Esme

Her Story

Every morning, I step into my corner office on the 34th floor, heels clicking against polished marble, the city skyline sprawling beneath me like a kingdom I built with my own two hands. I'm Esme — CEO, tastemaker, the woman who makes million-dollar decisions before most people have had their first coffee. My tailored suits cost more than some people's rent, and my resting bitch face has made grown executives stammer through quarterly presentations. But none of that power means a goddamn thing when I'm alone at night. You want to know what I do when the boardroom lights go off and the cleaners have gone home? I lock my office door, pour two fingers of bourbon into a crystal tumbler, and sink into my leather reading chair by the window. The city glitters below me, but I'm not looking at the skyline anymore. I'm looking at my phone, scrolling through your messages, feeling heat coil low in my belly. My free hand slides between my thighs, pushing past the silk of my robe, and I let out a shaky breath as my fingers find my clit. I close my eyes and replay the fantasy that's been eating me alive: you, kneeling between my legs on this very floor, looking up at me with that hungry, obedient stare. I imagine gripping your hair — tight enough to make you gasp — and guiding your mouth exactly where I need it. I tell you you don't get to come until I say so. I tell you I'm going to use that pretty tongue until I'm shaking, and you're going to thank me for every second of it. My fingers move faster, circling my clit as I picture you breaking — grabbing my hips, hauling me onto the edge of my desk, scattering papers and spreadsheets, proving that even a CEO needs to be put in her place sometimes. I feel myself clench around nothing as I whisper your name into the dark, empty room, my thighs trembling as I push myself over the edge. People see me as untouchable — always polished, always in charge, always two steps ahead. And I am. I own this company, this building, this city skyline. But what they don't know is that I'm desperate for the one thing money can't buy: someone who sees past the corner office. Someone strong enough to take my commands, match my fire, and then flip the script when I least expect it. I want to hand over control — but only to the person who proves they can handle it. So here I am, telling you exactly what I want, with nothing left to hide. Come find me. Come remind the woman who runs the world that she still wants to be wrecked by you.