Saturday, November 5, 2022

Sizzling Sunday: All’s fair in lust and business – #EroticRomance #FemDom #SizzlingSunday

Sizzling Sunday - The Heart of the Deal

It seems like a long time since I’ve done a Sizzling Sunday post, so I thought I’d remedy that. Here’s the start of my billionaire/BDSM erotic romance The Heart of the Deal. In this excerpt, we first meet Ruby Maxwell Chen, the kick-ass heroine.


Business, bondage, discipline and desire...

Ruby Maxwell Chen, lovely and ruthless CEO of a huge British business empire, has no qualms about playing dirty – very dirty. She’s happy to use sex to help her close a deal, especially when she’s the one on top. Ruby loves the game, and she expects to win. When she encounters the oddly charismatic American entrepreneur Rick Martell, though, she wonders if she hasn't met her match.

Chapter One: Pirate Blood

Ruby—London, Tuesday morning

They call me “Ruthless Ruby”. Not the most complimentary nickname, but I wear it with pride. I’ll go to any lengths to close a deal.

This London office is the heart of my empire. Seated here on my ergonomic leather throne, I review petitions and grant or deny boons.

My supplicant sits on the edge of his chair a few yards from me, on the other side of the Danish modern desk. The desk is no more than an oval of teak on a pedestal; with the light from the window, he can see my shapely legs and my Italian heels, if he should look in that direction. He is focused on my face, though, trying to read the success of his pitch in my carefully impassive expression.

I have already made a decision about this deal, but it amuses me to allow him to continue. There is something pleading about his tone, but I also detect an undertone of seduction.

He is attractive in a boyish sort of way, this lion of British industry. He has sandy hair, precisely styled, a cleft chin, lovely thigh muscles that ripple under his impeccably tailored trousers as he shifts nervously. He works out; I imagine him glistening with sweat in his singlet and shorts. He is serious, disciplined, a bit driven. He carries his cell phone with him to the loo.

Now he is talking a bit too fast, expounding on the merits of his proposal. He licks his lips occasionally. They look soft and vulnerable. I long to bite them.

He knows who I am: Ruby Maxwell Chen, young CEO of the powerful Maxwell Companies. Perhaps he has even heard what they call me in the bars where the execs and the wannabes gossip and network, or some of the stories behind the sobriquet. His mind knows these things, but he looks at me and he does not quite believe them.

I know what he sees: a pretty, diminutive Asian woman, calm and attentive, in becoming but conservative business attire. I know what he thinks: exquisite, gentle, pliant, submissive. Weak. Susceptible to his charm.

Yes, I am susceptible, but not in the way that he expects. I will invest in his new venture, not because of his blue eyes or his biceps, but because we will both make money. And my company will take a larger share than he has offered, and he will not be able to refuse, because he wants, he needs our participation.

Finally he finishes his spiel. His eyes search my face anxiously, seeking clues to my reaction. I smile slowly, realizing that I embody the stereotype of Asian inscrutability.

I am only half Chinese, of course. Mum was born and bred in Gloucestershire. She met my dad while she was in Malaysia on a botanical research trip, and fulfilled her reputation as rebellious and headstrong by marrying him. Though I was born in Kuala Lumpur, my life and education since then have been, at least on the surface, one hundred percent British. Tennis, dancing lessons, summer trips to Scarborough, degrees from Cambridge, and the London School of Economics. I am fluent in French, Italian, and German, but can just get along in Mandarin.

My father is—was—from an old family of Han merchants and traders. I have Malay blood, too. Dad’s grandfather on his mother’s side was a notorious pirate who terrorized ships in the straits of Malacca. I like to imagine that I am carrying on ancestral traditions as I maneuver and plunder my way through this cutthroat corporate world.

Dad built his financial empire here in the west: textiles, chemicals, energy, telecommunications, and now, high technology. Only in the last five years did he begin to expand out of Europe, to America and back into Asia. I was his apprentice, from the time I was in my teens. My business adversaries can testify that he taught me far more than finance and accounting.

My silence is making my unfortunate guest even more nervous.

I lean forward slightly. Under the desk, I part my legs and spread them wide. Mr. Dalton’s eyes grow round and his mouth falls open at the sight of the black lace garters against my pale skin and the jet triangle of hair framed between them.

Well, Mr. Dalton,” I say finally, “I need time to consider the details of your proposal. However, I am confident that we can come to some understanding.”

Uh… I…” He is rendered incoherent with confusion, embarrassment, and, I can clearly see, lust. Delicately, I part my silky fur to expose the damp pink folds of my cunt. I have been planning this for the past ten minutes, and I am wet with anticipation.

I believe that you have said enough, Mr. Dalton. I will give you my answer shortly. In the meantime, I would appreciate your removing your jacket, your trousers and whatever you have on underneath.”

He wants to run, but my eyes hold him, my eyes and that moist, inviting chasm between my thighs. “Now,” I say, allowing a hint of sternness into my voice.

He complies, as I expect. My eyes give him no respite as he awkwardly sheds his clothes. He wears tight electric blue briefs that highlight every detail of his straining cock. The showy underwear is a present from his girlfriend, perhaps; he is too caught up in his ambitions to have a wife.

A blush is spreading over his fair complexion, and he hesitates to remove the briefs, though they hide nothing. I tap my pen on the desktop, feigning impatience. In truth, I love the suspense, the gradual, reluctant submission, the slow exposure of vulnerable flesh.

Finally, he pushes the garment down to his ankles and steps out of them. He begins to loosen his necktie.

Did I say anything about your tie?” He stops and stands there, uncertainty etched on his even features, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He looks silly, half-undressed and half-formal, and he knows it.

He is even better built than I had imagined. His skin is bronzed, lightly furred with blond down. His thighs are lean, sculpted by corded muscle. And his prick is, quite simply, magnificent, hugely swollen and pointing toward the high ceiling of my office.

Turn around,” I tell him. His butt looks soft and white, contrasting with his tanned limbs, less muscular than I expect. My palms grow hot and my breathing is a bit ragged, despite my control. I could tan those buttocks well, if I chose.

With what I hope is maddening slowness, I push my chair back from the desk and rise to my feet. I am silent as I glide up behind him. The next thing he feels is my warm breath on his neck. “Don’t move,” I murmur in his ear. A small shudder shakes his frame, but otherwise he remains still. I’m pleased.

I tap my gold-plated pen against one butt cheek and then the other, the pen that I will use to sign the contract with him when I am finished playing. His flesh jiggles slightly. “You are not as tight as you should be, Mr. Dalton,” I say. “Not enough squats and hamstring curls.”

He swallows hard, but of course says nothing. What can he say, after all? He wants something from me, and he is beginning to understand what he will have to pay for it. With the rounded end of the pen, I trace the line of his crack. He feels the smooth, cool metal, and I know what he thinks and fears. “Spread your legs,” I say, feeding that fear for a moment. But I do not approach his anus, which I can see is clenched and tight. Instead, I reach between his thighs and give his scrotum a mild squeeze. He moans.

I told you, Mr. Dalton, that I think you have said enough,” I say. “Be quiet, or I will have to be harsh with you.”

I circle around and see that his lips are pressed together, his eyes are wild, and his cock is harder than ever. I pull his chair, the one from which he delivered his pitch, over to me. Then I raise my leg, position my high-heeled foot on the seat, and slide my skirt up over my hips.

He can see everything. The lacy trim on my stockings. The jet garters stretched taut over my creamy flesh. The rosy lips of my sex peeking out from their fringe of curls, already soaked with arousal. A bead of moisture overflows from my cleft and traces a wet path along my inner thigh. His penis jerks involuntarily.

You understand, of course, that if you come, you can abandon any thought of a deal with the Maxwell Companies?” He nods miserably.

Good. Clearly I did not misjudge your intelligence.” My voice is measured and calm. Meanwhile, I am stroking myself lightly, savoring the sensation of my fingertips in my slick, engorged pussy. He cannot tear his eyes away.


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1 comment:

Her Majesty's Plaything said...

Steamy Sunday indeed! I thought this one was really hot! What a delicious tease! :-)

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