For the Good of Man

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Chester and I had been texting each other all day, so it was no surprise to me when he ripped my underwear from beneath my dress before we said, “Hello.”

As he bent me over the couch and licked my pussy, I began to regret my decision to give into the forces of society. Every time his tongue touched my clit I wondered if it would be the last time I would be taken with such passion. I dripped in puddles as he gripped my brown thighs during his meal. I’d sucked his dick the morning before with the same enthusiasm so he knew how to reciprocate. I could feel my orgasm coming when I heard his zipper. I knocked my phone off of the couch as I struggled to grab a tight hold

As I braced myself for his dick I let out a moan that I couldn’t have controlled if I’d wanted to. I’m pretty sure I tried to bury my face in the decorative pillows. The anticipation of his dick filling my pussy was exhilarating. The thorough fucking I’d receive was epic. I’d talked shit to him all day about how I wanted him to fuck me until I screamed his name. I told him that we could be romantic later. I needed to be fucked. Hard.

Thankfully, Chester obliged and held nothing back. After a minute of easing into a rhythm that found a comfortable position on the arm of our oversized couch, he began hammering his dick into my pussy.

He ignored the subtlety of a woman’s complexity. This was orgasm by brute force. Sometimes I just needed that.

“Fuck me!” I demanded, knowing that my commands would push him to drive his dick into me so much that I’d feel the bruises for two days. Be careful what you ask for.

I writhed in agony as I tried to watch his face in the living room mirror. I wanted to remember us fucking like this. I wasn’t sure if it would ever be this way again.

“Harder!” I screamed knowing I couldn’t feel my pussy anymore. I was orgasming into every thrust as I heard the wetness of sex splashing. Every demand I made pushed him to fuck me harder and brought him closer to coming.

When my pussy couldn’t take it any longer, I tapped his thigh like I’d done for five years and he pulled back immediately. I knew my limits and he always respected them. I spun around, dropped to my knees and sucked his dick with the same intensity that he’d just fucked me.

Within seconds his come was oozing down my throat.

Between the sweat and our sex juices, I hoped he hadn’t noticed my tears. I had agonized over this moment for two months.

As Chester stood over me, I could see him transforming back into the man that I fell in love with at first site. The smile that engulfed his face as I collapsed below him was so innocent that no one would know that he was capable of fucking me the way he had just fucked me.

“I promise we won’t change,” Chester tried to assure me, yet again.

I was sure that he was wrong.

For the past year I had worked on my full story and I knew where we were headed.

I understood the benefits of the Assured Society and finally admitted that the world was a better place for everyone since the ’20’s welcomed the underground cult practice to the public.

During my first interviews with the movement’s pioneers I had no idea that I’d be joining.


As Maria Ortega explained how she became indoctrinated into the nameless cult she helped expand I was consumed with the pressure she must have felt.

Mario Ortega was a rising star at one of the world’s largest not-for-profits in Mexico City. He was a thoughtful, energetic and empathetic leader that came from nothing. He was having impact all over the world and destined for bigger things.

One afternoon, the wife of the organizations board president invited Maria to brunch at the social club to meet the wives of several of the executive team. Maria remembered the invitation being awkward because the brunch was on a Wednesday. She practiced as a lawyer and wondered how she would miss a day of work for brunch.

“It’s important for your husband,” the nice woman told Maria. So, cautiously Maria went with no pretense of what she’d find. She would go to support Mario however she could.

Mario knew nothing of the invitation.

Maria described the event as a quiet gathering of the most diverse group of women – plus a handful of men – that she’d ever met. The gathering was at a house in the hills with many rooms and s beautiful pool. She imagined there were about three dozen guests in attendance. She realized everyone was a spouse of someone at the not-for-profit. For thirty minutes she’d talked to people who knew of her and Mario. Some she’d already met at company events so the situation wasn’t awkward.

Eventually the hostess, anadolu yakası escort Carmelita, found her and began pointing out what had gone unnoticed in her time collecting small talk.

There were four or five women walking around asking guests one simple question, “This week?” The responses were either “Yes” or “No”, but she didn’t witness a single “No” as she picked up on the dance. Maria was perplexed as Carmelita began to explain the depth of the question.

Carmelita explained that the success of their husbands’ business had come from the caring hands with which their wives had taken responsibility over their “tendencies”.

Maria began to recoil from the conversation as a certain cult-vibe began taking over the dialogue. The short of it was that the wives had collectively and secretively decided to administer weekly handjobs on their husbands.

Maria admitted to being shocked at first. She had an open-mind sexually, but she had never considered the topic outside of her and her husband of 10 years.

Maria listened intently as Carmelita explained how reserved or forthcoming each spouse was with their answers, but kept emphasizing the importance of their role in keeping their husbands focused. There was a certain magic to their methods.

First, they knew that their husbands demeanor relaxed with regular orgasms. While there might already be a menu of other sexual activities to be served for individual couples, they wanted assurance that all of the men had some relief during the week.

Second, the handjob was an activity they could all agree to because it was the least amount effort and they could all openly admit to doing it. While some overshared their ability to fuck their man like a poem star 7 nights a week, Carmelita expressed how the handjob was a form of control more than pleasure.

Third, the control factor that came with pleasuring a man without his request allowed him to simply enjoy the moment. Walking up to your husband and jerking him off released more tension because he wouldn’t be worrying about her sexual interest or satisfying her needs in the moment. Her sexual fulfillment was important to the couple’s happiness, not the company’s success.

Carmelita wasn’t saying anything Maria hadn’t already known about her husband and most men. The question was why the need for the group act and the secrecy.

But Maria was a good soldier and pretty open sexually, so she just went with the flow. She and Mario were regularly fucking 2-3 times per week with an occasional blowjob thrown in for good measure. She simply decided to throw in a handjob every Tuesday after Mario had gotten fully dressed.

“I told him that he was irresistible in his suits and that I wanted to keep a part of him with me all day,” Maria explained without a drop of embarrassment. “I’d simply undue his pants, let them drop to the floor and stroke him with coconut oil until he came in my hands. It was so clinical but he loved it, Then I’d lick my hands clean and head out of the door – leaving him smelling like coconut oil before his Tuesday staff meeting.”

I didn’t blink when she told me that story.

Six months into the program the Mario’s business was a roaring success and Maria attributed all of it to the wives and husbands maintaining their spousal duties.

However, Maria looked further.

She noticed that these businessmen hired more women on their teams and treated them with more respect and as equals – compared with other companies she’d seen from the inside. She noticed that her husband brought less work home. She noticed that the late nights at the office were fewer.

Maria saw something much bigger.

She told her husband.

Mario naturally freaked out. He wanted more than anything to unknow what he’d just learned. He imagined going into the office the next day and imagining everyone getting handjobs. “That’s ridiculous,” Maria told him, because they were already doing much more.

“What about the women at work?” Mario asked Maria.

That’s when her world changed.

Maria proposed to Carmelita that opening up all of what they were doing to all of the employees would have benefits beyond their business. The brunches would continue as informal and voluntary gatherings, but the good spirit would travel beyond their confined group.

Maria was right.

Soon all of the female employees would be invited and the husbands would know what conversations were taking place. Of course not everybody joined the brunches, but enough people volunteered that a true bond formed within the company. The female employees answered the weekly ataşehir escort question positively because they were administering handjobs to their husbands on a weekly basis.

And that solidarity is what saved them all.

See, Mario was prepared to shut the entire thing down because of an HR Vice President that wasn’t interested in sharing her activity with anyone. “I don’t think she knew where her husband’s dick was,” Maria told me.

But the weekly handjob had spread to all of the companies that the spouses of the women – inside and outside the company. These handjobs were spreading was like a wildfire. Every company in town was having brunches where wives and husbands would answer “Yes” for the betterment of their companies.

And before the HR police at Mario’s office could shut the brunches down, a funny thing happened.

Every single company with a handjob army was in the black. There was a buzz all over Mexico City and Mexico about how wonderful these companies were to work for and how great their bottom lines were. Several prominent magazines wrote articles and the public companies watched their stock go through the roof. Maria, the gregarious storyteller, became the spokesperson for this added business practice. She called it the Assured Society. She’d eventually write two books about the subject.

Weekly handjobs took over all of Mexico and worked its way north to US companies. Though not as public, every industry knew which companies were having the brunches. Over the next ten years the bigger companies would invite Maria to speak at events without stating that their company instituted any of the Assured Society’s practices.

But the handjobs were implied.

As the US began to adopt the new methodology, it wasn’t long before entire industries were globally experimenting with this new ‘hands on’ approach. Countries that were not known as modern were in full participation. China, Nigeria, Saudi Arabia, Italy, Pakistan.

If a country had a company and that company had spouses of male employees, brunches were being had.

Over the next twenty years, a shift had occurred – similar to what happened after President Clinton got blowjobs in the Oval Office and Kim Kardashian had a sex tape. The normalization of this natural act was everywhere. The benefits of the weekly handjob became common knowledge – like wearing seatbelts and drinking water.

And the stock market was feeling it.

Of course there were countless Women’s Right Activist fighting that this practice treated women as sex objects. There were also Mens groups that protested this emasculating practice. But these protests received little support after the Johnson Papers were published.

Ten years after Maria agreed to give her husband his first weekly handjob, 59 private and public universities in 23 countries – including 4 all women’s schools – reported on the overall health of damn near everything that had been affected by these “manual releases”. The Canadian Prime Minister Ingrid Johnson commissioned the study to help non-complying companies see the benefits. From business performance and women’s pay increases to the number of rapes and overall crime decreasing – the world was a better place for everyone. Even if men weren’t in the direct equation, life was better. Companies that only had female employees saw positive metrics when they worked with those companies that jerked off husbands.

Everyone was winning.

This release of tension had already captivated 35% of the world’s companies and institutions. The Johnson Papers and Maria Ortega pushed that number to 100% almost immediately.

Companies that hadn’t adopted the “culture of handjobs” were seen as inferior. The men in these companies were viewed as aggressive and intolerant. Finding the better applicants for jobs was a frustration for those companies. Of course those frustrations multiplied when you knew they already weren’t getting jerked off at home – even if they were.

This accepted practice pushed single men, straight or gay, to either settle down or get creative. My first published article on these hand jobs two years ago was about an escort that would attend brunches on behalf of their clients in order to maintain their good standings at work. She assumed she’d have to pretend to be their girlfriends, but soon found out that employing a sexworker fully aligned with the practice. When she began only advertising and performing the “handjob + brunch” package, her business skyrocketed.

Some single men openly bragged about their masturbation in order to assure their coupled counterparts that they weren’t threats. Maria ümraniye escort Ortega jokingly referred to the ‘masculine poison’ that she neede to release from her husband in order to keep Mario’s brain from ‘rotting’. But masturbation alone didn’t include the thought that a woman you loved was somewhere openly discussing how she brought you to orgasm with only her hands. Most men assumed that the brunches included broader conversations into their manhood and sexual proclivity because a few wives were more sharing than others. “There are fewer things more emasculating than a room full of women laughing about your dick,” a husband once explained to me.

Of course, some companies experimented with going beyond the simple handjob. Unfortunately, other sexual acts like oral sex, pleasuring the women and simply watching porn didn’t measure up in scale the way the simple handjob had done. There was a biological error that needed a subtle tip of the scale across the board. The handjob was the balance to that statistical error. Yes, there were men and women that needed more or less, but on average, this one small sexual act created the balance.

Weekly handjobs became the norm for everyone. Men were more amenable and everyone benefitted.

That’s when I realized I had a problem.


These weekly handjobs had toned down the overt masculinity that dominated every corner of the earth from as far back as history was written. Men were nicer. Men listened. Men were empathetic.

For me, that meant men sucked a little.

For me, every man turned into a middle school assistant principal.

Admittedly, that was okay on first dates and in the workplace and on the subway, but not in the bedroom. Actually, I needed them to have a bit more energy on first dates, too. That was foreplay to me.

I liked men with attitude. I loved aggression.

I wrote an article on male escorts that became popular for their aggression. The number one topic on porn sites went from men watching ‘teen sluts’ to women watching ‘rape’. We’d emasculated men to the point where being forcibly taken by a man was no longer a threat, but a popular fetish.

Women had fantasies of getting fucked.

I needed to be fucked. And fucked. And fucked.

So when I met Chester, I loved how raw he was. He’d flip me over and fuck me before I woke up in the morning. It was consensual but he never asked. I didn’t want him to ask. I didn’t like like having to ask.

He would just thoroughly fuck me.

And though we fucked 3-4 times per week, he was always my animal. I’d suck his dick dry in the morning and he’d be fucking me against the refrigerator after work.

My toes curl thinking about that.

After I published my first article about Maria in Mexico City, Feng Chu in Shanghai and Niri in Iran, I was often asked about my personal feelings toward the Assured Society. I admitted that I loved living a world where women were safer and wars were disappearing, but I hadn’t joined any of the brunches at my long term boyfriend’s job. I was an observer, not a participant.

Chester’s job opportunities dried up.

No amount of me fucking him alleviated the frustrations he’d have after being rejected from a job he was thoroughly qualified for. There were other couples that fought this discriminatory act, but it was akin to fighting for free speech for Nazis. No one argued the conceptual practice, but no one supported our actions.

I even considered lying to the brunch question, but I had already done the research – the percentage of couples that survived by pretending they were administering the handjobs was essentially zero. They could be fucking eight days a week, but eventually the new relationship energy would slow down and the tension would surface. People could tell. People could always tell.

I knew I wanted to marry Chester and I knew he wanted to have a job in the corporate mainstream. Sure, we could have moved to a remote area of the planet and practiced our early 21st century method of sexuality, but the sacrifices we’d have to make were infinite.

My mother told me about the time my father was unemployed for two months – decades before the Assured Society wave. Though she had a high paying job with the city, she felt obligated to keep her husbands’s manhood at a higher place. She said she never demeaned herself in any way, but she wished the Assured Society would have been there because she felt all alone in lifting her man. She didn’t speak about sexual acts, but she admitted that the way she approached her relationship lowered her value in order to raise his. She said she felt alone every step of the way.

The Society was a cult, but like religions, being around others that share your sacrifice makes the days more tolerable.

Even if it meant that Chester wouldn’t be fucking me over the arm of the couch anymore.

Of course, I knew he would.

He promised he would.

I promised he would.

I hoped he would.

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