Trashy 80s Gay Erotica

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Trashy 80s Gay Erotica

From the creators of Breeder's Digest comes a new kind of erotica that will have you sweating money and oozing class. The following excerpt introduces you to the glamorous world of Executive Privilege, a novel that takes a hard, throbbing glance at the high-stakes business dealings of the gay and lesbian corporate gold-status elite...


Chapter 3: A Case of Blackmail

*  *  *

Carolyne Feldencrest was irritated, to say the least. She stormed down the executive hallway of TightFit Jazz Aerobics United with a vengeance. It was five past seven and Mipsy was nowhere to be found. The office was in disarray, the ditto machine was out of ink, and Carolyne hadn't even had time for a strong cup of Colombian coffee. As she rounded the corner, her executive assistant at last appeared, stepping out of the elevator.

"Good morning, Ms. Feldencrest," she said eagerly.

"Can it, Mipsy! You're late! Don't you know how important it is that everything go perfectly today?" In a flash, Carolyne was gone. Mipsy went directly to her desk, disappointed that Ms. Feldencrest hadn't commented on her new dress, the rose cologne she had thoughtfully dabbed on her neck, or the highlights she'd given herself the previous night, to subtly enhance the red in her hair.

Carolyne was a ball of frenzy. She wasn't usually like this and, in fact, she hated when she felt this way. She could already sense the tension of the day, and her much anticipated meeting with Peter Mansfield, founder and CEO of Deep Tissue Nautilus Supply Co. Industries, creeping into her shoulders. Carolyne Feldencrest, on a good day, was a force to be reckoned with. She pitied anyone who would try to pull one over on her tough as nails business savvy on a day like this. She knew had to do something to ease her mind. She hurried to her rolodex, formulating a plan.

A female colleague from the Wall Street sector had given her a card, many months ago, which she still hadn't used. A masseuse, this colleague had told her. A masseuse to end all masseuses. "That's where I go, to shake off the stresses of the business day. Where I go, to release the essence of myself back into myself," this woman had said. Carolyne dialed the number, made the appointment for that evening, and that was that. For now, with Peter Mansfield scheduled to arrive at the crack of eight, she had bigger fish to fry.

Carolyne walked behind her desk and peered before her into the gilded-framed rectangular mirror hanging at the opposite end of her office, which itself hung some thirty floors above the taxi-flooded streets of Manhattan's bustling fitness district. Her confidence revived by a long gaze through the impressive floor-to-ceiling windows, down at those inferior streets below, Carolyne guided her designer heels (purchased in a moment of excess, on her most recent jaunt through Milan) around her desk in order to get a good look at herself.

Carolyne spent hours on her knees in the Cathedral of Milan...

She looked altogether stunning, the picture of feminine corporate sensuality. The sobering pink color of her matching pencil skirt and jacket softened the mannish tailoring of her wide-shouldered power suit, which crescendoed at the shoulders where two blocks of shoulder pads flanked her head. Her delicate neck, strong from years of Jazz Aerobics, sloped up to her beautiful face--a face with angled features and striking green eyes. These, the greenest eyes, were perfectly centered within her oversized, gold-plated, monogrammed designer frames--the most-fitting accent, her optometrist had insisted, for her traffic-stopping good looks. Oh, Dr. Mayra Rodriguez! She shivered and made a note to make another "appointment" with her one of these days.

The unexpected sexual rush Carolyne experienced from the mere thought of Dr. Rodriguez further increased her confidence. This day would go like any other. She had enough leverage to close this hundred-thousand dollar deal in a matter of minutes. Carolyne brushed the feathers of her feathered blond hair back into place and, with the palm of her hand, gave a slight nudge--for more volume--to the ends of her classy bob haircut.

The intercom crackled, giving way to Mipsy's usual call, "Ms. Feldencrest?"

"Yes, Mipsy," she returned, reminded of her executive assistant's shortcomings that morning.

"Mr. Mansfield's here to see you."

"Very well. Send him in." Carolyne was nervous, she had to admit, but strove to remain in control. She could not let Peter Mansfield of all people see her sweat. Her industry opponents trembled with fear at the mention of her name, cowering and inevitably bending to her will as she slowly crushed them to a fine powder. Likewise, Peter Mansfield's was a name murmured by competitors in hushed tones of terror and awe. Whereas in most of her business dealings she was recognized as having the biggest balls in the room, she had heard a rumor or two about Peter's, and knew they had the potential to present her with the stickiest situation she'd ever found herself in. This would not be an easy sell. Fortunately for her, she had a few of Peter's old tricks up her sleeve.