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The Agenda, Part 1

December 12th, 2013


The meeting started off like any other meeting; arrangements were made — day, time, place and agenda. I seemed to be the go-to girl for my company’s meetings; maybe it was because I was the best dressed and best looking in the office, or maybe it was because the CEO knew I was capable of dominating any man or conversation to benefit the firm. Best dressed, best looking — certainly true, and since most of the clients were balding, middle-aged men who hadn’t been laid since high school, I could easily dominate even the most alpha shark in the tank.


Fall days in NYC meant that I was normally wearing a killer pair of leather boots, skirt, blouse and jacket. Today was no different: I left the office in plenty of time to hail a taxi and make it to the Upper East Side in plenty of time. I arrived at the restaurant and sat down at the table, making sure that I was easy to see from the door. I ordered a nice bottle of Merlot. As the waiter poured my glass, I sat with my legs crossed, the slit in my skirt showing just enough leg where my black leather boots stopped. The leather boots were my favorite pair: classic soft black leather, with a tapered toe and short stiletto heel. They looked like they could be on the feet of a Dominatrix without too much effort, which I secretly loved.


I sat relaxing but focused on the task at hand. This company had assured us that they could maximize our online presence and hence increase our business. I had heard this pitch from at least a dozen other companies in the last couple of months. I wondered if they were going to send their young, hot-shot rep with the shiny white teeth and extreme tan. I was prepared to have him groveling at my feet for our account and prepared in my imagination how I was going to control the meeting.


As my mind wandered, a tall, handsome, silver-haired man sat down at my table. He introduced himself as Eric, a rep from the ad company. We exchanged handshakes as I looked into his crystal blue eyes; he explained that the usual rep had gotten called away on another appointment. I was taken aback but realized this was going to be easier than I thought as well as more enjoyable. I had my fill of young, hot-shot advertising reps. I have a terrible “Daddy” fetish, which often motivated me to fuck older men, dominating them into my bed, making them my “bitch slave” and then allowing them to turn the tables on me — just waiting for that inevitable moment when they would say, “Hey, little girl, is your Daddy home? Did he go away and leave you all alone?” Yes, I realize it’s from a Bruce Springsteen song, but my one encounter with Springsteen in my youth had left a lasting impression on my sexual psyche. These 2 sentences alone or together had the power of making me melt, weak in the knees and moist in my panties.


Eric poured himself a glass of wine as I contemplated getting this incredibly attractive man in my bed. He began with the usual pleasantries as his eyes traced my body. I could see that he was sizing me up, taking in every detail of my presence from my eyes and lips to my skirt, legs and boots. He seemed to spend more time on the boots than other places. I wondered if he was sizing up his sales pitch or if he was just enjoying the view. As I uncrossed my legs and recrossed them, the toe of my boot accidently grazed his calf. I spoke an insincere apology and refocused the conversation business. Eric smiled at the light kick of the boot like he was somehow accustomed to it.

To be continued.
Never yours,
HM Porsche Lynn