Meeting My Match Ch. 2

MEETING MY MATCH (Part Two): LANDING THE CONTRACT

I waited in her office, legs stretched out in front of me, relaxing at the end of a busy day. I'd been chasing here and there for this deal, that deal, following up meetings and pencilling in new contacts. A fair bit of my work in between had been conducted on my Vodaphone – expensive though it was. Mobile phones didn't come cheap right now. One day, I won't be chasing around all over the place for other people; they'll be chasing around after me, I thought. Almost there. Just a few more pieces of the jigsaw to fall into place, a few more moves on the corporate chessboard. This contract – the one I was after – would help immeasurably in that direction.

The late meeting was my idea. I'd had one of the company secretaries make the arrangements on my behalf, not even giving my name – at least, not my full name – to enhance the element of surprise. Oh yes, I was exuding a deliberate air of confidence, but even I had to admit that, unusually for me, I was pretty knotted up inside, butterflies flitting around my empty stomach. Lunchtime had been several hours before. Current Yuppie wisdom might have it that 'lunch is for wimps', but only an idiot deliberately goes hungry thinking it gives them an edge in business. What does it look – sound – like if your tummy rumbles during the high-powered meeting to close the deal? Pretty damned stupid, that's how. Still, I was pretty sure that future business meetings would be conducted via some sort of computer link-up. Some Yank and Asian corporations already had their offices linked by a computer network, doing away with the need for so much face-to-face contact.

Her company obviously weren't that up on new technology – yet. On the way to her office after the genial old security guard named George on the front desk had checked my credentials and let me up in the elevator, I'd checked the number of VDUs in the main open plan office. Most of the blocks of desks didn't even have one VDU between them, let alone one per desk. There were more stick-on fuzzy bugs and houseplants in evidence than useful hardware. There was only one breezeblock shaped facsimile machine on a far table near the ancient looking photocopier, probably operated by only one or two 'trained' staff. Yes, the contract might be good for my company, but it'd help bring this one into the 1990s a bit sooner too. I'd see to that.

I looked around her private office. The vertical blinds were a nice touch – who likes working in a fish tank? But even she had just one VDU on a separate desk. The rest of the office was pretty…spartan. Production schedules and sales charts covered most of the walls, along with one piece of abstract art that could have been done by a two year-old. Two sturdy filing cabinets to one side and an in tray on her desk that was it. Apart from the closed filofax on the desk directly in front of her chair and the navy blue jacket on the back of the chair behind it, no hint of any personality, no human touches. No photographs, no kiddies' drawings, not even a friendly looking chipped mug. It was almost as if she was afraid that any hint of personality would diminish her standing in front of the staff – especially her superiors. Oh, I'd made a few discreet enquiries before setting up the meeting. Despite being just a few weeks off her 22^nd birthday, she'd impressed her MD with her willingness to work long hours, her determination to break through that 'glass ceiling' or whatever it was they kept saying top businesswomen were hindered by. I figured she'd used a fair few female charms on the way up too. Knowing her MD, a shapely figure and a pert bosom was just as impressive as high sales figures and a well-stacked CV.

Idiot. The man had no real appreciation of women. Not like me. No finesse.

No style.

It'd been the best part of three years since we'd last been together and it'd been something of a tearful farewell on her part. I had to admit, with hindsight, that I'd felt pretty badly about it since. Her parents were probably delighted. They never approved of me, blamed me for Star Daughter only getting seven A Levels at Grade 'A' and - shock horror – three at Grade 'B'. What a failure their daughter must have felt in their eyes!

It never mattered to them how happy she was, or how stylish I was, although I'd delighted in the gobsmacked looks on their faces when I'd called to pick her up in the Porsche. (I'd borrowed it from someone higher up the corporate ladder, but that didn't matter – it's all presentation, right? A matter of style).

But even then I knew we'd pick up the game one day, when we'd had other experiences to enhance that game.

I'd like to say that I'd engineered this meeting specifically for my own purposes, but I didn't. It was just coincidence that my company needed to get into bed with her company and she just happened to be handling the initial contract negotiations. So – pure luck really, but that's the game, you see? Sometimes you have to leave it to chance – the opportunities to resume playing often just present themselves. Gamblers would call it the wild card. Me, I'd play it as being all part of the master strategy and thus put her at a disadvantage to start with.

Play it cool, play it convincing.

Play it with style.

I suddenly snapped out of my thoughts when I heard footsteps – obviously a woman's – clicking of higher heels, closer together – somewhat magnified by the emptiness of the open plan office. It was her, returning to her office from the bathroom or wherever she'd been. I couldn't sneak a glance out of her office window, as the blinds were drawn and besides, to do so would betray curiosity on my part. I'd see her soon enough, I could wait. Style, remember? I deliberately turned my chair around to face the sales charts on the far wall, my back now to her office door.

I heard the door open, felt the slight draught of displaced air. "Oh, I do apologise for keeping you waiting," she began, voice the same, yet different to how I remembered it, more – refined, more – in control. I liked that. A challenge then.

I rose slowly from my chair and turned to face her. She was extending one hand in greeting, whilst clutching a plastic cup of vending machine coffee (tacky) in the other. "Could I get you a coff –." The words froze in her mouth, which – to her obvious embarrassment – remained open.

I had time for a quick appraisal; same attractive face, framed by brown hair, now severely pulled back behind her head, leaving just a few delicate whisps either side of her cheeks and a tidy fringe. Same slim figure, well proportioned cleavage, all now packaged in a crisp, white blouse, collar buttoned up as was the style these days, and navy blue, mid-length skirt, obviously complementing the navy blue jacket on the back of her chair. No tights or stockings, as the weather had been warm lately and plain, black shoes with enough of a heel to look feminine, but short enough to be sensible.

I pretended not to notice as the plastic coffee cup left her hand and fell to the floor, splattering its muddy brown contents over the carpet, a few random spots peppering her sleek legs. To spare her embarrassment by the shock of seeing me again, I swiftly gripped her hand, detecting a slight tremble as I shook it, maintaining eye contact and smiling as I trotted out a few simple ice-breaking phrases, as though the whole thing was a complete surprise to me too (at least until she recovered her composure a little, then I could let on that I had engineered the whole meeting).

Just by the rapid flushing of her cheeks and the tremble in her hand, I could tell she was fighting her emotions and recalling our previous times together, the pleasures I had introduced her to, the concept of not just pushing the boundaries but smashing right through them, the liberation of being subjugated, to submitting to full, total, orgasmic enjoyment, learning to be fully female to my total male.

The pleasures, basically, of The Game.

I released her hand and she immediately pulled away, searching out a wad of tissues form one of her desk drawers. She crouched down and began to furiously mop at the spilled coffee, wittering on about how impressive my company's tender for the contract had been and how she felt this meeting would be interesting. I could tell she was babbling, just trying to avoid what was really on her mind; our last meeting, her tearful pleading to me not to leave her, to give it all another chance, and then her anger when I had coolly told her that it was all for her own good, that she needed to experience more of life, other relationships, gain a different perspective and then, one day perhaps, we could get together again and resume the game. Perhaps my final remark had hurt her most of all. As I recalled, she'd ended up screaming and swearing at me, calling me a cruel, arrogant bastard who didn't love anyone except myself. Thinking back, I wasn't quite sure why I had let her go. Maybe she was too romantic, maybe I really did believe she needed to become harder, more experienced in order to play the game better. I wasn't so sure now. There'd been other women since her of course – despite all the media hysteria about Aids – but I, had to admit, none of them were quite such good players as she had been… or as she'd had the potential to be.

I looked down at her, still smiling. As she finished mopping up the liquid, she stole a glance upwards and our eyes met again. The difference this time was that there was no openness, no warmth to her eyes. Anger had replaced surprise.

In order to deflect the impending flare up, I courteously gripped her hand to help her up. Gentleman assists lady, you see? Style.

Instead, she wrenched her hand away with such vehemence that I was taken aback. Her spoken words mirrored the anger in her body language: "Never touch me again! That right is no longer yours!"

She stalked away from me, dropped the tissues into the waste paper bin and hurried behind her desk, using it as a barrier between us. She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair and furiously attempted to pull it on, anger making her movements clumsy. As she struggled, I decided to try the gentlemanly approach again by holding he jacket's collar to help her on with it. She wrenched away from me again, her voice shrill and bordering on hysteria, close enough to tears, I thought.

"I said don't touch me!" she shrieked, turning to face me, her eyes blazing, her cheeks flushed hotly. I decided to use my male rationale to defuse her feminine volatility; to put her in her place, deflect those misplaced emotions. It had always worked when she was a teenager.

"Don't be so childish" I soothed, straightening her lapels, brushing one of the loose strands of hair back from her face.

Her cheeks turned deathly pale. This was a bad sign. Red, flushed cheeks indicate anger, sure, but they also denote an inner emotional conflict, the old 'fight or flight' question. A white face was a sign of emotional determination. The white face is to be avoided, because that's the face from which violence will surely follow.

And it did. Hard. Across my left cheek and onto my upper lip. I almost felt tears spring to my eyes. Game or no game, I was feeling angry now. Angry and…. shocked. Shocked that she'd had the balls to actually hit me without me telling her to.

Obviously my look of surprise did something to her, maybe released all the pent-up tension. She giggled. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another giggle, almost in shock herself at what she'd done. But then she was laughing hysterically – howling, tears rolling down her cheeks, leaning against the wall, scrunching her precious sales chart behind her.

Laughter. Directed at me. Not with me. At me. Now I felt my cheeks cooling, despite the sting of her blow remaining. I must've bitten the inside of my mouth too, because I could taste the faint tang of blood. I hadn't felt anger like this for a long, long time. And never before directed at a woman to this extent. She'd be sorry she'd done that, game or no game. If she expected me to laugh along with her, she had another think coming.

I coolly slipped my jacket off and slung it casually over the back of my chair, then loosened my collar. I'd have rolled my sleeves up too, but that would look theatrically ridiculous. I felt my jaw clench and my forehead furrow as I advanced very slowly, but very deliberately towards her, stepping slightly to left and right to cut off and moves she made in that direction.

She was holding her arms out now, Canute-like, as though this would hold me back. The smile had gone from her face, the laughter had dried up as swiftly as her inane greeting a few minutes ago had done. She began to back away, her progress abruptly halted by the filing cabinets. I'm sure she'd have scuttled up it backwards, spider-like, if she could have done.

"I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that...," she babbled, pressing back against the filing cabinets. I stood stock still in front of her, saying nothing, staring hard at her. I noticed her bravado visibly evaporating as she swallowed, saw her legs trembling. Good. She was scared.

I looked her up and down, appraising her, making it clear that my interest was physical but not emotional; that her qualifications and position within her company, her business skills meant absolutely nothing to me. She was a woman who'd gone too far and needed to be punished. And she knew it.

I raised my voice just a notch, kept my voice even, authoritative.

"Turn around, slowly".

"W-what? Why?" she stammered. Questioning me eh? She'd obviously forgotten the rules of the game.

I gave a slight sigh, to indicate my disappointment in her. "Don't make me ask again. Turn around, a full circle, slowly."

She did as she was told and turned round, slowly. I appraised her once again. Apart from her jacket being open, she looked every inch the professional businesswoman.

Very calmly and even – sweetly – I said: "Nice suit. Get it from 'Bitches R Us' did you?"

She looked at me, her face blank. She was obviously worried at my anger, but probably thought I'd directed it into mere verbal insults. Oh dear. She had forgotten a lot.

"It seems you've been climbing the corporate ladder and learnt a few dirty tricks along the way," I said, matter-of-factly now, keeping my anger under control, channelling it, using it, as a good player should. "Let's see what else you've learnt."

Before she could react I pounced on her, one hand grabbing her jacket lapel and slamming her back against the filing cabinets, knocking the breath out of her. I buried my other hand in her hair and wrenched her head back, banging it loudly against the cabinet. Not hard enough to stun her or to make her see stars, but enough to make her open her pretty mouth to exclaim pain. That was my opening - literally.

I lunged forward and crushed my lips to hers, thinking to myself that hers were moist and soft, whereas mine were dry, as though her slap and the resulting anger had drained all the moisture from my face, let alone the blood. I pressed on, her sweet soft lips forced aside. I tasted blood again, but whether it was hers or mine, I couldn't say. But if I could taste it, then so could she and that was satisfying. It would be a clear signal that I was playing for keeps.

My tongue burrowed into her mouth, subjugating her tongue in an instant, forcing it down, tasting her, invading her.

Did you know that a tongue can be the greatest weapon in a situation like this? It can be far more invasive than a cock and infinitely more flexible. Use it properly and a woman can feel either truly loved and explored, or used and violated.

Guess which effect I was aiming for?

My other hand released her lapel and slipped under her jacket, grabbing the nearest breast, squeezing it hard and pinching the nipple through the material of her blouse and bra, bullying it into painful hardness. It didn't need much coaxing and was the perfect indicator of what she really felt. Sure, her whole body might be resisting me, her hands ineffectually pushing against my chest, her muscles tensed, but deep down – and not so deep either – she was responding to my assault, to my very touch. The barrier she had so carefully built up after three years was collapsing as easily as a brick wall with insufficient mortar.

My hand released her breast and plunged down to her skirt, yanking it up high, hard enough to hear the stitches in the seam protest. I forced my left leg, knee first, between her legs and kicked them apart, using my knee and my foot in equal measure. Now I dropped my hand down to her crotch, feeling her panties. Interestingly they weren't plain cotton or functional, as my kneading of her breast had deduced about her bra, they were satin, with small frills. So, she still liked to retain some femininity close to her skin, did she? And for whose benefit was that?

My anger rose again, sending blood pumping into my groin, hardening me, emboldening me further. I dug my fingers into her clit, thrusting the silky material into her, moving it backwards, forwards, up and down. I could feel the spasm of pleasure tingle through her body, feel her rigid muscles relaxing. Even the taste in her mouth changed subtly, overriding the presence of blood. Now she was returning my kisses, her lips brushing mine, her tongue eagerly seeking entry into my mouth, a moan escaping her as her panties began to moisten around my fingers and her juices were released. Her arms were now encircling me, her long fingers squeezing my arms, nails digging into the flesh through my shirt, all of this combining to spur me on further….

No. No! NO! This was too soon, too easy, too fucking romantic. Where was the challenge in this? For either of us? What game were we playing here?

With great effort I pulled back from her hungry mouth, then ran my tongue up her now flushed cheek to her ear, gently licking the blood-engorged lobe, feeling her writhe and sigh gratefully as I nuzzled her.

"So who've you fucked to get this office?" I queried, nodding my head in the general direction of her desk.

She stiffened, her eyes wide and mouth open, incredulous. I could almost feel her juices stop flowing as though someone had turned off the tap. Or flicked a switch in her whole body.

"Well you for a start" she snapped eyes blazing, pushing me away hard. "And you're fucked again now. You'll never get thiscontract!"

Although I was releasing my grip on her already, once again I was surprised at just how strong and determined her anger had made her and I rocked on my heels as she shoved me back. She was almost past me, heading for the door. She was fast, that was for sure.

But not fast enough.

I grabbed her wrist, twisting it slightly, the sudden pain stopping her in her tracks and allowing me to spin her round to face me. Quick as a flash, I let go of her wrist, swinging her arm down to her side, grabbed her lapels with both hands and wrenched her jacket down over her shoulders, down her arms, pinning them behind her as I intended.

She started to protest, to make threats but I simply held her eyes in my stare, smiled and kicked her feet away, slamming her down onto her desk, her symbol of power in this, her territory. Another violation and very effective at that. Papers scattered onto the floor, her in-tray clattering as it expelled its contents, the telephone dinging slightly as it hung by its wire, clattering against the side of the desk, the receiver dislodged.

In an instant I was there, pushing her legs apart to allow me to stand over her. She was struggling to sit up, but I pushed her down, savouring the moment. Before she could react further, I grabbed her blouse, and with one savage wrench, ripped it open, the buttons flying across the office, making satisfying ptink noises on the wall, against the filing cabinets and onto the floor.