My name is Timothy Willow. I am the VP of Sales at Cockle Wire. I got to this position by being calm, directed and willing to do what it takes to advance myself. I consider myself easy with the right word at the right moment and that makes me likable. You know, a good salesperson.
You wouldn't know the calm part to see me now. I am sitting here at my desk, holding a letter in my sweating hands. It is a Request for Quote; a sales opportunity for my company to supply wire. It is a legitimate RFQ, but we don't get requests for these types of applications every day. It is from Body Beautiful. The RFQ is signed by the president herself, Natasha Bodinski. And it is her signature that has turned my normally steady hands into jittery, moist betrayers of my mixed emotions.
Natasha was my high school tutor. The daughter of Russian neighbors, she had learned English at an early enough age to be completely fluent in it, but late enough in her teens to still maintain a slight lilt that always seemed slightly stern yet fascinating to me. In an earlier story, I told you about the time she arrived earlier than expected for tutoring at my parents' house and caught me masturbating on my sister's bed into my sister's panties. The memory of my shame and her punishment of me for my dirty act, even now, some dozen years later, races through my blood, engorging my dick, and making me sweat.
I don't want to respond to Natasha's letter. I sense danger, just like a rabbit looking out onto a sunny field that shows no visible signs of enemies, and yet the rabbit twitches its nose, its blood pounding and adrenaline coursing so powerfully through its small, frightened body that it almost hurts in the heart. Natasha had ruthlessly exploited my embarrassment back then, and to top it off, she drove me even deeper into that desperate pit of confusing pleasure by taking me and calling me her whore and her slut.
Back then, the pleasure was stronger than the shame and I longed to see her again, but I never did. She moved away, and left me fantasizing ever since. But now I am older, and hopefully wiser. Oh sure, I still masturbate to fantasies of being taken by an assertive woman. But I have become clear about Natasha and her particular type. She is what I call a sexual blackmailer; an exploiter of the embarrassed; a predator with a sixth sense of men with perverted thoughts. She is a vampire that thrives on a men's humiliation and she knows how to draw it out of your deepest recesses and so deviously that as she sucks the shame to the surface, you eventually give into the shame, you desire to revel in it like a pig rolling around in a sty, because you see how much it pleases her, and pleasing her becomes all you want to do, offering up all your debasement for her pleasure, ... that becomes your one and only want, your one and only need.
That's why I don't want to answer the letter. Natasha would surely exploit her power over me to her advantage with my company. Blackmail me perhaps into low prices. Who knew what her savage imagination was up to, but it was no coincidence that Natasha Bodinski was requesting a quote from me, Timothy Willow.
Sitting here now for a while, I am ridiculing myself for thinking that I can't handle this situation. After all, didn't I say I was older and wiser? Hadn't I gotten to my position by demonstrating resolve and, sometimes, even defiance at the right moment? If I don't respond, wouldn't that make me weaker than responding? And yet, there is the rub already. I can't chose to not respond. She might call the company and ask why I hadn't? She already had me in a bind. But, I have nothing to fear from Natasha if I don't let her pervade my inner resolve to resist whatever games she might be playing. So, I am going to review the quantities of various wire in the attached spreadsheet, and then issue a quotation.
I print a standard cover letter, but then hesitate for a moment before signing. My full name? Just "Timothy"? She called me "Timmy" but I can't sign official correspondence that way. I snap back to awareness. My only power against her is in never giving into being personal. I sign my full name.
Three days later, my secretary pages me. Ms. Valooma of Body Beautiful is on line 3. I take the call.
"Ms. Bodinkski would like you to visit to discuss the quote," says Ms. Valooma.
I say I will check my schedule and call back to confirm, but Ms. Valooma insists on finding an agreeable time for the appointment right now on the phone. Friday, 3 p.m. was preferred by Ms. Bodinski, her firm voice says, and I agree. As I hang up, I wish I was married, and for a moment, I even consider borrowing a wedding ring from someone in the office.
I google her name and company. In its ten year history, Body Beautiful has mushroomed into the most noted competitor in "fashionable erotics," as her company likes to call them. Natasha has finessed the company's line and reputation to a successful niche that is classier than, say, Frederick's of Hollywood, but racier and much bolder than Victoria's secret. Her leather lines, for instance, more than hint at primal struggles for power and control.
I am also surprised to learn that the corporate offices comprise the top three floors of a downtown building. The train ride in is 45 minutes, and while I have taken out a pad to jot down notes for the coming week, my mind drifts and my pen doodles. The web site's photograph of Natasha comes back to me. In it, the pride and stature of her lithe body was sculpted by a skin tight, black, dress that reached up and hugged Natasha's curves. The dress slinked its choker-like collar round her sleek neck. Her blond hair rolled in long soft curls down around that jealous collar, lounged on her shoulders and then spilled down her back. Her body, her neck, her hair and especially her yellow eyes were all like wild animals, panthers, jaguars, tigers, that she kept on short chains while they growled dangerously and even fletched their teeth at each other in competition for Natasha's attention to use that particular animal in the attack on the next victim.
Between images of what a stunning woman Natasha had become and memories of her evil desires for humiliation, my cock is growing hard in my slacks. I snap to attention at the conductor's call of my stop, and embarrassed at the hard cock in my pants, I hold my attaché case in front of my crotch as I exit the train.
I was hoping I would lose my erection while exiting the train, but by now my breath is short and my pulse quick with the anticipation of the meeting. My own cock seems to mock me by gorging even fuller. "Natasha commands her body's ferocious beauty," I think, "and my body's chronic urges betray me." Laughable, I think, and my hard-on rages against my pants in full erection as I imagine Natasha laughing at my deplorable lack of control over my very own cock.
On the escalator in the train station, I end up behind a woman in heels and a mini skirt, and my face is almost level with her round and luring behind. I imagine that even that woman's sassy ass is taunting me.
Want some of this, don't you dirty boy
, the ass laughs.
You want to peak under this skirt at some tasty pussy, don't you horny boy?
And just then, the woman shifts her weight to the other side and the ass shrugs at me,
Pervert
! and walks off the escalator.
By the time I reach the building, I am struggling to breathe normally and assess the circumstances. My cock is no longer hard, but still swollen in my pants. I can feel that precum has oozed out. My crotch and the head of my dick feel wet from the slick slime. I glance down and see that, so far, it doesn't show through my pants. I pray for mercy that it won't soak through.
The elevator opens and I feel instantly overwhelmed. I have seen some lush offices before, but this is more than lush, it is lavish. And seductive. I step into a two-story high rotund that is lined with marble. Suspended in the center of the arched ceiling, is a many-times larger-than-life-sized hologram of a lingerie-clad, almost too-stunningly beautiful model. She is crouched on her haunches, one elbow casually on her bent leg, the other hand reaching out and beckoning the visitor in. The black bra is cradling tight, perky breasts, and the lacey thong is just see-through enough to hint at her pleasure. My mind reels back to masturbating as a young boy to cartoon pornography depicting giant women tormenting me. Without the least bit of hope to control it, I feel my dick swell hard again.
"Can I help you?" says the receptionist again, louder.
I look at the round reception desk under the hologram. An equally beautiful, and this time real, woman smiles at me. I announce myself, and after a brief phone call, she bids me to wait in a conference room down a hall from the rotund. I enter the conference room, put my briefcase on the table and turn to look around. In the corner, I notice another hologram display at waist height coming from a short roman-styled column. This time, the model is only a foot high, and as she models the lingerie, she turns and bends and slinks her hips, and then this one too beckons me. A new hologram flashes up, this time a brunette, wearing leather bra and pre-torn mini skirt to look like an Amazonian loincloth. Then another: red teddy with black ribbons. And another and then I realize the trap I am in, my dick hard, my mind already feverish with the poison of Natasha's control: I am in her web.
