Management Skills by January Rowe Page A

Blood pounded in her ears. Her body spun out of control, twisting and pumping. She was burning up, flailing in flames. Dimly, she sensed him tearing open the foil.
    And then he was hot and hard inside her. She shuddered with joy and gratitude. Cradling her hips in his hands, he filled her, he rode her. Gently at first. So soft, so smooth, so loving. His thrusts intensified, plunging into her deep and fast. He drove into her, each potent contact radiating into a series of powerful, overlapping climaxes.
    She cried out, electrified by his passion and endurance. Each new orgasm was stronger than the last. The world turned timeless, a universe of escalating heat and friction. In that slim instant before she convulsed with a shattering finish, she realized she was well and truly his sex slave.
    Quivering in the aftershock, legs intertwined, they lay on the metal table for long minutes. Her body tingled with contentment. She studied his handsome, serene face, his dark hair mussed. Smoothing her palms over his broad, hard chest, she showered his lips with kisses.
    He kissed her back.
    After a while, he got off the table, giving her a long, hot gaze. She adored the way her body, splayed lasciviously on the metal table, could stir him.
    “I didn’t go slow, Mine,” he said. “That means you owe me. Next time I’ll collect that debt.”
    She smiled and stretched. “Yes, Sir.”
     
    Allie’s day had been long and grueling. The tech test at the stadium had gone poorly. Not enough light, too much light, wrong gels. The timing of light cues was messed up. Two of the lamps had burned out. The master electrician had disappeared for hours. The stage manager was a jerk. She felt responsible for every failure. After taking a long shower, she lay on the hotel bed, exhausted.
    The desire she suppressed during the day tumbled into her consciousness. Grant. She needed him, needed his touch. It had been three weeks since their encounter in the machine room. She hadn’t seen him since.
    Alone and lonely, she stroked her collar, attempting to deepen her contact with her owner. Her finger curled over the oval jewel. The opulent sapphire necklace never failed to intrigue anyone who saw it. No one guessed at its intended symbolism: mutual devotion.
    Right now the necklace only represented pain and deprivation.
    At night, so far away from him, the collar was a burden. It had become a silver antenna with a big blue stone, collecting all the sexual energy of the universe. All the shimmering erotic ether was drawn into her neck, spilling down her breasts, sliding down her stomach, to swirl heavily in her pelvis.
    She needed Grant to pump out that brilliant sexual energy. He was like an oilrig. His thrusts would turn her into a supernova, throwing the shimmering substance of sex back out into the universe.
    Where was he? Why wasn’t he drilling into her? Was he fucking other women? She bit her lip, forcing away that dreadful thought. She was being unfair, paranoid. She texted Pilar, looking for womanly support, or at least girly diversion, but her friend didn’t respond. Pilar was asleep or showering or having sex with some stud who was pumping, pumping, pumping.
    Exhaling a long breath of air, Allie composed herself. Desire came from the brain. She could control it with the same organ.
    She had plenty of experience in sublimating her fire. She’d tamped down on her own sexual needs during those last few months with Joseph. Joseph would be scowling, upset about her having gone to the library or the lab or something, feeling neglected.
    She’d unfasten his pants, reaching in for his cock. So precious. So magnificent. Growing harder and harder.
    She’d whisper soft, loving words. She’d tug his pants all the way down and kneel in front of him. Proof of her submission would make him happy with her again. Focusing only on his pleasure eased his anxiety, made him feel strong. And his strength gave her security. Her skilled fingers would stroke his