Chapter 1

"You're a professional," I whispered to myself in the mirror, like I did daily. Affirmations - my mentor, Marie, swears by them, but so far all they'd done was make me feel incredibly self-conscious, each and every morning. "You're a professional, and you deserve respect."

Sometimes I feel like no matter what, women get the raw end of the stick. My mentor, for instance - she's a brilliant, talented, funny, intelligent and business-savvy woman ... who I've heard described as "John Candy meets Kathy Bates." She's barely overweight!

When Marie does her morning affirmations, it's to tell herself that she's an attractive and desirable woman.

Me? I know I'm attractive. I'm not arrogant, but ever since I was 15, I've been unable to walk down the street without men staring at me. I was an early bloomer. Now, ten years later, I have no issues with self-esteem; I know I'm gorgeous, I know men want me.

So when I use affirmations, it's to try to make myself believe that I can be taken seriously.

Maybe it's a little silly, but I'm /so/ used to being wanted, it's hard for me to believe that I'm not wasting my time, trying to pursue a career in business. I know how God built me - when I walk into a room, I know that men want me to look after their cocks, not their companies.

After a lifetime of being treated like nothing more than a busty piece of arm-candy, it's hard to remember how much more I'm capable of.

And so, affirmations.

"You are a professional," I said, staring at myself in the mirror. Some day, I'd believe it.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, blinking back the tears, feeling like anything /but/ a professional. As usual, Clive didn't say a word.

Sometimes I hated my brain. Rationally, I knew that just being in the inner circle of Clive Williams was a testament in itself to how far I'd come - he was the world's youngest self-made billionaire; before he'd even turned 20, he'd formed his first company, and a mere 7 years later, owned more of New York than anyone in history.

But after my fumble that morning, I certainly didn't feel like I deserved to be part of "Clive's Pack", as we were referred to by the business rags.

The meeting had been simple enough, on paper - I just had to close a deal that had been in place for weeks. One slick presentation, get pen to paper, and I could add a few more zeroes to my Christmas bonus for half an hour's work.

Everything had been going perfectly smoothly, until I looked up and saw Clive himself standing outside the board room, watching me, those penetrating grey eyes silently, wordlessly judging me...

Just thinking about him sent shivers up my spine. Marie had asked me, once, why Clive intimidated me so much, and I hadn't been able to answer. There was just something about his perfectly-tailored suits, the sense of power that he radiated, the frank gaze that he always gave me...

Later that night, I'd asked myself the same question, and been surprised by the answer - Clive Williams intimidated me for one simple reason. He turned me on.

Something about his presence, his hidden-but-noticeable muscles, the way that he held himself ... he was just more /man/ than I'd ever before encountered. I wouldn't have been surprised to discover that he sweated testosterone.

And worse, when he was around I couldn't help but be aware of my own body. He was so masculine, as soon as I knew he was near, I became aware of my femininity, of my body, and the effect that it had on men...

So that morning, the second I'd seen him there, I was no longer a professional in a suit, presenting to a group of other professionals. In an instant, I'd become a women, standing in front of a group of men, with the full knowledge of our bodies ... and the pleasure we could bring to each other.

Mr Stone, head of the acquisitions committee ... instead of a 45-year old businessmen, all I could see was a pair of eyes. Had he been checking me out when I bent over to pick up my papers? When I'd stretched to emphasize the figures we could bring his company, had he noticed my legs, peeking out from under my business-skirt? Surely, at least once during this meeting, he'd wondered what sort of underwear I had on ... and pictured me slowly sliding it off, enjoying the feeling of silk upon my legs.

And Don, Stone's right-hand man ... more than once in the time I'd known him, his hand-shake had gone longer than it needed to. Was he just being friendly, or was he savoring the contact? Did he want to do more, touch my long, smooth legs ... trace patterns up my spine, and heft my full bosom in his hand? Did he want to touch me between the legs, feel my wetness, slowly slide one finger inside of me and watch me gasp?

Alan Summers, the intern in the corner taking notes ... he was young, and certainly not unattractive. He'd been working under me for almost a month - in that time, how often had he gone home and thought about me as he masturbated? How often did he play with himself, picturing my tits, my body splayed beneath his, imagine himself thrusting into me?

Clive hadn't even said anything; just his stare was enough to get my mind racing, and of course as soon as I became aware of my femininity, aware of the effect that I was likely having on this room full of men ... well, my composure went out the window. I started stammering, and what should have been a 2-minute discussion of figures stretched out, as I stuttered and fumbled my way through the conversation.

Alan, bless his soul, gallantly tried to save me, but all he managed to do was make me aware of how well he knew the material, how much time we'd spent together, how often we'd spent late nights together in my office, how much of that time he must have spent thinking about kissing me, touching me, taking me...

After I'd forgotten the word "contract" more than once, I gasped that we should postpone this meeting until a later date, and ran into the bathroom. I'd intended to sob with embarrassment, but when I noticed that I'd unconsciously undone the top two buttons of my blouse, the image of the four men staring at my cleavage ... it overcame me, and I locked myself in the bathroom and plunged two fingers into my hungry pussy.

Less than a minute later, I was screaming out in pleasure.

As soon as I came, the sexual fog passed, and I suddenly became aware of how badly I'd screwed up. It wasn't my first major assignment, but it was definitely an important one - I'd managed to show Clive that I couldn't be trusted in a room full of men, that I was such a sex-crazed little bimbo that I couldn't even close a simple deal.

Bimbo.

I began to sob, and despite my best efforts, when I exited the bathroom a few minutes later, my eyes were still visibly puffy.

He'd called me into his office ... of course he'd called me into his office. The second I'd seen his secretary walking toward me, I knew that I was being called into his office.

And so there I sat, in front of the most powerful man in New York, a man who had trusted me with millions of his dollars. A man whose trust I had betrayed, because I couldn't stop thinking about sex for two minutes.

I nervously tugged my skirt down - it reached to my knees, but I was suddenly aware of how much of my legs were showing. Not that Clive was looking at them - his eyes never stopped staring intensely into my own.

"I'm sorry, sir..." I said, wondering if it was obvious what a thrill the word "sir" gave me. /I am a strong, independent woman/ I mentally told myself, not believing a word of it. "I promise, I'll try harder. I'm a professional."

With a nod, I was dismissed, and I sighed with relief. I don't know if Clive believed me - I don't know if /I/ would have believed me, not after that performance I gave that morning - but I was determined not to let him down again.

The next two weeks went smoothly. So smoothly that, for the first time since I started working at William's, I truly felt like "one of the boys". I'd just landed a huge property deal, and to celebrate, the men of the company had decided to take me out for drinks.

It started sedately, of course - brandy in the office of Todd Branson, one of the most senior associates. His connections with Marie had been what had gotten me the interview in the first place, and while he'd made it very clear that he wasn't going to baby me in any way, I could sense his pride when I did well.

I don't remember who suggested we go to Smithee's, an exclusive gentleman's club just a few blocks away, but their reputation for cocktails was tempting enough to garner universal agreement.

With my slender figure, I get buzzed pretty quickly, so even though I'd made sure not to let my glass be refilled, I was feeling slightly heady as the five men and myself walked through the door. My success gave me the bravado to walk straight up the sedate bartender, and ask for six "of his best".

As I turned back to triumphantly grin at my co-workers, I saw him.

Clive.

I had no idea that this was his club, but it made sense. Less than a minute's walk from the office, well-known as the most exclusive club in the CBD ... hell, he probably owned it.

He didn't say a word, and his gaze never left my face, but a flush started to rise through my body as I again became acutely aware that I was the only woman in a room full of men. The five men I'd just been drinking with, the bartender, New York's elite ... all of them were undoubtedly checking me out.

And why shouldn't they? I knew exactly how hot I was.

I'd left my jacket in Branson's office, and the second Clive's eyes hit mine, I realized that New York's heat had caused my white shirt to stick to my body, showing off my perfectly toned stomach, the curve of my bust. What's more, my sweat had caused it to become slightly transparent.

Unable to stop myself, my eyes flicked down, and confirmed my fears - I wasn't wearing my staid, professional underwear. More and more recently, I'd been putting on the frillier items in my wardrobe, the push-up bras, the ones that truly showed off my assets. On one hand, it went against my desire to be professional ... on the other hand, I live in the real world. The more attractive I am, the more successful I was going to be.