Only a two-inch, glass-paneled office wall separates you from me, your world from mine. I sit outside and wait. Observing, like a lioness in the tall grass, watching. Taking careful note of your movements, your demeanor. The severity and tension that harden your features. Or the sensual way you touch a pen to your lips. Information I absorb and store, to be used when I pounce.

Business publications profiling CEOs of power and success fan out across a table. The magazine featuring you on the cover boastfully sits atop.

I feel an energy bubbling from a maze of cubicles dotting the expansive office space below the mezzanine. Each station is occupied by a worker, buzzing like flitting bees, carrying out their mission for your hive. Their spirit is contagious. I begin to understand why it dominates your world, compels and drives everything about you.

And yet, with all that status, all that power, I wonder what the worker bees would think if they knew why I’m here. Why a girl half your age sits patiently, waiting to fuck you. To strip away your dominant facade and take you to an edge that I design. Letting you dangle and beg until I decide when you cum.

The hive cannot match what I give you. Still, you are as indentured to those bees as they are to you. A barbed thread of jealousy enwraps the notion as my insight into this part of your life begins to shape.

As if you can feel my thoughts, you look up. My heart races at the hint of a smile. Your devotion claws its way into the upward bend in the corner of your lips. I play coy, not delivering the satisfaction of my stare; withholding my attention is part of the game. But Jesus, you make it so difficult. I quickly divert back to the magazines, to your cover shot, admiring that smile instead. It’s subtly different. Colder. More calculated.

Your assistant draws my attention with a cough. We make eye contact. She’s about my age, cute and perky. Maybe you have a type.

She makes an attempt at small talk. “What did you say is the nature of this visit?” Perhaps I’m the barb causing her prickle of envy.

“I didn’t,” I snip.

She spins away, pretending to need something and I catch her reflection mouthing the word, “Bitch.”

I smile. If she only knew.

That word doesn’t bother me. Never has. I am a bitch. You pay me to be a bitch. To clear your head of obligations, remove the weight, the drain of being the consummate leader. To tie you up and force you to relinquish control so the tanks can be replenished.

It’s a vicious necessity, all while your trusting spouse wonders what power-play crisis has you out late. Again. Shackled to my bed, your hands and feet bound, eyes cloaked in darkness. Helpless. I hiss in your ear that you’re mine, then watch as the arousal washes over. I can almost see your pulse rippling the veins in your neck as you wonder where I’ll take you next.

My gaze falls to my purse and I unsnap the silver clasp, smiling at the nipple clamps inside. They’ll suit you. I’m looking forward to shoving you back onto your desk, grabbing the chain and tugging up, making you gasp, leaving your mouth agape for me to mount. Smothering you until it’s understood that I’m in control and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. I want to look down and bask in that subservience; to see the need in your eyes.

Need. A trait of weakness. But without it, I wouldn’t have you. Need jeopardizes your command, so you block it out. Shield it. The worker bees mustn’t see that side of you, but I do. It makes you stronger. I make you stronger. Because only I can deliver on the need.

Growing desire floods my pussy with warmth. I cross my legs to capture it. My lower back arches and I run a hand through my hair, cocking my head demurely to the side to peer once more through the soundproof glass. The anticipation is electrifying.

I’ve been turned on since you mentioned wanting to take the game somewhere new. Part of me believes your intent was on the experience itself, not the location. But, what could be more intense than driving playtime right into the heart of the fucking hive? So many dirty thoughts rip through my mind, pouring out and soaking my panties.

Maybe I’ll bind you to your leather chair, forcing you to watch as I sit, spread-eagle on your desk and masturbate. Fingering deep into the heat of my cunt as my ass rests flat against the cool mahogany. Reaching out to push the point of my stiletto into your crotch. The closer I get to climax, the harder I’ll press into you, my fingers glistening, ears joyfully ringing with your pleas for the same release.

The phone on your assistant’s desk buzzes and I hear your voice. “Send her in.” It has an immediate effect, my pulse racing once again, but as before, I remain composed.

Not waiting for her approval, I breeze past to enter and stride directly to your desk, confident and hungry. The door eases shut behind me.

“Show me the button,” I whisper, leaning over so my skirt rides up. A tease for your assistant outside.

Our eyes connect as you pull open a drawer. I see it, a glint of chrome simply labeled PRIVACY. I remember the excitement in your voice the day you told me about installing the technology. Glass that frosts in an instant. No more clunky window-blinds. Sleek and sexy. Powerful.

My gaze returns to yours. Intense. Predatory. Brimming with passion. I smirk and slide a finger over the button. With a click, the glass wall behind snaps opaque. The world upon which you feed disappears, and my world, once again, unveils.