My body jolted as I felt the vibrating panties pulsating between my legs. Thankfully, they were true to their word – whisper silent.
Nick: I’ve programmed the remote control to work from my laptop. It has seven power settings. I’ve put you on 1 for right now. How do you like it?
I swallowed hard. How did I like it? That was a tough question to answer. It felt nice…very nice. But also terribly embarrassing and uncomfortable! I couldn’t believe he was putting me in a position like this. Thank God Felicia had turned the lights out for her PowerPoint presentation, or else everyone might have seen how red my face was becoming.
Violet: It feels nice. But this is a very awkward position you’re putting me in!
My nipples were starting to get hard underneath my work shirt. Suddenly, I felt the pressure increase.
Nick: That’s two.
Oh, God. Why was he doing this to me? Why?! My legs were starting to shake. I tried squeezing them together, but that only made the problem worse. The wetness was growing inside my panties, and I could feel the tiny bullet egg sliding against my clit.
Violet: Maybe we should shut these off, save them for another time.
He ignored the comment, instead saying:
Nick: How do these compare to The Tongue?
So he’d read my article. I should have known. It had only been up online since last night, but I should have figured he would have found time to read it.
Violet: Nick! I’m seriously! This is REALLY uncomfortable.
Nick: Remember our agreement, Violent. I never promised you comfort. In fact, I promised the opposite. I promised to push you out of your comfort zone.
I felt the pressure increase. This was awful! And oh, soooooo good all at the same time.
Violet: Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sit here like this?
My nipples were now visibly erect, poking out noticeably through my shirt.
Nick: You never answered my question. How does this compare to The Tongue?
Violet: It’s different.
I thought about it, took a deep breath, and then answered honestly:
Violet: It’s better.
Nick: Mmm. Just what I wanted to hear. You know, reading your article today was very enlightening for me. I had hard time believing you even needed such a device when you were eighteen.
I started to type a reply, but I wasn’t fast enough.
Nick: I wish I’d known you back then. I would have eaten you out day and night.
OH, GOD! He shouldn’t be talking like this. It was making it so much worse.
Nick: I love watching you like this, Violet. As you sit across the table from me, so poised and professional, I know that your panties are gently, quietly pulsating between your legs. That beautiful wetness that I’d love to taste. Let yourself relax and enjoy it as you think about our ‘naughty little secret.’
I felt the volume go up. Breathe, Violet, just breathe.
Nick: I wish I could crawl under the table right now and bury my head between your legs.
I remembered my first orgasm, the one I’d had involuntarily at the slumber party when I was back in school, the one I’d written about for the magazine. I had always, always been a ‘screamer’ when I came, unable to control it even in my sleep. And now – right here in the middle of a meeting! – Nick was pushing me dangerously close to the point of an orgasm. I needed to hold back, to keep myself from coming at all costs.
Violet: Stop, please. I’m begging you. I don’t want to have an orgasm in the middle of my work!
He ignored my request, instead turning the pressure up.
Nick: Four. If you keep begging, I’ll keep increasing the pressure. But if you’re a good girl, I might turn it down, and let you wait to have your orgasm once the meeting is over.
I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair.
Nick: I’m rock hard right now. All I want in the world is to have my face buried between your legs, to feel your hands clutching at my hair as my head bobs up and down.
I knew that asking Nick to turn them off was a lost cause, so it was up to me to control it. And the first step was to stop reading his messages. I exited the IM program and put my computer in lock mode. Then I pushed it away from me.
Mind over matter, I thought. Mind over matter. You can do this. Think about things that don’t turn you on.
Birds. Kitchen counter tops. Finger nail polish. I tried to push my mind onto other things, but it of no use. I was dangerously close.
Right at that moment, I looked up and made eye contact with Nick. He moved his right hand up, running it through his hair, and right as he did it I saw him briefly – but unmistakably – flash the number five with his fingers.
And the pressure went up. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
Don’t come, don’t come don’t come!
For God’s sake, Violet, do not come!
I remembered times in the past where I’d desperately needed to pee but had been in a situation where I’d been forced to hold it.
This is no different, I reminded myself. It’s like when you need to pee so bad….I tried turning that thought over in my head but, for some strange reason, thinking of peeing made me even more aroused.
I could see Nick’s hands wrapping lightly against the conference table. In an instant, my mind was back in that place, thinking of how good his fingers felt inside me, sliding in and out.
And his mouth. Oh, God.
HIS MOUTH!
It had been so fucking good last night, the way Nick had started out slowly, teasingly, parting my lips with his tongue, darting it in and out, before finally treating my pussy to one long, slow lick that ended right on my clit.
My hips had bucked wildly beneath him, as his tongue moved up to trace circles around my clit….
It was happening.
Oh, God. Oh, fuck. It was going to happen. I was going to come.
“Violet?” Mariah said. “Would you mind telling Mr. Colby about the new assignments you’re working on? I’ve prepared a brief PowerPoint on the story you’re doing. If you wouldn’t mind walking us through it.”
I froze.
There was no way, no earthly way that I could stand up in front of this conference room full of people right now.
“I – I,” I began.
Mercifully, Nick took pity on me. I felt the vibrator slowing. But it didn’t shut off. My God, why couldn’t he just put a stop to this right here and right now? Why couldn’t he allow me to wait?
“As much as I’d love to hear Violet’s presentation,” Nick said, I’m afraid that’s all the time I have for today.” He stood up, grabbing his laptop and briefcase and said, “Why don’t you all get back to your desks now and finish what you’ve been working on? Thanks for letting me listen in today.”
People began filing out of the room at an agonizingly slow pace. I didn’t want to chance standing up while anyone was watching, in case the sudden movement sent me over the edge, so I pretended to work on my laptop until everyone had filed out of the room.
Once the coast was clear, I made my move, leaping up from the table so fast I knocked my chair to the floor. Without wasting another moment, I raced out of the room and down the hall to toward the safety of the bathroom. I barely made it through the door when my pussy exploded in a massive orgasm.
Breathing heavily, I leaned against the wall, trying to regain my composure.
I waited a full ten minutes before returning to work. It took that long to ‘clean myself up’ and become presentable again.
Before stopping at my desk I popped back in the conference room to retrieve my laptop. I keyed in the password, and then saw one last IM from Nick was waiting for me on the screen.
Nick: Next time I’m turning it up to seven.
Chapter Five
I was feeling a little shaken up after my unplanned orgasm. And, as luck would have it, this was the afternoon I was scheduled to meet with Darlean Donovan. Of all the days!
For
tunately, she was coming into the Brown-Eyed Girl offices, so at least I didn’t have to travel to meet her. Never-the-less, I still had to pull myself together in time for our interview. I’d been researching her extensively ever since Mariah first gave me the assignment, and I was more than prepared for this interview.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same thing for Darlean. She arrived forty-five minutes late and then breezed in the door without so much as an explanation or an apology.
“You must be Vivian,” Darlean said, hurrying into the conference room.
“Violet,” I corrected her. I stood up to shake her hand. “Violet Lewis. It’s nice to meet you.”
She was even more beautiful in person than she’d appeared in her photos and DVDs. Five feet ten, with silky long red hair, and a body that would make a Victoria’s Secret model envious, Darlean Donovan was truly a sight to behold.
“Oh!” Her face perked up, as she quickly returned my handshake. “That’s right. I’m terrible with names,” she offered, by way of explanation. She sat down at the conference table and pulled out an iPad. “I need to Facetime with my book agent while I meet with you. I’ve also go to update my Twitter feed. It’s been two hours since I posted anything.” She touched a few buttons on her iPad, and the screen sprang to life. “You don’t mind if I multi-task, do you?”
I wasn’t sure quite how to answer this, so I said, “I was kind of hoping to have your full attention for our interview.”
“Oh, hon, I’d love to help you out with that, but you know how it is. These days everybody has to multi-task. You tweet while you ride the subway, you type an e-mail while you get a massage. You know what I’m saying?”
“I’m certainly aware of the need to multi-task, yes,” I said, forcing a smile. “But I was really hoping to get a little bit more of your attention, for at least part of the two hours we scheduled together.” I didn’t mention that she’d been forty-five minutes late to our meeting.
“I’ll do my best,” Darlean said, “but this is kind of like a working interview for me. Same way you eat a pizza at your desk every day ‘cause you don’t have time for lunch. Am I right?”
“Actually, you’re not right,” I told her honestly. “I usually go for a walk on my lunch break. And on those occasions when I do have to eat at my desk, it’s a turkey sandwich on low-calorie wheat bread, not a pizza.”
I was telling her the truth. It bugged me to no end that people always assumed anyone with a weight problem pigged out 24/7. Sure, I splurged now and again – like the chocolate cheesecake pastry from Nick, for example. But most of the time, I worked very, very hard to maintain my less-than-admirable physique. I worked out almost every day, and I was constantly passing up food I wanted to eat, always making an effort to keep track of my calories and go for the better options. Most overweight people try far harder than you’d think to be thin.
Darlean looked me up and down. “Sure you do, hon,” she said in a tone that made my skin crawl.
“Bill!” she squealed, turning to the iPad. It looked like her Facetime had gone through. “It’s so great to hear from you! Have you got my million dollar offer yet? This will just take a sec, Violet.”
Well, at least she knew my name now.
I watched while Darlean hopped up with her iPad and trotted out into the hall. She was gone a full ten minutes before returning.
“So sorry, hon,” she said. “Where were we?”
“I was about to start our interview,” I said brightly. Stay positive, Violet, I reminded myself. This is a big story for you. It doesn’t matter how Darlean acts; just make the most of it and you’ll still get a killer story.
“So tell me what inspired you to get into the weight loss business,” I began.
She tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear, and fixed me with a beauty-pageant smile. “As I’m sure you’re aware, obesity is a growing problem – pun intended – in our American culture. These days, nearly two thirds of Americans are not only overweight, but – ”
Her phone rang, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Hang on just one sec,” Darlean said. “This is my trainer, I have to take this.”
She disappeared back out into the hall.
So this was her idea of multi-tasking? From the looks of things, this was more like she was handling her other business while she left me waiting. During our scheduled time, no less.
This time I waited fifteen minutes before Darlean resurfaced.
“Ugh,” she said, sitting back down at the conference table. “My trainer is such a beast.”
“Is that your fitness trainer?” I asked, hoping to prompt her into talking about something that was weight loss related.
“Oh, no!” Darlean grinned. “I don’t have one of those. I don’t need one. I mean, look at me.” She patted her non-existent stomach. “I’m in terrific shape as it is.”
“So you work out a lot?” I asked.
“I stay active all the time,” she enthused.
“Doing what types of activities?” I asked. “I’m sure our readers would love to know.”
“Oh, everything!” she waved her hand in the air. “I always take the stairs, every single chance I get. I’m active in every aspect of my life, pretty much all the time.”
“That’s great,” I said. “But could you be a bit more specific?”
“Such as?”
“Such as, do you have a specific exercise routine?”
“Some people don’t really need to have an exercise routine.” Darlean patted her stomach again for emphasis. “As you can see, I have a very low percentage of body fat.”
“I can definitely see that,” I told her. “However, having low body fat doesn’t necessarily correspond to being in good shape,” I pointed out. “Some people are just naturally thin. But that doesn’t mean they’re in good shape from a cardiovascular standpoint.”
I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, but it seemed only fair that someone who had made millions dispensing diet advice should at least follow the advice they give. I’d read all of Darlean’s books, watched all of her DVD’s. And she was a big proponent of exercise. (Apparently, she just wasn’t a big practicer of it.)
“I have a very low BMI,” she said, dodging the question. Her phone sounded again. “Oh my goodness!” She rolled her eyes. “My trainer again. I am totally not going to take it this time.”
Something occurred to me. “I thought you said you didn’t have a fitness trainer. If you don’t mind my asking, what kind of trainer do you have?”
“Dog trainer,” she said.
“So it’s your dog trainer who you called a beast?” I asked, jotting it down in my reporter’s notebook. I had a tape recorder running – Darlean had agreed to let the interview be taped on the front end – but I’d been taught in journalism school to always take notes in addition to recording an interview, just in case the tape failed.
“It is,” she told me. And then, without prompting, she added, “You would not believe what he wants me to do.”
“Try me.”
“He actually expects me to participate in the dog training process. I told him, ‘No way!’ I’ll drop the mutts off at the beginning of the month, he can do his job like I paid him to, and then I’ll pick them up when they’re able to speak and rollover on command. Am I right?”
She wasn’t. Not really. I’d fact-checked a piece on dog training for the magazine just last month, and what Darlean was saying was a common misconception. You didn’t drop your dogs off and have someone train them for you. You attended obedience school with them, so the dogs could learn how to respond and obey their owner’s commands. It was a collaborative process, that involved the owner nearly every step of the way. But I didn’t see a point in explaining this to Darlean Donovan. We were already off topic enough as it was.
“What kind of food do you eat?” I asked, getting the interview back on track.
“I eat a very balanced diet,” she said.
“Could you elaborate?”
/> “Fish, vegetables, fruit. I keep a strict eye on the calorie count at all times.”
“That’s interesting,” I told her. “Because I read the profile on you in the New York Times where you said, and I quote, ‘I’m one of those people who doesn’t have to watch what I eat. I stay skinny no matter what I do.’ So is that true? Or do you actually keep a diet log? For example, do you follow the same food plan outlined in The DarLEAN Diet?”
“Listen, hon.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I see what you’re trying to do here, and I understand where you’re coming from, I really do. But it’s not my fault that everyone in America doesn’t have the same capabilities I do.”
“You’re absolutely correct,” I said. “However, I’m just trying to understand what qualifies you to act as a weight loss expert. You don’t have a medical degree. You’re not a nutritionist. You’re not a personal trainer, or a fitness expert – you don’t even undergo regular work-outs, as far as I can tell. You’ve never been overweight nor have you lost weight.” Despite your previous claims and faked photoshop pictures, I wanted to say. But I knew better. Instead, I said, “Are you not concerned that some people might question your credibility? Truthfully, what qualifies you to speak on these issues, considering you do not have any education, nor any personal experience, when it comes to weight loss?”
Darlean’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t need a Ph.D. to understand that the obesity crisis in America has gotten out of control.”
I nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“And, as both a taxpayer and a concerned citizen, I felt it was my duty to do something to help. I truly am passionately concerned about the grotesque obesity epidemic that is sweeping our nation. I cannot, in good conscience, sit back and let people ruin their health.”
“That’s very noble of you,” I said. “But you are an admitted smoker, are you not?”
“I am not,” she said, tight-lipped.
“There have been many pictures of you appearing in places like, you know, Twitter,” I said, gesturing toward her iPad, where she’d been monitoring her Twitter feed for the last few minutes. “Smoking cigarettes.”
Dangerous Curves 2: The Good Girl (A Billionaire and BBW erotica romance) Page 5
