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Nadia was voluptuous, her soft curves contrasting with my lean, athletic frame. I stripped her blouse open button by button, the fabric whispering apart to reveal lace bra cups straining over heavy breasts, nipples already pebbled and dark against the pale lace. I kissed down her neck, inhaling the citrus shampoo in her hair and the warmer, feminine musk rising from her cleavage as arousal built. My lips sucked marks onto her collarbone: purple blooms blooming under gentle bites. She gasped my name, "Elena," the sound breathy and needy, her hands clutching my shoulders. Her pulse thrummed under my tongue, rapid and alive.

We moved to the bed, sheets cool and smooth against heated skin. I lay her on her back, legs spread wide, thighs quivering with anticipation. Her skirt was hiked up, panties pushed aside to expose her folds, swollen and glistening with arousal, the scent intoxicating: musky, sweet-tangy like ripe fruit warmed by the sun. I knelt between her legs, my breath hot against her inner thighs, kissing the soft flesh there first, tasting the faint salt of her skin. My tongue traced her folds with deliberate precision, slow, flat licks from entrance to clit, savoring the slick wetness coating my tongue, her flavor bursting rich and heady. She was wet already, dripping, her hips twitching.

I sucked her clit gently at first, lips sealing around the swollen nub, tongue flicking in rhythmic circles. Her moans started low, building: gasps turning to whimpers, then sharp cries as I increased pressure, sucking harder. My fingers curled inside her, two then three, stroking that spongy spot with firm curls until her walls clenched rhythmically, hot and silky. Her hips bucked, thighs clamping my head, the muscles trembling. She came with a sharp cry that echoed in the suite, flooding my mouth with fresh, warm wetness, her body arching, breath ragged and sobbing.

But I didn't stop. The overstimulation made her twitch, sensitive nerves firing. I flipped us, guiding her mouth to my pussy. I was already aching, slick from her pleasure, my own scent earthy and aroused, mingling with hers. "Slower," I whispered, voice husky, fingers threading through her curls. "Yes, like that, use your fingers too." Her tongue was tentative at first, exploring my folds, tasting me: salty-sweet, slick. She learned fast, devouring with growing hunger, lips sucking my clit, fingers plunging deep and curling. My thighs clamped her head, the pressure building in waves, moans tearing from my throat, low and guttural at first, rising to desperate keens. I shattered, release crashing through me, thighs quaking, flooding her mouth as I ground against her face.

We scissored then, bodies slick with sweat and arousal. The faint fragrance of our perfumes was now drowned in the raw aroma of dripping sweat glistening on our skin, musky and primal. Legs intertwined, pussies pressed hot and wet, clits rubbing slick and desperate in a frantic rhythm. The wet sounds of our grinding filled the room: sliding, squelching, her full breasts bouncing against mine, nipples hard and dragging. Our breaths synchronized in pants and moans, hers high and pleading, mine deeper, commanding. Pleasure coiled tighter, clits throbbing in direct friction, until we both came again, sobbing into each other's mouths, bodies convulsing, juices mixing in slippery heat.

By morning, sunlight filtered through curtains, warming marked skin. My bites bloomed on her collarbone, thighs, and inner wrists. The deal was sealed. Over breakfast, fresh fruit, coffee, and the scent of buttery croissants, she signed the offer letter, eyes still dazed with afterglow, body humming with residual sensitivity. Nadia became indispensable: restructuring operations, saving millions. Our "mentorship" continued discreetly. Office encounters where I'd edge her under the desk during calls, fingers circling her clit slowly while she bit her lip to stifle moans, her wetness soaking my hand; or she'd kneel after hours, tongue working me to shuddering release while I reviewed P&Ls, her breath hot against my thighs, the taste of me on her lips as she swallowed every drop.

It's the same pattern with every recruit, each encounter expanded in exquisite detail to bind them irrevocably. Sophia Chen, Head of Risk, was poached from a rival in London. Our "recruitment dinner" in a sleek Mayfair hotel began professionally: sushi and sake, her lithe frame in a silk dress that whispered against her skin. But it evolved into her strapped to the hotel bed with silk ties, wrists and ankles bound gently but firmly, the fabric cool and smooth against her flushed skin. The room smelled of sandalwood incense and her light floral perfume, undercut by growing arousal. I teased her for hours with a vibrator, buzzing low against her nipples first, making them tighten to aching peaks, then tracing down her flat stomach to hover at her clit. Her breaths came in short, desperate gasps, moans escalating from whimpers to pleas: "Elena, please... I need..." Sweat beaded on her brow, the salty tang on my tongue as I kissed her neck. She begged for the job, and for me, before I fucked her with a strap-on, deep and relentless: the silicone gliding slick into her tight, clenching heat, my hips pounding in measured thrusts that hit her deepest spots. Her cries echoed, sharp and keening, as she came multiple times, walls pulsing around the girth, juices squirting in hot bursts down her thighs, our bodies slapping wetly, scents of sweat and sex heavy.

Or Priya Singh, COO: I've known Priya intimately from our university flatmate days, her lithe Indian body familiar yet newly claimed in recruitment. Over a weekend retreat in the Hamptons, we skinny-dipped in the private pool under moonlight, the water cool silk sliding over bare skin, her dark nipples hardening in the night air, the chlorine scent mixing with her coconut oil lotion and natural musk. On the deck chairs afterward, wood warm under us, I ate her out thoroughly: tongue plunging deep into her folds, tasting her tangy-sweet essence, fingers curling inside while she muffled screams into her arm, body arching, thighs quaking, sweat-slicked skin glowing as orgasms ripped through her in waves.

It's consensual, always: clear boundaries discussed upfront, mutual desire affirmed in every heated glance and whispered consent. Daniel knows; he encourages it, even recounts how it turns him on to imagine the details later in our bed. Our all-female C-suite isn't a coincidence. It's a strategy. These women aren't just employees; they're mine. Loyal because I've seen them at their most vulnerable, gasping, quivering, flooding with pleasure they didn't know they craved. I've given them ecstasy that unlocks hidden strengths and elevated them to the power they earned, but I ignited.

In the end, recruitment isn't always about resumes. It's about conquest: sensory, profound, binding. And I always win.

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