by Amy Brent
I closed and locked the bathroom door. Call me weird, but I can’t take a bath or a shower with the door open. Guess I’ve seen too many movies about silly girls who take showers when murderers were lurking around.
I know, I’m a psychiatrist’s wet dream. Oh well.
I set my iPhone on the counter and told Siri to play some Van Morrison to set the mood. I stripped off the sweats that I’d changed into after my crying jag in the foyer, and stood naked in front of the mirror to put up my hair.
As I bundled my long hair into a bun and pinned it to the top of my head, I let my eyes take stock of the woman in the mirror. It was something that I did at the end of every day.
Did the day add a new line or wrinkle?
Are my boobs sagging?
Do I have stretch marks on my stomach?
Again, a psychiatrist would have a field day with me.
I was tall for a girl at five-eight, and curvy for my height.
I inherited my mom’s big boobs and round hips. My boobs hung off my chest like two large melons that had never been squeezed. My areolas contrasted darkly against the milky whiteness of my breasts. I kept my blond pubes trimmed short.
I took a deep breath as I brought my hands down from my hair to cup my breasts. I brushed a finger over my nipples and they responded immediately, growing hard at my touch.
I closed my eyes. Suddenly, in my mind, Tanner Wright was standing behind me with his hands resting softly on my hips. His sudden appearance startled me for a moment, but my mind told me to just relax and let the fantasy flow.
I could feel Tanner’s fingers digging gently into my hips. I felt his thumbs at the small of my back, gently massaging the dimples above my ass.
I rolled my head to the side and moaned as he pressed his lips to my shoulder. He nibbled his way up my neck and to my ear. He took my earlobe between his teeth and bit down just enough to hurt in the most wonderful way.
I could feel his hot breath in my ear.
His tongue followed his breath.
He licked the rim of my ear and darted his tongue inside. A shudder went through me as I could feel the hot juices pooling between my legs.
Tanner’s hands came around to cup my tits. He squeezed the nipples between his fingers. He moaned in my ear.
I felt his cock pressing into my back; long, hard, wet from his juices. He slid his cock up and down my back. I could feel his balls rubbing against my ass.
I braced my hands on the sink and wiggled my ass into him. He slid his cock up and down through the crack in my ass. His hands slid down from my breasts and met at my clit. He rolled my clit between his thumbs. I could feel the orgasm building from deep within my body, like a match that would soon start a raging fire.
Tanner continued sliding his cock against me as his hands worked my pussy. He slid his fingers across my folds to lubricate them, then teased my opening.
“Fuck me, Tanner,” I heard myself moan. “Take my cherry. Make it yours forever.”
I pushed my ass toward him and leaned the top half of my body forward, offering my pussy to him. I felt his hands on my hips again as he positioned himself behind me. I felt the head of his cock pressing into my hole. I held my breath in anticipation. He slid in just the head and paused for a moment. I felt my pussy spreading to accommodate him.
There was no virgin pain as he dug his fingers into my hips and slid himself fully inside of me. I stood on my tiptoes to give him the perfect angle. He started sliding his cock in and out, in and out. My big boobs swayed beneath me with every thrust.
“Oh… my… god…”
My words were carried on gusts of hot breath.
“Faster… harder… more…”
Tanner was hammering into me now. My tits swayed. I moaned and called his name as the orgasm hit.
“I’m... cumming… oh… my… god…”
I squeezed my eyes tightly together and sucked in a long breath as I came. Tanner’s cock plunged in and out of me until I begged him to stop. I felt his touch drift away from my body like a warm passing wind.
I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror, which was fogged up from the steaming water that was about to overflow the tub.
I blinked back to reality and gazed down at myself.
My left hand was clutching my breast. My breast was red from the hard rubbing and squeezing. My nipple stood on end, a dark crimson thimble in a sea of white.
I was standing with my knees bent.
The fingers of my right hand were buried inside my cunt.
My hand was drenched to the wrist from the orgasm I’d given myself.
I let my fingers slide out of me and braced my palms on the counter.
I took in a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly.
It all seemed so real that I turned to look around the bathroom, as if I’d find Tanner standing there.
Sadly, I was alone.
I turned off the water and lowered myself into the steaming tub.
I closed my eyes and smiled as the hot water engulfed me.
I picked up the bar of soap from the edge of the tub and rubbed it between my legs as the fantasy began to replay in my mind.
This time I was a spectator rather than a participant.
You know how they say that if you lose the use of one of your senses, it makes the other senses heighten?
Like, if you lose your sense of sight, your senses of smell and hearing and taste and touch grow stronger?
The same was true when you were a virgin.
When you’d never had a real man inside you, your imagination intensified until it became as vivid as the real thing.
Thank God.
Sigh…
Tanner
Monday morning, 7:45 AM.
I noted the time because Henry was supposed to pick me up for our trip to Tucson with the Goldman team around eight-thirty. I had my assistant pack a bag over the weekend and it was sitting next to the front door, ready to go.
That was my motto: always be prepared.
Or have an assistant prepare it for you.
I had time to kill, so I fixed a cup of coffee using the twenty-thousand-dollar brewing machine Henry had convinced me to buy during a business trip to Italy a few years back.
It was supposedly the best coffee brewing system on the planet. The coffee beans the system also supposedly brewed the best cup of coffee on the planet. I think the beans were imported from the deepest jungles of Columbia and had been shit through a tiger’s ass or some such nonsense.
I didn’t get the big deal. The coffee it brewed was mediocre at best. It had the consistency and the smell of burnt ink. It certainly was not a twenty-thousand-dollar cup of coffee. The hundred dollar Keurig in my office made better coffee.
Henry said I had the palette of a caveman.
What-the-fuck-ever, dude.
I knew a shitty cup of coffee when I tasted it.
I kept meaning to buy a Starbucks franchise and install it downstairs off the lobby (I own this building and live in the penthouse), but I kept forgetting to call Starbucks CEO Howard Schulz to make the deal.
I picked up my iPhone and spoke into it.
“Siri, remind me to put a Starbucks in the lobby downstairs.”
Siri confirmed my brilliance and I set the phone aside.
I set the mug of steaming coffee on the kitchen table and fired up my laptop. I logged into Facebook and tapped my fingers on the keys.
I ignored the 1,835 notifications and 2,018 messages that flashed at the top of the screen.
The truth is, I hate fucking Facebook and only use it to dig up dirt about people I might be doing business with.
Or people that simply fascinated me.
People like Candice Carlson.
I was constantly amazed at some of the things people posted on Facebook. They just put it out there for all the world to see, without any concern of consequences.
Hey look, here’s a shot of you getting shit-faced drunk at a bachelor party.
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Hey look, here’s a shot of you in the bathroom with a naked hooker from the party.
Hey look, here’s you getting a lap dance from said hooker.
Oh look, look, look! Here’s a picture of you doing a line of some white powder that looks an awful lot like coke off the hooker’s tit!
Ah, finally, the coup de grace… here’s a picture of you passed out drunk in the hotel room naked and covered in magic marker.
Oh look, someone drew a happy face on the head of your dick.
I had found all those wonderful images when digging into the background of a guy who wanted to be my Chief Financial Officer at a salary of four-hundred-grand a year.
I just went to his Facebook page, hit Photos, and bam!
I took great joy in showing him what I had found, then asking, “So, you want me to let you manage my company’s financials? Seriously? Uh, I don’t think so. Thank you, drive through.”
Okay, granted, I put the poor guy through hours and hours of grueling interviews before I sprang the Facebook pics and told him to fuck off. But hey, a guy’s gotta have a little fun. Right?
I typed in Candice Carlson’s name into the search bar and sipped the shitty coffee as I waited for her profile to pop up. I wondered what embarrassing moments or tantalizing tidbits I would find on her page.
And like magic, there was Candice Carlson’s life in full living color for all the world to see.
“Okay, Candice Carlson,” I said with a grin. “Let’s see what deep dark secrets I can surmise from your lovely profile.”
I clicked to enlarge her profile picture and was disappointed to find that it was a standard bullshit company portrait, probably the pulled from her bio on the Goldman website.
“Shit,” I said as I clicked to close the enlarged image. “Come on, Candice. Don’t let me down.”
I went back to her profile page and clicked on the “About Candice” link. Standard stuff: twenty-five, Harvard MBA grad, hometown Ottumwa, Nebraska, population who gives a shit.
“Single is good,” I said, noting her relationship status.
I clicked on her Photos, hoping to find a drunk party pic or two or three. Or Candice at the beach in a string bikini with her tits hanging out.
Woo-hoo! Wouldn’t that be a fucking awesome way to start the day! A hot bikini shot of Candice that I could rub one out to before leaving the penthouse.
“Shit,” I said again as her photos loaded on the screen. “So much for whacking off to Candice’s tits.”
There’s Candice at a business event.
There’s Candice at a fundraiser.
There’s Candice at a formal dinner.
There’s Candice with a group of sorority sisters.
There’s Candice in her cap and gown.
“Son of a bitch,” I said with a sigh. I pushed the computer away in disgust and picked up the coffee cup. “Are you really that fucking boring, Candice Carlson? You couldn’t give me one decent tit pick to start my day?”
My iPhone buzzed with a text message from Henry. He was downstairs with the car. Crap. My quest to learn more about Candice Carlson would have to wait.
I stared at her utterly boring profile picture for a moment.
I closed the laptop and shook my head.
Candice Carlson needed a little excitement in her life.
And fortunately for her, I was just the guy to give it to her.
Tanner
I handed the driver my suitcase so he could stow it in the trunk, then climbed into the back of the limo to sit next to Henry, who grunted at me and continued fiddling with his phone.
“Bad manners to use your phone at the table, my son,” I said, shaking my head at him.
“Sorry, just shooting an email off to Stan Roberts at Goldman confirming our flight time for today.” He tucked the phone inside his Armani jacket and directed his full attention to me.
“So, how was your weekend?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said with a shrug. “I didn’t do much. Just flew out to Vegas to look at the Ferrari I bought.”
“Did you drive it back?”
I snorted at him. “You don’t actually drive a car like that Henry. I had them load it onto a climate-controlled car hauler I borrowed from Earnhardt for transport back to Chicago. It should arrive in a day or two.”
A look of judgment came to his eye. “How much did you end up spending? On a car?”
I waved a hand at him, as if the question smelled bad, but not as bad as my answer. “I spent more than I should have, but not as much as I would have.”
“Tanner, how much?”
I blew out a long sigh. “Twenty-eight-point-seven mill for the car and another ten-percent in auction fees,” I said, shrugging off the number like it was pocket change, because that’s what it was to me. He scowled at me. “Okay, so it went a little over estimate. It’s not a big deal. In five years, it will double in value.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’m always right.”
“Are you?”
I glanced over to see him scowling at me. I held out my hands and asked, “What’s up your ass this morning?”
“Your little show on Friday with the Goldman people is what’s up my ass,” Henry said. He gave me the look my dad used to give me whenever I disappointed him, which was most of the time. He shook his head slowly and clicked his tongue. “I’m not going to let you blow this deal, Tanner. It’s too important.”
“I’m not going to blow the deal, Henry,” I said, giving him a dismissive wave. “I really don’t understand why you’re so upset. I thought I was quite the gentleman in that meeting.”
“Of course, you were.”
He blew out a long breath and shook his head again. Some days Henry shook his head so much that I expected it to come loose from his neck.
He said, “Do you have any idea the position you have put me in with the Goldman people? And with Anderson, asking them to completely rework their executive team’s schedule for the week?”
I huffed. “I don’t give a shit about the Goldman people. They work for us, remember? And the Anderson executive team will be out on their ears the moment the final documents are signed if they’re not careful.”
“Well, I do give a shit about them,” Henry said seriously. “Unlike you, I don’t have billions of dollars that lead me to think that I can be a total ass in front of people. Honestly, Tanner, sometimes you act like a spoiled teenager rather than a successful business man. What is your deal?”
“I don’t have a deal,” I said with a sigh. “I just get bored and I like fucking with people. I keep telling you to stop making me attend meetings, but you keep insisting on bringing me along.”
“Because, like it or not, you are the face of Wright Enterprises. You’re the bad boy that gets all the press. You’re the guy that does the Ted Talks that make millennials hang on your every word and spend millions on your products.”
“Do they really?” I asked, pretending to be serious. “Hang on my every word?”
Henry threw up his hands. “You’re being ridiculous.”
I patted his knee. “Henry, you have my word that I will not do anything to mess up this deal. Scouts honor. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“You were never a scout,” Henry said, glancing out the window as if he could no longer stand to look at me. “And honor is something you know nothing about.”
“Ouch,” I said with a smile.
Still facing the window, he said, “I emailed Stan Roberts and told him to leave Candice Carlson in Chicago.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You what?”
He turned to stare me down. I had never seen Henry look more serious. “I told Stan that Candice can remain on the team, but it would be best if she operates from their office in Chicago. So, she will not be coming to Tucson with us.”
Now it was my turn to be sanctimonious.
I asked, “Do you think that’s really fair to Miss Carlson?
The poor girl did nothing but show up to a meeting. If anyone should be knocked out of going to Tucson, it’s me, not her.”
“Fairness has nothing to do with it,” he said. “And you have to go. There is no getting out of it.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that she was a distraction to you in the meeting. Therefore, I expect that she would be a distraction to you in Tucson. And we can’t have you distracted.”
I shook my head and gave him the disappointed look he so often gave me. “Henry, I thought you were smarter than that.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
I tapped a finger to my chin and made a thoughtful face.
“Would you rather have me distracted and out of the way in Tucson? Or would you rather have me attend all the big meetings and do everything I could to kill the deal?”
Henry’s mouth dropped open as the little lights came on inside his perfectly-coiffed head. He tugged his iPhone from his jacket and found Stan Roberts direct cell number.
“Stan, Henry Costas,” he said, smiling at me. “Please disregard the email I sent you earlier about leaving Candice Carlson in Chicago. After further consideration, I think she will play a vital role in the success of the Anderson acquisition. Yes, that’s correct. Fine. We’ll see you at the airport in an hour.”
Candice
The moment I arrived at Goldman on Monday morning, I received a text from Stan to come to his office. I just blew out a long breath and reconciled myself to the fact that I was being booted off the team.
I had cried myself dry over the weekend, so this morning there were no more tears to give. I put on my armor and emerged from my apartment ready to do battle and take whatever hits the day might bring.
Candice Carlson, the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve and cried at the drop of a dime, was left at the apartment.
Candice Carlson, corporate cunt and hard-assed bitch emerged.
In a moment of pure optimism, I had packed a suitcase for the trip and brought it to the office. I dropped it off in my office on the way to see Stan. There was no way I was going to show up at his door with a suitcase and the assumption that everything was just peachy. Everything wasn’t peachy. I could feel it in my bones.
