wealthy man was beyond him.
The twinkle in Jens' eye was understandable. But Victor channelled his thoughts to the matter at hand. Cleanliness.
After laying down the rules in a matter-of-fact tone, he let Marie-Louise show Giselle to her room. A trial period of a week was agreed upon and Victor left Giselle to it. Sink or swim. He hoped though that he soon be would able to stop worrying about finding decent house help and that Giselle would prove to be a satisfactory maid.
He poured a glass of orange juice and started focusing on his golf game later that morning.
It was late afternoon when he returned. Coming out of the garage he was not a little surprised to see Giselle lounging by the pool, reading a magazine. Before he could react angrily to her laziness, she looked up at him and smiled.
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Keywords: Steps, of, Five, Fall, Man's, The, a,