"Come on, Ira! You're almost there!" Elizabeth Brant-Goldman forced a hopeful note into her tone as she reached down and grasped her husband's flaccid penis and tried to force it inside. Soft and formless, Liz could not even maneuver the uncircumcised head into position. The pliable flesh bent and slid with all the fluidity of a melting marshmallow.
"You're almo-" Liz didn't bother to complete her statement. She could feel a thin trickle of watery fluid begin to seep between her cheeks. "That's alright," she soothed her husband. "Ira, it's alright." She stroked his back and waited for his tortured breathing to ease. "Was it good for you, sweetheart?"
Ira Goldman mutely pushed his withered form from atop his wife. He refused Liz's attempts at comfort. Despite her frustration, she did not enjoy witnessing what Ira's impotence did to his considerable sense of masculine pride. It was not often that he attempted penetration. Inevitably, though, it was a failure. Liz watched her eighty-three-year-old husband shrug into a silk robe and shuffle from the room. Experience told her that he would retreat to the privacy of his bedroom and drink himself into oblivion. At his age, two or three drinks would likely accomplish just that.
Liz knew that it destroyed Ira that the considerable power he still wielded in the financial realm did not transfer over to his personal life. He was number 176 among Forbes 500 most wealthy people in the world. That was several places higher than last year's rating. Ira's wealth was easily estimated at just under five hundred million dollars. And for all his wealth and power, he could no longer manage an erection – even with the help of pills like Viagra. It did not stop him from trying, Liz thought. Every month or so Ira would push open her bedroom door and quietly announce to her his intention to 'make love to his wife'. The attempts had never resulted in anything other than failure.
Moments like the one that just happened lent themselves to some tough soul-searching. Was a life of leisure really worth the farce she had just performed? Liz made her way into the bathroom and wiped away the faint evidence of Ira's failure from between her thighs. She squatted over the toilet and allowed her thoughts to wander as she thrust a vinegar douche into her vagina and squeezed. There was no chance for either pregnancy or disease; Liz supposed her actions were merely a symbol of the guilt she felt each time the price tag for her soul reappeared.
After a few minutes she patted herself dry and rose from her seat on the toilet. Liz caught a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror and froze. She was thirty-seven years old and in good shape for a woman at least ten years younger. Her figure was curvy but not overly so, her brown skin was smooth and flawless. So why had she exchanged her soul for a few luxuries and the prospect of nice nest egg when she reached Ira's age?
Liz was brought up short when she reentered the bedroom. Ira's butler stood beside Liz's bed, hands folded neatly behind his back. "Ford?"
"Yes, Mrs.," the prim Englishman replied. "The Master has instructed me to service you."
Service her. Liz was struck by a sense of déjà vu. The very first time Ford had appeared in her bedroom saying those very same words, she'd thought, "Ain't this some shit!" Now, however, she just accepted the man's presence as yet another consequence of her soul's purchase.
Liz nodded faintly and on shaky legs crossed the room to her bed and lay down. She watched as Ford silently shed - then folded - his clothes, revealing an impressive erection that slapped against his flat stomach as soon as it cleared his precisely pressed boxers. The butler reached over and selected a shiny red square from a silver tray on the bedside table. Impassively he tore it open and rolled the lubricated condom down his erect penis. "Open, please, Mrs.," Ford politely instructed.
As soon as Liz complied with the butler's request, Ford climbed atop her, positioned his swollen penis and then impaled her with all the emotion of a robot. He lay there immobile, allowing Liz a few moments to adjust to the thickness that so completely filled her. She shifted gingerly, trying to alleviate the almost painful fullness she felt. She had not been aroused with Ira and the vinegar douche she'd used had removed any trace of fluids that might have eased Ford's way.
"Now, Mrs.?"
Liz's face and neck grew hot with the blush of embarrassment. Ford supported most of his weight on his lightly muscled arms; his body barely touched hers, except at the place of that most intimate of connections. Liz gave the barest of nods. Ford withdrew almost completely before plunging back in. He was unaware, or uncaring, of the resistance of her unprepared flesh. But after a few minutes of the butler's machine-like rhythm, his slightly curved penis began to scrape against all Liz's sensitive places and she grew wet . "F-Ford…" she grasped handfuls of the coverlet and began to keen softly.
"Yes, Mrs.?"
"Don't…" Liz panted, "don't… disappoi-"
Ford shifted slightly. The change, which enabled him to deepen thrusts that banged painfully against Liz's cervix, caught the woman by surprise and interrupted whatever she had been about to say. "Disappoint?" Ford finished her plea. "Oh, no, Mrs.," he calmly replied. "I would not think of disappointing the Master."
End Note: Ira Goldman - Kirk Douglas
