The Negotiator
Despite my best attempts at maintaining a straight face, the corner of my mouth twitched with repressed humor as the "ice maiden's" discomfort escalated by the hour. Negotiations had just passed the fourteenth hour without a substantial break and she wasn't about to show less stamina than anyone else, a ridiculous determination in my view, but one which offered a welcome diversion to the incessant posturing by the large egos sitting around the long walnut table.
I had first encountered her several years ago at an international banking conference held in Paris . At that time, she was a young prodigy with one of London 's top investment houses. Both voluptuous and brilliant, she had been a virtual magnet at that conference, pulling men into her by the droves, both young and old. By now, she must have passed her thirtieth birthday, but she was still stunning. Flawless ivory complexion; large emerald eyes showcased by artfully applied mascara; full lips accented in bright red; rich reddish brown hair piled into a loose knot; sleek legs beneath a knee length Kelly green skirt; shapely calves and narrow ankles above spiked heels; nicely shaped hips below a trim waist; and a matching Kelly green jacket over a white satin blouse, that swelled out magnificently over the central cause of her discomfort.
Background bios of the British negotiating team had mentioned the fact that their number two member, Sarah Rhys-Jones, had recently given birth to her first child. Married three years ago to a cabinet minister twenty years her senior, much to the chagrin of the financial community's male contingent, she had forged a powerful career enhancing alliance through either convenience, love, or both. A seemingly inconsequential footnote had mentioned that this epitome of professional feminism had chosen to breast feed, a bit of research that just might prove an advantage, in negotiations now seemed destined for marathon status.
The child had not been brought across the pond, arrangements for food stockpiling no doubt having taken place. However, whatever careful plans she had made were proving to be not so perfectly calculated after all. I seemed to be the only one aware of the evolving situation, as such details were typically passed over by my colleagues in reading such briefs. Watching her as the hours passed by, it was becoming quite possible that the growing pressure in her impressive bosom could cause a crack in her renowned concentration. Surely she had a method to relieve the pressure, but the brief breaks had not allowed her to escape from the general meeting area and her refusal to leave for an extended period which could put her on a different level than the otherwise all male negotiating teams was conspiring against her.
Another four hours passed, the clock striking two in the morning. Most had removed their jackets, many their ties, but poor Sarah wasn't about to remove her jacket. A break was called for, and this time someone suggested a full hour to allow for a snack. I pushed aside my notepad, full of more doodling than notes, and announced that I for one was going to catch some air this time. As I moved around the table and past others standing less quickly, Sarah reached out and laid a slim hand lightly on my sleeve.
"Mark, is there someplace I can lay down for a few minutes?" she asked in that cultured throaty voice.
I nodded with a smile, "Of course, do you have a headache? I can conjure up some aspirin as well."
She smiled back, covering well, "No, I'd just like a chance to think in a more relaxed manner."
Reaching into my pocket, I took out a set of keys and extracted one. Handing it to Sarah, I explained how to find my office where there was a couch to be found. She thanked me politely and turned back to one of her colleagues as I left the room.
Before heading out of the building for some fresh air, I went through my assistant's office to a private bathroom. Filling a sink with cold water, I took a few minutes to splash down my face and to brush my teeth. Without thinking, I took the more familiar door out into my own office. As I crossed the thick carpet, an unexpected sound pulled me up short.
As my eyes adjusted to the small amount of light that entered the room from the windows overlooking the Loop and Lake Michigan , an erotic vision came clear. Sarah Rhys-Jones set back into the corner of a couch, her jacket folded neatly on the floor. Her arms were lifted up before her, slim hands wrapped around a large milky white breast standing out nakedly from her unbuttoned blouse and unclasped bra. She was squeezing the plump flesh rhythmically, thumb and forefinger of one hand tugging on a long, fat nipple of reddish hue. Moaning with relief, she was squirting pent up breast milk onto a towel that she'd either brought along or found somewhere.
Good manners and common sense dictated that I remove myself from the room as quietly as I had entered it. A sense of how deeply she had to always win, whatever the cost, with the additional dynamic of such siren like beauty, dictated otherwise.
In a quietly playful voice, I spoke from above her, "There is a more satisfying way to go about that."
Sarah froze, those entrancing green eyes snapping upwards to make out my shadowy presence, hands still wrapped around a succulent breast. Thawing occurred quickly, and she removed her hands from her breast and pulled her blouse shut.
Before she could find her voice, however, I knelt down before her and asked, "How would you like to have all of this negotiating finished when we go back?"
Quite amazingly, unless you knew her well, Sarah's eyes switched from stunned embarrassment to sharp calculation. She found her voice, "And what might that take?"
Reaching out to reopen her blouse, I said quite simply, "Allow me to relieve your distress, and I'll accept your last offer."
For a long moment I waited, as that fine mind went over the cost/reward equation so unequivocally placed before her. Time ticking by, I almost had a doubt as to my judgment and then she reconfirmed it. Without a word, she reached back up to her naked breast and lifted it up to me.
No doubt she'd quickly decided that allowing her chief protagonist to play with her breast was more than worth winning the negotiation. Perhaps that is all I would have done, for milking a woman's breast wasn't anything I'd ever thought of doing before, but then I got a close look at that breast. It was large, and very heavy with milk. Her skin was not merely flawless, but smooth as ivory. The nipple was proportionally large, reddish brown and thick, distending outward an inch and a half from an aureole that was at least four inches across its radius. It was so succulent, so inviting, that I couldn't help myself. Leaning forward, I opened my mouth and wrapped my lips around that fat nipple.
Sarah was visibly startled with a sharp intake of breath. Her hands let go the breast and moved out to push me away, but I seized her breast with my own hands and sucked deeply. As a fine spray shot into my mouth, Sarah gasped with an unexpected surge of physical pleasure. Her hands fell onto my shoulders, but lightly, as she did not try to push me away.
I cannot say that her milk was overly tasty, but it wasn't all that hard to drink either.