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By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

Naked Ambition
by Savannah Stephens Smith© 2003 

I fucked my way to the top.

Not many women admit that these days, if they ever did.  But I'm sure, despite changes in how we look at men and women, work and power, that a lot of women—and maybe some men, too—still do it.  You grab your chances any way you can, and what's offered up in return is old and compelling.  And oh, so hard to resist.

Maybe fewer have to do it these days.  Times have changed, even in the business world.  Me, I liked to fuck, and I had no commitments at home.  I could have.  I'm not gorgeous, I am just fine.  But I was also a busy woman with a career that meant a lot to me.  My job was my life.  I didn't have much patience for nonsense, wasting time in boring bars, being coy with a straw, hunting for Mr.  Right.  Mr.  Right Now would do.  And my belief was that if a good lay was going to give me pleasure and get me ahead, I'd take that over Joe in the corner any time.  If a shortcut's available, there's no point in driving all over the country to get to where you really want to be.

And I wanted to be at the top.  Who doesn't?

Fucking.  As a strategy, it's as old as time, and it seems as effective now as it was an eon ago when Olga found that putting out for Og got her a warmer spot by the fire and a little extra grilled sabre-tooth, to boot.  It's human, as human as we all are, and I won't apologise for it, even now.

Sex is something we all do, all want, except for priests and the hopeless.  And we've seen what happens when men's desires are sublimated.  They turn dark and twisted.  It's not healthy to deny your lusts.

We all have desires, sometimes buried, sometimes right out in the open.  One of my gifts is for knowing desire, for finding it, no matter how hidden.  It's like holding a narrow, forked branch in your hands, taken from the earth.  Closing your eyes, and just feeling the song in the ground, and there knowing where the water lies.  And gentlemen, some of you run deep.  And strange.

So there you have it, what you all suspected is true: I fucked my way to the top.

Of course some of you know that already.  Just like some of you know just how I liked my fun along the way.  Some men are so grateful to get a bit, and to get it from a good-looking woman with a few brains in her head too.  For heaven's sake, some of you acted like you'd won the lottery, and all I had to do was indulge in something I wanted to do anyway.

Because some of you know me well.  Very well.  Don't fidget, Stanley, I enjoyed our mornings together.  And I don't blame you for giving me the best assignments.  That's what friends do for each other.  And I wasn't lying when I told you that you knew how to please me like no other man.

I still remember—especially now, when memory suffices for touch—what it was like to walk out of my office, nonchalant and seemingly bored or distracted by demands.  I would be nude beneath my proper grey skirt, keeping that particular secret like a card tucked away for a winning hand. (Not enough women wear stockings these days, and men seem to respond so well to that ridiculous bit of hosiery.) I'd duck into the conference room on the fifth floor and close the door against curious secretaries and clerks.  And wait for you there, my heart beating a little faster as the heady world of business hummed around us.  Then I'd hear you come in at last.

I remember feeling brash as I lifted up my skirt for the shock of showing off, becoming aroused before we'd even begun.  Your eyes, quick kisses, then your hot mouth and clever tongue delving deep: I revelled in it.  Your hands clutching my thighs, pulling me closer, famished for a woman.  Stanley, believe me, I wasn't joking about the squirming--or the coming, either.  It was so hard to keep quiet, but that added to the enjoyment, didn't it?

And then of course, I didn't mind turning around for you.  I was always wet and more than happy to let you fuck me after I'd come, squirming against your insistent tongue.  And you were always primed for me after a session with your head between my legs.  I'd lean against the conference table, spreading my thighs, feeling like some model in a magazine.  Playing the roles you men expect.  Part of me liked that a lot, doing what those bimbos only act out.  I played the slut well when I had to, something in me was excited as hell by it.  It was about sex, but it was also about power...using it, buying it—and surrendering it.  Who had the power? You—or me?

I could speculate about that forever these days, lying back on my bed, hands cupping a breast, pouting for a suck, fingers wiggling into my slippery folds.  Thinking about the illicit pleasures back then.  You'd be almost panting behind me, unzipping yourself, hand on your cock, transformed into something primal.  Pushing that warm erection into me, greed and haste burnishing everything.  Urgency made it more exciting.

I could almost have loved you, Stanley.  Almost.

I have needs, gentlemen, just like you.  Appetites.  But I never was a cartoon temptress.  I was always discreet—except where bravado would be more effective—and I never was a threat to your wives.  I didn't want what they had; I wanted something completely different from you.  And I played fair, didn't I? I gave back as good as I got, both in what I gave and in the job I did.

Some of you don't like me, and that's all right.  I didn't like all of you.  And some of you didn't take what I offered.  I respect that, and would never hold a polite no, thank you against you.  And for some of you, I was just the wrong flavour.  Who? Oh, no.  That's their business, not yours.

So that's how I got here.  I fucked my way up, enjoying a smorgasbord of men along the way.  Greg in Accounting always did my reports first, and he gave me such good advice about where to cut the fat and where to prime the machine, that soon my division became stellar.  That got noticed.  I thanked him, of course.  He loves blowjobs, and I don't mind them, either.

He'd groan no, but never actually try to stop me, gripping the armrests of his chair and grimacing as I teased him, crouching down, talking dirty until he was stiff.  He was as appalled by us as he was delighted.  I loved opening his belt, and getting it out, his flesh stiff with arousal, the man beneath the suit emerging, taking over.  The carpeting in the office, I wasn't so crazy about, but I could get comfortable down there, closing my eyes beneath the fluorescents and imagining we were someplace else.  I'd lick at his cock, rigid as the laws of numbers, sliding him in and out.  If I said I didn't enjoy it, I'd be lying.

I'd take Greg over the edge, then leave him there, limp and satiated.  I'd spend the rest of my day wanting more, the taste of his semen in my mouth.  A secret.

Work and sex.  Lucky for me, my career gave me both.

Of course, if I'd been nothing more than a good lay, I'd have gotten nowhere.  But I had ambition and brains too, along with the body and appetite for pleasure.  It's a lucky combination, and it's served me well.  I may have slept my way up the corporate ladder and into my titles, but I know damned well that ability kept me there.  Sex just helped slide things along more smoothly.  Getting to know my colleagues—and superiors—a little better.  To make sure they would remember me.

Eventually I reached VP of Production, reporting directly to the company President and no one else.  The day Griffith Morgeson announced my assumption of the title I sat in the boardroom, eyes directed modestly down on the walnut table, losing myself in the reflections on the surface.  Idle thoughts occupied me while middle-aged voices droned on.  Like other days when I got an edge by being a little whorish, I wore no panties under my silk suit, and desire, my silent partner, distracted me.

I waited, crossing and uncrossing my legs, until I thought I'd just have to slip my hand down there and rub all around until I came.  I wanted to thank him—Griff—for the promotion in a very special way.  How would I do it? Naked, in his office? My bare skin would be sweetly pink against his elegant upholstery.  How could he say no? Surrounded by the unceasing momentum of commerce and propriety, the immediacy of lust would be even richer.  I knew that well enough.

Or right there on the boardroom table? I squeezed my thighs together, cradling my want like a cupped flame in a storm.  The table.  I wanted to spread myself out, stripped of all my clothes, and share my success with everyone.  Wouldn't that have been a fun way to make a Thursday meeting memorable? I couldn't, of course, but I fantasized about it for weeks afterward.  The idea kept me wet for days: imagining a dozen scenarios with me brazen and naked on that hefty slab of corporate wood.

Each of you, taking a turn.  Can you imagine that? I could.

I liked the sex.  And I liked the attention.

I know what it's like to feel your eyes on me, like a hundred softly whispered compliments, even as you listen to me talk about merges and strategy, staffing and consolidation.  I relish the covert glance up from the report I've distributed, hungry on my breasts, hips, and ass.  I don't blame you.  You wonder if my nipples are neat, or big and bold, if I shave away the curls between my legs.  Are my tits as nice out of my bra as they look in this sweater? I arch my back a little.  I'm not above using what I've got to keep your attention.  And yes—they are.

I imagine your daydreams.  You've told me the nature of such things, decoded masculine speculation in post-coital confession.  What would my ass feel like cupped in your hands as you slide my skirt up, your cock hard, excited ever more by the forbidden? Transgression is exciting.  You watch me talk, and wonder what my mouth would look like circling you, engorged, on the cusp of release.  It would look exciting, but it would feel even better.  I know how to use my tongue.

You've heard whisper of rumours, shadows of words, all about me, and it intrigues you.  You wonder if they're true.  Domesticity is dull.  So is this meeting.  You imagine sliding your cock right into the velvet grip of me.  Clench like a fist.

I behave impeccably, act the professional, tilting toward prim.  Desire is pointless.  There is no chance.

Then I give you a smile and you feel like it's your birthday.

Eventually, I fucked my way to the President.  Ascending.  Because power is sexy: wielding it, and being in its presence.  I liked it, liked that scent of power like a whiff of high voltage, a heady thrum of something you can't quite see but can't help feel.

Griff was a widower, and a fairly nice guy.  He was vigorous for his years, healthy and active, and I liked him.  Company president, chief of staff.  He had charm, rugged good looks, and outdoorsman's vitality, despite being a corporate executive, trapped in a world of desks and long lunches.  He worked out regularly, and more women than me considered him attractive.  Power suited him.  A nice guy? By then, maybe, competition and determination worked out of his system (along with most, but not all, of his wild oats).  He'd been mellowed by age, success, time and the first grandchild.

I was still hungry, though.

Hungry enough that when we took a meeting, I held his eyes too long.  I smiled.  I let my skirt rise like his hopes, and I left my blouse open to possibility.  He wasn't stupid, and he could have any woman he chose.  I was attracted to him, and let him know it. Choose me, I willed.  I'd make it so.  I packaged my charms discreetly, and presented them quietly.  The obvious tricks I'd used on some of you wouldn't work on him.  But I knew with me, it would be different, and maybe he did too.  Almost a meeting of equals.

And he still had appetite for what I could offer: pleasure, along with a frisson of the forbidden.  You know that combination.  Guilt's a wonderful spice, just a pinch will do.  Naughtiness is so very piquant.

One miserable afternoon in November, I decided the time was right to make my move.  I asked to see Griff, alone, timing it for a quiet afternoon in a dull time of the year.  I entered and sat in front of his desk, and he waited, tapping his pen.  For the first time, I was nervous.  This was the company president, after all.  I'd never dared climb so high.

But I had prepared that morning, and it started the old sway of desire, like plucking a string and hearing it resonate long after.

It was dim in his office, the rain muting the day.  Griff's desk lamp was on, casting a warm, intimate glow.  I wanted to be in that golden circle of light.  He'd shucked his jacket, and rolled his shirtsleeves up.  His arms were strong and muscular, still tanned.  He'd been climbing mountains that autumn.  He still wore his wedding ring, and I liked that touch of sentiment.  Iron-grey hair brushed his forehead.  He watched me look at him as the silence built between us.  His strength—and his patience—were like granite.  Solid.  Grey.  Griffith.  His tie was dark red, a burgundy like spilled wine.  Wine.  I should have asked him out for a drink instead, done this over a glass or three in some dark and inviting place.  But it was too late.

The silence lengthened and he, never a fool, waited, letting me be the first to speak.  My heart was beating louder, I'd swear, and new nerves fluttered in my belly.  One brow began to rise as the seconds built, and I wondered: under his white shirt, was his chest hairy? Of course it would be.  I thought of brushing my breasts, nipples puckered and awaked, against that springy hair and the warmth of his skin.  And just like that, I relaxed.  I wanted him.

He finally spoke, filling the silence. "What can I do for you, Marianne?"

"You," I said, and stood.

Instinct took over.  I hadn't really planned how I'd offer myself.

Then I knew: nude.  Now.

I pretended that I knew what I was doing, and began to unbutton my blouse.  Griff's hand went still, the pen resting in mid-tap.  One button to three to them all, showing the lace I'd chosen.  The blouse fell and his mouth opened.

I unzipped my skirt, let it drop, and got the bra off with minimum fumbling.  My nipples hardened at my audacity.  I'd either be fired or committed to the hospital downtown.  But success--and prior experience--carried me through.  Panties briefer than a winter day slid down my thighs.  His eyes clouded, and I liked it.

I stripped in his office, slowly and completely, until I stood before his big desk, naked, completely nude.  How did they describe the effects of an assault? Shock and awe? Yes, that's the effect it had on Griff, but in a nice way.

It excited me too.  By the time that my panties slipped from one ankle, I was wet.

And he was hard.

I stood there, gift and reward, offering myself.  He gave an inarticulate cry, and was around that desk faster than a nervous blink.  For a minute, I thought he was going to run right past me and out of his office, barking for security.  Doom.  Then the lock clicked, and I knew he wanted it as much as I wanted to give it.

In seconds, Griff had me down on the floor, my knees up, and he straddled me, shaking his head.  Bemusement, amusement, disbelief.  And lust.  I could see the hard-on in his grey trousers and it pleased me enormously.  I couldn't wait to touch it.  His skin would be hot against my tongue.  The throb of him, caught up, like a leaf in a swollen spring river, in wanting.

Stripped of my corporate pretence, I was his.  My skin warm against the carpet in his office.  My nudity turned me to honey inside.  Pinned beneath him, exactly where I wanted to be.

He knelt over me, conqueror, denying me the role of seductress, taking charge.  Good.  Then when he looked back, whatever happened would burn as a mutual event.  I had provoked, but he seized the bait.  Griff didn't speak, he just looked down at me, grey wool trousers trying to hold back the evidence of his arousal.  I'd never felt more naked, more exposed in my life, but it was all right, I knew it.  My nipples were hard—exhilaration, fear, or desire, or it may have been a combination of all those turbulent feelings flying through me.  He touched my right nipple, as if considering what was offered to him, rolling it slowly with his thumb and finger.  I moaned.

"Okay," he muttered. "Okay."

He unzipped his trousers, got his belt open, and his nakedness broke out to join mine.  His cock thrust out, weighty and potent, just like the man.  I eyed it, longing.  I was all promise, entirely consent, and knew no foreplay was required.  My undressing had been enough.  For both of us.

In but a moment, he was between my legs, and he swallowed the nipple he'd touched, sucking hard, pushing his erection into me.  His tie dangled down for a moment, then red silk was crushed in our coupling.  My bare thighs slid along the fine weave of his trousers, and his cock made me whole.  Held down on the office carpet with his body, with nothing to soften his thrusts, Griff took me.  Fast, furious and hard, and he found me molten within.

I'd been ready all morning, ready for weeks, and slid up to meet each thrust, wetting him.  He quickened, I hung on, climax as inevitable as sunrise.  He sucked my nipple, frantic, then reared up, pounding into me, his face stripped of convention's mask, naked in his pleasure.  His thrusts created my release.  Like a figure on horseback emerging from a sandstorm, chaos coalesced, everything to a single thing: I was just about to... "Griff," I prayed, hoarse, the compulsion to tell.  He fucked me. "I'm coming..."

His kiss silenced me, and I soared, biting his tongue, hot and wet.

He followed but a moment later, stifling his own cry into my hair.  I tried, as always, to feel the moment the rush of semen began, but couldn't quite tell when the first erupted or the last ended.  Only by his slowing thrusts, his ragged breath, his last shudder, did I know when his release had swept through him.

"What do you want?" he asked when we were done.  I floated back to shore, aware of the carpet against my skin, the ceiling of Griff's office, the sound of business continuing beyond his door, our interlude.  The phone had rung on his desk unanswered; soft knocks at the door were ignored.  I pictured his secretary outside, fuming, and hoped she was discreet.

"Nothing," I replied, and maybe, just at that moment, that was even true.

We had an affair.  It was almost the best time of my life.  I had it all.  I was fucking the boss and loving every minute of it.  I never asked for more than he chose to give.  I never pestered him to make a commitment, to spend the holidays with me, to buy me things.  I didn't need him for that, and I liked my private time too.  I was still an executive with plenty of my own responsibilities and constant demands on my time.  I liked his companionship and he was a fine partner in bed.  If being on such good terms with the company president helped me in my career, then so be it.  He got a lot of enjoyment out of our time together.  I played fair.

I never asked for more than what he offered.  And eventually, he offered a lot.

I'd fucked my way to the top floor, the penthouse suite of a glass-steel-and-more-glass building filled with egos as big as monuments, and I went right through that ceiling.  On my knees, sure, or on my back, or at my desk, I didn't care which helped get me there.

He offered everything.  Gold ring: that was my prize.  I was indecisive for days.  Then not.  We were married.

And it was good.  I knew there would be no children, and I knew he was used to living life on his terms.  I knew I was stepping into a role another woman had originated, but I was nothing like his first wife, and even his children allowed him the consolation of a second marriage.

Then, as you know, Griff died.  Heart attack, at the summer place.  And yes, the rumours about that are true, too.  He went out with a smile on his face, because he'd just finished fucking me.  It had been a bit more enthusiastic than usual, and he'd rolled over at the end, complaining about being exhausted.  Smug, I thought I'd worn him out.  He stepped away for a cigar on the deck at sunset.  And that's where he went.

Funny, he didn't call for me, or try to save himself.  He died well, I think.  He didn't linger; he didn't become pathetic.

And he was where he wanted to be, although at his desk would have been just as likely, considering Griff had a hard time letting go of anything that he'd worked hard to get.

So he was gone.  And I found that I missed him far more than I'd expected to.  I missed that son-of-a-bitch a lot.  I thought it had all been about opportunity and bargains, about doing what I had to do.  Then why did it hurt so much to be without him? And my body craved what he'd been giving me regularly—that vigour was expressed in more places that the boardroom and the golf course—I missed that, too.

I still wanted to fuck but now I also wanted to wake up in the morning and find the same person on the other pillow day after day.  Griff.  That I wanted a person on the other pillow surprised me.  I haven't been that sentimental in years, but I got used to having someone...around.

And the thing of it is? Almost any one of you guys would be happy to step up and fill the President's shoes--and his bed.  But I don't want you any more.  And there's nowhere to go, now.

Anyway.  I know it's an unusual resignation, but there you go, boys.  Cream in your Armanis, jump in your handmade shoes.  Someone younger and hungrier can take my place now.  I did get what I'd wanted, and I left my mark.  Money? You always ask about money.  Well, I've got enough of that for the rest of my days.  I don't care.

Work? My heart's not in it any more.  It's time to retire.

It's lonely at the top.

© 2003 Savannah Stephens Smith.  All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Savannah Stephens Smith lives and writes on Vancouver Island, Canada, by the edge of the Pacific Ocean. When she's not writing smut or avoiding housework, she works undercover as a mild-mannered secretary. Her personal fiction website is at

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