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The glass ceiling is real, but not for me.
On any list of America’s top executives, I’d be ranked close to number 1. It’s a grueling life. Endless days, exhausting travel, no time for the kids—teenagers now, raised by the nanny far more than by me or their equally absent father. The company is my real family, its employees my children. Constant needs, constant crises. Sometimes I feel like screaming: “Can’t you all just grow up and make your own decisions?! Why does it always come down to me?”
The money’s very good, of course, but when can I enjoy it? At 12:30am, when I stumble in the door, ready to pass out, only to spend the next two hours answering emails on the Blackberry in bed? Then a Klonopin, three hours of restless dozing, and up again to catch a flight or drop in on a conference call with the European team on Skype.
Don’t get me wrong, the life has its rewards. I’m known (and feared) around the world. I’m constantly challenged. An uptick in our profit margin or market valuation comes with a rush of satisfaction. But none of this involves pleasure. And yet, however much the lifestyle forces me to deny it, I’m a human being—a woman—with needs and wants and desires that can’t be satisfied by numbers and balance sheets.
Those needs come to the surface at the strangest times. I suppose it’s funny that I’ve replicated the norms of masculine corporate life so precisely. Where my male counterparts throughout the business world invariably hire beautiful young women as their personal assistants, I recruited a stunningly handsome 26-year-old newly minted Harvard MBA named Matthew. But there the parallel ends. I’ve been around long enough to know how often (quite a lot) a late night in the office culminates in a fuck on the desktop for the men who lead corporate America. But I’ve never tried the same. As a woman, there’s simply too much at stake. I’m a role model for young women—there are so few of us in such powerful positions—and I refuse to risk ruining it for the sake of a cock and a cum.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not tempted. Matthew is very good looking. He has a thin, muscular body, he dresses impeccably, and we work very closely together at all hours of the day, and often late into the night. After spending hours with him, inhaling his scent at close range, sometimes brushing bahis firmaları shoulders, occasionally sharing a laugh, admiring the geeky-sexy way he taps a pen on the side of his angular jaw when he’s thinking, every now and then catching him cast a glance down at my (at 42-years-old) still-perky breasts or my slender legs with his ice-blue eyes—a glance inevitably followed by an awkward second between us, when Matthew blushes, clears his throat, and runs his left hand through his dark brown hair—after moments like that, I feel distracted and light-headed.
One time last week, we went through this routine 4 or 5 times in a half-hour as we worked on the final draft of a speech I was to give at a conference of leading CEOs in Aspen the next day. As Matthew gathered his things to leave my office, I couldn’t help but notice I was wet. How would he respond, I wondered, if I were to reach out, grab his hand, and plunge it between my legs? Would he take charge of me, carry me over to my office couch and do what I wanted him to—namely, tear off my panties and lick me until I came in his mouth? Would he then fuck me mercilessly, as I need to be fucked, for the rest of the afternoon? Or would be react with terror, unsure what to do, requiring me, as always, in everything, to take the lead?
I had no idea. What I did know was that both scenarios were fantasies too dangerous to act on. I’d have to settle for Plan B.
“Matthew, could you hold my calls for the next hour? I have to attend to a private matter.”
“Of course,” he dutifully replied, closing the door behind him.
With that I sat on the far end of the couch, turned slightly sideways, with one arm on the armrest, the other propped on the sofa back. In that position, each of my hands were close to my breasts, and I took advantage of the position to begin caressing myself, which is how I always start to masturbate. Lightly my fingers encircled my 34C breasts. They felt full and sensual beneath my purple silk blouse and lace bra. It took less than a minute for my nipples to begin standing out—and then I passed the Point of No Return.
Ever since my teenaged years, I—and my boyfriends—have known that 2 or 3 seconds of nipple play amounted to flipping a switch. After that, there was no turning back. I became thoroughly single-minded, kaçak iddaa focused on my own pleasure, unable to resist the craving for more of it. This made me a little “easy,” because as soon as a guy got to what used to be called second base, I’d be waving him home. So there I sat in my office, gently flicking my rock-hard nipples, quietly moaning, feeling my horniness grow more powerful from the sexy sight of my nipples poking through the fabric, knowing that I’d simply have to cum. After a minute or two of this, my panties had become pretty thoroughly soaked.
What would Matthew say or do if he could see me, just on the other side of the door between us? I found myself fantasizing about him sitting at his desk outside my office, somehow aware of what I was doing so close by and finding it impossible to resist his own urge to touch himself, First he would run his fingers up and down his hard shaft through his dress pants, circling the head at the end of each stroke. Then, as pre-cum began to soak through his underwear and slacks, he’d place his palm over his cock and flex hard into it, enjoying waves of pre-orgasmic pleasure at his desk. And then, finally, he’d unzip his fly and take out his cock under his desk, using his pre-cum to lubricate the head and his hand as he began to stroke himself.
The thought left me dizzy with longing. Sliding down slightly on the couch, continuing to tease my tits (it turned me on to think of them as tits—as the hot, horny tits of the notorious Cynthia Black), I was now clenching my thighs together in a slow rhythm, flexing my muscles like I imagined Matthew to be doing at his desk, building toward an orgasm, relishing the waves of pleasure between my legs.
After five minutes or so of this, I knew I needed to take it to the next level. So I spread my long stocking-covered legs and plunged my hand into my pussy. As “tits” had a few minutes ago, thinking dirty thoughts about the famous Cynthia Black playing with her soaking pussy, lightly rubbing her clit in her office, made me groan. I found myself muttering quietly to myself, “Oh yes, play with that pussy. Flick that clit. Oh yes, going cum, gotta cum. So fucking wet, so fucking good.”
Before long my fingers were coated with my slick, warm wetness as I imagined Matthew stroking his cock at his desk kaçak bahis just on the other side of the door. It didn’t take long for me to begin building toward what I knew would be a spectacular cum—one that would leave me feeling exhausted but supremely satisfied and ready to face the rest of the day clear-headed and refreshed. My hips were starting to thrust up to meet my now-rapidly rubbing hand. Higher, closer to release. God, it felt so fucking good, and then. . . .
“Ms. Black, I have those documents from the Amsterdam office for you. . . .” By the time Matthew reached the word “Amsterdam,” he’d already begun to open the door, accustomed by our normal familiarity to assume that he was free to enter at any time. The same assumption had led me not to bother locking the door. Luckily the knock and half-sentence had given me just enough time to pull my hand out of my panties, sit up, and start pulling myself together—though when he first laid eyes on me, I must have turned a rather dark shade of red.
“Ms Black, are you feeling alright? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine, Matthew. Those documents?”
“Oh, yes, they’re the ones you asked for this morning—for your signature.”
With that he handed me a piece of paper and pen. Only then did I realize the possible consequence of Matthew passing me these items just seconds after I’d stopped rubbing my clit. The fingers of my right hand were still moist as I signed my name at the proper place and then handed the document and pen back to Matthew.
I would have been fine, I’m convinced, had Matthew not reverted to his most consistent habit and immediately begin tapping the pen against his face while asking if I needed anything else. It took a mere second or two for him to do a double take and inhale deeply while turning his head toward the pen.
“That’ll be all, Matthew, thank you,” I said abruptly while standing up from the couch and walking over toward my desk as nonchalantly as possible. It was my way of changing the subject—and avoiding his gaze. Maybe he’d conclude he’d made a mistake. Maybe he’d convince himself that it couldn’t possibly be true that Ms. Black was strumming her clit on the couch, fast approaching a hip-thrusting orgasm, roughly 2 seconds before he’d entered the room.
No such luck. I felt a fresh wave of arousal crash over me as Matthew prepared to close the door behind him by looking me in the eye and with a slight, mischievous smile saying, “Please let me know if you need my help with anything at all, Ms. Black.”
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