The Billionaire's Curvy ConquestBy: Lydia Layne
When I woke up this morning, there was no indication that the day would be anything but ordinary.
Yet here I was, at 2:30 in the afternoon, standing in Mr. Reed’s penthouse office with my ample curves poured into a too-tight corset and matching panties that didn’t have a crotch!
I was given a deadline to complete his special project, but through no fault of my own, I had run late. Although if I were being honest, late was my middle name.
As Mr. Reed’s eyes hungrily assessed my body in the lingerie, his voice stated that I must be punished for my tardiness.
Reaching in to one of the shopping bags that I had placed at his feet, he pulled out the leather paddle, holding it in one hand while slapping it against the other.
My eyes widened and my mouth went dry.
That was how he intended to punish me?
Eight hours earlier.
The day began like any other, with a shower, two cups of coffee and a mad dash to catch the express bus to downtown. I got to my desk 15 minutes late because I stopped at the bottom-floor cafe to grab a bagel before waiting in line for the elevator.
I should have taken the stairs to the second floor; god knows I could use the exercise. But I didn’t feel like putting forth the effort.
Although I didn’t know it at the time, when my desk phone beeped just before ten, the day was about to take an intriguing turn.
Glancing at the caller ID, I saw it was my supervisor. Her name was Laurie, but everyone on the second floor fondly referred to her as the Wicked Witch. When Laurie called, the news was rarely good, especially if you had a bad habit of arriving late to work, like me.
“This is Cassie,” I answered in my best obedient-grunt voice. Technically, my title was Administrative Assistant II. But at this company, that was code word for bitch-do-what-I-tell-you.
“You’re wanted in Special Projects,” the Wicked Witch said flatly.
“Special Projects?” That was odd. What could they possibly want from a lowly second-floor admin like me?
“Yeah. And you need to hurry. The email request came in early this morning, but I’ve been away from my desk. You were supposed to be up there an hour ago.”
Great. Thanks to Laurie, I was already late.
“On my way,” I said a bit too cheerfully, grateful to get a break from the boring paper-pushing and not even irritated that I was probably going to miss my lunch break.
The Special Projects division of Reed Technologies had its own floor and its own receptionist. While nobody outside the division really knew what went on there, the elite group answered directly to the Big Boss himself, billionaire David Reed.
It was speculated that Special Projects managed every detail of Mr. Reed’s personal and professional life, from getting his $2,000 suits dry cleaned and scheduling his personal appointments, to making his dinner reservations and coordinating international conference calls.
David Reed didn’t inherit his wealth, he earned it. After building Reed Technologies from the ground up, he landed on the Forbes 400 richest people list at the age of 35 and spent the last seven years steadily climbing into the top 10.
At 42, Mr. Reed was in his physical prime. While many men peaked at 30 before losing their muscle tone or their hair, Mr. Reed grew more handsome over time.
His six-foot-two frame was strong and lean and his full head of jet-black hair had just a touch of distinguished gray at the temples. If you were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Mr. Reed at the end of the day, you would see the hint of a sexy five o’clock shadow.
I didn’t have a very active social life and wasn’t really friends with any of my coworkers because they rarely asked big girls like me to meet for happy hour. So most days, I would volunteer to stay late and man the front desk of the Reed Building, hoping that he would leave before I did.
If my timing was good, I would get to see him exit his private elevator, Italian leather briefcase in hand, and stride confidently through the automatic doors to his car, which would be waiting for him out front.
A couple of times he glanced my way. But when I smiled at him, he didn’t smile back. I guess he was looking through me rather that at me.
Still, I can’t tell you how many nights I dreamed about that five o’clock shadow roughing up the tender skin of my inner thighs as Mr. Reed buried his handsome face between my legs...