CHAPTER 1

Charlene had worn her sexiest and most expensive underwear for the meeting. She always did for big meetings; the bigger the meeting, the sexier the undies. Important meetings turned her on. Negotiating and getting her own way in business discussions excited her. They aroused her and could almost make her cum. Competing in a business meeting was like sex to her, it was sex to her and winning was like having an orgasm.

Charlene was one of the most successful investment bankers in London and, in her book that meant the world. She was in the top two or three female bankers in the state, and was undoubtedly the top female Mergers and Acquisitions specialist, probably in the world.

At just thirty-three, she was now about to win the job she had set her heart to when she left London University, some ten years ago. She was about to become, she was sure, the first female MD of the Global Mergers and Acquisitions Department of a serious investment bank. And Barrlake, the US owned banking conglomerate, was the most serious of all serious investment banks; they were big, secure, American blue blood with a touch of UK aristocracy, bought of course. They were aggressive, influential and stupendously successful. There was hardly a major takeover or merger that happened anywhere in the world where Big B, as Barrlake was known, was not involved. And from now on Charlene would be responsible for all of that, for she was attending her final interview for the very top job in the world in that part of the bank's extensive activities.

As the panel of two American, one German and one English mature bankers, drawn from the main board interviewed her in New York, she was tingling all over. Her small, pert breasts felt so full, warm and alive and her prominent nipples were pounding with sensations as their puckered hardness fought valiantly to make indentations in the smooth material of her designer suit. She was used to that, however, so now she bought suits with suitably thick material to prevent them showing. Nevertheless, she knew they would be stretching the gossamer thinness of the Janet Reger, black lace and silk bra. Just as she also knew that the gusset of the black, lacy boy shorts would be damp if not soaked.

She knew that because she knew the meeting had gone well. Charlene could read people, especially men so well that often she knew what they were going to be thinking in two minutes time before they even knew what they were thinking now. She was like a chess player in thinking ahead and it was that, in the main, which made her such an effective and successful negotiator.

It always amused her to look at her adversaries in meetings. They were mostly male, often, like today, much older than her and usually, she could tell, they fancied her like hell. Then was hardly surprising. She was stunningly good looking, in a rather hard way, a little like Madonna. Her lips were probably a little thin and her nose slightly too pointed for her to be considered classically beautiful, but her big, perfectly oval, dark brown eyes made up for anything else that might be thought of as an impediment to her looks. Her hair was dark, almost black, and she wore it short, easier and quicker to wash and dry she rationalized; her time being very precious to her, but then it had to be when she averaged twelve hours a day six days a week working. Her skin was slightly olive tinted, making it look as though she had a permanent tan, and all over it was as smooth as a baby's bottom. Her body was slim, toned, taught and fit from regular very hard workouts in the gyms at her offices in London and New York and at her apartment in Atlanta. Her weight never varied by more than a few pounds usually being spot on one hundred and thirty five pounds. Her figure was not spectacular for her slimness meant her breasts were small and her curves were not pronounced, but men that weren't boob men, loved it. Men that were leg men also loved it for hers were long and slim and men that were ass men simply adored her for her bum was pert and rounded with surprisingly full cheeks for one so slim; a real black girl's ass a lover had once complimented her as he plunged his tongue between her cheeks.

What amused her most of all in meetings, was that as her opponents and colleagues lusted after her, wondering what it would take to get inside Ms. Charlene Wilum's knickers, she was most likely sitting there creaming them at the buzz of the negotiations, not the men.

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She realized that it was a little dangerous and that did concern a bit, but then that was part of the buzz. Buying sex was not so much physically dangerous, but could lead to blackmail, she figured. Nevertheless, Charlene had been buying it for several years now. Buying it wherever her travels took her, New York, Paris, Frankfurt, Japan, Beijing, Mumbai, Dubai and even her home town, London. Buying it in many forms, buying it to be with men, with women and with both. Buying it to satisfy her fantasies, sex with several men, a gangbang, being fucked by a huge cock and having two black guys simulate raping her. Buying it in place of letting sex, romance and love find her.

She did not have time to meet friends, to develop relationships other than for business, to meet people outside of her job with whom sex might come about and she fervently avoided any form of attachment to anyone inside her high finance world. She did nothing to prejudice her naked ambition of making it right to the top in the banking world.

So, since being introduced to escort agencies and the like a few years ago, by a woman who at the time was her boss, Charlene had developed a network of contacts. Trusted contacts that could, for a price, usually an exceedingly high one, provide her with exactly what she fancied when and where she fancied it.

The drive from Wall Street up to the Pierre, although in a chauffeur-driven Cadillac, was tiresome. The traffic was terrible and even with the AC, the ninety plus outside temperature and high humidity got into the limo. The only redeeming feature was what she knew would be waiting for her at the hotel.

It was that what had got her through the drinks and chat after the interview. It was the expectancy of what would be waiting for her that helped her survive the unnecessary, but traditional, dinner with the head of investment banking, the HR Director and the non-exec director responsible for recruitment. It was the knowledge of what would be waiting in her suite that had enabled her resist going to the toilet after the interview and wanking herself off. And it was that which was stopping her sliding her hands up her stocking-clad legs and masturbating behind the smoked glass in the back of the limo.