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.
"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.
"No. This is no good."
I twist my body round. As I do so, the heel of my shoe catches your cock, twisting it painfully to the side. You gasp.
"I'm so sorry."
I slowly and deliberately move my other foot onto your chest, the heel over you nipple. I let my weight bear on it. My full weight concentrated onto the minute point of my heel and into your nipple. I'm thinking that sex is all about concentration of sensation. Mentally and physically. I twist my foot cruelly, and then step off. I squat down, facing away from your, my feet either side of your shoulders, my ass hovering over your waiting tongue. I feel your cool breath on my opened cuntlips. And I feel slightest touch of your tongue teasing my pubes, testing my reaction.
"No!" I say, angrily, slapping your cock with my hand. "When I say so. I think we need to impose a little control here."
I grasp your angry cock with my hand, and reaching over, pick up the strap from the table. You feel my tiny fingers deftly moving over your aching flesh, affixing the strap around your balls, lifting and separating. And tightening. Click. Click. Click. And with each click I hear you vocalise a primal groan.
Your cock is more constricted that it's ever been, and your view of the world is totally obscured by the taut globes of my ass. And the slick, silky purse of my cunt hovers inches from your nose. I'm particularly fragrant this time of the month. There's no subtlety in the overwhelming musk. I finish my job, and smile at the enrobed cock, echoing the tightness of the cincher around my own waist.
Suddenly, I let my entire weight tell on you. Resting on your face. Your lips on my lips. The tip of your nose butting against the flowering pit of my asshole. I wriggle, teasing you in.
You tentatively start to fuck my cunt with your tongue. My hand snakes down to my clitoris. It's been yearning for touch. Not subtle: hard.
"That's better. Keep tonguing my cunt like that and I might let you come."
My hips tilt back and forth in a rhythm, using your nose and tongue like a cock. It's intensely arousing. Our sweat forms a thin film of lubricant between us. My juices drench your face. I'm imagining what it's like for you to be lost in my chthonic depths. Sounds. Smells. Sensation.
But it's not good enough. I need to be filled. I reach for the plug, and ritualistically cover it with the moisturiser.
"Now lick me there."
My finger snakes down my spine, and taps at the entrance to my rear hole.
You obey. Your tongue laps. I press my weight against you, by buttocks parted by your face. I continue to lubricate the plug. And then I stop.
My other hand strays against your constricted cock. Angry, livid and swollen, it craves release. Mirror smooth with the pre-come I spread over the taut drum-like membrane of your glans. I tease your urethera with the scarlet nail of my index finger. Scraping my nails over your dome. I feel your tongue more insistent at my ass, teasing it open. I slowly start to wank your cock.
I lift my ass from your face, just enough to tease the rim of my anus with the edge of the plug. Plug and flesh are slick and lubricated, and inches from your unbelieving eyes, the plug sinks slowly into the depths of my ass as I groan deeply, until it sits, riding on the flare, pushing my buttocks apart.
"Oh my fucking christ."
I grasp your painfully straining cock with my hand, and squeeze. Hard. You're close to coming.
"Tell me you'll accept a 3 year break. Or I leave the room. Now. Don't talk. Grunt. Three times."
I lift my arse, decorated with the glass plug, from your face by way of a signal.
You grunt. Three times. (I knew you would. I'm a veritable Einstein at times like this).
My ass rests back on your face. Your nose pushes the plug into me. A delicious feeling of fullness, heightened by the constriction around my belly. Your hands move to grasp my waist, but I bat them away. This is my fun. You are my toy. I rub at my clitoris more insistently, and with my other hand, start to jack your cock.
You're seconds away from coming. And then, a white jet emerges from your constricted cock. Three, four waves. I feel my own orgasm building, and as it arrives, the waves of contractions on my asshole signal my cunt to follow suit.
I love negotiating.
I climb off you, and stretch my legs. And move into the bathroom. You don't disturb me. You hear sounds of flushing, washing. Familiar, everyday sounds. I emerge, fresh and washed and dressed as you are still lying on the bed coming down from your experience. I whisper in your ear
"You can take the strap off now, darling. And don't forget the envelope on the side table."
After I leave, you get up and open it. As you expect, it contains a letter of variation to the contract. It also contains a piece of paper with an anonymous looking URL.
"My darling. You were good. My purse had a hidden video camera in it. I'll upload the pictures tomorrow. The courier will be at your room 10am to pick up the signed letter. You'll see I left you the plug. Do remember me, next time you use it."
This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com
with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.