You Can Always Say No Ch. 05
Keywords: Say, You, Ch., 05, Can, No, Always,
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As they say, time flies… well, you know the rest. We settled into a pattern of functional schizophrenia, acknowledging the existence of both 'Alan' and 'Angie' to cope with the requirements of his career, versus the desires of our private lives. When either one was present, the other was referred to in the third person, if at all. Inevitably, there was a certain amount of 'bleed-over' from one to the other - and 'Alan' increasingly paid the price. It wasn't always a comfortable coexistence for either of us, but it was a workable one.
To my delight, Alan had yet to request I remove the chastity. That thought would never have occurred to Angie; the device did not impede her pleasure in the slightest, and made her look and feel deliciously feminine. I knew it was physically uncomfortable at times, particularly when I hugged and kissed my husband. His cock did attempt to rise to the occasion, but was thwarted by its dainty, yet effective stainless steel prison. Through continual reinforcement on my part, my sissy hubby came to accept that, for the time being at least, he had no 'husbandly duties' to perform. As time passed, he gave the impression he wasn't even aware it was still there.
That pesky 'poison ivy rash' just seemed to hang on and on. If Suzi had been delighted when Alan did not return to remove his nails, she was ecstatic to meet Angie in person when she began accompanying me for weekly touch-ups. Alan's co-workers finally gave up asking about his affliction. Some anonymous prankster had posted a sign on his office door: "Leper Colony. "Given the sly smiles on the faces of some of the female staffers in his office the day the sign appeared, Alan took it in context and reveled in the joke with them over lunch. I thought it was actually quite humorous when I heard about it.
Jason professed he had no room in the budget to hire people specifically for the project on which Alan labored, advising my husband instead to 'be creative'. In response, Alan had marshaled a formidable ad hoc 'staff' of secretaries and P.A.'s who were only too happy to assist him on a time-available basis. He frequently catered in lunch for them all, on his expense account, to facilitate the coordination of individual tasks and times available, as well as just socialize and let off some of the pressure-cooker atmosphere under which they all toiled.
It had been one or more of these women who had been responsible for the sign on his door and other light-hearted pranks. They told him he was the best boss they had never worked for. Earlier in our relationship, I had been irked by the way women gravitated, unbidden, towards my attractive husband. I still was, but marveled at his ability to turn that into a business asset, recruiting a viable, if irregular workgroup out of not much more than personality. Any smart manager would envy that.
The same budget that prevented hiring people for the project precluded paying overtime for it. Alan was salaried, so he had to make up the difference with his own time. Whenever possible, he limited his late nights to Mondays and Wednesdays, but Jason was notorious for an occasional spontaneous, mid-afternoon "what if we tried this" meeting or memo – and a late Tuesday or Thursday crept into Alan's calendar, while the boss left to do whatever bosses do. I knew what that cost Alan personally, yet he never whined about it. Instead, he always came home with enthusiasm, recounting his day's accomplishments. I allowed the more technical aspects to glide smoothly over my head and rejoiced with him in the excitement of a difficult project coming together.
If his 'staff' had a complaint, it was that his long hours and the stress of the project must be adversely affecting their surrogate supervisor's eating habits. They told Alan he had lost too much weight; his suits were beginning to look terrible on his slenderized torso and they were, somehow, feeling like it was their fault. They insisted he either start eating or buy a new wardrobe that looked like he belonged in it. I enjoyed a private smile when I heard that.
Jason Miller invited us both to dinner on occasion; a 'peace offering', as he put it, for taking advantage of Alan the way he was. He couldn't have been more complimentary of his Executive Assistant's (the title Alan had chosen for himself at the beginning of the project) work and the amazing progress he was making. The joke was, Jason was spending an inordinate amount of time smoothing ruffled feathers with one executive or another over supposed productivity lost because the man's secretary or P.A. had been unavailable when he needed her – off performing some task for Alan. Even Patti Drake, Jason's own secretary, had been enlisted into Alan's 'Lepers' as they teasingly referred to themselves.
Jason effused enthusiasm for Alan's boundless energy, drive, and determination to bring the project in on time. He did lament the longer hours Alan had to put in – time spent away from me – as the project drew closer to the deadline. He also fretted the same observation the other staffers had made, that his assistant had lost a noticeable amount of weight. Jason hoped I wasn't holding it and the lost 'quality time' against him personally. It wasn't that Alan looked "bad, "he contended; far from it. Alan now radiated an inner glow that seemed to be infecting everyone who worked with him. In spite of the petty grousing from the executives, the office was, overall, a brighter, happier place to be on a daily basis.
My hubby's boss promised me faithfully; even if they didn't win the contract, he would not forget the sacrifices my husband "and I "had made to advance his company. Of course, he couldn't conceive of Alan's efforts as being anything but an unequivocal victory. If he, Jason, could do anything to ease the burden on us, anything at all, say, digging into the office 'discretionary fund' to buy Alan a new suit or two….
I couldn't help but smile (I was smiling a lot lately). Here was a successful entrepreneur, well on his way to becoming a gazillionaire, who remembered the people that helped him realize his dreams. He gave me hope that the future of Business was not as bleak as the Bernie Ebbers and Ken Lays of the world made it appear.
Although Jason professed we were not there to 'talk shop', the project seemed never far from their minds whenever the two were together. Sitting between them, my head darting back and forth to catch the rapid-fire exchange of ideas and data, was a bit like watching a tennis match between two superbly-skilled athletes – or, perhaps, a glimpse of what it was like with Bill Gates and Paul Allen in the early days of Microsoft.
It was only natural for me to point out; an aggressive media campaign, designed to bring the virtues of Miller Avionics into the public consciousness, could not help but benefit his cause, particularly if there were taxpayer dollars involved. I used my most effective 'closer' on him.
"It's not just a case of 'money talks'," I pronounced with a practiced confidence. "Talk "is" money, "makes" money when wielded effectively. That's what I do."
The entrepreneur was enchanted with the idea and asked me to follow up with him at my earliest convenience.
***
Outside of business hours, Alan went away and Angie came out to play. She was "done"; perfection to the nth degree. Dependant on her mood, her makeup, hair and attire might be a little more subdued or really 'out there'. I'm not sure which of us was more excited at the prospect of her scurrying home from work to make herself ravishing for me. By that time, her hip and derriere prosthetics had arrived. If she had any complaints about the additional time and effort involved in application and makeup, she didn't voice them.
What she "did" voice threw me for a complete loop. It had been a particularly tortuous day on the job, followed by a nasty commute home on the parking lot that was our local freeway in the afternoon; two separate accidents, plus their respective Gaper's Blocks. I was not a happy camper as I stepped through our front door. That lasted about thirty seconds.
"Hi Hun-nee!" Angie gushed as she scampered up to me, heels clicking across the marble foyer, throwing her welcoming arms around my neck and hugging me. "How was your day?"
I was too stunned to hug her back. It wasn't what she said, but the way she said it. The breathy, lilting, higher-pitched quality of her voice was a perfect compliment to the overdone 'Angie' who welcomed me home. I grasped her arms and pushed her back, glaring at her warily with my 'Okay, what's the deal?' stare. She giggled, her eyes alit.
"Do you like it?" she tittered. "Faye has had me working with a voice coach, someone she knows from the movie industry. She told me not to tell you, that we should wait and keep it a surprise. Beverly – that's my coach - says we are just about there and I could 'take it for a spin' for you. Lately, it's been so difficult "not" to give it away. What do you think?"
My nether regions were doing my thinking at that moment and they were pleading to start the bilge pumps. Damn the girl! No matter how evil my day had been, she always had me thinking of sex the moment I walked through the door.
"You sound so… natural," was all I managed to squeak out.
It was true. She was not speaking in some contrived, patently-phony falsetto. Rather, it sounded utterly appropriate for her, in a Marilyn Monroe/Jayne Mansfield/Jennifer Tilly sort of way. Even as I thought the comparison, Angie blushed, fluttering her eyelashes.
"Well, I still need a little help," she confessed. "There's this spray Beverly gave me that tightens the cartilage in the larynx, causing the vocal cords to pull taut. The effects last several hours if you don't push your voice too hard. Still…."
"Enough, Wench," I growled teasingly. "Too much information. That is the sexiest thing I have heard since 'take me to bed or lose me forever'.
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Keywords: Say, You, Ch., 05, Can, No, Always,