The porn channel plays on the flat screen TV in your hotel suite, as you prepare to relax after successfully signing your company's biggest ever sale contract. Your head is warm and muzzy from a combination of 20 hours' continuous negotiations, and the glass or two of Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill (1996, in fact) you and your colleagues downed to celebrate the close. At the brief celebration, your cellphone rang. You signalled to your colleagues to be quiet. It was your company's president on the line. Your colleagues waited, silently, in hushed expectation.
"Yes Bob.." you say, loudly, for your colleagues' benefit. "We got the five year deal, not just the three we were hoping for. Of course, it was all down to my team....I do know how significant this was for the Company." You smile at your adoring team. "Yes Bob. I'll pass that onto them. Goodbye."
Cheers. Hugs. Manly backslapping. You're bathed in the Chairman's adulation, and allow yourself glimpses of how your future might be. Promises of bigger and better things.
You've had a shower, letting the force of the water sting your face. Soaping yourself. Face, armpits, ass-crack, groin. Feeling the weight of your balls in your hand, and idly enjoying the soapy slickness of your hand against your cock. Must be clean. Always be prepared. Just in case. In case of what? You realise you've been holding your breath, and as you release it, the image of a slender neck comes to mind. Sitting across the table from you earlier today. The lawyer representing the other company. She was good. But she shouldn't have given way on the five year lock-in so easily. A single tendril of black, hanging casually from her tortoisehell hair clip crossing her flawless skin. And the faintest little hairs, serried in a neat pattern. Orderliness and precision, on the back of her perfect neck. Your cock starts to feel heavier, and more alive. You smile. Putting the thought to one side. You owe yourself the time to masturbate. Not a quick one off the wrist in the shower, like a naïve adolescent. You've learnt to control and pace yourself. It's part of your essence: what makes you what you are. Powerful. Successful.
You towel yourself. Of course, the towels are obscenely luxurious. You brush your teeth. And then you stand back and take a long look at yourself in the mirror with approval. Your hands need a little moisturiser. From the bottle thoughtfully provided by the hotel. As you rub it into your hands, you realise that the smell evokes the owner of the intriguing neck. You smile, and take the bottle with you to array on the bedside table, alongside the other items you've chosen to assist you in the next hour of sensuous solo abandon. Letting the towel fall, you climb, naked, onto the bed, and focus on the scene playing out on the screen.
Oh, we're in Stockholm. Or Amsterdam. It has a significant bearing on what you are watching, as the screen fills with an image which instantly triggers the baser neurones of your brain: the slickly oiled radiance of an upturned female arse, full and lush, cunt pouting and fecund. Her sinews are taut from the openness of her legs, her posterior tip-tilted as far up as she, in her balletic litheness can make it. Her buttocks gape, clearly defining the delicious wrinkled dimple of her slightly gaping anus. Your cock reponds, instantly. You open your legs, letting the cool air cool your still-moist groin. You think of the moisturiser by the side of the bed. And some of the other items you thought to arrange. You reach over and take a pull from the glass of Pol.
She moans. You're thinking that she's good: she means it. This is for real. And she pushes her arse out further towards the lucky, lucky camera. You are focused on this image. Her sphincter. Her cunt. Taut curves. She speaks, in heavily accented English,
"Oh. Please. A finger. Put a finger in my bottom. Deep."
Her anus winks. At you. At no one else. You. And her glorious, forbidden, beckoning anus.
God you want to touch your cock. But you control yourself. For a while. This is going far too quickly. You normally want some build-up. Undressing, revealing. You close your eyes and capture that image, her legs defining the outline of a pyramid, her cunt and arse crowning.
You gently rub the side of your cock with the back of a finger. Daring yourself to grasp it. The sound on the TV stops. In the total silence, you open your eyes, your heart racing.
And I'm standing there. The lawyer. Wearing a simple black dress. It accentuates my curves, making my waist look impossibly slim. My hair is up -- more severely now. No more tendrils. And as I turn back towards you from turning off the TV, you see coldness in my eyes.
I speak:
"You want to masturbate after a deal? I'd like to be able to say that was sick. But it's the same for me. The psychology in the deal room gets me off every time. Alpha males jostling for position. By now, 45 minutes after the close, I'm usually squatting on my bed, knees wide apart, teasing my favourite dildo between my cunt lips. Anticipating the moment when I ride it, letting it fill me for the first time. Fulfilling the delicious ache that fills my womb. I see from what you were watching on the TV you're an aficionado of anal. That's good. When I'm really horny (and it's that point in my cycle now when I'm really horny) I often tease my anus. Ever tried it? You should. It's quite exquisite...."
I've just seen the toys on the bedside table. I leave my purse by the TV and walk over to them. I pick up a slender glass plug. You move to talk, but it's clear from my glance that I'm doing all the talking here.
"Oh. My mistake. You'd know all about anal play. You dirty, dirty man. Quite a selection of toys here. This rather fetching plug. An arab strap."
I delicately pick up an exquisite leather and stainless steel harness. It's like a tiny bridle. Designed to encircle and enclose. And tighten. Click by click.
"Expensive. No pink plastic here. I wonder how you buy this stuff? Mail order? You can't have it delivered to the office. And if you had it delivered to home, your wife would know. I guess she doesn't know about your hobby, does she? So maybe you walk into an upscale sex shop. It's probably called an emporium. Wearing your overcoat. You feel you're exactly the same as all the grubby little perverted losers in their raincoats, popping into their local seedy sex shop. But you try to convince yourself that it's the difference between buying a Thunderbird from your local convenience store and a case of Pol Roger from your wine merchant. Let me tell you. No difference. You're exactly the same as them. Anyway, you won't be able to do that any more soon. Tomorrow, your name will be all over the newspapers. Mr. Deal Maker. Everyone will know the identity of the pervert stalking their seedy shop.
"I like this room. It's bigger than mine. And I like the way they've done the mirrors. I don't watch porn on TV. Except sometimes I'll turn the picture off, so all I can hear are the sounds. If it's for real. So as I'm squatting, the dildo inside me, I like to look at myself in the mirror. I focus on my face. But I like to see the red marks my hands leave as I grasp my breasts. And then I'll turn sideways, looking at the swell of my arse, and imagine being doubly impaled, a cock butting at the entrance to my ass, and dildo still lodged in my cunt. My belly tilts forward, my spine curves and I can see the base of my belly pulsing as the dildo slides in and out.
"Oh, and I always dress up."
I unhook the straps of my dress. It pools to the floor, sliding over my curves. I am not wearing a bra, but my waist is tightly encircled by a simple leather cincher. Three straps on each side support a pair of plain black sheer stockings. Patent leather heels. No panties.
"A cliché, I know, but what they don't tell you is that not only does corsetry look good, but the constriction makes the feeling of having a good thick dildo inside doubly exquisite.
"I can see you appreciate it. Oh. Don't you dare touch your cock. I may want that later. I haven't made my mind up yet. What I need now is your tongue. On my cunt. This isn't sex: it's masturbation. And I've just told you how I like to get myself off. So get your head into position."
You scoot down the bed. I take the flute of remaining Pol, downing it in one. Leaving deep red lipstick on the glass.
"No, move here. I need to be able to see myself in the mirror.
"You powerful men are such a cliché. I'd have been much more impressed to see you in here with a little whore, your cock impaling her as you imposed your power on her. But no. Here you are, lying submissive on the bed, waiting while I use your face to get off. You haven't even said a word."
I press my finger to your lips.
"No. Bad bad bad. Your tongue is only good for one thing."
I reach between my legs. Running my finger along my moistness. Unfurling the lips. I take a kleenex and dab my juices onto it. And then hold it out for you to take. You instinctively hold it to your nose and inhale. I see your cock twitch.
"You are so fucking predictable. Oh well, if you like that..."
I grasp the bed-head, and stand over you on the bed. Facing you. You look up at me, over the cincher and up through the valley of my breasts, to the icy expression on my face. You can see the neatly trimmed bush of my sex bisected by the angry red gash of my slavering cunt. I reach down and rub my clitoris.
