Now!
Oh, fuck! Her response is unambiguous. My text, Still schmoozing the directors, given no quarter.
I can hardly exit stage left while the chairman’s pontificating on my amazingness. But she’s not one to give a damn about other priorities.
Increased revenue, lowered costs, innovative financial products, adept risk management, … yadda, yadda, yadda. He concludes by dropping a bombshell; nominating his ‘CEO star in the making’ for businesswoman of the year.
Yes!
The board and spouses warmly applaud. Mark’s supportive fingers press against my wedding ring.
My phone pings again. Now means RIGHT now! She’s also not known for her patience.
No joy from fossicking through the slag heap of well-worked over excuses. I’m reduced to mining a workaholic reputation; my invented late call with London brings understanding nods and smiles despite seeming tissue-thin to me. But the chairman adds a quid pro quo for letting me leave early, a debrief at tomorrow’s board meeting.
Fuck.
There’s only enough time for lipstick and tossing my bra and knickers into a desk drawer. The buzz from her undies shredding fetish has become way too expensive a habit; Agent Provocateur lace sets start at two hundred smacks.
Jimmy Choo’s echo off the alley walls as I scurry out the back exit security has told me to use after the road-closing protests occasioned by my sharp increase in lending interest rates.
Only two blocks from the financial district, the increased seediness has my nipples tenting my ruby Escada blouse. A block deeper, as I carefully step down to the dingy basement bar, Pavlov’s pussy oozes on hearing her favourite industrial rock track echoing off the brick walls.
I nod at Sam, the owner, behind the bar; their butch punk chic marketing exactly who they’re catering for. The smile back is genuinely warm, unsurprising as their loan was my captain’s pick. The rationale I gave the board, that this generous financing would enhance the firm’s diversity reputation, was inspired.
She loved that idea.
She’s, as expected, in her semi-private corner; the graduate student queen bee surrounded by a retinue of sophomore Stepford dronettes. When good girls are tempted to walk on the wild side, their gateway drug is buying into her favourite Henry Ford quote: ‘Can have any colour you want, so long as it’s black.’
“You’re late.”
I shrug; more in response to the beehive’s syncopated tittering. They’re not yet sufficiently worldly-wise to recognise that slaves are anathema to women like her.
She also knows they’re programmed to scarper, spooked by graduation’s reality; reborn in the burbs as soccer mums to two-point-four children and good-cause volunteers. Naively reassured that a dalliance with a woman like her has inoculated them against any future ‘bisexuality’s an illusion,’ tsunamis.
She smiles, knowingly. “Show me.” Immediately pouncing on my momentary hesitation, “Now! You’re showing this lot too.”
An achingly exquisite blush blossoms as I undo my blouse’s buttons. Hanging my top over a spare chair, my rock-hard nipples are a bitter-sweet testament to the word emblazoned across my tits being seen by kids not worthy of her.
Slut.
She takes time to admire my lipstick calligraphy. “Skirt off too!”
Honey oozes down my thighs as the unzipped skirt puddles on the floor. Picking it up, she places it on the chair, out of harm’s way.
The wide-eyed dronettes follow her lead and inhale deeply. I can’t help myself; shuddering with an intoxicating mix of embarrassment and humiliation, knowing they’re sampling my arousal aromas which now permeate our corner of the bar.
Slipping a foot out of her Doc Martens, her toe traces the M tattoo above my mound. “Tell the newbies what this stands for, slut.”
“Um… Mia.”
Her big toe twists, thrusts, and stretches the viscous walls of my pussy. “Anything else?”
“Um… Mistress. Miss, too.”
The sticky toe exits with a pop and plays patter-cake with my throbbing clit. “They’re all true. I admire that you’ll always be the smartest person in any room. But …”
Her toe’s relentless button bumps have me mashing my needy oozing sex against her foot. “But what, Miss?”
Her foot thumps against the floor, her eyes lock onto mine. I stare down at her glistening toe, whimpering, “Please don’t stop.”
“What did you say when I wanted my name tattooed above your cunt?”
“Your wish is my command.”
“Indeed. So that M tattoo; everyone seeing it would recognise it stands for Mia or Mistress or Miss, right?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. My stomach knots; she couldn’t know could she?
Her foot rises, toe-tapping impatiently against my clit.
“I’m sorry, Mia, I should have told you. My husband’s name is Mark.” A tear rolls down my cheek and splatters against my tit.
“Contemplating topping from the bottom, were we?”
“No! Just my habit of being economical with the actuality, Miss.”
She stands, one hand choke-gripping my neck and forcing me to hold her stare. I feel her fingers just take me, twisting deep and hard into my sex, knuckles stretching my slick velvet walls.
“I’ll get Mia’s tattooed above my, I mean your, slutty cunt after tomorrow’s board meeting.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the dronettes agog at how responsive my squelching cunt is to her thrusting fingers.
Her fingers scissor, their tips grazing my spot, while her thumb starts bashing my clit. My world narrows.
“With that promise you get to cum for me, slut.” The relief triggers a monster gush as I orgasm screaming her name.
She wraps me in her arms, tongue-tip flicking the tears from my cheek. And whispers, “You’re the only one I’ll ever treat like this.”
My pussy quivers, the aftershocks continuing as she carefully dresses me; Escada transforming me back from slut to successful business-woman.
“Be a star at your board meeting tomorrow. Then my apartment; show me the Mia’s tattoo and I’ll use you, again and again, all weekend. Or until you scream, ‘Stop.’”
“All weekend it is then, Miss.” Her smile melts me.
