It's a story as old as time, or at least as old as sex: powerful corporate executive uses status to have sex with impressionable young girls. Yup, I do that. I've done that too many times to count, in fact. Thankfully, however, there are a few things that set me apart from the Weinsteins, the Aileses and the Cosbys of this world.
First of all, I never use coercion to get those young, sweet, impressionable girls to sleep with me. When I seduce them, I make it clear that I am interested in fucking them, but I generally go to the point of killing the mood in asking for clear consent. This is partially to do with the horrible, perverse things I want to do to these girls, but I'll get back to that later...
Second, if the girl is working at or for my company, I make it very clear that sleeping with me, or refusing to do so, will not affect their position in the company in any way. She gets no favours if she does it, and there are no hard feelings and no repercussions if she doesn't.
And third, I am a woman.
Yes, that's right, a woman. My name is Cathleen, I'm 45 years old and I'm what your average financial weekly would call a business tycoon. A tycoon in pretty panties, to be precise. I brought out my first lingerie line when I was 23, straight out of fashion school. This was followed by my own shop, then another shop, then another, and finally a substantial company worth many, many millions. The business is focused on high-end women's knickers, bras, suspenders, bustiers and stockings-anything to make a woman feel the power of her sex. In fact, our mission is to make women feel sexy, to make them look good to themselves rather than to their boyfriends or husbands.
And yes, I'm a dyke. My interest in girls was provoked in college, at the tender and innocent age 18, when I was seduced by my 50-something English professor. She wined me, she dined me, and she made me feel things no man had ever even come close to making me feel. I still considered myself to be hetero at that time, but after a brief failure of a marriage I started developing my bi side more and more. At some point, I realised I was almost exclusively dating women, and I just went with it. And, as I entered my late 30s, I also discovered my intense lady-boner for fresh, young, nubile girls. Girls who smell like summer, with fresh faces, soft skin and supple bodies. Girls full of life and dreams, full of energy and hope. Girls who are just discovering their sexuality, who can be persuaded to allow a thirsty lesbian cougar to help them on their journey-regardless of whether that journey leads to a long and fruitful new path or to a dead end.
Generally, I pick these girls up in bars. Sometimes, I hire escorts. And sometimes, they're my employees. The first of the latter was a gorgeous teen girl of Indian descent, who wanted a modelling contract and had somehow discovered my love of ladies (which I generally keep fairly quiet). She emailed me pictures of herself posing seductively in our lingerie, saying she would do anything for a modelling gig. A few back and forths later, she knocked on my door wearing (as instructed) high heels, a gold necklace and earrings, a beige raincoat - and nothing else. When she dropped the coat to reveal her firm bosom and pert little pussy, I sat back in my vintage leather chair and thought to myself 'I can get used to this'. When, about half an hour later, she was down on all fours, licking my clit with her hands tied behind her back and a big black plug in her virgin ass, I thought to myself 'I can definitely get used to this'.
Oh yes, I should probably add that I have a pretty kinky streak. I have a basement that could reasonably be called a sex dungeon, considering the contents. But we'll get to that later.
The main story I want to tell you over these chapters is about Claire. Claire came into my office one day looking for a job, and I was instantly smitten. Claire had angelic golden hair, full pouty lips and the most gorgeous green-blue eyes you have ever seen. She was slim yet rounded in all the right places, with C-cups and a perfect apple butt. Her legs were like a ballerina's, long and perfectly shaped. Most of this I discovered later, as she came into my office wearing a shapeless pantsuit that didn't flatter her figure at all.
It was a Friday. I had been working like a dog all week, trying to put together a distribution deal in the Middle East (you wouldn't believe how many women over there wear delectable, expensive panties and bras under their burqas). I was interviewing a bunch of prospective hires for a range of positions, including modelling work. We run a program where girls and women of all shapes and sizes can apply to model our lingerie, and if they have the right energy and look, we give them a sort of apprenticeship where we teach them how to look great before the camera and maybe put them in our catalogue. For some reason, Claire's resume had landed on my model pile.
"Please, have a seat," I said, putting on my reading glasses.
"Thank you." She sat down and crossed her legs, smiling slightly uncomfortably. She had a certain poise, a straightness of posture that led me to suspect she came from an upper class background, and a fancy school. She was every inch a lady.
"Are you nervous?" I asked, my standard first interview question. Those who deny it are liars and have no place at this company.
"A little." she said, shifting her weight and brushing a streak of golden hair out of her face. Good, I thought.
I flicked through her papers, noticing something was missing. "You should include headshots." I said.
"H...Headshots?" She screwed her face, confused.
"Yes, headshots. I mean, you're very pretty but we need to know what you look like in the hands of a photographer. Have you not applied for modelling jobs before?"
"Modelling?" She seemed even more confused. I looked down at her resume, which listed two PA jobs and two years of college. Uh oh.
"I'm sorry," I said, suddenly the one under the spotlight. "Long day. You're here for the personal assistant role. I just assumed that you, looking like that..." I stopped myself before finishing the sentence. She giggled, flustered.
She didn't stand out as a perfect candidate, being only 20 and fairly inexperienced, but I hired her on the spot. I could not let this one walk out. The beaming smile on her angelic face alone was worth a few months salary. We shook hands and she walked out, smiling from eye to eye.
Just as she passed through the door, she turned back.
"Thanks for mistaking me for a model!" she said.
"Easy mistake to make." I said, with a wink. "I will see you monday, Claire."
Claire started out well, working hard and keeping on top of my crazy agenda. I was impressed. We got more acquainted over the following weeks. I found out she was living with her high school boyfriend, who was in law school. She grew up in the suburbs of our large city, where her parents still lived. I also noticed that the pantsuit was not a one off; most of her outfits were ill fitting and unflattering. I got the idea that she shopped for high fashion brands but at outlet stores (hence the bad fits), and/or that she didn't want to draw attention to her sublime figure.
I didn't really have a plan for getting in those oversized pantsuits at the time. Business was crazy, and other things kept drawing my attention away. Then, after about three months, Claire's performance started to change dramatically for the worse. She came in late two or three times a week, always looking flustered. She misrecorded an important appointment with a supplier, which caused me more than a little embarrassment. And she looked tired most of the time, with bags under her eyes and messy hair. I had to find out what was going on. So, on a Friday afternoon, I called her into my office.
"Yes, Cathleen?"
"There's something we need to discuss. Would you like to get a glass of wine?"
"Uhm, OK..." She didn't say much in the taxi ride over to my favourite wine bar. She seemed a little apprehensive. We finally settled down in a quiet corner of the bar, sitting next to each other on a big chesterfield with a glass of Merlot.
"So, Claire-how are things?"
She looked at me with her big teal eyes. Her lips began to tremble. Then, without warning, she broke down.
"Please... Please don't fire me." She pleaded, her voice shaky. A big tear rolled over her cheek. Then, the floodgates broke. The poor girl started sobbing uncontrollably into her jacket sleeve. "I'm so... So sorry." she said softly, as I put my hand on her shoulder. "This is so unprofessional... I know I've been bad... Please, please give me another chance. I'll do anything..."
With any other girl, this would be an opportunity to take advantage of the situation. But somehow, doing so didn't feel right with Claire. This wasn't how I wanted to get her, even if I did want her. Badly.
"Claire," I said, "Look at me." Her deep sea eyes climbed slowly to meet mine.
"In this company, we care about more than work performance. If there's something wrong with someone in our family, we want to help." Trite, but accurate. I put my hand on her knee.
She smiled through the tears. "Thanks... That really means a lot to me, Cath... But I don't think you can help me with this."
"You'd be surprised." I said "Try me."
She told me her boyfriend had cheated, that she had broken up with him. (Attagirl). But, because she had been living in his apartment, she was forced to move back in with her parents. As it was an hour long commute, she was tired all the time, and often late. She said she was looking for a new place, but affordable one-bedrooms and studios were almost impossible to find in our city.
A plan began to form in my head. A few years previous, I had bought an apartment in the middle of the city, as an investment. It was a clean, minimally furnished but still luxurious and spacey one bedroom on the 9th floor of a new tower block. Sometimes, I rented it out to tourists. Sometimes, I let friends and business relations stay there if they were in town. And sometimes, it was a convenient place to take my young and pretty prey after a hunt in the bars below.
"What if I told you I have a place here in the city you can stay until you get back on your feet?"
"Wh... What?"
"I have an apartment. Only a few blocks from here, in fact. I usually rent it out, but I'm between tenants. You can stay there until you find a place, it's like 10 minutes walk to work. No more excuses for being late." I smiled.
Her face beamed up, carrying an expression you would expect from a person who had just won the lottery. "Oh Cathleen, thank you! Thank you so much!" She hugged me, tightly. For the first time, I felt her gorgeous body against mine. It felt good.
I promised Claire she could move in on Sunday, and I took the Saturday to set things up. My goal, over the coming weeks, was to give her some clear hints about both my sexuality and my desire for her, without being too obvious. I put a big book of fine art photography on the coffee table, which contained lots of naked ladies, some of them kissing and touching each other. I hung up one or two pictures of a similar bent. And the giant box of lingerie, dildos, vibrators, butt plugs, lube and porn that I kept around for my dates; I hid that badly on the bottom of the closet, hoping she would snoop.
