Meeting the Man I Now Call Master
I first laid eyes on him across a polished mahogany table, during what was supposed to be just another “important” deal. I was the attorney sitting second chair, quietly sharpening my claws while my boss puffed up and strutted his way through negotiations. The man across from us, however, was different. He wasn’t just some businessman fighting for scraps—he was sharp, young, confident, and negotiating with his own money. Every number, every clause, rolled effortlessly off his tongue.
And while I should have been focused on my notes, my eyes betrayed me. That suit wasn’t hiding his body—it was flaunting it. He radiated an energy that made me flush in ways no courtroom ever had. My boss should have given up right there, just to beg for his tailor’s number.
I knew I shouldn’t be thinking about the man on the other side of the table like that. But I’ve never denied who I am: ambitious, yes—but also deeply sexual. I love to please, to tease, to show off. And outside the courtroom, I indulge that side of me as a dancer at an exclusive club. What started as “extra money” for my shoe addiction became a delicious addiction of its own—I adore exposing myself to strangers.
So when I saw him again—two weeks later, while I was on stage, clinging to the pole in a rope-bound display of strength and sensuality—I nearly fell right off. His eyes locked on mine, hungry and unblinking. I covered my surprise the only way I knew how: blindfold on, rope tightened, body arched. The crowd roared. Tips flew. And from him—the loudest applause, the largest tip, and a note that made my pulse race:
“I never negotiate without knowing who I’m dealing with. Your boss is an ass, but you… you intrigue me. Your sharp mind and wicked body are a dangerous combination. Good catch on my addendum. Brilliant move with the blindfold. Lunch?”
How could I resist?
We met the following week. I came polished, professional—Ralph Lauren suit, silk shirt, sky-high pumps. He came in tight jeans, boots, and a leather jacket that screamed rebellion in a sea of power ties. He wasn’t just breaking dress codes—he was rewriting them.
Over lunch, he asked questions that undressed me layer by layer. He wasn’t just listening—he was devouring. For the first time, I felt like I was the only person in the room. Desired. Seen. Worshipped.
When he asked if he could see me again, I didn’t hesitate.
That very night, he was back in my audience. And this time, I didn’t dance for the crowd. I danced for him.
For weeks, we played our little game—lunches filled with electricity, nights where I bared everything under the lights. He touched every part of me: my brain, my body, my reckless hunger for more. My fantasies about him grew darker, hotter. Things I had never dared to imagine before suddenly seemed inevitable.
And then, everything changed.
