Chapter 4: The Shareholders' Special Dividend
The boardroom was a cathedral of cold ambition. Forty floors up, the wall of windows framed a steel-gray sky, the light flat and impartial as it fell across the polished mahogany slab. Twelve leather chairs, twelve men in suits whose costs could cover Mei’s rent for a year. The air hummed with the low drone of the ventilation system, layered over with the scent of espresso, starched cotton, and the astringent bite of Thompson’s cologne.
Mei Lin breathed in the dark, enclosed space beneath the table. Her world had shrunk to the forest of legs, the gleam of Italian loafers, the subtle shift of fine wool. The Persian rug was thick under her knees, a deep burgundy pattern she’d memorized. From here, she heard the meeting as a series of disembodied voices, projections on a screen.
“The Q3 losses in the Asian sector are concerning, David, but not catastrophic.” Thompson’s voice, calm and measured, came from directly above her. His chair was pushed back slightly, his legs spread. The fine fabric of his trousers brushed her cheek.
“Concern is what we pay you to manage,” another voice replied—Sharpe, the CFO. A dry, precise man. “The restructuring must be aggressive. Surgical.”
Mei’s mouth was dry, but between her legs, she was already wet. The anticipation had begun hours ago, a low thrum in her blood when Thompson had slid the small, egg-shaped remote into her hand with his morning coffee. “Be ready,” was all he’d said. The memory of the penthouse, of the blacklight and the cold champagne, didn’t shame her anymore. It stirred something else, a dark, eager curl in her stomach.
Now, under the table, she nuzzled the fly of his trousers. Through the fabric, she felt the heat and the firm shape of him. She worked the button and zipper free with quiet, practiced hands. The sound was a whisper lost under Sharpe’s diatribe about liquidity ratios.
When she took him into her mouth, he didn’t miss a beat in his sentence. “—which is why we’re diverting capital to the acquisition pipeline. The Davenport deal will close by month’s end.”
He was already half-hard, swelling against her tongue. She tasted salt and linen. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking gently, then drawing him deeper. Her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. She breathed him in, that mix of soap and musk. Her own pulse hammered in her ears, a counter-rhythm to the boardroom’s dry discourse.
“The projections seem optimistic,” a new voice chimed in from down the table.
Thompson shifted, a minute adjustment of his hips. “Optimism is grounded in data, Charles. We have the metrics.”
His hand came down, not to touch her, but to rest on the back of her head, a faint pressure.A guide. She obeyed, taking him fully, feeling the head of his cock nudge the back of her throat. She relaxed, letting him slide deeper, her eyes watering. She focused on the sensations: the smooth skin, the heavy weight on her tongue, the subtle jerk of his muscles when a shareholder posed a difficult question.
Then, the buzz.
It started low, a barely-there hum inside her. The remote. She’d inserted the egg in the staff bathroom, her back against the cool stall door, her skirt hitched up. Now, it woke up, a persistent, devilish vibration against her most sensitive spot. A soft gasp escaped her, muffled by his flesh.
Thompson’s voice remained steady. “The correction is temporary. A market fluctuation.”
The buzz intensified. A sharp, sudden pulse. Mei’s hips jerked involuntarily, her soaking thong grinding against the rug. Pleasure, bright and electric, shot up her spine. She moaned, the sound absorbed by his body.
Above, Sharpe cleared his throat. “I’d like to draw attention to appendix B, page seven. The risk assessment matrix.”
As he spoke, the vibration shifted into a steady, maddening rhythm. Thrum-thrum-thrum. It was perfectly synced with her heartbeat. Mei’s focus shattered. Her world was the cock in her mouth, the buzz in her cunt, the wetness soaking through her thong onto the rug beneath her knees. She moved her head faster, sucking with desperate hunger, her hand working the base of him. She wanted to make him lose control, to hear that calm voice fracture.
“Interesting analysis, Michael,” Thompson said, and she felt his abdominal muscles tighten.A reward. His fingers tangled in her hair, tightening their grip. “But I believe you’re underestimating the brand loyalty factor.”
The egg’s pattern changed again. A series of rapid, fluttering pulses. Mei saw stars behind her clenched eyelids. Her body was climbing, tensing. She was right on the edge, her own need a screaming, white-hot thing. She fucked her mouth on him, frantic now, her lips stretched wide. Spit coated her chin.
“I’m not convinced,” Charles said.
“Then let me be clearer,” Thompson replied, and his voice had dropped, gained a rough edge only she could hear. His thrusts into her mouth became shallow, purposeful. “The fundamentals are sound. The asset is… performative.”
The word, their private joke, was her undoing. The vibration spiked to an unbearable peak. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and silent. Her body convulsed, her cunt clamping around nothing, waves of heat flooding her limbs. She milked him with her throat as she came, her muscles fluttering in rhythmic spasms.
He followed. With a low, stifled grunt, he pushed deep and held her there. His release shot hot and bitter down her throat. She swallowed reflexively, again and again, until he was spent.
For a moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing, the faint residual buzz of the egg, and the rustle of papers above.
Thompson gently eased her off him. She stayed on her knees, dizzy, listening as he zipped his trousers.
“So we’re aligned?” Thompson asked the room, his voice perfectly restored to its executive smoothness. “Aggressive restructuring. Surgical precision.”
“Agreed,” Sharpe said. Mei heard the faint click of the remote being set on the table. The vibration inside her ceased, leaving a hollow, throbbing ache.“Good. Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scraped back. Shoes shuffled. Mei stayed in the dark, counting the pairs of legs as they filed out. She caught a glimpse of Sharpe’s polished Oxfords pausing beside Thompson’s. A murmured exchange, too low to hear. A chuckle.Then, silence.
Thompson’s face appeared under the table. He looked at her, kneeling in the dim space, her makeup smudged, her lips swollen and glossy. A slow smile spread across his face. He reached out, thumb wiping a stray drop from her chin.
“You’re leaking, Mei,” he said, his voice casual. “Made a mess of the rug.”
She looked down. The dark patch on the burgundy Persian was undeniable. A stain of her own arousal. She felt no shame. Only a deep, sated exhaustion, and a flicker of pride.
“The Davenport client flies in tonight,” he said, withdrawing. “Be at the rooftop bar at nine. Wear the emerald dress. The one with the open back.”
He stood, leaving her under the table. She heard him gather his papers, the clink of his watch against his briefcase clasp.
As she finally crawled out, her legs stiff, the empty boardroom felt vast and charged. The ghost of the meeting lingered in the air. She straightened her skirt, ran a hand through her hair. In the reflective surface of the window, she saw a woman with knowing eyes, a mouth used for more than speech. The wedding band between her breasts felt warm against her skin.
She walked to the door, her heels silent on the rug. She didn’t look back at the stain. It was just part of the landscape now. A testament to the metrics.