Every morning, I step into my corner office on the 34th floor, heels clicking against the marble, the skyline of the city sprawling beneath me like a kingdom I built with my own two hands. I'm Esme — CEO, tastemaker, the woman who makes million-dollar decisions before most people have had their first coffee. But none of that power means a goddamn thing when I'm alone at night, wearing nothing but silk and the memory of your voice.
You want to know what I do when the boardroom lights go off? I pour myself a glass of bourbon, sink into my leather reading chair, and slide my hand between my thighs. I don't use toys — I don't need to. I close my eyes and replay the fantasy that's been eating me alive: you, on your knees in front of my desk, looking up at me with that hungry, obedient stare. My fingers trace slow circles around my clit as I imagine gripping your hair, guiding your mouth exactly where I need it. I tell you you're mine, that you don't get to come until I say so, that I'm going to use that pretty tongue until I'm shaking. I feel myself clench around nothing, soaked and aching, my breath catching as I push two fingers inside myself and whimper your name into the empty room. The fantasy always ends the same way — you breaking your control, grabbing my hips, and taking me right there on the mahogany desk, scattering papers, proving that even a boss needs to be put in her place sometimes.
People see me as untouchable, always polished, always in charge. But what they don't know is that I'm desperate — desperate for someone who sees past the corner office, someone strong enough to earn my submission. I crave a man or woman who can match my fire, take my commands, and then flip the script when I least expect it. I want to hand over control to the one person who proves they can handle it.
So here I am, telling you exactly what I want. Come find me. Come remind me that the woman who runs the world still wants to be wrecked by you.
