My 3 Rockstar Bosses

And with that, the call’s done. I hang up and fall back into my chair. I don’t really need to have any say in what goes on with my business affairs anymore. It’s all behind me. I made my money and now I’m free from all thoughts and cares because at this point, the money makes money by itself. After twenty years of slogging away, my company now runs like clockwork. Sure, they need my okay sometimes for big transactions, but for the most part, it runs on its own.

So that leaves me plenty of free time, and I use it. I’ve got my penthouse, my vacations, and my… service team.

A knock comes on the door.

“What is it?”

“I’m coming to pick up the trash.”

I know at once it’s her. I can just tell. No one else in this house has a voice like that. Musical, innocent, and sweet. She sounds younger than I thought. My cock stiffens again at the thought of everything I want to do to the sweet female.

“Come,” is my commanding tone.

She does as she’s told. Good. Just as expected, there’s Cinderella, dressed in a short black and white maid’s uniform. I can see her full frontal now, and it makes my mouth water. Long legs coated in beige nylon. Face like a princess. A tiny waist that flares into full, round ass. Boobs straining mightily against the tight button holes of the uniform.

Perfect. Just perfect. Because everything about her look screams “my type.” But to my surprise, I’m at a loss for what to say and how to command her. It’s odd because usually these things come naturally to me. I know how to use women, and I definitely know how to make them feel good.

So to find myself frozen, the words melting on my lips, is weird. But I guess it makes sense in some messed-up way because ever since getting back from Afghanistan, things have been off. Sure, I still go to the nude beaches and debauched parties in SoHo filled with celebrities. But I’m not into it anymore. Instead, I’ve been totally celibate, which isn’t my usual style. The therapist says its PTSD, but I call it Pretty Things Stopped Deploying. Shit is different now, and I don’t know how to get my mojo back.

But the blonde girl has one hundred percent of my attention. Now she’s coming near the other side of my desk to grab the trash. I scoot my chair back and my cock rages under my pants. I hope she doesn’t see because she’ll run screaming in fear, my package is that huge. Her supple breasts bounce as she nears, and I desperately want her to sit on my lap. I want to push myself inside her. I want to fill those holes with my straining length.

Fuck.

She bends before me, and I catch a whiff of her scent for the first time. Lilac perfume, sweet and light.

“Excuse me,” she smiles shyly, reaching under the desk. Her blonde ponytail grazes her cheek as she extracts the bag of trash.

“Miss?” I ask. She looks up, blue eyes wide and trusting. I hope she doesn’t see the bulge in my pants, but it’s near her face. She’s between me and the desk and it’s taking all of my control not to mount her from behind and tear through those nylons.

“Yes?” she murmurs.

“How long have you been working here?”

“I started a month ago.”

I smile smoothly.

“No wonder we haven’t met. I’m Howie. Howie Bates.” My dick twitches even as I extend a hand. She’s so near I can almost taste her. My

body calls out for the lush female. The perfect proportions have my mouth salivating, my dick twitching involuntarily in my pants. I can envision my cum dripping down the inside of her thighs. Fuck.

And the poor thing has no idea what I’m thinking because if she did, she’d sue for sexual harassment or some shit like that. Instead, the blonde smiles.

“I know.” Her voice is so soft as she clasps my hand. “Welcome home, Mr. Bates.”

The words move over her moist lips like poems, and my heart seizes. But I don’t want to hurt her. She’s so pretty. So young. So innocent.

“What’s a girl like you doing working a job like this?” I growl.

She blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re … well, if I may be frank, you’re drop-dead gorgeous.” I scoot my chair towards her a bit, and inch closer to her with my feet. She’s blushing. She turns to leave, cheeks flushed, but I can tell she’s holding back a smile. “You’re too pretty to work on the floor like that,” is my rumble.

She turns to face me.

“Like what?” she asks, lowering her hands to her thighs. “What do you mean, Sir?”