One Sunday when Mollie was absent, I found myself sitting next to Sybil, a regular, but not on a weekly basis. Sybil was there once a month or so. She...was, you might say, amply upholstered. If she hadn’t managed her size so cleverly with her choice of attire and a certain inner confidence, she could have been a sad, untidy sight, but as it was, she elevated herself far above her natural station in the beauty stakes. She wore blouses that probably weren’t meant to be tight but which hugged her. She sat, then jumped back up clutching her recently spanked butt. Still, she followed my order shifting around until she was lying down. She had no choice. I felt kind of bad about her getting beat up, but there was no permanent damage, and she probably deserved it. Among the additives in her medication was sodium pentethol, a truth serum, and a hormone that multiplied the female sex drive. A neural block fashioned from my DNA prevented orgasm, unless in contact with my sperm. Too bad Pammy is. More

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