by Amy Brent
I was sweating now.
I could feel the sweat running down my neck as I got ready to blow.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
When I exploded into her mouth it was as if every fiber of my being was shooting out the head of my cock and down her luscious throat.
Stacey cooed like a dove as she milked me dry, swallowing every last drop. Afterward, she cleaned me off with her tongue, then gave me a satisfied smile and asked if she could use the restroom.
I fell back against the desk and tried to catch my breath as I watched her sashay across the office and into my private bathroom. I cleaned off my cock with some tissue and stuffed the happy monster back into my jeans.
As I started back around the desk, I noticed Stacey’s computer bag on the floor. I leaned down and plucked out the black card and slipped it into my back pocket, then sat down behind the desk and let go a long sigh.
So far, it had been a great fucking day.
It was a pity she was a fucking reporter.
Stacey what’s her name would have made one hell of a Specialist.
Chapter 2: Amy Rossetti
I certainly don’t mean to sound conceited, nor do I want to come off as a whiny bitch, but I was so freakin’ tired of men (and some women) judging me by the way I looked rather than for the brains in my head that I just wanted to scream.
I know, I sounded like some shallow bimbo with blonde hair and big tits whining about my life just to get noticed. But in my case, it was the truth. I couldn’t help the way I looked. My dad was an Italian immigrant from Milan and my mom was an Italian-American from Queens. They were both stunningly good-looking people with jet black hair, olive skin, dark eyes, and bright smiles that could light up the world, especially when they were smiling at each other before my mom passed away a few years back.
My six brothers (yes… six!) all favored my dad, but I looked like my mom, the spitting-image, my dad would say with big tears in his eyes. I had the same shoulder-length black hair and bangs, deep blue eyes, wide smile, and—thank Jesus—the same big boobs, and curvy figure. I also had the same fiery attitude. I was an Italian princess from Queens, bitch. I could knock you on your ass with one hand while I drank you under the table with the other, and out-cuss you any day of the motherfucking week. I tried to keep my temper and foul mouth in check, but there wasn’t much I could do about my looks other than play them down as best I could.
So, I never wore makeup when I was working. None. Not a lick. I kept my hair pulled back and rolled into a tight bun at the crown of my head. I wore huge, tortoise shell glasses that were purely for show. I had 20/20 vision. The glasses were purchased off a sample rack at an optometrist shop and the lenses were clear glass. They looked like something my Grandma Leona wore back in the day when I was just a child watching her make homemade pasta in her tiny kitchen.
I wore the most-confining bras I could find to mask the fullness of my tits. I swear, strapping them into that bra was like putting on a bullet-proof vest every morning. It reminded me of a line from an old Bill Murray movie: “Is that a bra you’re wearing or are you expecting an assassination attempt?” It was uncomfortable as fuck, but it helped mash them down pretty well.
I always wore the same style of outfit to work. Black slacks, black jacket, dark top buttoned to the collar, low-heeled shoes, and no jewelry other than an inexpensive watch and my mom’s wedding ring, again, meant to deflect those men who were put off by such things. It didn’t stop them from ogling me, of course, but it slowed them down when they started spewing a line of bullshit they thought would get me in bed.
The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time a man even got near my bed. I was pretty sure my cooch was covered in cobwebs and would have to be aired out and fumigated before being used again. At the very least, it would need to be thoroughly scrubbed and freshly lubed. Sometimes it even squeaked like a rusty hinge when I walked.
Okay, that was bullshit, but you get the point.
It was a sad state of affairs, given the fact that I sometimes bordered on nymphomania in my youth and loved to fuck as much as the next red-blooded Italian-American girl.
Sadder still was how most fucking these days came with strings. I was not a fan of strings, even if they came tied around a thick, long cock like a Christmas bow.
So, every morning when I looked at the woman in the mirror I just sighed and shook my head at the lengths I had to go to be taken seriously. No makeup, hair in a bun, huge glasses covering my eyes, tits strapped down like watermelons on the back of a farm truck, ass hidden by the jacket, and no jewelry or fingernail polish, not even a swatch of Chapstick for my dry lips.
I looked like a fucking librarian.
And I felt like a fucking fake.
And like hunting dogs on the scent of a fox, men still managed to sniff me out.
Men took one look at my face and my tits and my ass, even disguised as they were, and became blathering idiots. Even though I never dressed provocatively, my looks caused their brains to shift control to their cocks. I cannot tell you how fucking frustrating that could be, especially when I was trying to lead a meeting of mostly-male IT directors from a dozen or so Fortune 100 companies.
That’s what I did for a living. I owned a company, Amy Rossetti and Associates, even though I was the only employee other than my personal assistant, Serena Diaz. I was basically a consultant, an expert in the fields of Computer Science, Internet Technology, and Cybersecurity. Companies hired me to find holes in their networks and to try to breach their security systems, then show them how to plug those holes and patch those systems in exchange for a six-figure check.
I had a Master’s in Computer Engineering from MIT and a Bachelor’s in Computer Science from Rutgers. And I was working on my Ph.D. in Cybersecurity from Harvard at night.
My brain might not have been as big as my boobs, but it certainly had made me a better living. I pulled down one-point-two million last year, take home. And if I could keep my clients’ heads out of their asses and eyes off my tits long enough, I just might double that this year.
The money usually made the charade worthwhile, but sometimes, like today, it was like wearing a coat made of concrete.
* * *
I was standing at the side of the stage behind the large curtain, sipping from the tall cup of Starbuck’s coffee that had gone stone cold since I had picked it up an hour ago on the way to the meeting. There was a huge table of coffee, juice, and Danish at the back of the room, but I never partook of such things. I wasn’t there to have a picnic. I was there to share my knowledge on the threat of Russian and Chinese hackers and how to defend against them, hopefully to the benefit of the client who was paying me $50,000 for two hours of my time.
That client was Internet Data Systems or IDS, a company that I had worked with several times over the last few years. IDS was at the forefront of the cybersecurity wars and employed some of the best minds in the business to help keep their data—and the data of their clients—safe from hackers and harm.
I had a grudging respect for IDS. If I were to ever decide to work for a company other than my own, IDS would have been my first choice, even though (and here’s the grudging respect part) the rumors of juvenile–and often immoral behavior—by the company’s founders was the stuff of legend.
Supposedly, the three founders, all grown men around forty, had the mentality of a trio of horny twelve-year olds and the money to make the world their personal playground. Their drunken, sexual exploits with bikini models and B-list actresses and female employees were big news when the company first went public, although they seemed to have ratcheted down their antics over the last few years, probably because the IDS board of directors told them to keep it in their pants, at least when they were in public.
I didn’t care about their exploits as long as they didn’t affect me or my work or my bottom line. I had never met the founders and didn’t need to. My contact at IDS was the VP of Marketing, a fiftysomething woman n
amed Louise who was either a lesbian or just enjoyed staring at my tits as she handed me the check.
I showed up, delivered the goods, got my check, went out the door, and hurried home to rip off the bra from hell so I could breathe again. That had given me the reputation of being a cold bitch in the industry, but that was fine with me. Again, I was there for the work, not to make friends.
As I waited for the attendees to filter in and take their seats, I glanced down at the roster to see who I’d be speaking to today. There was the usual hodgepodge of specialties and specialists. There were a hundred names on the page along with their respective titles; most IT directors, managers, and staff, a couple of Vice Presidents of technology, a few network managers, all employed by IDS, which was putting on the two-day seminar on hacking and cybersecurity. Today was the last day of the event and I was the keynote speaker, which meant that I would be the last one to speak. They always saved the best for last, I thought with a smile.
As I was patting myself on the back, I noticed a man walk out onto the stage from the opposite side. He was with Louise, who was talking and pointing toward the back of the room. He had his head bowed, listening intently, walking with his hands behind his back and a serious look on his handsome face. Though we had never met, I knew immediately who he was. I recognized him from the company website and the dozens of photos I’d seen online over the years. It was Isaac Hanson, IDS co-founder and the proverbial brains behind the operation.
Unlike most men in his field, there was nothing nerdy about Isaac Hanson. To the contrary, he was tall and lean, with surfer-boy blond hair and looks, and a tan that made his eyes and teeth glow in the dim light of the stage. He was wearing a white dress shirt, untucked and open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of ratty jeans and scuffed motorcycle boots. He listened for a moment, gave her a nod and… holy shit… headed my way.
“Miss Rossetti,” he said, approaching with his hand out and a smile on his face. I felt my heart skip a beat when his long fingers closed around my hand. His hand was warm. Funny, because it gave me a chill. “Isaac Hanson, so great to meet you. Thanks for being our keynote speaker today.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hanson,” I said, squeezing his hand, probably a little tighter than was necessary. “And thank you for having me. It’s always a pleasure working with IDS.”
Then something strange happened. Rather than his eyes dipping to my tits and his tongue darting across his lips, he let go of my hand and turned to face the meeting room, which was now nearly full. He put his hands behind his back again and rocked on the balls of his feet.
I was almost… well… sad that he didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe my disguise was working a little too well. Or maybe Isaac Hanson was not like other men. He reportedly had a genius IQ and was not the big-time party boy his partners were. Maybe looks didn’t matter so much to him. Many men of his caliber had married women who were not raving beauties: Gates, Zuckerberg, Jobs, just to name a few. Maybe it was brain power that turned him on. How wonderfully different would that be? To fuck a man because he loved your mind and not your tits?
“This threat of Russian and Chinese hackers has our clients really on edge,” he said seriously without glancing my way. He seemed to be watching the door at the back of the room as if he were expecting someone. His voice was deep. It tickled my ear. “Hopefully what you’re going to share with us today will help IDS guard against that threat. And maybe even cut the bastards off before they can get in.”
“Yes, that is my goal,” I said with an official nod. “I’m sure that together we can—“
“Sorry, gotta run,” he said suddenly. He hurried across the stage and hopped off the front edge and made his way up the aisle toward the back of the room. I thought he might have seen someone important he needed to talk to. I was right. There was a blonde with big tits and a loopy smile waiting for him at the door. I recognized her as a reporter for some magazine.
She had interviewed me a year ago for a “women in tech” article she was writing. Stacey, something or other.
They greeted each other like old pals or new lovers, and he put his hand on her arm and ushered her to the seat next to him in the front row.
I sighed, chastised myself for my momentary lapse of self-control, and waited for Louise to call me on stage.
Chapter 3: Isaac
Holy hot tamales, Batman...
I had heard through the grapevine that Amy Rossetti was not only a freakin’ genius but also a freak of nature; a smoking hot, piece of ass that was at the same time as cold as a chunk of Arctic ice. The grapevine wasn’t wrong. Her hand was like ice when I shook it, her grip as strong as any man’s, but there was something in those blue eyes staring at me from behind the Coke bottle glasses that made me think that the right man might just thaw her out. Might.
She was dressed like a librarian or an FBI agent from some TV show (I always thought Agent Sculley from the X-Files would have been hot as hell if Agent Mulder had ever gotten her clothes off), but I could tell she was naturally drop-dead gorgeous, with a body the black pants suit could not disguise. Pity that I had let Stacey talk me into letting her tag along to the seminar after that award-winning blowjob in my office. Otherwise, I would have been on Amy Rossetti like white on rice.
That said, it was probably a good thing that I had a gorgeous blonde sitting next to me in the front row.
It’s basic physics that one way to thaw out a block of ice is to leave it alone in the heat for a while. Maybe giving Amy Rossetti—who probably had men far better looking than me lined up around the block—the cold shoulder, so to speak, was the best way to warm her up.
Louise introduced Amy, which took several minutes given her credentials and long list of accomplishments. Amy strode onto the stage with the poise and confidence of the smartest person in the room. Not the smartest woman, mind you, but the smartest person, period. I took out my phone and did a quick Google search. According to Wikipedia, her IQ as verified by MENSA was 145. Mine was 147. I was smarter, but not by much.
I glanced over at Stacey. So far, she hadn’t noticed that the Club D card was gone from her bag. My plan was to keep her distracted long enough that she’d forget about it, maybe string her along for a bit of fun back at my place after the seminar.
So far, Stacey proved to be a girl who was easily distracted.
And she was very distracting.
She had the iPad resting on her knee, ready to take notes of Amy’s presentation. I reminded her that this was a private event and what was said here was not for public consumption. She gave me a pouty look, hoping to get her way. She rubbed her knee into mine and licked her lips, but I scolded her with my eyes until she relented.
She tucked the iPad into the computer bag between her feet and settled back in the seat with her shoulder touching mine. I could feel the heat coming off her body, radiating into my arm and across my chest and down to my cock.
Stacey and I would definitely continue our little party at another time. For now, I’d let her hang around until the seminar was done, then gently send her on her way before the boys and I shoved off for Club D for the weekend.
At the moment, however, Stacey would just have to stew in her own juices. I was far more interested in watching Amy Rossetti do her thing on stage.
Chapter 4: Amy
The talk at IDS went off without a hitch, as all my talks usually did. I’d given a dozen TED Talks around the country on the topics of hacking and cybersecurity, not to mention over a hundred keynotes for private organizations and large corporations. These days I almost made more money talking about cybersecurity than actually fighting it, which was just fine with me. It was easy money, no pressure, even when I had someone like Isaac Hanson and the blonde reporter sitting on the front row chit-chatting like high schoolers at an assembly for the first few minutes.
I managed to stare them into silence as I spoke. I caught Isaac’s eye and he shushed the blonde who was whispering in hi
s ear. I was sure it wasn’t the first time he’d told her what to do with her mouth.
That said, I could feel him watching me as I spoke, his eyes following me as I moved across the stage. It was distracting at first, like trying to ignore a sniper rifle’s laser dot dancing on your chest, but after a moment, I found the attention… exciting.
Knowing that his eyes were on me was exhilarating, even sensual in a way. Was he undressing me with his eyes or was that just my hopeful imagination? Should I be offended by his stare or flattered by it? Was his mind on my words or on my body? And more to the point, where did I want his eyes and hands and mind to be? I ignored the heat between my legs and pushed on through.
After my talk, I noticed that Isaac was quick to leave the room with the blonde on his arm. I sighed a little as I watched him escort her up the aisle and out the door. I chastised myself for even thinking Isaac Hanson put more stock in brains that beauty. He was no different than most other men on the planet. He had a cock, which he let alternate control with his brain. He was watching my tits and ass the entire time I was onstage, then he grabbed Stacey what’s her name for a little game of “hide the sausage” in his private elevator or his corner office.
Bastard!
Men were pigs!
Isaac Hanson was just a rich pig…