Yes I know this is a silly premise; but hey, it’s a Friday night. 😉
The new law was meant to be a progressive step.
It was meant to make our country a better place.
The removal of the word “sorry” from the English dictionary was well-meaning and well-intentioned. After all, the British used “sorry” as a bit of a catch-all word when other phrases that were more appropriate, like “excuse me,” or “may I interrupt?” were not used.
And then there’s the premise of apologising as a matter of course; unless the apologist was sincere it was meaningless and “sorry” became a worthless token of insincere pacification – “We’re sorry to keep you waiting, but your call is important to us.” And so on. Absolute bollocks.
So the word was abolished, outlawed, illegal. Which meant that society had to concoct new expected courses of action for a transgressor to offer their sincere apologies to the recipient of their transgression.
For minor misdemeanours, there is the “Remorseful Rubdown:” the act of providing a gentle massage to remove the stress caused by the errant behaviour. Only last week, I caught the in-tray of our new secretary with my flailing hands and scattered her work onto the floor. After retrieving her paper, she gave me an expectant look.
Minor offence, so I walked behind her and gripped the top of her shoulder blades, rubbing my thumbs against her tense muscles. She mewed as my fingers rotated away the tension through the soft flimsy cotton of her blouse.
“Relax,” I whispered, feeling her bra straps through the white fabric and pushing gently on her stressed muscles. She murmured, as my hands pressed firmly against her flesh. Her body slumped forward against her desk. Her long red hair pooled on her keyboard as I kneaded at her muscles. “Your bra is in the way,” I whispered.
We’d been here before; only the day before I had knocked her coffee, and the day before that I had teased her driving. My massaging of the beautiful Astrid was becoming an almost daily occurrence. As was her shunning her blouse and bra, leaning topless onto her desk as my fingers worked the fibres of her shoulder.
Slowly, she relaxed. Her breathing slowed and her body lifeless against her desk as I soothed away the tension, admiring the gentle outline of her breasts that peeked into view.
And when she was done; satisfied and relaxed, I was asked not to repeat my transgression, and I solemnly promised to not do so.
Of course, that worked for minor mistakes, but more serious aberrations required a stronger show of remorse. The contrition climax.
Offered when on one’s knees, the contrition climax was a powerful message to send to a fellow human to signify your deep regret that you had erred and would not do so again. Like two days ago, Astrid spelt my name incorrectly on an email. Instead of “John” she wrote “that dozy twonk” and obviously getting someone’s name wrong is the height of bad manners.
I waited for her to repair the damage caused and she knelt by the side of my desk, apology written in her eyes as she slowly pulled the zip of my trousers to the base, repeatedly maintaining eye contact with me. She was sexy, gorgeously so.
Her lips glistened where she had slowly licked them, her eyes sparkled with excitement and her hands trembling slightly. I had never had a Contrition Climax from her before, but it was required. As her hands freed my cock, she took a moment to stare at it, watching it harden.
Her first touch of her tongue against my glans was heaven; my colleagues ignored the everyday event, as her lips closed over the purple head and glided gently down my shaft, inhaling me.
Her tongue swept over my cock as she sucked, drawing her mouth down my erection as her hands toyed gently with my balls; a gentle finger here, and small squeeze there had me teetering on the edge of my climax. I watched; staring intensely as her slick movements sent shivers through my cock.
I was balanced on the edge, desperate to drop off the precipice and into a swell of orgasmic relief; she sensed my desperation, sliding her mouth quicker and quicker along my shaft until I could resist no longer.
I squealed out her name, but she didn’t care where my cum went: she was that sincere, and held my cock in her mouth as several spurts of cum landed on her tongue. She winked at me, as she allowed my dripping cock to fall from her mouth and blew me a kiss.
Of course, sometimes it worked the other way, I was face first in Pauline’s pussy on the London Underground last week when I stood on her toe and she covered me in her orgasmic delight, squirting in satisfaction as the train hurtled underneath the city at breakneck speed.
But for really serious crimes, for the crème de la crème of sorries, there was the “Absolute apology anal.” I’ve only had to offer it a couple of times, and received it a few, but yesterday was the first for over a month.
As I drove into the car park, I clipped the wing mirror of a stationary vehicle. Upon approaching the young lady, I offered to pay for the neglible damage and then had to show my heartfelt and earnest apologies, by leaning onto the nearest desk.
It was common for every woman to carry a small strap-on and lube for that reason, and she wordlessly donned her harness as my trousers fell to the floor. I shivered in the breeze of the aircon, my white shirt still covering me as I felt a dollop of cold goo land on my anus. She giggled as I shivered.
“Easy,” she whispered, pressing the blunt head of her black strap-on against my ring. I closed my eyes, slightly aware of the murmurings in the office. After all, an executive submitting such an apology was an uncommon occurrence.
Her hands held onto my waist as her four-inch toy slid past my resistance, firmly guiding the smooth phallus into me. She held it against my prostate for a moment before rocking backwards, pulling and pressing against my hips as she bucked her fake cock into me.
I felt the urge to release, the leaking of liquid onto my underwear excited, the humiliation of the affair made my tummy aflutter. She was pressing against my prostate, pounding my arse with rampant zeal and discharging her frustrations on her colleague.
Enjoying every groan, every whimper, every piece of ignominy that being fucked in the arse would bring me. But I was loving it. Her rubber toy bumped repeatedly against my prostate, and I was inches away from a climax. My loins were ablaze, sizzling with fierce heat that left me desperate for her to continue.
I wanted her to seize my hips and pull back roughly on my body, passionately driving her cock deep into my arse. I wanted her to be rampant, consumed by a red mist of insatiability, and to offer no mercy as she devoured my contrite apology. I wanted her to thrust into me, ignoring my wants, wills and thoughts as she grabbed hold of my body and availed herself of her frustration and anger.
I wanted to be used.
But I think she sensed my orgasm was near; as I approached the very edge of my point, willing her to do one more thrust, she withdrew, smiling at my disappointed face. I was there, almost. I needed it. I …
“You dozy twonk,” Astrid teased, standing akimbo with the glistening black dildo jutting from her waist.
“Ahhh ….” I moaned and she knelt on her knees to show my cock the full extent of her contrition.
So that’s British Society in 2020. We don’t get apologies, we get massages, blowjobs and anal sex. All because the word “sorry” was abused for centuries.
It’s a tough life.
Featured image from here.