A much needed change (Floss88 x lasciel)

[Floss88]

Sam Cauldwell lingered as his collegues packed away their papers. It was Friday and they had been at this for 3 days and they were now still going to be at it when they came in on Monday morning. But then the long suspected, but absolutly secret, merger of a Japanese industrial giant and a midsized American defence firm was never going to be easy. Two nations worth of public company law, unique Japanese contitutional restrictions on arms and well the fact both of these companies were to damn proud to fully admit the deal was in their best interests.

Still Sam wasn't complaining, this was generating a colossal amount of money for Drax, Bundy and Cauldwell. His great grandfather had been one of the original partners, everyone called it DBC now but the name was enough for everyone to assume he had an easy ride into one of the biggest firms on the East Coast. They were right of course, but that made it all the more satifsying to prove he was damn good at his job.

And he was good, Sam had been top of his class from kindergarden to Harvard law school, he dominated his academic and professional life the same way he had dominated high school lacrosse or college athletics. The same way he was planning to dominate Catherine Jones. He had spent the last 3 hours of this meeting mentally undressing her as she went over, again, the finer points of some Japanese tax law. Not his area of expertise, which was good because he had not been listening instead he had been trying to picture Miss Jones naked, her body convulsing in lust for him.

Was it professional? No.

But you didn't get everything you wanted by not going out and taking it. So as the last of the grey haired men who made up both sides filtered out he made his move, walking over and flashing his winning smile.

"Catherine, say have you got any plans tonight? I thought you might like a guide around town, it's already late but I know a few places you might be interested in."

 

[lasciel]

This was her test.

Catherine Jones had known the moment the email came into her inbox that she couldn't turn down the job. As a newly-minted junior partner at Justin & Knight her probationary status hinged not only on her performance both in successfully representing her clients in an economically-and-politically-sensitive international merger, but also on the networking she performed during her job to bring the newly minted company into the fold of clients for her firm. Normally the job would've gone to one of the senior partners at the firm, and the initial discussion with their Japanese clients had been managed by Mark Justin Jr.. But Catherine one of their few partners familiar with the legal and social intricacies of Japanese finance law, and the only one who actually spoke the language well enough to not sink the deal.

So the job had fallen to her. And she was determined to not fuck this up.

She couldn't necessarily say the same of her counterparts on the other side of the phenomenally expensive conference table. Catherine was familiar with DBC as a firm, and had worked both with and against them at several points in her career, but never as a partner and never against one of their partners. Sam Cauldwell had a bit of a reputation, and when she'd seen his name on the documents she'd been sent to peruse the prior week she'd winced. Now, here, he'd lived up to form, and despite dressing in a conservative black turtleneck beneath her black blazer and matching slacks she'd noticed his gaze on her body rather than on the documents they were supposed to be reviewing for the past three hours.

That had been the way of things for the past several days, and she knew there'd be several more. But if he'd hoped to unsettle her with his leering he'd failed spectacularly. Unfortunately for her, he also hadn't let his wandering eyes distract him from his work. He'd proven as vicious and cunning as a tiger shark, and the stacks of legal documents at this point were covered in red ink from both their teams' pens. That had been part of the source of the additional delay, and she wouldn't be surprised if the negotiations went on for another few days.

In this round, at least... after which she and her team would be flying back to Nagoya with their clients to discuss and present the present state of affairs to the rest of the company's board. Never mind that they could read the summary documents she'd had her team prepare, the trip was as much about proving her mettle and showing respect by making the unnecessary flight and providing facetime with the rest of her clients. Then she'd finally be able to head back home, her actual home in southern California and not the elegant-but-sterile corporate apartment Justin & Knight kept handy for their partners when they had to trek out to the Northeast.

And it was so dreary here. Catherine hated the wind and rain that were the hallmarks of late fall in the Northeast, even if the changing leaves were pretty. The humidity and damp played merry hell with her hair, and she'd needed half a can of spray to keep her auburn tresses tamed into the severe bun perched at the back of her head without frizzing into a puff-ball. The turtleneck wasn't just for show, either, as the weather outside was chill enough to warrant the extra layer and for some ungodly reason the conference room was set cold enough that she would've been shivering without the blazer.

Never mind my brother's assertions that I wouldn't be so cold all the damned time if I put some muscle on.

Beneath the sweater and blazer was a surprisingly athletic frame on the short redhead, sculpted shoulders and biceps above a moderately-sized bust kept tamed with high-end bras. Her abdomen held the first shadows of a six-pack, and her legs beneath her custom-fitted slacks sported well-developed hamstrings, quadriceps, and calves. But no amount of exercise could make her taller, or broader, or make her wrists and hands look any less dainty compared to those of her male peers. Catherine was fit but she was still small in what was still very much a man's world, far shorter than her colleagues and counterparts with their 6'+ frames and broad shoulders from rowing, or swimming, or whatever bourgeoisie sport they engaged in. Even her clients were taller than her, a full four inches between her 5'5" frame and the shortest of them.

Even in understated black pumps she was still far shorter than Sam, who had to look down to address her. The angle made his smile and body language look more predatory, though Catherine knew better than to be intimidated. One didn't get to her position without having learned to override her gut instincts to shy back from a power pose, reflecting his arrogance with her own as she planted her hands on her hips and looked back up at him with the flat expression of an unimpressed leopard.

"Mister Cauldwell." She had not offered her first name for personal use, and her green eyes held no warmth as she addressed him in the same impersonal alto she'd used during their business discussions. One sculpted auburn brow raised slightly. "I appreciate the offer--" she lied, not eager to kick his balls up between his ears while they still had to work together "-- but I already have plans for the evening." The smile she flashed him was as disingenuous as the suggestion that followed. "Perhaps another time?"

And she remained planted there, hands on her hips, waiting for him to move away.

 

[Floss88]

Sam's smile didn't break, he raised an eyebrow at 'Mister Cauldwell' left it at that. There was just something about this woman he couldn't put his finger on, it didn't even occur to him that it was the fact she wasn't going weak at the knees at his Action Comics jawline or two thousand dollar suit. Maybe it's that she was almost as good at what she did as he was, a peer. Sam's ego required he never even considered the possibility of a true equal of either gender. Even his professors at Harvard he considered to be merely relying on the crutch of age and experience rather than truly being his superiors.

No, it was probably the way she never smiled at him, Sam liked making pretty girls smile the same way a jousting knight liked hearing the roar of the crowd. To him, it meant success that his advances, his moves, or just his personal magnetism was striking home. In other words, it was like a prize, and when the prize was harder to obtain it was all the sweeter. First, it would be a smile, then a kiss, and then she'd be his and he would be bored of her in a week. Sam wasn't so lost in his own ego not to see the pattern of his dating life, but it didn't bother him much. Sure eventually he would have to settle down but there was no rush and until then there were challenged like this to face Sam relished a challenge.

"If you insist, Ms. Jones," He put only the slightest emphasis on the name and briefly broadened his smile to take the sting out of it. "But I will take you up on that, the world we live in is difficult enough without us taking on our clients' animosity. At least... when we are off the clock." He turned on his heel and left, only to realize there was only one functioning elevator at the moment and his colleagues had just taken it while he was trying his hand.

He kicked himself mentally, such an excellent walking away line and now he was going to have to share the lift to the street with, Ms. Jones.

 

[lasciel]

He'd gotten the hint and switched to her professional name. Good. Now hopefully he'd get the other hint of being let-down gently--

"But I will take you up on that,"

Her green eyes narrowed fractionally and her false smile grew brittle. Jesus fucking christ, could the man not read-between-the-lines? But one of the first, and among the best, pieces of advice she'd gotten from her law school mentor was to never directly turn down a man like Mr. Cauldwell. Not, her mentor had emphasized, that they were either ever to be taken up on their offers. But the string of rejection in a man so used to absolutely dominating his quarry could have nasty professional consequences. Some of her more high-minded classmates were attempting to actually do something about that, setting legal precedent in sexism and sexual harassment lawsuits, but Catherine knew change came slow.

So rather than correct him she nodded, the barest inclination of her head that he could choose to read as acceptance as his ego demanded, even though she'd only meant it as an acknowledgement that she'd heard him speak. It wasn't the first time she'd had to do the stupid dance they were now engaging in. Turning him down without ever being overt about it, at least while they worked common ground. Though she still wouldn't ever be in a position to reject him with all the fire and brimstone she'd want to by the end, at least when the contract was sorted she'd be able to be more final about things.

Her eyes and ears followed him briefly as he left, ensuring he wasn't lingering by the door before she returned to putting her things away. A slim laptop and an aggressive stack of papers were her haul, snugged away into a glossy black leather shoulder-bag that could've passed for an over-sized purse. She debated hitting the ladies room first to adjust her makeup, switching to the darker lip-stain and heavier shadow she'd packed in preparation for her "existing plans". But she'd packed the compact and stain only as a back-up in case their meeting ran over, and redoing her looks back at her corporate apartment would be far easier. The real reason she wanted to dawdle, she knew, was her sinking suspicion that Sam would be there waiting for the same singular elevator she'd need to take.

Catherine knew she was making excuses and kicked herself mentally for it. It was an elevator. Thirty seconds, at most, and they were both professionals (she hoped). He'd take the answer he'd gotten at least for now without protest, and then they'd likely step into matching black cars to be whisked off to their respective abodes, not to see or think about one another until Monday.

She cinched her bag shut, slung it over her shoulder, checked the lapels and collar of her jacket for wrinkles, then headed for the hall. True to her subconscious fears Sam was there, waiting for the same lift she'd need. The doors slid open just as she arrived, and if he was slow out the gate she walked past him to the interior as if he didn't exist. One dainty hand, clad with an expensive and dainty gold watch at it's wrist, flashed out to press the button for the lobby. But she wasn't so rude as to mash the close-door button as well.

To forestall any possibility of unwanted conversation she pulled out her phone, screen angled away from him, and began to review the various notifications and texts she'd gotten while in their protracted meeting. Dan had texted her, confirming they were still on for the evening. He sounded eager, from the number of emojis he'd peppered in.

Boy better be, if he wants me to let him finish tonight. Catherine thought to herself with the first genuine smirk Sam had seen all day. It was devious and predatory and gleeful. She wasn't the tiger shark that her colleagues and counterparts were, but a leopard seal could be equally dangerous... and had a notion of how to play with it's food.

And that was the other reason she'd neatly rejected Sam. He'd had no idea what he'd been asking for to begin with.

 

[Floss88]

She’s looking at her phone, Sam thought with a slightly smug smile. She was as desperate not to look at him as he was to pretend this elevator ride wasn’t happening. She had to be into him, sure she was playing hard to get but it was only a matter of time. The deal was going to take, by Sam’s very well-informed estimation, at least another year. Sam would find a way to win, to conquer Catherine. Sure she might think right now that she could just ignore him but she was only doing that because deep down… she wanted him.

Sam couldn’t blame her, he was magnificent. His hair was ink black from his Irish grandmother and his eyes were the same deep stormy grey of all the men in his family. The official family story began with his great grandfather founding the firm. But internally they kept the older stories, of grey eyed raiders tearing their way across the north coast of Europe. His family had been taking whatever they wanted for thousands of years and, considering his own considerable talents, there was no reason Sam thought any aspect should change.

Even so he rode down in silence. Sure she didn’t feel like coming with him tonight, but as far as Sam was concerned that only meant a delay not an end.



***

The next time Sam found himself in an elevator alone with Catherine Jones he was on the opposite side of the contiguous United States and no closer to securing his prize. Yes he had done great work securing percentage changes in import and export agreements that his client demanded. But increasingly he found himself distracted in the meetings.

Sam found his grey eyes drifting to the line of Catherine’s neck and the way she held her pen. Stupid, the kind of mistake he should have grown out of in law school as a horny teenager. But Catherine still refused to even smile at him.

That shouldn’t bother him it was stupid, but this time he had exposed himself more. He had requested to be shown around her town and still she said she was too busy. She was almost flaunting her social life in his face, she seemed so reserved and severe but she was teasing him with a hidden Catherine who was busy every night,

***

In the end, it was 5 more long, tortiously litigious meetings before Sam really got his shot. This time he had only waved a perfunctory farewell to Catherine Jones. As much as he desperately wanted to ask her out again, he took Mike Reznick out for a few instead. Reznick was head of their negotiating team and had flagged Sam early for the possibility of proportion up and up DBC’s ranks.

Mike had genuinely seen something in Sam apart from his name and worked with him extensively to build the young man’s talents. Sam would never admit to this but he thought Mike was a great guy, for a fading ember, and relished the few times a year he could be coaxed to spend a night on the town. The man was an old warhorse of the Gothamburg legal scene and his war storied were incredible when you could get them out of him.

After 6 month of trying to sleep with Catherine Jones, with zero success, a night with Mike as an alternative was almost a relief.

***

4 hours later it was 2 am, Mike had left on his last train out to his suburban home 2 hours ago. Sam should have gone home when Mike did. Not because he was drinking but because the only reason, he was staying out was to make a poor decision.

Instead of going home to his truly beautiful apartment and drinking a nice scotch on his wonderful ocean viewing balcony he was sat in a cocktail bar he had somehow never heard of called Narcissus In Chains. The sign had the mythical egomaniac bound in vines with nymphs and deer apparently dancing around him.

The bar was a New Troy classic of dark wood and brass, from the old world of Europe but not of it. The absolute best of east coast American opulence. Above the great circular bar in the centre was a brass statue. Narcissus on his back bound in vine and Artemis complete with her bow and attendant nymphs stood on his chest.

Pretentious if you asked Sam but then no one did and he was here because they apparently did the best cocktail in the state. They were certainly priced appropriately. He was 3 gimlets deep when he looked across the bar and saw the uniquely distinctive red hair.

No it couldn’t possibly be her. Catherine of the infinitely better plans than a drink with him.

Rather he smiled at the barman who came over like a summoned genie in the rapidly emptying bar.

“Could you send the lady at the end there another one of what she’s drinking.”

“Of course sir, the price will be double”

“I’m sorry what?”

“House rules I’m afraid sir”

“Fine. Fine. Just do it.”

“Of course sir”

 

[lasciel]

The elevator ride passed without another word, and Catherine held her sigh of relief only as far as the plush interior of the black-car that would take her back to her corporate apartment. There'd been a brief moment of confusion out front as two identical cars waited for two important partners, but signs held by either driver, one for Ms Jones, the other for Mr Cauldwell, clarified the matter. She'd gone without so much as another glance at her counterpart, and once her ride had pulled into motion she'd stopped thinking about him entirely.

He was nothing more than another part of her test. And she'd deal with him with ruthless efficiency.

---

Their meetings ping-ponged back and forth from east coast to west coast once-a-month, interspersed with trips for her team to Nagoya to reiterate details and internal meetings to discuss strategy. Much of the work, Catherine knew, could've been managed via email and video-chat, but both companies were sticklers for tradition. The end result for her was top-tier airline status and more airline miles than she knew what to do with, which wasn't the worst of the world's outcomes. Still, she could've done without Sam's persistent (if polite) perusal.

To his credit he took her soft rejections in-stride. But something in him didn't seem to quite grok that her answer wasn't going to change, no matter how he phrased his request month-after-month. Catherine began to wonder if it was some sort of ploy on the opposition's part, as she was clearly the linchpin of her team. Agreeing to any sort of fraternization with Sam risked not only the gig, but her career. He had to know that, didn't he? Women in her position weren't granted the generous leeway that men were, and he wasn't just asking to fuck her, he was asking to possibly get her fired.

And yet, like clockwork, every Friday as their work wrapped up he asked some variant of the same damned question. It didn't matter how she was dressed, or how much she did or didn't (have to) interact with him during the day's negotiations and discussions. His stubbornness puzzled her... and, in a tiny part of her mind, intrigued her.

Still. He didn't know what he was asking. Even if one elided the issues of who they were to each other professionally, Catherine strongly doubted Sam was the sort of man who was into... into the things she liked.

---

Sam's routine had become so expected that Catherine found herself waiting two breaths after she stood but before she turned to the door for the familiar sound of his footsteps coming up behind her. But he only continued smoothly out into the hall in hushed discussion with one of the grey-haired men, not even giving her a first glance.

Well, good. He finally got the message.

Yet she was, in a small way, disappointed. Not that she was planning on taking him up on his offer. But turning him down would've been the salve her ego needed after the morning she'd had.

Dan had been pushing boundaries, acting like an absolute fuckboy because, in his words, where else are you going to find a booty like mine? She'd told him exactly where, and when, and the onus would be on him to show up and grovel or give up his monthly booty-call. Unfortunately, Catherine assigned at best fifty-fifty odds to him showing up, as the row they'd gotten into was not a new argument. He'd wanted -- demanded -- to see more of her, and for her to foot the bill to fly him out to see her at her condo in the suburbs of Alta. She'd reminded him of the terms of their arrangement, that he was no more than a booty call, to which he'd replied with his infuriating words.

What Dan seemed to have forgotten was that New Troy was very much a woman's market for the kinds of play they indulged in. Even if he didn't show up to Narcissus In Chains to grovel, she knew she'd have her pick of men. Just old enough to be intimidating, young enough to still be sexy, and with a resting bitch face that could stop a taxi dead in the middle of a green light, Catherine always had options when hunting. The problem, the perpetual problem and why the Dan situation was frustrating, was that the things she liked most were simply not available in a casual hook-up. Her game were iterated ones, and finding another booty-call who could scratch her particular itches would be a chore.

Still, she would find some pleasure in taking out her frustration on whoever she did pick up, at least in the short-term. She focused on that thought as she waited for the sound of elevator doors opening, then closing, signaling that Sam and his posse had left the hall.

---

He'd stood her up.

Catherine had expected it, and told herself she didn't care, but it still stung that Dan had stood her up.

Ten PM had come and gone now four hours past, and she'd had as many of the bar's well-made cocktails in the interim. For her small (if athletic) frame it was more than enough to leave her a little sloshed, which had only further slackened the leash she usually kept on her frustration. She wasn't so far gone as to send any texts to Dan, and it would be several drinks more before she'd even begin to consider the notion. Her anger, though, was apparently palpable enough to drive off any potential prospects she'd hoped to find that evening. The few men who had chatted her up that evening were all of the kind that screamed bossy pillow princess from how they dressed and how they spoke, with the self-confidence of someone who thought that all they had to bring to the game was a pliable ass and a willingness to be fucked as if that was some great favor.

Before going out she'd stopped back by her corporate apartment, exchanging her dark blue button-down for a leather bra-top that flaunted the lines of her abs down to where they disappeared beneath the waist of the black pencil skirt she'd worn that afternoon. Her blazer still hid much of her well-toned body, but Sam could see a pale V of her decolletage and cleavage from how she draped herself back over her seat in apparent exasperation. The dark red lipstick, smoky eyes, and sheer black stockings with seams down the back had all been intended for Dan, to make his jaw drop when he arrived and recognized the error of his ways. Her hair was down, too, and for the first time he could see just how long the auburn tresses really were, slightly wavy as they flowed down her back nearly to her waist.

She'd been deep in frustrated and booze-fueled contemplation when the click of a glass on the polished bar top in front of her drew her attention. She hadn't ordered another drink, and knew herself still far too sober to have done such without remembering. Narcissus had a strong reputation for taking good care of it's female clientele besides, and she knew the bartenders would've cut her off long before she reached that point. Which meant instead...

"Courtesy of the gentleman at the far end of the bar." The bartender explained as he pushed the drink forward. He looked a little hesitant as he gestured in Sam's direction; she suspected he also picked up on her less-than-pleasant mood.

"You can tell him--" Catherine had started as she turned to look, but her words caught in her throat as her brain resolved the face half-masked by the gloom of the bar. "Motherfucker," she hissed quietly, then shook her head before the bartender took that as her return message. "No, um, just give me a moment."

How the fuck had Sam Cauldwell ended up at Narcissus?

Surely the man didn't know where he was... had he known she'd be there? He'd been persistent, but he hadn't ever given off stalker vibes. Gothamburg was big, but there were only so many high-end cocktail bars in the city. And it wasn't as if he could know that she didn't have plans this evening. Unless he'd been showing up every time she was in-town and hoping. But that didn't seem his style. He was too aggressive to do something so passive like waiting and hoping for her to show up.

He looked as smug as a cat who'd finally gotten the canary, and she wondered how bad of an idea it would be to invite him over just to throw the drink he'd bought her in his face. But they had at least six more months of collaboration ahead of them. So she'd have to let him down gently. Again.

"Tell the gentleman to come join me."

As the bartender went to his took a stiff swig of her new drink, feeling the need for a little extra courage. And they made the best Manhattan she'd ever tasted.

Feigning interest in the single large cube of ice that chilled her drink, she waited until she heard Sam's footsteps cease before looking up at him with all the warmth of her beverage. But she was grinning, an expression that didn't reach her eyes but was still the first genuine smile he'd ever seen out of her.

He looked so fucking pleased. And it was time to crush his heart (or at least his balls, as far as the metaphor actually applied) with yet another rejection.

"Mister Cauldwell? If I didn't know any better I'd be beginning to think you were stalking me." Even at Narcissus she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing her call him by his first name, nor the suggestion that he could do the same. She let him chew on her accusation for a few tense heartbeats, then added, "but we both know that's not your style."

Catherine raised her glass to him in belated greeting, already a third empty. "I do appreciate the drink, but I think you already know what my answer is going to be. So let's start with a different question." He could see a brief flash of her tongue as it darted out to wet her lips. At work she had to be polite and brief, but emboldened both by alcohol and by being on what she saw as her territory, she took the opportunity to toy with him. "Do you even know what sort of bar you've wandered into? I'll give you a hint." She said as she gestured at the central statue.

 

[Floss88]

"Ms. Jones" Sam returned with a not, tilting his drink in recognition as if to an old friend rather than a new rival. He could not beleive this was happening after months of Catherine refusing so much as a coffee with him now he had run into her by pure chance it was almost impossible to believe. Yet he was hardly the kind of man to look a gift horse in the mouth, chance was to be seized upon not squandered so he seamlessly slipped onto the stool next to hers without a thought.

"Classically inspired?" Sam raised a perfect ink-black eyebrow at her as Catherine gestured to the Conquest of Artemis "I don't know what you mean Ms. Jones. A lot of old-world art is somewhat risque but that hardly precludes anyone from drinking in its shadow. Besides" Sam began with a wicked smile "She's a goddess, she can do whatever she wants."

 

[lasciel]

Was he thick?

Or has he really been propositioning me for months knowing he isn't the one who'd be doing the fucking?

That latter thought made her pause for an extra breath, and she took the chance to look him up and down. Not the way she'd glanced at him occasionally to read his body language in their professional meetings, but properly stopping and lingering. Sam could recognize the look he received as one he'd seen his male peers offer to many a pretty woman. Analyzing the cut and fit of his suit, how his custom-fitted button-down shirt stretched over his chest, the suggestion of the shape of his body beneath given in lines and wrinkles. Undressing him in her mind.

Her eyes reached his face again, green meeting gray, and then she gave a small shake of her head. Like she'd needed to snap herself out of a daydream.

"Trust me, Sam," his first name escaped from her in an exhausted sigh, and it appeared she didn't even realize she'd said it. Her mind was still chewing on the way he'd said the word goddess. "I'm not your type. And you certainly aren't mine."

 

[Floss88]

Sam was still struggling to beleive this was happening. After what felt like countless attempts to get exactly here he had ended up alone with Catherine by mere chance. Sam didn't believe in fate or destiny, they would after all undercut his own agency, but he did believe on some level that occasionally the random causality of the universe would twist itself in knots to do nice things for Sam Caldwell.

That said he also felt like he had been dropped into the final round of a high stakes poker tournament without notice. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone of course but he had found himself thinking about Ms Jones entirely to much over the last few months. Perhaps it was due to the irregular nature of their meetings, the fact he had made zero headway or simply that she was an incredibly beautiful woman. Probably all three, but this was by far the longest Sam had ever thought about someone other than Sam. The thought of bending Catherine's tight athletic body over his couch while she begged him for more had been cropping up so much it probably qualified as an intrusive thought.

Now, as her green eyes wandered over his lean, toned body he felt he was closer than ever before to making that a reality. He felt an excitement and trepidation he hadn't felt in years, he was so close. He wondered what she was picturing, whether she could see the thickening buldge of his cock through the fabric of his hand tailored suit.

Then she shook her head and for a moment he felt the victory begin to slip away. Well Sam was always the guy for the hail Mary play.

"Ms Jones, come on, I'm everyone's type. Besides I'm hardly proposing, can't a guy show a colleague a good time in his home town? We aren't on the clock now"

 

[lasciel]

Oh god, he's begging.

If Catherine hadn't been working with/against Sam and his team for the past several months she wouldn't have been able to read the desperation in his words. He wasn't a man who asked for things. In all their negotiations he'd been as much an unyielding wall as she'd been, and even when they'd had to compromise he'd always done so with an air of having decided independently that whatever course of action his team was taking was his idea and would benefit them. But the bargaining and rationalizing he was doing now in the face of her repeated rejections was practically groveling by the standards she was used to from him.

That earned him an arched brow and a look of consideration. Catherine had a weakness for begging. And for men in suits, well-tailored and worn not as a showpiece but as a second skin, like Sam did. He was, in some ways, her type... god, that's a bad idea if I've ever had one.

But the trick was convincing him of that. Or at least, that was what she told herself in justification as she shifted her drink to her off hand, reaching out with her right to tap her nails against the expensive silk of his tie just below the knot.

"Samuel Adam Cauldwell," she purred as her nails slid down the smooth silk towards his sternum. "I don't think you know what you're asking for." Flicking her wrist, she flipped the fat end of the tie into her small hand, then rotated to double it up over the sudden fist that now held the silk like a short leash.

A sharp tug brought him even closer, forcing him to bend forwards or come out of his seat entirely. So close he could smell the alcohol on her breath, sweet and smoky, mixing with the faint aroma of her jasmine perfume.

"Do you really want to find out?"

 

[Floss88]

Sam felt a shiver run up his spine as she said his name and moved in closer. It was unquestionable that he had to sleep with her, it was that or be trapped in a permanent state of half arousal for months and frankly, his job was challenging enough without having to hide an erection every time he was in a meeting like a 16-year-old. As her hand traced down his chest he should have grinned but instead, he found himself almost freezing like a hiker seeing a stag wander on to the trail, unsure if he was going still because he didn't want the moment to end or because he didn't want to get gored.

Why did she keep saying that? Sam couldn't imagine what she meant, was she really this worried about their firms finding out about a little after-work fraternization? They were both professionals after all. Or perhaps she meant the other side of it? Perhaps she had some kink she assumed he wouldn't be able to handle, she might be right he had once dumped a girl midway through an encounter because she had insisted on calling him "daddy" in the voice of an infant, no thank you. But somehow he didn't think that would be a problem with Catherine.

He unfroze, shaken out of his moment of consideration as she gripped his tie. Her firm grip was almost certainly creasing the silk, he had already been leaning forward towards her without even noticing it, and even though he didn't resist being pulled down Sam nearly fell out of his chair. In an instant he was closer than he had ever been to Catherine Jones, his eyes just a little lower than her's, she smelled amazing like an Italian garden at sunset. He knew then that whatever she was hinting at he had to know, whatever it was it couldn't be worse than not knowing.

"Ms. Jones I absolutely have to." He smiled, turned his head away with no small amount of effort and finished his drink. "Shall we?"

 

[lasciel]

Her grip on Sam's tie immediately slackened in anticipation of him pulling away. Pulling back to shout at her, or storm off in shock and disgust, were her expectations. But he only used the freedom to finish his drink, as cool and confident as he'd ever been around her.

She regarded her own drink, half-finished in her left hand. The space gave her a moment to think and plan her words.

No, Mister Cauldwell, we shan't. And we will never speak of this moment again.

Catherine knew what she should've said. But what came out of her mouth when she finished her own cocktail and looked over into those eager gray eyes was,

"Alright."

The barkeep was summonsed with a glance, standing off to the side and ignoring their little production until that moment. "Please close out both our tabs," she softly requested of the man, who nodded without so much a glance at Sam before going about his task. Receipt slips and cash (Catherine didn't like to leave a paper trail at Narcissus) were exchanged, tips doled out, mouths blotted with napkins and then the lawyer came to her feet.

She swayed slightly, caught herself, then shrugged her blazer into a better fit over her nearly-bare torso beneath. Grabbing her purse from the back of her chair she then pointed her hand at Sam and crooked one finger in a come-hither motion. "Don't dawdle," she chided, then turned and clicked her way across the hardwood towards and out the front door. A few cabs were lingering outside, as the block the Narcissus occupied was a late-night hotspot for drinks and clubbing, and Catherine climbed into the first once a glance backwards assured her Sam was in-tow. Sliding across the back seat she leaned forward to tell the driver her address, a corporate apartment in a luxury high-rise on the ocean side of Gothamburg that Justin & Knight held for partners and other VIPs to use when business called them to New Troy.

"Buckle your seatbelt," she ordered Sam once he was inside, doing the same herself as the vehicle smoothly accelerated into motion. "And give me your hands." Putting out her own two, palm-up, she watched with a look of obvious expectation. The dim, irregular lighting that flickered in through the cab's windows painted her features in strange and fickle relief, emphasizing the predatory edge to her expression. Something not-quite-a-smile tugged at her lips, but that hint of mirth failed to reach her eyes.

 

[Floss88]

Sam barely noticed as the bartender ignored him and paid the man on autopilot. Alright, finally he was here after months of failed attempts one word and off we go. He followed Catherine out, knocked out of his momentary distraction by her, well her command there was no other word for it. Normally he'd have said something back at least some kind of quip or wry expression but instead, he found himself hurrying don his winter coat and long scarf and rushing to keep up. This already felt slightly too good to be true and he had no intention of being the reason reality reasserted itself.

He was still doing this as she got into the cab, buckling his seatbelt without a thought as if the words went straight from her mouth to his body without passing through his brain on the way. He told himself he was going to do it anyway, but that he knew was a lie, he almost never put on a seatbelt in cabs reasoning New Troy traffic barely got above a walk anyway. But here he was strapping himself in without pausing. Still, it was only a small thing, and if it's what Catherine wanted it was worth it.

Sam copied the gesture, laying his own larger, rougher, though still perfectly manicured hands atop Catherine's palms upwards. He hesitated this time, if only for a fraction of a second, something about the cast of her face in the dim light as the headed towards a location he hadn't heard, the word that came to mind wasn't beautiful, it was lupine. Just for a moment and it was passed and he laid his hands on hers. Maybe it was the booze, but a small voice in the back of his head began to whisper that maybe Sam had bitten off more than he could chew.

 

[lasciel]

The traffic was not so heavy at two-in-the-morning for the cab to be relegated to walking pace, though the speed it did navigate the dense streets of downtown Gothamburg at left something to be desired to Catherine's California sensibilities. Her attention, however, was elsewhere: on the broad, warm, masculine hands that lay atop hers. Her eyes no longer met his, studying the creases of his palms as if she could divine his inner thoughts from them.

She looked back up. That half-smirk had blossomed into a proper crooked grin, though the expression still left her eyes cold.

"Since you are a man who so obviously knows what he wants, I'm going to skip asking if you want to play, and instead tell you the rules of tonight's game." The game had been meant for Dan, but damn the man, he'd stood her up. Dan wouldn't have needed the rules explained. Sam, though... well, she would admit to being more than a little curious how he would respond when he finally got what he claimed he wanted.

"The first rule is that your hands stay where I tell you to keep them, or where I put them, until I say otherwise." Rotating his larger hands gently around, she brought both up and pinned them behind his head. The move required twisting and leaning awkwardly in her seat, the seatbelt cutting into her cleavage and hip, but she managed. "Like that," Catherine announced when she had him as she wanted, the reclined back into her own seat and put her hands on her knees.

"The second rule is that you may not touch any part of me until I have given you permission. You, however, I may touch as I please." To illustrate her point she reached over to lightly graze her nails over his nearer thigh, though her fingers never wandered inward enough to reach the edges of the bulge his semi-erect cock produced in his trousers.

"The third rule, the most important rule," Catherine went on, walking her fingers back up his thigh to his hip, up the side of his torso, and to his neck. She lightly stroked the column of his throat, then gripped his jaw in her small hand and forced his head towards her. "Is that if, at any point, you say no, or stop, or any variation thereof, I will take you at your word, and I will stop." She raised his chin a little higher, pressed her fingers a little tighter against the muscles of his jaw.

"If you understand and accept these rules, say, yes, Miss Jones." He hadn't yet earned the privilege of calling her mistress, or master, or queen. He was just a hook-up. One she'd probably regret hideously come morning, but in the present moment his assent would be oh-so-satisfying.

 

[Floss88]

Rules? Sam thought as he quickly flicked his eyes over to see the driver was still firmly fixated on the road. So that was it, Catherine Jones liked to play games in bed? Was that all? He had dated three separate girls who liked to be tied up, not that that had lasted entirely to much preparation for an activity that he was supposedly in charge of. Still if she wanted him to ruin his tie and call her a slut he was sure he could manage that.

But as she lifted his hands behind his head Sam realised that there was no way in hell he was tying Catherine up tonight. He didn't even think about the ramifications of finding himself in the opposite position. He was to turned on now, the rules seemed like hoops he needed to jump through to get off and from that perspective with this many drinks in him that seemed entirely reasonable.

Sam let out the breath he didn't realise he had been holding as her fingers came oh so close to his cock. He felt it pulse and strain in his silk boxers. He hadn't gasped, he would never in his own mind acknowled it if he had anyway. Sam felt so close to some sort of illusory finish line, he had never anticipated this precise moment, but still intrusive thoughts of Catherine touching him had been bothering him for long enough that the details scarsely mattered.

His opinion changed a little as he felt her hand on his throat and her eyes fixed on his. So whatever she had in mind she thought he'd say stop, at the moment from what she said Sam assumed she wanted him to fuck her in stress positions. Well she'd have to do better than that to make him quit. He almost said, bring it on, or some other pseudo challenge he might offer to a personal trainer but something in her eyes stopped him. Instead he quietly said simply.

"Yes Miss Jones" he had no idea where this was going but he now absolutely had to.

 

[lasciel]

Maybe I misunderstood you, Catherine thought to herself with carefully-hidden anticipation, as she caught from the corner of her eye the small movement at his crotch that suggested newfound bloodflow to his member. She hadn't expected him to respond with arousal, and yet, there they were.

And then came the look she'd been expecting. Arrogance. Had he lingered with that expression on his face she would've arched a brow at him in encouragement, but his moment proved fleeting. In the end, he responded exactly as she'd been secretly hoping.

"Yes, Miss Jones."

The words sent a shiver down her spine, though her grip on his jaw remained firm and unyielding as iron. But in her eyes he could see something change. Or perhaps it was the slight hint of color in her cheeks, nearly invisible in the gloom. Regardless of what, something had changed.

"Hands down by your sides."

A moment later those small but persistent fingers pulled free, and Catherine looked away entirely. The vehicle had stopped, and she was seeing to the mundane task of paying and tipping the driver. They'd pulled into a large C-shaped driveway with an awning leading from the middle out towards a steel-and-glass high-rise that stood between them and the waterfront. Sam's companion then slid out from her side of the vehicle, and he could hear her heels click as she walked over the brick path to where they went quiet against a well-maintained outdoor rug that lined the path to the sliding glass doors that would lead them into a warmly-lit expanse of marble and crystal.

She was waiting for him by the doors, arms crossed under her bust. When he exited the cab she turned and walked inside, past the doorman who gave them both a friendly smile and a nod, past the concierge who did the same, past a presently-shuttered mailroom and into the elevator lobby. A sign denoted the different banks as servicing different floors; Catherine turned left to the cars which would take them to the 40th floors and above. Twin brass doors slid open only moments after she'd pressed the up button, and she stepped inside leaving room for Sam to follow.

Other than that, she ignored him. It was a different kind of ignoring than he'd felt from her that first awkward elevator ride back down after he'd asked her out, far more purposeful, her green eyes fixed on the seam of the doors as she leaned casually against the back wall. When they arrived she pushed herself forward, swayed slightly, then straightened and led on down the hallway. Another glance back to ensure he was following before she turned a corner, then another pause as she fumbled through her bag for her keys.

The "key" proved to be a contactless fob, granting them entry through the nondescript door with a quiet beep and whirr-click. Catherine, as before, took the lead and strode into the large, tastefully-furnished apartment which looked out onto the water. But the space lacked any personal touches; the art on the walls was abstract, there was nothing affixed to the fridge, and the stove looked like it had never been used for any actual cooking. Besides a single glass half-empty (half-full?) of water sitting next to the sink there was no sign anyone actually lived there... likely a corporate apartment, though one Catherine moved through with familiarity despite her inebriation.

"There's a bathroom there," she instructed once she'd reached the center of the living room, pointing to one door off to the side. "And there's liquor in there if you find yourself in need of more courage." Turning, she pointed to a cabinet in the understated kitchen. "Otherwise, stay there until I come back."

Finally she pointed at one of the wood-and-leather chairs that faced the windows, before turning to head into another of the room's doors. There were five in total: the one they'd come in through, the one she went into (likely a bedroom, from the brief glance Sam could get before she closed the door behind herself), the bathroom she'd pointed out, one situated near the front door that suggested closet or utility or both, and one near the indicated bathroom that was likely a second bedroom. The living room and kitchen had lit up when they'd arrived, responding either to motion or to the use of the fob. Heavy curtains lurked at either end of the large windows, suggesting blackout material behind for if the day's brilliance proved too much for a weary traveler.

Catherine returned several minutes later, arms laden with a bundle she deposited unceremoniously on the couch. She still wore her pumps, skirt, top, and blazer, though she'd styled her hair into a simple braid that would keep it out-of-the-way, and touched-up her lipstick. In addition to a nondescript black duffel bag she'd brought out several towels, as well as a wooden suit-hanger. The last she picked back up, placing into her lap as she took a seat on the couch opposite Sam. For a few moments she only watched him, nails tapping quietly against the wood of the hanger.

"Take your jacket off." She finally said, folding her hands over the hanger in her lap. "Shoes and tie, as well. The rest will come off in due time, if you're worried."

 

[Floss88]

Sam followed Catherine in something of a daze, his hands always firmly routed at his sides. This was absolutely not what he had been expecting when he woke up this morning or indeed on any of the previous times he had fantasized about finally closing with her, they had involved a lot more begging on her end. As they walked through the lobby he did his best to keep Catherine between himself and the doorman for as long as possible, as exquisite as his suit was in most regards it was doing little to hide the tent in his pants. This was turning out nothing like he expected true but he couldn't deny the sheer anticipation.

Throughout the silent elevator ride, Sam kept glancing over at Catherine for something, some hint of what was coming next. The fact she never seemed to do the same drove him a little crazy, surely she must want to check he was following her, obeying her instruction? She didn't seem to have any such need, clearly confident he was going as she wished. The building was lovely the kind of high-end opulence Sam had spent his whole life around, Almost as soon as they got to the apartment through she left him, he didn't know what he was expecting, to tear off each other's clothes in a mad passion perhaps, but this was not it.

So he made himself a whiskey, Macallan 18, not bad for a rental property. He had barely considered the thought before he realized the glass was empty in front of him. Ok, so perhaps he was a little stressed out about all this. This was clearly no ordinary hook-up and he strongly doubted Catherine had gone to the other room to light a scented candle and don something made of lace. The mental image made him grim, now that would be something of an ant-climax wouldn't it? After all this... whatever was happening. Without refilling his drink he went and sat in the chair directed, his hands resolutely by his sides. He was almost about to get himself another drink when she returned. Carrying a duffel bag and towels, his mind began racing through a range of images he'd seen on the sidebars of porn sites over the years, for some reason the towels worried him more than the duffel, what could they be for?

"Yes Miss Jones." Was all he said, he didn't know what else to say? He didn't know what was going on but asking questions felt like it would entirely kill the mood.

The change to her hair somehow elevated her predatory cast in a way that sent his cock throbbing. Something in the way it pulled her hair back from her face. He took the coathanger, much appreciated with a suit like this. He removed his jacket and hung it over the chair behind him without getting up, he hadn't been told to get up after all. The jacket didn't exactly hide his figure but the tailored shirt accentuated, showing off every pitiless hour in the gym, every CrossFit class, and every morning run. Sam was in fantastic shape, and he knew it. His shoes swiftly followed and he was undoing his tie when she finished.

"Worried Miss Jones? Should I be worried?"

 

[lasciel]

Catherine gave a small pleased hum as Sam obeyed without hesitation, shrugging out of his jacket before removing his shoes and tie. She watched from her seat as he did, fighting the urge to smile. Looking too happy about his obedience would ruin the moment. They had a professional relationship that she knew neither of their brains could quite ignore, and he had a perception of her she was loathe to upset. No-nonsense, severe, thorough. Catherine could continue to give him that, as long as he gave her his obedience.

When he finished loosening his tie, undoing the knot and holding the silk ready she stood. Hangar still in-hand she crossed the space in a handful of smooth, even strides, stopping with her own feet just inches from his. The chair he was in came slightly below parallel with respect to the angle the seat made with the floor, leaving him to slouch back and look up at her petite frame.

She took his jacket and hung it on the hanger, then hung that off the back of the adjacent chair. His shoes she took and put on the floor behind the second chair, and finally his tie, she took, examined briefly, then draped over the back of the second chair where it wouldn't wrinkle or crease. The central rod on the suit-hangar would only encourage the silk to tumble free to a crumpled heap on the floor, as it was meant for pants. Pants he was still wearing, true, but from the way the fabric at his crotch was straining she wasn't sure how much longer he'd have them on.

"I would be," Catherine finally replied, returning to her spot just in front of his feet. She stepped in closer, using the outside of one hose-clad leg to nudge his knees farther apart, then knelt forward to plant one of her own knees between his thighs and just forward of where his slacks tented so obviously. "If I were you. Worried, I mean." Her left hand came to rest on the back of the chair, just behind his shoulder, while the right toyed with the first button of his shirt just below his throat. The position brought her forward and down, though her head was still above his, leaving him to stare up into those dark red-painted lips and cold, green eyes as she continued her monologue.

"I mean, after all..." She brought her knee further forward, so the front of her thigh pressed against wool outside and silk inside and the trapped, throbbing shape of his cock underneath both. "You seem very excited by all of this--" Her fingers had finally undone the first button of his shirt and moved down to the second, lacquered-dark nails taking a moment to graze the newly-exposed skin beneath. "--and it would be a shame if you ruined any part of that lovely suit of yours."

Another button popped open, another few inches of skin were exposed, and Sam felt her fingers against his chest briefly once more. Her knee remained firmly planted between his legs but she gave him no more motion (not that the cut of his pants left much room for exploration). Finally the last button came free, and with a small tug she pulled the ends of his shirt out from beneath where they'd been tucked into his slacks. That gave her room to push the garment entirely aside, exposing the entirety of his sculpted chest and stomach.

"Then again, you don't strike me as a man with much common sense, at least when it comes to women." She continued as she admired his chest, the rise-and-fall of his ribcage and stomach as he breathed, and the tiniest quiver she imaged was the result of his heart hammering frantically inside of him. "You're here, after all."

 

[Floss88]

This was agony, as Catherine was finally close enough to kiss he gazed up at her with undisguised lust, with hunger, and kept his arms firmly at his sides. The torture only got worse as she opened his shirt revealing his muscular torso, she still wasn't touching him not like he wanted to touch her anyway. He wanted to grab her, reverse the situation and bend her over the couch. But he couldn't, he had agreed to this and well now he just had to find out where it went. Why should he be worried? He had to know, nothing drew him in like the threat or promise of something he couldn't or shouldn't do. Like a moth to the flame.

All his restraint was rewarded with her getting even closer, her shapely muscular leg pressing against his throbbing cock. God he almost humped it, he wanted to, just to get off. But what an awful waste that would be. But still that thigh through 4 layers of fabric was the only way she'd touched his cock so far and he reveled in it.

"Yes Miss Jones, I suppose it would" he attempted to sound cool and collected, but his was sure his voice came out a fraction of an octave higher than his usual low baritone. Finally the shirt was off, an age of torment over. For some reason he felt oddly powerless as naked as he was becoming compared to Catherine who had removed hardly a stitch. He didn't know why, he wasn't uncomfortable with nudity least of all his own, maybe it was the business clothes? It was like a dream of being naked at work.

He had to admit words failed him when she questioned his common sense. Though he could not stop looking up at Miss Jones he was constantly dully aware of the bag and towels on the sofa. He was distantly aware he was not the hunter here so much as a rabbit walking into a trap.

"I am here Miss Jones... what," he began tentatively, unsure if questions were allowed or if he was already supposed to know the answer. "What happens now?"

 

[lasciel]

It was a side of Sam Cauldwell she'd never seen before, one she'd not expected him to have, but Catherine couldn't deny that the way he looked at her now was far more appealing than all the ways he had gazed at her from across the conference room. And his voice... she caught the slight uptick in register, and knew exactly what that meant. He was no longer talking to her as a colleague, or as a peer. He wasn't even talking to her like a man who felt he had the upper hand anymore. Not with how tentative he sounded, or the hesitance he had in even asking a simple question.

She didn't blame him, though. It wasn't as if she was trying to go easy on him.

"Whatever I feel like doing to you, Sam. That's what happens." Her eyes met his again, and she was smiling now. Gone was any pretense of pretending she wasn't enjoying herself and the reactions she was eliciting from him. Could she make him hump her leg? He looked about ready to.

"As I believe I tried to warn you..." Well, she'd never exactly specified what it was she'd been trying to warn him about. It didn't matter now, anyway. He could tell her to stop at any time. She'd made that part very clear, she hoped.

Her right hand had been hovering, waiting, as she examined him. Now she pressed her palm against his lower abdomen, feeling the brush of low stubble from where the hint of a treasure-trail tried to reassert itself. Sliding her hand up over his naval, past his sternum, she continued up to his neck where her fingers came to rest on either side of his throat. She didn't squeeze, only palpated lightly as she searched for his carotid artery. Two fingers let her sample his pulse and feel how he responded as she leaned a little further forward on her knee, pressing more of her sculpted thigh against his crotch.

"And I think, right now, I feel like seeing what sorts of sounds I can pull from your throat. I do always enjoy learning how vocal a man can be." Bending further, her cheek brushed his jaw as she leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Do you want to sing for me, Sam? I assure you, this apartment is very soundproof."

Putting more weight into her knee she finally brought her left hand away from the back of the chair. In a display of relative ambidexterity she slipped her hand between their bodies and undid his belt, the closure of his slacks, and the zipper below. At the same time her lips found his neck, joined shortly thereafter by her tongue and teeth as she sucked just hard enough to give sensation without yet raising a mark. She paused, chuckled, then slipped her left hand into his slacks, frustratingly outside his boxers to grip his stiffening shaft as her mouth resumed it's domination of his neck.

 

[Floss88]

She had, Sam had to admit to himself, tried to warn him. She clearly enjoyed having power over him, having control of the situation, immensely. Something about how much Catherine enjoyed this role turned him on, not as much as feeling her finally touching him with more than a fingertip, but he loved how horney this control made her. That said it was hard, it was really really hard, to keep his hands at his sides when he wanted to be grabbing her ass with one and running the other down her back. He was not used to this, this surrender, giving up control willingly to someone he had considered a near equal. He wasn't without self-control, he tightly controlled his diet, he worked long hours and stuck to a tight exercise regime but those were all his choice, this wasn't, and that for some reason made it so much harder.

So he gripped the sides of his chair.

As she ran her fingers over his neck and her thigh forward harder Sam let out another very slight exhalation. This was absurd, he shouldn't be this hard, this turned on. He wasn't a no foreplay guy by any means but that's what it was foreplay a prelude to the main event. But all he could focus on is the feeling of her muscular thigh and her hand on his neck. Then she said it, just feeling her breath in his ear made him grip the chair tighter, she couldn't be serious, she wanted him to...

"You want me to-ah" He felt his slacks open, "To sing Miss Jones?" her teeth found his neck, she couldn't be serious surely. He only heard her chuckle at him and slip her strong hand around his thick throbbing cock. His knuckles went white against the sides of the chair, ok, ok fine if there was one thing he was going to have to assume from this point on, she was absolutely serious. As Miss Jones' hand took his cock and she bit and kissed his neck Sam sang the first thing that came into his head.

"We can sing in the glow of a star that I know of
Where lovers enjoy peace of mind
Let us leave the confusion and all disillusion behind
Just like birds of a feather, a rainbow together we'll find"

While this was hardly his best work and Deano would not be troubled about a replacement any time soon, Sam had a rich, deep baritone that filled the apartment and his command of italian was sufficient for the song Sam hadn't sung outside of sporting events and drunken parties since college but it was like riding a bike. Though like riding a bike, considerably more challenging if a beautiful woman has hold of your cock. He broke lines and even missed a few words whenever her teeth found his skin when her hand moved or gripped tighter but it was good to have something to focus on while his knuckles remained white at his sides.

 

[lasciel]

He only gave her the slightest sigh, much to her growing frustration, and Catherine wondered if he was holding out on her or if the man simply was not one for moaning. Some men weren't, she'd found, learning habits of silence so early in their pubescence that it became part of their sexual psyche. Breaking those habits was fun... but she doubted they'd be playing the kind of iterated game required for her to peel back all of Sam's mental blocks, if he had them, to get at what was underneath. This was only a hook-up, a one-time thing.

Reminding herself of that took some of the edge off her mood. She focused instead on the moment, and the small reactions she did draw from him. Like the incredulity in his voice, and the small catch-and-pause as his slacks came undone. Even if he refused to give her the vocal reactions she desired he couldn't quite stop the other responses his body gave to her stimuli.

With her mouth pressed against his neck she could feel the way his muscles worked a moment before he actually engaged his vocal cords. But the sound that came out was not the one she'd been expecting.

He can't possibly think I was being literal...

Catherine paused in her actions, so stunned for a moment by his sudden singing that she had to stop and decide what the hell she was going to do.

He was tweaking her nose. She was sure of it. So she continued with her original plan, now aiming not to make him cry out but to stop him from making more noise. And, as she admitted to herself a few moments later, hearing the gaps in the music he made as her teeth grazed his skin or when her thumb ran over the head of his cock beneath the smooth silk of his boxers, was nearly as good as hearing him moan.

She pulled back when he was done, studying his face once more. Her off hand remained in his pants, wrist twisted at an awkward angle so she could rub the flat of her thumb back and forth over the coronal ridge where shaft met head.

"You..." she finally declared, releasing his jaw at last. Her hand came up a little higher, weaving her fingers through his thick black hair and stroking back along his scalp. "Well. I suppose I should've expected some sass out of you." With a small sigh she shook her head, then leaned in close once more. Her left hand shifted back to stroking him through the silk, a firmer grip than she'd used before. Her right found the back of his skull, nails lightly grazing his scalp in an idle pattern rather than trying to grip his hair just yet.

"Still," her eyes flicked briefly to either side, taking stock of his hands and their white-knuckled grip on the edges of his seat, "you are being far better behaved than I had anticipated." Pulling her right arm back and across her body she took his right wrist in her grasp. Guiding him, she brought his hand almost to her bust, then grazed his knuckles along the exposed skin of her midriff, down the front of her skirt, along the sheer stocking that clad her right thigh to where her knee met the wool of his slacks. Farther inward to put his palm over her left hand, which she then pulled back and left him to touch himself through his boxers.

"You can take over that for a few minutes." Catherine then straightened and pulled her knee back to stand on both feet. The rug beneath them blunted the otherwise harsh click of her pumps against the hardwood as she came around behind him. Both arms draped over his shoulders, palms against his chest, and she rested her chin on his left shoulder as she leaned over. "Don't stop stroking." She murmured into his ear, pausing until he'd taken her command, then continuing in a more conversational voice. "So, Mister Cauldwell, what is it you were hoping to get out of tonight? Be specific, please."

 

[Floss88]

Finally, was the only word in Sam's mind as she moved his arm. He focused in on every movement, every brush of skin on skin even if it was just his knuckles against her firm abs, her skin was so smooth. For a moment as his hand was brought, down, he assumed she was going to have him finger her, the disappointment when she instead replaced her hand with his and told him to masturbate for her was momentarily excruciating. Masturbating while thinking exclusively of Catherine Jones was something he was more than capable of and had spent more time doing than he would ever admit.

Still, though he got the impression that the musical interlude had not been appreciated, Catherine was apparently pleased with how this was going. Pleased with his obedience, Sam didn't know how he felt about that. Catherine was, until tonight, a rival, a peer, an opponent to be dominated on the field of competition, at least metaphorically the merger was actually turning out reasonably mutually beneficial but that was beside the point. Now, even if nothing else happened tonight, that dynamic had changed and Sam was uncomfortable with that. However, all that discomfort was a candle next to the inferno of lust, he wanted Catherine, he adored feeling her body even fully clothed against his bare chest if obedience was the cost of keeping this going then he could easily obey.

Her body felt incredible against his, she clearly worked out at much as he did and it showed. Every part of Catherine was perfectly sculpted as if by an artist. Feeling her breath on his ear sent a shiver down his spine, even as he rubbed his dick through his boxers. That was a particularly cruel trick, he had to stay focused or he'd pump himself right over the finish line and all of this obedience would suddenly turn to mortifying embarrassment. Now that was something he couldn't live with, thankfully the threat was enough to hold it off.

"Tonight? I was hoping to fuck you, Miss Jones. I was hoping we'd tear each other's clothes off and I'd finger you against that wall" He inclined his head towards the wall by the entrance to the apartment "that maybe you'd suck my dick a little in return and then I'd bend you over the back of that couch" He inclined his head again. god, it was so hard to focus while pumping his cock and feeling her body against him. "And fuck you. From there I'm afraid the plan gets fuzzy but there must be a bed in here for another round maybe tonight or considering how much we've been drinking maybe tomorrow morning. That, Miss Jones, is what I was hoping for"

 

[lasciel]

Clearly something he'd said amused her, because she was laughing softly to herself by the time he finished describing his fantasy version of the evening.

"Now, Mister Cauldwell, I'd have expected at least a little more creativity out of you than that, given how long you've been pursuing this endeavor." She leaned further forwards as she spoke, far enough until her smaller hand could wrap around his and encourage him to a faster and firmer stroke. Not that she intended to make him embarrass himself just yet. But he was being too conservative in his approach, by her measure, and she wanted to really see him straining.

"Still. That tells me some useful things." She squeezed her hand and encouraged him a little faster still. Her position wasn't the most comfortable, but it was worth it for how she could feel and see and hear him tense and struggle beneath her.

Her monologue took a long pause as she let him get closer and closer. Finally, she added, "...like that you consider oral sex an equivalent trade for a hand-job. Oh, let's get those clothes off before we ruin them."

She pulled his hand to a stop, then pulled away and stood again. Still behind him she ordered, "take off your shirt and pants... and anything else you're wearing, at this point." At least the chair he was on, the cushion clad in leather, wasn't likely to take harm from any bodily fluid he could produce. A damp paper towel could clean up any mess they could make at present.

Behind him she took off her own jacket, draping it over the back of the neighboring chair alongside his tie. Nothing else came off of her after that, and her next action was instead to reclaim the hanger with his jacket and offer it back so he could add his button-down and slacks to the ensemble. She then brought the ensemble over to the hooks near the wall by the entryway and hung it up, where it couldn't get into any trouble.

"Keep stroking, Mister Cauldwell," she reminded him from across the room. The sharp click, click, click of her heels heralded her return, turned into muffled thumps as she crossed back onto the rug. Once more she came around behind him, draping both now-bare arms over his bare chest and running her hands over his pectorals and abdominal muscles as he jacked himself in her living room.

Her voice came into his ear again, lower and more accusatory. "How many women... how many have you left to finish the job you started when you were done with them? At least I'm doing the courtesy of keeping you company while you masturbate." She reached lower again, and her bare palm cupped his cockhead when his own hand hit the bottom of his stroke. "Do you feel it, yet? That urge to cum? Do you want me to finish you, right now, like this?"

 

[Floss88]

Sam got undressed with unseemly speed and soon found his hard body back in the leather chair. He pumped away at his cock, harder as she commanded but still desperately trying to control it. His abs were taught, every muscle in his body bulged and strained in the seat as he became tenser and tenser in his concentration. Catherine wasn't helping but then it had more than dawned on Sam that helping him was not the top of Catherine's list today. An impression she confirmed with every word. As she ordered him to keep stroking he responded without thinking about it. As he watched her pace back towards him, her sharp heels clicking on the floor.

"Yes Miss Jones" he barely recognized his voice, the fact he sounded slightly pained considering his current predicament wasn't a surprise but there was something else, a... meekness? He had not been expecting. He was finding this role entirely too easily for his own liking, jacking off in the nude while she was still essentially fully dressed. He was in no condition for deep introspection, as Catherine draped herself over him again like he was an ornament or a piece of furniture. He didn't care he just wanted to feel her body against his.

"I... I don't know Miss Jones" He answered honestly, certainly never deliberately, but he had always put his own pleasure first. Especially on one night strands that had made up most of his love-life recently. "Thank you, Miss Jones." Finally, her hand landed on his cock he let out a sharp gasp and slowed down he couldn't cum like this. That was too awful to even think about. He couldn't cum before she even had her pants off.

"I, I feel it Miss Jones. Please, I don't want to cum like this Miss Jones. Please don't" He didn't know what else to do, he was close and she could frustrate him if she wanted to, he felt at her mercy.