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In many ways, I was still a hick from Iowa – just a few years removed from a slow moving town in the middle of nowhere and with a secret past that could destroy me. Now here I was living in Seattle during the early explosive years of the internet boom of the 1990’s.

Money was flowing through Seattle like water then – Microsoft money, Amazon money, Nintendo money. You name it, and we had it going on. The newly rich from those businesses were eating at expensive restaurants, buying cars and houses, and in general business was booming for everyone. It was a pretty heady time to be a young girl in the ad business.

I had just gotten my first big break after a few crap jobs. Working in client management was a plum position with a solid base salary, liberal expense account, and plenty of raw power. No matter where you walked in the offices from the art department to management row, your word was the clients’ word, and the client was king.

I had a problem though – I was having a crisis of confidence. To the outside world I did my by best to ooze self-confidence 24/7, but inside I felt softer than a marshmallow. I was winging it – mostly making it up as I went along – not realizing at the time that acting like you knew what you were doing when you had no idea was the job. It was all about making the client feel like they were getting the best work and that everything was getting taken care of. I would go home and night have panic attacks when I wasn’t sleeping, but i was doing the job.

Then a second problem popped up – and this one was going to be infinitely tougher to deal with. I found out I was pregnant. Fuck. Me. That was bad.

I was married. Secure. Even eager to be carrying what would be my second child – but my boss was going to be pissed. This was a career suicide of sorts back then – you just didn’t step into a role like this and take maternity leave – especially when you know that the fact you had a toddler at home was a big negative consideration the bosses had weighed heavily when you were hired in the first place.

So I found myself in a bit of a tailspin. I was in total shock. I had self-doubt going on, a slowly ticking time bomb lodged in my uterus, and each and every day I came to work feeling like I was standing in one of those game show prop machines where you stand in a strong wind and grab all the money you can while it flies by. I felt the clock ticking and knew any minute the money would be floating out of reach.

I had a power position in the middle of a booming economy and I was scrambling to keep it, desperate not to fuck-up but knowing that in a few months it would all be over anyway. What to do? How could I make a big enough mark to keep my job once the belly started growing and my situation became obvious?

Some things broke my way as the weeks went by. I had spent a fortune on new sharply-tailored designer clothes when I got the job, and while my tummy had stayed remarkably flat for a preggo gal so far, my normally smallish ass was getting some sudden shape.

Up top, my tits – always just a bit bigger than my body type anyway – were blowing up like balloons. My bras and blouses were working overtime, stretched to the limit and I was falling out of them every time I leaned over.

(Okay, I’ll just stop the fancy narration and say it- in a naughty secretary fantasy kind of way- I was looking pretty fucking hot.)

Also inspired by my pregnancy, just like when I was in first trimester with my first, I was a mass of hormones and horny all the time. My husband had guessed what was going on not from a body change, but from the amount of time I had spent lately grabbing for his dick. (I was seriously like a machine – it was almost comically pornographic.) That part was a bit plus too. I don’t know how I would have stayed sane without a daily dose of dick to keep me centered.

So amidst all of this I get canlı bahis an assignment for one of our local major high-end merchants – you’d know the name – kind of a conservative label retailer that was looking evolve their brand to attract the young and rich segment. Huge budget for which I would get a commission – sky was the limit on creative and media budgets – and they had already signed an expensive photographic talent from New York to come and do their work.

I was sitting on a rocket. This was going to make big money and I fell in my lap. All I had to do was hold on and try not to fuck it up too bad. This might even be big enough to save my career.

Key to this job was the star photographer. He was mine to babysit. From the first time this man walked into our offices I was smitten. He wasn’t handsome in a conventional way – and certainly not what I had ever gone for in my past. Kind of an Irish or English thing going on – James Bond kind of style and swagger, though more Daniel Craig than Sean Connery. Smooth as silk, but kind of frayed at the edges. He was not tall – only maybe 5’10” but was 210 pounds of muscle mostly carried in the neck and shoulders. Very well dressed – but not suits and tie dressed – just more of a style. He was perhaps 35 but already beginning to gray at the temples.

He was a total take charge type too – firing models the client had handpicked, changing location plans without approval – normally the kind of thing that causes all kinds of drama in the office and that can rapidly get someone fired. But he didn’t take any shit and didn’t give one. He had me in a panic because he was like a bull in a china shop on budgets and scheduling. A total nightmare. Our shop did not do business this way.

I met him alone the first time and my intent was to try to rein him in a bit, but he let me know he saw right through me. His message; I was wet behind the ears and way in over my head, and if I tried to go toe-to-toe with him, he’d run me straight over. On the other hand, if I trusted him and just ate the clients shit long enough for him to get some of the first work in the can, it would all be okay.

I was already fucked – I had maybe\ two months outside before I had to drop a baby bomb that would put me in hot water at the office – so I decided what the hell and went all in. I ducked client calls when I knew they planned to put their foot down, forgot to do budget allocation paperwork that I knew would result in questions I didn’t want to answer, and on the photo sets I got coffee, ran errands, and generally made myself invisible while this guy made everyone’s life a living hell for two 12 hour days.

(Photo shoots are usually kind of loosey-goosey affairs. this was a like a death march. One of the models – a male model – actually had to take a break because he was crying after getting barked at by the photographer non-stop for an hour. No amount of make-up hides something like that.)

When this man feigned to deal with me at all, he was always cordial and he probably treated me with more respect than just about anyone else on the set. (No clients were allowed to view the production either – I didn’t even know that we could do that – so I felt privileged just to be there.)

When he spent time with me, I have to admit, my panties went damp and I got weak at the knees. I think the same could be said for just about any woman on the set and some of the men. (This is the ad business – so we have more than our share of gay men.)

After the studio, it was one more solid day behind closed doors in the art department. (It would be cool to go all Madmen and talk about film rooms and photo processing, but we were already using digital so it was really just a man and his Mac.) The next day I saw the first layouts and I knew that it might be all okay.

I’m not formally trained in this stuff but my boss says I have “an eye” bahis siteleri – and this work was stunning. I wanted to personally go down on each and every model in every spread -boy and girl. It was all just pure sex. This was the kind of creative work our clients yearned for.

The client meeting was set for a Thursday afternoon and from some time on the phone, I knew the clients plan was to come in and go nuclear about the way the project had been handled thus far. (Project manager = me.) It could have been a disaster for me, but it didn’t work that way.

Instead, we blew up over-sized images from the shoot and lined the hallways into the presentation room – a common stunt actually. It was kind of amateur theatrics for a design agency – but by the time the client contingent got to the conference table, the clients were cumming by the bucket and I knew this guy had saved my ass. It was what we call a seven figure meeting – and my cut was very low single digits off the profits but it would add up quick.

The clients were so in love with the work they didn’t want to leave – so we all sat around basking in the glow of the campaign’s heat. We didn’t get them out the door until well after 5, and something was going on in town – I think it was a big NBA playoff game (we had the Sonics then) so the office emptied fast. Pretty quick is was just me – sitting in my office too dazed to really be productive – just drinking in the day. Or so I thought.

I heard a noise, and looked up to see the photographer, and I don’t remember the dialogue, but he had come in to remind me he had asked me to trust him, and that he was glad I did. He wanted to know what I had thought of the meeting- obviously fishing for a compliment – and instead of engaging him at that level I made a decision that I never quite understood how I came to later.

I removed the pin that had been holding my hair in place all day and dropped my jacket into my chair as I stood up. I grabbed the photographer by the arms and just kissed him like he was a steak and I was a starving kid from Africa. I don’t know if I stunned him, but I did shut him up.

I pushed him into my visitor chair in my office (I had an office then instead of my little cube – those were the days). I unbuttoned the top buttons on my blouse and just crawled into this lap and pushed him back and kissed him again. By the time that kiss was done my blouse was on the floor and my bra was undone and half off my arms.

He attempted to be active, grabbing my ass and hugging me in, but I really wasn’t having any of that. I slid down his body sliding between his open legs, and reached up and started unbuckling his belt. He opened his mouth and started to say something but then thought better of it. I was about to open my mouth without thinking at all.

I undid his pants buttons, then his zipper, and just dove into his open pants with my face, smelling him for a minute and looking for the outline of his cock with my mouth.

I remember I was still wearing glasses then full-time and they were still on my face. I think I actually scratched him with the frame and he moved back a bit – so I retreated and looked up at him. He was somewhere between pleasantly shocked and pure nirvana. A total bedroom eyes kind of look men shouldn’t be capable of.

By this time my knees were on the floor and I was just sitting there topless. I had my hands on his crotch and I fished through his briefs and found his cock, which I pulled out through the little hole/flap thing. He wasn’t completely hard, but he was quickly inflating as I kind of just held it in my hand and looked at him like I was asking permission. Then I moved down and took him completely in my mouth in one move.

I was wearing a skirt that day (standard office dress) and as I widened my knees out a bit it hiked up my legs slowly. I remember I didn’t need my hands to hold his cock bahis şirketleri in my mouth as he wasn’t that big, so I put one between my legs and grabbed the back of his leg with the other.

I rubbed myself against him while I sucked him pretty wetly – when I was done his pants front was wet with my saliva. I usually am a “bobber” – moving my head back and forth with a lot of puckered cheek action – but I sucked on him like a nursing baby sucks a nipple. Deep hungry gulps.

I found that I slid my knees forward so that I was actually straddling one leg and my cunt was sitting on his foot. I was almost grateful for that contact and rubbed myself against his black leather shoe for all it was worth – grinding myself into the laces. I was making noises that were animal and kind of gross I think – it’s perhaps a weak way to describe it but they were slurping noises – loud and sloppy.

When he was about to cum, he reached to pull my head back – I think he was trying to warn me. I was surprised and let him go with my mouth – and a spurt of semen hit my cheek and the left lens of my glasses – going all the way up my forehead and even into my hair. I’m not really a facial person – so I went back down on him hard and managed to swallow the next three or four contractions, my messy face further soiling the front of his pants, which he told me was a bit embarrassing for him later.

I sat there for another minute just suckling him – thinking maybe I could get him back, but also wondering how far things would go if I did, so I eventually spit him out with my tongue and licked him off and also some of the cum that had accumulated on his lap. I sat there for another minute, slumping down off his shoe to sit on one cheek, resting my head on his leg. Neither of us said anything and we were both out of breath.

For perhaps the first time since he entered the room was I stopped to consider what I was doing and I should have been mortified but instead I just giggled and sat there. I had a big bunch of cum on my boob when I stood up – and I actually scraped it off with my finger and not knowing what to do with it, I flung it at my computer monitor on the desk. It was a cocky move – very amusing – and we both laughed.

We sat and just looked at each other – him enjoying the site of me topless and soiled with his seed. Finally, I let him know that while I had enjoyed the evening, the janitor was going to be coming through any minute and so we should probably collect ourselves. (Not true exactly, but I was a bit paranoid someone might come by – or maybe that they already had.)

I put my bra back on slowly and noticed that he was in no hurry to tuck himself back in. I buttoned my blouse and he was still not moving – so I got back on my knees and put him back in with my hands, taking a minute to kiss it one more time and then had him stand so I could button him up.

I gathered by jacket and packed my briefcase. I realized I was looking through a cloud and grabbed a Kleenex to clean my glasses and ran my fingers through my hair to break up a clot that had already dried there.

For the life of me, I really don’t remember what we said after that or how we said our goodbyes. We did not take the same elevator down to the street. He left the next morning for home, so I was spared the morning after small talk.

I remember when I got home, my husband was actually there. (A rarity as he traveled – I was expecting to just find our nanny and daughter.) I knew I was mess so I told him I was emotional and had been crying, which I hoped would account for my makeup and appearance in general. He put our girl down in her crib, then took me upstairs, and put me to bed too. We had slow, tender sex after a long time just laying there saying nothing.

He was asleep moment after finishing, but I never sleep much and lay wide awake.

I got up later that night because I was hungry. (We had never had dinner). I passed a mirror and looked, afraid I would find telltale flakes of dried cum puckering my cheek.

But all I saw was my own gaze confidently looking back at me through the glass.

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