The Sweet Taste of Innocence Ch. 03

To all my readers: I would like to apologize for taking so long in posting this chapter. Some things came up that resulted in not having internet. I hope this new chapter was worth the wait and I assure you chapter four is well under way.

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Michael tried to focus on his work, but the figures in front of him just seemed to melt into one black, blotchy mess. Out of the chaos emerged an image; a perfect replica of the strange woman's face, or at least as perfect as he could remember it. How could he be so entranced by one human being? What was it about this female that seemed so different than the others he had taken? It was enough to drive him half-way to madness. He flung the papers down onto the desk out of frustration.

Punching the button on his desk, he spoke into his little speaker. "Stacy, would you come in here a minute?" A moment's silence crackled over the intercom before her voice responded, thick with lust. "Be right there, Mr. Sanchez."

He resisted the urge to cringe in disgust at the sound of her overly eager voice. 'What a whore,' he thought as the door creaked open and the afore-mentioned whore walked in. Her steps were on the verge of bouncing, causing her over-sized breasts to bob within the minimal confines of her blouse, tugging at the restraining material. Her hips swayed a little too determinedly in her tight black skirt that barely covered her round ass. Her slick, tan legs crossed with each step, as if she was strutting in as a queen.

Michael glared at her over the desk, twirling a pen in his fingers. She came close and sat on the edge of the desk, her skirt coming up, revealing the string of her panties. She drew abstract images with her finger tip on the desk-top as she curled her over-painted lips into a seductive smile and her eyes, half-closed, stared at him.

"You rang?" Her voice grated on his ears, but he needed some form of release so he could finish the day's work without incident. He continued glaring at her, letting tension build before his hand suddenly flashed out, jabbing her hip with the sharp tip of his pen. Letting out a little screech of surprise and horror, Stacy jumped off the desk and backed up a bit. She rubbed the offended portion of her body, staring at him in disbelief.

"Strip," he commanded in a low voice. She huffed as if insulted, but her eyes changed from offended to a glinting satisfaction as she began unbuttoning her blouse, her breasts all but spilling out of the scrap of fabric she had the nerve to call a bra. This she unclasped at the front and let it fall on top of her blouse. As her breasts flung free of their prison, she reached up, massaging them slowly, her eyes closing as she lifted one unnaturally swollen mound to her lips, running her tongue over the nipple, pulling it into her mouth with a moan as she teased the other with her thumb.

Michael growled with impatience and Stacy opened her eyes slowly, smirking as she lifted her skirt just enough to hook the strings of her panties, pulling them off, but making sure to keep her pussy hidden from him. Finally sick of the whore's games, Michael rose, walking slowly toward her for effect. She continued smiling, standing there as if to defy him. Only when his hand flew out, tangling tightly in her hair and yanking on it harshly did the fear finally register in her eyes. However, it was only a brief flicker as he pressed her tight against the desk, burying his face between her monstrous breasts, licking, kissing, and suckling along the sensitive flesh.

Without even an attempt at foreplay, he yanked his belt open and let his pants fall a little, his already eager cock jumping up. Stacy reached down, curling her manicured fingers around the stiff member, stroking it gently, her eyes sparking with determination. Michael groaned and quickly swatted her hand away, wrenching her legs open. He plunged into her, covering her mouth at the last minute to muffle her cry of pain. He grunted as she bit his hand, but other than that, paid her no mind as he began thrusting in and out, dragging his cock through her body as if she were nothing more than an item of pleasure, meant to bring him what he needed.

It only took him a moment to finish with her and leave her gasping, and on the verge of tears. He re-fastened his pants and looked out the window. While his body's appetite had momentarily been sated, his mind still yearned for that stranger and so, in utter defeat, he muttered to have Stacy close up the office early; he was going home.

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Emma looked dejectedly into the mirror as Charles fussed in the background, plucking and rejecting item after item from her closet. She rolled her eyes turning her rolling stool around to face him. He'd been rifling through her wardrobe for the past twenty minutes with no luck and her dresser sat dejectedly in the corner, a rumpled heap of dark hues reflecting her professional personality. Unfortunately, that made it a perfect target for Charles' off-the-wall fashion "advice".

"Now where did it go," the muffled voice of the desperate editor came from the closet. Emma tilted her head, furrowing her brow in question. "I know you had it in here. I saw it just last month when we went to that benefit dinner with the editor in chief."

That was the advantage and disadvantage to being part of a small company; everybody knew everybody. You didn't do anything without someone hearing about it and spreading it across the entire floor. Emma loved the tight-knit effect of family with the space of a career to keep meddlers out of her life, for the most part. Charles seemed to be the one exception, but it was a distraction she rather appreciated at times. Although, at the moment, as he backed out of her closet, clutching something tightly as if he had found Jason's Golden Fleece, she questioned just what about the man made her feel so close to him.

The article he had secured was, indeed, gold, but not nearly as humble as a golden pelt. Charles held up the gown and Emma groaned, remembering the man who had bought it for her; a rather self-adoring upper-class prick who had been the master-mind behind a lot of the flashy dresses and jewelry she had collected and later thrown away. Apparently she had missed a piece.

"You can't be serious," she said, half begging him to laugh and throw the dress aside as if he had meant it as a cruel jab. However, he laid it out on the bed, motioning for her to adorn it as he scooted her away from the vanity and began rummaging through her drawers for suitable accessories. Cringing as if the garment would bite her, Emma snatched it loathingly and headed for her bathroom.

The fabric slid over her hips like liquid gold and hugged her form as if caressing it. As much as she hated admitting it, she felt down-right sexy as she stood before her full length mirror, turning to see the dipping back that left much of her skin visible. The neckline fell low in a V-neck, exaggerating her cleavage and enhancing the size of her average breasts. The gown tapered down with her torso into her waist and back out into her hips, accentuating her hour-glass figure. Though the gown swished across the floor, there was a long slit that came up the right side to about her mid-thigh, making elegant movement still a possibility rather than a thing of the past.

Ducking under her sink for a brief moment, Emma pulled up an old, scarred box. Flipping it open, she pulled out a string of pearls her great grandmother had given her on her sixteenth birthday, and a matching pair of droplet earrings. After fastening all the jewelry into place, she took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom into the soft lamplight of her bedroom where Charles' sudden shock was almost palpable.

Emma felt heat rush to her cheeks as she did a little pirouette to show off their craftsmanship. Slowly, her friend rose to walk towards her and run a finger over the pearls at her throat. He fingered the earrings just as gently and then let his gaze wander down her figure, taking in every curve, every softened edge. Emma clasped her hands together and lifted them up to rest under her chin, as if hiding her body behind her forearms and fists.

"C'mon, Charlie," she said, a nervous laugh spilling over her lips. "You're going to have me convinced you switched teams."

Charles shook his head to clear it and looked into her eyes. "You are the kind of woman who just might change a man," he half-joked back. Emma blushed darker and Charles offered his hand to lead her to the vanity to help her with her hair and makeup. Half an hour later, they were rushing out the door to catch a cab and make their date.

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The dining room was dazzling, Emma thought as she followed the gentlemen into the room, mentally clinging to Charles' hand, but being forced to ride on the arm of some middle-aged man who smelled like cigar smoke and smoked fish. A nauseating combination, Emma noted, trying desperately not to wrinkle her nose. As they sat, she became even more aware of this man's demeaning personality as he went so far as to order her drink for her. She shot an annoyed look at Charles who simply shrugged subtly and made a slight flipping motion with his thumb as if turning the pages of a book.

"So, Miss Perry," the gentleman, Mr. Dodd, said, his nasally voice scraping against her ears, "I have read the sample my brother brought me and I think you really have great potential."

Emma took a breath as he jumped right to business, setting aside any need for formalities that she had been dreading. "Yes, sir," she answered, unfolding her napkin and settling it into her lap in one fluid, elegant motion. "The whole basis for the plot is that-"

"That is not important," Mr. Dodd snorted, literally waving away her comment with a pudgy hand. "What is important is how well you grasp the attention of your readers; both male and female. The women may be concerned with your petty story line of tragic love, but the men will be reading it for the sex. They will want it to be as raunchy as possible. Without that, you lose half of your reader base, and that, my dear, is not acceptable."

Emma stared at him in disbelief. Was he honestly telling her that her writing might be insufficient? She tried not to be indignant as she nodded, chewing the inside of her lip. "So, less love, more lust?" she queried, trying to look like a humble author. She was not ready to take the groveling approach yet, and as such, tried once more to get her word in. "I just like to get a good story line in behind the sex. Most people who take the time to read an erotic novel are not just reading it to know who fucked who. They want-"

He again raised his fat hand in dismissal. "Trust me dear, I know what I'm talking about. There is a reason I do this professionally and you are still only a columnist."

Raising her brows in utter disgust and inability to absorb what was being said, Emma turned her gaze to Charles, boring into him with absolute hatred. She rose slowly, her knees shaking, but her figure otherwise perfectly composed. Her voice was deadly even, flat, and low as she spoke to the gentlemen. "Please excuse me. I must find a restroom."

Charles tried to speak, but Emma rose her hand against it, trying not to lash out at him right then. She saw the defeat in his eyes and knew he knew what was coming later that night. She walked away, her head held high, her body moving in a heated, fluid motion that reflected her anger, but channeled it into a power she needed right then.

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Sitting at the bar, Michael scoped out the evening's selection of possible women. He had left his office to go home, but ended up wandering into the business district and by that time, his stomach was rumbling. He had enjoyed his dinner for the most part, and was now sipping a scotch to try and help him think of how to deal with this stranger. A joyful babble hummed across the dining room and the flicker of thousands of candles warmed the atmos-phere as did the two rather large crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. The plush, red carpet softened the sound of every footstep, except that of the heels of women parading around the room.

He sighed in defeat as he turned in his seat to stare down into his drink. The bartender, a lovely young lady looking to be in her mid-twenties, kept a close eye on him, her smile never wavering and her hand fast to refill his glass. He smiled at her as she served him yet again, knowing she understood how his type generally worked; the more alcohol in their system, the bigger the tip. In salute to her entrepreneurship and genius manipulation of his kind's bad habits, he raised his glass. She nodded her response and he went back to his hunched over position after downing his drink.

The soft click of heels against the bar stool next to his caused him to look over, seeing the perfect ankles wrapped in white leather that formed straps around the pale flesh of the gracefully arched foot. Gold material sashayed around these goddess ankles and he found himself following its cascading tide up the well-toned thighs, to the tiny waist, around the sculpted bust, resting for a moment on a hand which was completely bare save white tips of a French manicure. One hand trembled as it opened a little white clutch, and then snapped it nervously shut again.

"An apple martini, please," a shaky voice shot out hoarsely. The voice seemed starkly contrasted to the otherwise sophisticated air of this Grecian princess. Michael raised his gaze to her face. Her golden curls rolled over her shoulders, embracing the exposed portions of her flesh. Her skin glowed naturally, and her deliciously plump lips were a simple dusty rose with a shine of gloss. Her eyes were the same vibrant green of the martini the bartender slid across to her and seemed to snap with impatience and some form of indignation.

It took Michael a moment to make the connection, but suddenly, it was there; an image of the woman from the elevator, sitting right next to him, only slightly changed to be better suited to her new environment. He was so startled, he almost didn't realize he was staring, until those stunning green eyes turned on him, the fire in them almost audibly crackling with tension. It was easy to tell she was upset about something and for some reason, he felt he cared.

Reaching out, he put his hand over hers and smiled in his usual charming manner. "Tonight's on me," he said, his voice low, sultry, trying to calm and tame the fire in her eyes. It worked a little better than he thought it would as the flame instantly sputtered out, leaving behind a deflated woman who seemed lost in this flashy world of money and power.

"Thanks," the girl answered, her voice softening from its earlier harshness as she circled the rim of her yet untouched glass with her fingertip. He watched the motion, his mind wandering shamefully to how else such a gentle touch could be utilized. "I guess I didn't realize that to be moved up in the world would mean renouncing my own name and what I really strive to work for."

Michael knew one of the keys to seducing a woman was to try paying her attention, so he looked into her lovely shamrock green eyes again, seeing more depth there than he had ever seen in a woman. This was not some business floozy who took advantage of generous men like himself, knowing that it would only end in an agreement to keep her husband in the dark. This woman, no, this girl, was different. She was nothing more than a child, being caught up and flung around in the corporate world unless she somehow managed to find her footing and put down a firm foundation. From the sounds of it, she was being drug along in a ride that was controlled by men that intended to take this lovely bird of paradise and cage her up, putting her on display for others to see and admire, based on their conditions.

Oh, god, what a ravishing display that would be, he thought to himself, his vision getting cloudy as he fought to pay attention to what she said. She had gone into some story of her hobby being stolen and twisted into something for profit. Her lips moved in slow, deliberate motion as she presented her case to an invisible jury, trying to justify keeping her work original and part of her beliefs, but knowing this was her one big shot.

"You don't have to defend yourself around me," Michael finally got out, stopping her mid-sentence. She looked up, as if surprised he was still there, much more-so that he was actually listening, or at least as far as she could tell. "I know how these old bastards work. I know, because I have often been on their side, fighting alongside them, but let me be the first to tell you that they will sell out their own kind to the highest bidder, first chance they get. It doesn't matter how valuable an asset the person was before that time." He wasn't sure what made him say these things, except the fact that he spoke truth. It was good to finally have someone from the outside to listen to him. This girl seemed to understand that things were tough all around, not just at the bottom. "Do yourself a favor, kid," Michael said, shocking even himself at the sincerity in his voice, "Stay away from the big guys. Keep doing what you're doing and don't let anyone steal it from you. It's purely you and that is the strongest asset you can have against the beast. Don't give in."