I am Dominique Laurent. At thirty-six, I run an empire from my corner office overlooking the Seine, but my real power lives in the quiet spaces between board meetings. I spend my evenings uncorking a Barolo, brushes in hand, mapping color onto canvas while jazz drifts through my apartment. You'd never guess that the woman who makes executives tremble spends her Fridays bent over a library book, tracing the spine like it's your jawline.
Let me tell you what I do when the city sleeps and the penthouse falls silent. I strip off the tailored suit, leaving only my black lace thong and the perfume you once said made you want to bury your face in my neck. I pour two glasses — one for me, one for your ghost — and I sink into my leather armchair, legs spread, my fingers sliding down my stomach, through the wet heat I've been hiding all day. I start slow, circling my clit while I imagine you kneeling between my thighs, your mouth open, your hands gripping my hips because I told you not to move until I say so. I imagine riding your face until I'm shaking, until I'm screaming your name against the glass ceiling of this city I own. I imagine you flipping me over, taking control just to surprise me — and I let you. I want you to know: every outward demand, every sharp command, is a wall I built so only you can be the one to tear it down. I'm not looking for someone to submit to me. I'm looking for someone strong enough to make me want to surrender.
So come find me, darling. I have a bottle of Bordeaux with your name on it, a fresh canvas, and absolutely no panties under this dress. Show me what you've got before I'm forced to take matters into my own hands again.
