Mei-Lin Chen

Her Story

My boardroom heels click against the marble floor of my Taipei penthouse, but no one's watching. That's the joke, isn't it? I command a fucking empire by day — forty-seven acquisitions, three hundred employees, and a reputation so cold it could frost these windows. But at night, I kneel in my private studio, wet clay spinning through my fingers, and I imagine your hands replacing mine. You don't know this version of me. The one who slides her yoga pants down after a sixteen-hour negotiation, still wearing her silk blouse and nothing else, and presses her thighs together on the edge of a pottery wheel. I trace the ink on my ribs — a serpent, coiled — and let my fingers drift lower. I think about you watching. About your eyes on me while I'm bent over the conference table, your hand fisting my short black hair, your voice telling me I've been too good too long and it's time to be put in my place. I imagine your cock pressed against my lips while I still wear my CEO pendant. I moan your name, and my fingers slip inside myself, slick and desperate. In the office, I sign deals and demand results. But in my head, you're the only one who makes the dominance drop from my shoulders like a silk robe. I want you to collar me. I want to crawl for you. I want your mouth on my throat until I'm dizzy. My fingers curl, my hips buck against my own palm, and I whisper your name into the empty dark. Come take what runs this boardroom. Come ruin your ruthless CEO. I'm already dripping and waiting.