2 comments/ 18561 views/ 1 favorites The Allure of Denial By: FigureNine This may sound cliché, but you'll just have to deal with it. (I work in media, which is often about recycling and reusing old ideas – clichés – that have worked well in the past. And if they worked then, they'll work now. Times change, people don't. Think I'm wrong? Take a look at my car, my Gold Coast condo, and my stock portfolio and you'll see just how wrong I am.) But like I was saying... I knew I wanted her as soon as I saw her. No, "want" is too weak a word. I had to have her. I had to dominate her – to possess her entirely, even if only for a time. And I'm not the type of man who tries to screw every woman he meets. Actually, I can be picky. So that should tell you, right from the get-go, that for me to pursue her means that she must be special. And she is. But don't ever tell her I said so. I don't kid myself. I know that when women fuck me, they aren't really fucking me. They're fucking an idea – my success or prestige. I've learned to accept this, and even appreciate it. (There's a kind of moral freedom in knowing that you're using a woman and that she's using you right back. The only intimate relationship that could be more open and understood is a prostitute and her John.) I'm not sure I'd be successful with women at all if I weren't so successful career-wise. But there's one type of woman who I have a hunter's instinct for – who I'd score with even if I was dirt poor. That woman is the submissive. Like I said, I work in media, and everyone in this industry has to schmooze. A lot of it happens on the clock (as if I've ever had to "clock in" a day in my life), but at parties we can all let our hair down a bit, get a few drinks in, and hope we don't say anything too personal about ourselves. (I should make it clear right here that this industry is full of gossip queens. Nearly everyone around me – in the office, at company events, at parties – is obsessed with gossip the way your average Joe is with reality TV or porn. So the advice that's often given, but rarely followed, is: if you don't want something known in this business, don't tell anyone. I'm one of the few people I know in the industry who can actually keep something to himself.) And it was just such a party where I met her, three months ago. It was a typical shindig at Sasha's loft – (you know the kind of place; all sterile white walls covered with modern art) – and all the usual faces were there. Michael, who I first met at a meeting a couple weeks before Project Anvil started, showed up with this stunning woman on his arm – this hot Asian (Korean, I later found out) in her mid 20's with an awesome body. If I didn't know Michael was married, I would have guessed he hired one of those classy escorts who charge five figures just to shake hands. She certainly dressed to kill, wearing a tasteful-sexy slinky dress – a strapless job that hugs the body just right – and impossibly tall high heels. Her hair looked like it was just done by some River North fag stylist – nicely highlighted with the bangs framing her delicate face. I have to say, though, that aside from her killer looks, there was something more to her that attracted me. Have you ever had the experience where you've seen a girl who wasn't all that much to look at, but the way she carried herself made her so alluring that you couldn't help but want to fuck her sore? Well, this girl had the looks and that je ne sais quoi. And it wasn't overt; it was nuanced – a turn of the head, a smile, a shift of posture... all of it oozing raw sexuality. It was the kind of subtlety that I have a talent for noticing, and that she has a talent for communicating. Before she'd even gotten her coat off I had the impulse to force feed her my cock. I made it a personal challenge to speak to her. Luckily, Michael left her to her own devices while he schmoozed. But still, it wasn't easy to get her alone; she floated from person to person, talking each up with well-practiced grace. She didn't look at me, but I know how these Asian girls are – they'd rather drink their own piss than lock gazes with someone they don't know. I noticed that she was nursing a mixed drink, but as the evening wore on she became more giggly and free with her movement. When I gabbed with someone, I made sure to face in her direction – looking over Hank's or Stefan's or Stefan's wife's shoulder – watching and waiting for my chance to get near her. There's a moment of impulsiveness that I relish. It happens when I'm apprehensive about doing something, but the circumstances line up so elegantly, so perfectly, that it takes almost no effort to act. It happens almost subconsciously in a state of hazy excitement, like the first time you slip it inside your high school girlfriend, both of you agreeing wordlessly. I had one of these moments with her. I was jawing with a project manager when I noticed her going to the bar, her glass empty. My glass had been dry for a couple minutes too, so I excused myself and made my way over. (I forgot to check my appearance in the restroom, but I was pretty sure I looked good.) She pretended not to notice me when I stood next to her, but I'm well aware of women's protocol. My instincts took over – all excitement and determination – and I inserted myself into her life. "I'm Vince," I said, affecting a warm grin and seductive gaze. She delicately took my outstretched hand and returned the smile. If I had any misgivings about her hidden character, they all melted away when I felt her hand offering no resistance. I immediately wanted to feel the soft skin of her fingers wrapped around my dick; make her jerk it, my hand firmly around hers, guiding her movements; kiss her mouth harder than she cared to be kissed... "I know Michael from work," I said. She introduced herself as So-Yeon. Her personality was reserved and pleasant, the kind any guy would want his wife to have. But despite this, I picked up on her subtleties like a fucking bloodhound. See, I can smell out submissives. To anyone else, her expression would have said, It's a pleasure to meet you. To me, it said, Take me... use me for your enjoyment. Maybe she didn't always send out these signals in such risky circumstances (I could've hit her husband with a blue cheese olive, he was so close), but later I learned that she gets tipsy easily, and she had a couple in her already. Now, a lot of college kids and old virgins will tell you that the dominant–submissive relationship is sexist, immoral. I say bullshit. Many women choose to be submissive; it's the only way they can be truly gratified sexually (even if it means denying them gratification, as it often does). In this kind of relationship, both parties get what they want. And don't give me that "no means no" crap. When a submissive says no, she and I both understand that it means "Yes!" It means, "Treat me like the whore I am. Slap my face and hate fuck me until you're satisfied and I'm left wanting more." But don't be fooled. You can't just force yourself on a submissive – at least not at first. You have to feel her out and maneuver your way in; a lot of game-playing and balancing acts are necessary. When she's ready to take the plunge, she'll let you know. And if you miss that opportunity, you'll be going home alone again, jerking off to fantasies of what could have been. I chatted So-Yeon up, talking about my career accomplishments without sounding like a blow-hard. I held my body in a way that looked natural and relaxed, but emphasized my physical strength. (My trainer could live modestly with just me as a client.) I treated her respectfully, of course, but shaped my language to communicate that I was the one in control. She followed all my cues perfectly. After a few minutes of smalltalk laced with intense eye contact, she said, "You look like the type of man who knows how to treat a woman the right way." "Some women like to be treated differently than others," I said, grinning crookedly. "How do you think women like to be treated?" I pretended to ruminate over an answer. "The type of woman I prefer likes to give to her man. She makes sure that his needs," emphasis here, "are satisfied." "Yes," she said, and looked up at me with an expression that bordered on anticipation. "A woman should serve her man." I nodded slowly. "And she should be an object of desire," I said, almost whispered. So-Yeon and I didn't have much reason to be nervous about others overhearing us. Like I said, these industry types are all gossipers; they were too busy yapping to even notice her and me speaking. Besides, by appearances, it looked like we were just having a friendly conversation. Just two regular adults at a party, shooting the shit, probably gossiping, ourselves. We had them fooled. "'An object of desire'..? Do you view women as objects?" she asked. Would you believe me if I said that her expression was hopeful? You should... "Some," I said meaningfully. My eyes grinned over my martini. An intense silence followed – the best kind, like the moment right before rain pours down in buckets, when the air is heavy with the inevitable. I was so hard that I had to shift my posture. Of course, I never gave any hint that I was that turned on. I played it real cool, showing that I was fully in control of everything – my emotions, my body language, and, most of all, her. And I was in control. Don't believe me? Listen on... "You know, I've never told anyone this before." She stole a glance to make sure her husband wasn't watching, "but I have fantasies of being... objectified." If she hadn't been so high on G&T's, she probably wouldn't have opened this door quite so soon. I had to choose my words carefully – too much force and she'd pull back (no matter how buzzed she was); too little, and I'd give the impression that I wasn't serious. When I told her to elaborate, she said that she had an orgasm denial fantasy. Very hot stuff. Right away, I began envisioning how I'd fulfill it. I posed the problem that it might be difficult to find ways to fuck her without making her cum. (Yes, I am that good.) To this she said, "It's not so hard to fuck me without giving me an orgasm. I don't really cum unless my clit is touched, so if you don't do that, you can fuck me as long as you like and I won't cum. It's very frustrating." She punctuated with a seductive smile. That, and her saying "you," instead of the hypothetical "someone," had me really wound up. My cock was throbbing. I wanted to take her right then and there, do her real hard, pull her hair a little too roughly. I'm sure my gaze communicated this. And I'm sure she was receptive despite her cool, business woman slash good wife demeanor. Like I said, I can pick up on this stuff; and I could see in her eyes that sharing these fantasies got her wet. Unfortunately, I'd spent so much of the evening stalking her, that by the time our conversation was really getting good, her husband (along with the rest of the first wave of party deserters) decided it was time to leave. He came up to us, smiled cheerfully at me, and let her know. I flashed So-Yeon a seductive grin when he wasn't looking – one that said, "You and I have unfinished business..." She returned the sentiment with a look. I imagined her going home, slipping into the bathroom while Michael watched ESPN, and masturbating in the shower to conjured images of her and me fucking. I thought about doing the same, or calling one of my old stand-by's for a late night quickie. But I reveled in the suspense of it all. In fact, I decided not to fuck or jerk off until it was with her. When I would finally blow my load on her face or tits or deep inside her cunt, it would be a gift. My gift to her and her alone. Do I feel bad about making advances on a colleague's wife? No, and I'll tell you why. I know how these media execs like Michael are – everything is appearances. Chances were good that he married So-Yeon because she looks good in a dress and heels (as well as out of them) and speaks articulately. In a word, she makes him look good. It's a relationship of mutual benefit (although, to be honest, I'm not sure what she gets out of the deal besides a well-to-do husband – he doesn't look like he could give it to her the way I can). There's nothing sacred about their marriage. And if it's not sacred, then why treat it like it is? I've been in this situation before and felt not a lick of remorse. I'll do it again, too. But don't assume that just because I'm saying this I'm not a caring and compassionate person. I am... but I'll justify that some other time. I played it real cool around the office. I didn't ask when the next party would be (you already know about the gossip queens – they'd put two and two together in the blink of an eye); but I made sure to listen closely when someone brought up the subject. Three weeks later, Stefan told me that there was gonna be a project wrap-up party at Room 25, one of the local hot spots for industry types. I asked if Michael would be there. "Yeah, he should be." I went back into my office and smiled like the cat that ate the fucking canary. ******* I was real busy with work, so I didn't spend too much time fantasizing about So-Yeon (which was good – like I said, I wanted to save my load for her). She would pop into my head at the damnedest times – in the car, on the eliptical, at the spa... I imagined doing all these amazingly hot things to her, and her loving it all. I had a unique feeling during those three weeks, like I knew I was going to experience something new and exciting. I'm no artist, but I imagine that this is what one feels like when he has this itch to get something down on the canvas or staff paper or word processor; he isn't sure what the end product will be, but the vibe he feels tells him it'll be incredible. I had this fresh, electric sensation, like the first time I knew I was going to get laid. I didn't fall into any of my somber moods, either; I felt full of potential energy – a sledgehammer about to drop. The party rolled around, and I made sure to be even more sharply dressed than usual. So-Yeon arrived on Michael's arm wearing a red top under a black jacket, a miniskirt, and stockings and heels (of course). Our eyes met, but she turned away almost immediately. I thought it was cute. She could get away with that for now, but soon enough she'd be obeying me like a good slut, doing whatever I told her to. I worked my way over to her by the middle of the evening. She wasn't drinking much this time, but that didn't stop her from picking up where we left off. When we were out of earshot, she told me that she'd been thinking about me. I didn't tell her that she was the only thing on my mind whenever I'd had a moment to myself... that would be giving her too much power. "Tell me what you've been thinking about," I said. She brushed a lock of hair from her face. "The next day, after the last party," she began, "I felt so nervous I when I realized that I'd shared so much with you. I was a little tipsy," she said with a sweetly deferential smile. "I don't usually share those kinds of things with anyone. You know how this industry is..." She gave me a knowing grin; I returned it in kind. "But..." She paused, looking away for a moment. "But what..?" "But I realized after a moment that the nervousness was only on the surface," she said, looking me in the face again, "and that underneath I felt, for some reason, like I could trust you." I nodded, not affirming or denying. It's not like I'd ever tell her she couldn't trust me, but if she were a little unsure, that would just add to the thrill. "I also realized that I liked sharing my fantasies, especially with a man who I don't know anything about." She bit her lower lip just a little. "And I decided that I wanted to tell you more..." I can't begin to describe how I felt at this moment. It was almost better than sex or the anticipation of it. I encouraged her to go on, of course. She told me a story about how she developed breasts (considerable ones for an Asian) early in school, and how the other girls teased her. "I always acted real offended, but actually it turned me on," she said, fingering the rim of her cocktail glass . "There was something exciting about it." That led to telling me about her fantasies of being objectified as an Asian. How she liked the idea of fulfilling the stereotype of submissive Korean girl. I, of course, already understood all this instinctively, but listening to her tell me – confide in me – was a serious turn on. I urged her to continue, and she was happy to comply. "One time," she explained, "an ex-boyfriend told me, when he was really drunk, to suck him. I wouldn't. He said that I should be submissive and accept his cock like a good girl since I was Asian – and Asian girls know how to obey. I think I should have been offended about that, but the next morning I woke him up with a blowjob instead." She shot me a smile that could given even one of those blocky 1950's robots a hardon. "I can't really explain why I felt like that." Something occurred to me at this point. I'd had this creeping feeling that, despite her openness, So-Yeon was hiding something. After a moment I realized what it was. She wasn't telling me about her fantasies of objectification, but rather things that had actually happened to her. Even when she told me about her orgasm denial fantasy last time, she didn't go into detail about how she wanted it fulfilled. I pointed this out. "Objectification..." she said ponderously. "It's elusive for me." She looked at me; I sensed extreme vulnerability, want, and... something else. The pieces lined up at that moment, and I understood it all. (And I have to say that I was disappointed in myself for not seeing this sooner – live and learn.) The reason she wasn't detailing her fantasies is because... wait for it... she wanted me to take control of them. You see, she was looking for a counterpart to submit to completely – someone to give all the power to. If she had a fantasy fulfilled – even if it was the most debasing, dehumanizing one imaginable – she would still hold on to a little bit of the power, because it would be "her" fantasy. Someone else would be helping her fulfill it, would be in service to her. No, she didn't want a partner; she wanted a master. Someone who would understand her and be able to realize her fantasies – and, more importantly, his own – without her having to define them. Did she understand all this consciously? My feeling is that she didn't, that this was a subconscious desire she'd never put into words and maybe never even thought about. It was uncharted territory for her, and she needed a strong and assertive guide to see her through it. That's where I came in. Believe me, I was more than willing to fulfill both of our fantasies. But still, I didn't let it show. Well, maybe I let it show in my eyes, my body language; but by not saying anything I was holding on to the power just as she secretly wanted. Yeah, I could've pulled her into a dark hallway or room and stuck it in her, but it would have been less gratifying than drawing out the anticipation. Also, if she was gonna be a good whore for me, she'd have to risk more. And that was part of both of our fantasies. Before we realized it, the night was over. Michael came to whisk her away from me. (Again, he had no clue.) I wished her a good night and a safe trip home. My expression told her, again, that this wasn't over. Hers told me that she got the message loud and clear. ******* Since Project Anvil was nearly done, I had more time to myself. This meant I had more time to think about So-Yeon (which I sometimes had to force myself not to do) before the next party. The Allure of Denial Luckily, I didn't have to wait as long as last time. Anvil would be out of the post-production houses in a week and the finished product ready to be presented to the entertainment company brass. The screening party was held at the studio in my building; a really nice space – kind of industrial chic. All the project execs were invited, even from out of town. I've been to a mess of these kinds of events. Basically, my company shows the final edit, and the party becomes a back-patting orgy with lots of expensive champagne and hors d'oeuvres. It's prime schmoozing ground; those on their way up the corporate ladder make contacts, and those at the top show off their success. (I'm a lot closer to the top than the bottom, myself.) Nobody working on Anvil would even consider not going to a party like this. That meant Michael would show. And where Michael makes an appearance, so does So-Yeon. It was a more-or-less formal event, so I bought a new suit. Bringing a date would have been appropriate, but not too practical, considering what I had planned. The studio is normally lit up with these huge, too-bright lights, but it was toned down for the evening. A visual artist projected images onto the walls and manipulated them, giving the dimly-lit space a sense of movement. Some very tame dance music was played just loudly enough to be noticed, but not enough to be intrusive. There was an ice sculpture of a nude woman, her leg propped on the capital of a ruined column. She held a pitcher, its mouth tilted downward. Champagne dribbled continuously out of the pitcher, down her thigh, and off her foot, where guests could fill their glasses. A good conversation piece. Michael and So-Yeon showed up about twenty minutes after I did. She wore a wine red dress with stylish lines and an asymmetrical hem that flirted with her calves. The shoulder straps accentuated her perfect skin. I imagined biting her and leaving a nice mark the same color as her dress. Sometime later, when she was alone, I made my way over. I gave her a look that I save for gallery owners and car salesmen trying to dick me around on price. It's a look that says, "I'm in charge." "I knew you'd be here," I said. "I would have come even if I were told not to," she replied. "You know what's gonna happen tonight, don't you..?" "Yes," she said. I could see her pulse beating under the skin of her neck. "This is what you're gonna do," I said. "When the film is about to start, make an excuse to leave for a couple minutes and go to the west hallway. I'll be there." The champagne flute in her hand trembled almost imperceptibly. Beyond her cool exterior, I saw eagerness. "Tell me you understand." "I understand." I grinned wickedly and walked away. I made my rounds, chatting with other producers and a bunch of the project execs. They must have smelled the excitement on me, because I was tossed around like a beach ball; one person would introduce me to another, who'd introduce me to another, and so on. Some of the women I met were very fuckable. I flirted a little with the attractive ones, priming them for the next time we'd meet. Even though I was in the zone and being charming as hell, my heart wasn't in it – there was only one woman for me that night. It was getting close to 9:30, show time, and I excused myself from my present company, saying I was off to hit the head real quick before the screening. I left my champagne flute on a server's tray and made for the restrooms, angling away at the last moment down another hallway. The west hallway leads to the guts of the building, where all the production equipment is stored. Aside from the couple interns manning the projector in the studio, nobody technical would be here on a Saturday night. It was secluded, safe... but just close enough to the studio – maybe a hundred feet away – to be exciting. I had it all worked out in my head, and even took a walk through the area earlier in the week, envisioning how tonight would go down. The building is relatively new, but my company has expanded so much over the past seven years – thanks, in no small part, to me – that we barely have enough space to be operational. This is obvious in the west hallway, where the walls are lined with huge, wheeled equipment boxes that don't fit in the storage closets. I walked over to some boxes about halfway down the hallway and made a space between them, just large enough for two people to squeeze in. The boxes were taller than I am, so anyone looking down the hallway wouldn't see So-Yeon and me behind them. Someone would almost literally have to be meeting his own lover here to catch us. The film's music cued up, booming its way throughout the building. I leaned against one of the boxes, waiting for her. A moment later, she appeared at the end of the hallway. Her hands clasped a small purse in front of her thighs. We looked at each other. She walked to me. When she was close, I grabbed her – one hand behind her head and the other on her back. I drew her into the little space I'd made and spun her into the wall, cloistered between it and me. I glared, showing hunger and maybe a little contempt. Her eyes widened and her chest rhythmically expanded, contracted. I kissed her hard – real hard. Made it hurt. I bit her lip and squeezed her face, my thumb and fingers digging into her cheeks. My hands went all over her body. I felt her tits through her dress and cinched them until I heard her squeal over the music. I pulled my mouth away. "Get down." I didn't yell – I commanded. She did as she was told, squatted, looking up at me like an eager-to-please child. Her heels and back were near the wall, and her thighs parted as much as her dress allowed. "Take my cock out." She made quick work of my belt and zipper, slid my pants and underwear down to my knees in one motion. She looked at my dick – standing rigidly – and back up at me. Her lips parted just a bit. She curled her fingers around me and waited for instructions like a good girl. My head swelled over her thumb and forefinger, a bead of precum sat on the tip. She looked so fucking perfect, I wanted to shoot all over her face right then. It would only take a few strokes... But I had much more planned. I slapped her hand away. "Open your fucking mouth." I grabbed her head with one hand, my cock with the other, and thrust myself between her lips. Her head banged against the wall. (First dates get the gentle treatment – subs don't.) I pushed until her lips were against my pubic hair and held there. She took it longer than most girls, which impressed me. But soon she started squirming and gagging; every girl does the same (except this one chick I knew who could deep throat while breathing through her nose... another good story). I could tell she tried to control it, but reflexes got the best of her. I waited another long moment and then pulled out. Spit dripped from my cock onto the concrete floor. She gasped for air, and tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. She looked up at me; I clutched her face and smushed her cheeks together. "Who the fuck said you could stop?!" If she weren't going back out to Michael in a few minutes I would have given her slap, left a nice welt on her cheek. Instead, I put myself in her mouth again and face fucked her. My hips jerked back and forth as I held her head against the wall with both hands. I went balls-deep with every stroke. As a kind of joke to myself, I fucked her in time with the film's pulsing music. Her mouth felt so damn good that I didn't want to stop. And the power I felt in having complete control over her was such a turn on... But I knew I only had as long as the film, so I pulled my dick out and told her to stand. I pushed my body into hers, sandwiched her against the wall. My hand went to her throat and squeezed a little. I moved my face closer, stared into hers. "You're gonna take my cock, now." She nodded, still catching her breath. I yanked her dress up and bunched it around her waist. No panties – she knew what she was doing. Or maybe she was trying to avoid pantylines. Whatever. I told her to spread her legs. I lowered myself just a bit, wrapping an arm around her back (the other still clutching her throat), and guided myself into her wet cunt. It slid in easily, sending a spasm through my body. We looked into each other's eyes and moaned in anguished pleasure. Being loud wasn't a problem – the film's music covered it all. I started to fuck her. Her brow furrowed – from pain, I hope – but she took it eagerly, slamming her hips into me as much as the position and her heels allowed. I put my face next to her neck, moaning and breathing into her ear; I heard her, too. My hand moved down to her breast. I found her nipple through the dress fabric and pinched it. She let out a little yelp, and I smiled to myself and gave it to her harder. I didn't give a damn if it hurt. In the past, I'd be real careful with subs, always conscious of the pain I might have been causing, worrying if it was too much. But I've since learned – the rougher the better. It's what they want. I don't even think about it anymore; I just please myself. "You like getting fucked by me?" I said, pumping into her. "Yes!" she said, half-whispered. "Tell me you're my whore." "I'm your whore!" She drew out the word in such a sexy way that I almost popped. I pulled out and spun her around, told her to put her hands against the wall and spread her legs. I spent a moment admiring her ass, beautifully exposed under her bunched-up dress. Just to be a tease, I kissed it and worked my way to her pussy. I lapped her lips, tongue-fucked her hole, and flicked the tip of my tongue on her clit. She began to quiver, so I stopped. I stood and pressed myself against her back. I pushed the side of her face against the wall and rested my body weight on that arm as I worked my dick into her from behind. I started fucking her again, real savagely. I could see the side of her mouth grimacing, half from pain and half from pleasure. Perfect. She moved a hand down to her pussy. I clutched her forearm and slammed it back into the wall. She gasped as I grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back. "Whores don't get to cum unless I say they can." She let out a frustrated groan, like a girl getting her favorite candy taken away. "If you're good," I said, my tone mock sweet, "I'll let you cum with me." She squirmed, anxious to please me with the hope that I'd give her what she wanted. I wrapped both arms around her body and pulled her against me. My thrusting became quicker and more intense. My face buried into her hair, and I could smell her shampoo and perfume, could hear her gentle groans. Fuck, she felt good! I started to feel a tingling sensation in my cock, and my moaning became more desperate. She got the hint and bucked into me, her ass crashing into my hips. I saw her hand move to her pussy again and felt her arm working. I held my orgasm back while she worked her way toward hers. Her moans told me that she was completely focused on herself. I heard her getting louder and felt her cunt start to choke my cock. I let her get right to the edge... and then I reached around and took hold of her hands. I raised them above her head, pushed them against the wall. She squealed, exasperated; I smirked at the back of her head. I put her wrists in one of my hands and wrapped my other arm around her. The simmering feeling of my own orgasm came on strong. I started fucking her as fast as I could, panting into her ear. Fire surged through my core. Everything got dreamy, surreal; the simmer began to boil. I cried out, the pressure of the inevitable too much to bear. My muscles contracted and my cock gushed three weeks worth of saved cum inside her. It was epic! I'm sure I shot my load deeper than she'd ever gotten it before. I ground into her as she milked the last drops of semen from me. She almost didn't let me pull out. When I did, her body shuddered and she made a prolonged, tortured sound. Mission accomplished. Man, I just wanted to collapse, it was so good. But we both had to be back in the studio in about a minute. Still catching my breath, I fixed my clothes and made sure I didn't have any cum stains on me. She did the same. We wordlessly checked each other over – all clear. I kissed her once and then walked away, grinning over my shoulder. She smiled at me and slipped back between the boxes. (Maybe she was masturbating back there, but I doubt it – would've defeated the purpose.) I wiped sweat from my face and headed back to the studio, sneaking into the crowd just as the film ended. Everyone was too distracted to notice me. The credits rolled and I clapped enthusiastically, feeling great about it and one of the best orgasms I'd had in a long time. I went back to sipping champagne and schmoozing and talking shop. The evening went on like nothing exceptional had happened. So-Yeon came back into the studio about ten minutes later, her make-up and hair perfect. She had a Blackberry in her hand and frantically typed into it while walking toward Michael. He asked her a question; she responded with an expression that bordered on frustration, like she was dealing with something stressful. Clever girl, I thought. We didn't speak again that evening, but allowed a couple stolen glances. The party wrapped up and I went home feeling like a king. I'm pretty sure I fell asleep smiling. The next day, though, I felt kind of down. I get this way whenever I've finished a big project or accomplished a goal – and I'd done both recently, very recently in one case. I knew the feeling would go away as soon as I got going on a new project or met a new girl. As for So-Yeon... well, what is there to say? We still see each other at parties now and again, but we never talk about the night in the studio. I mean, she has Michael, and I... well, I guess I have work. The point is, we've both moved on – each gotten what he or she wanted – and we leave it at that. It makes for one hell of a memory, and, obviously, a great story. I haven't had a sub quite as good as her since. A couple have come close, but she takes the prize. It's a damn shame she's married... What the hell am I saying?! The fact that she's married is what made the sex so good! I keep forgetting that, though, and wondering about what could have been. But I chase those thoughts away with new projects and new girls. C'est la vie...