Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail by C.D. Foxwell

Italian
stereotype made flesh and blood. Thick, black, wavy hair, dark, soulful eyes,
olive skin, sleek physique. His dress sense was immaculate, too, and at least
once a week everyone in the office was blown away by a beautifully fitted suit,
or perhaps a pair of exquisite Italian shoes. He prowled their small office
space like a panther. Available yet unattainable. Flirty yet never lecherous.
    Claire and Zoe had built their business
up to employ eight people on permanent contracts, apart from themselves, and
Paolo was still the only male. His knowledge and love for fashion was so acute,
so honed, that a casual male observer may have lazily believed him to be gay.
For any woman, though, this was obviously untrue. Paolo exuded a sensual sex
appeal that every female in the office was extremely aware of. Behind his back,
co-workers often fanned their faces or blew out their cheeks in their
exaggerated appreciation of him. Yet, as far as Claire could tell, even though
he appeared to be single, no one had yet managed to coax him on a date.
    Paolo had been at the company for ten
months and now it was Christmas. He was part of the furniture. And, it had to
be said, he had not let them down. In fact, appointing a beautiful man to the
PR role had proved something of a masterstroke. It was a role often taken by
women, so when it came to promoting the company through magazine pieces, events
and so forth, he stood out from the crowd like… well, like a stupendously
attractive Italian man in a sea of PR girls. He was easy to remember. Indeed,
their coverage in fashion and style magazines had seen a marked increase within
just two months of him taking the job. Even at 26, it was obvious that Paolo
had a great career in front of him. He was smart, well-organised, suave and
ambitious.
     
    “So, do you always come here for the
Christmas party?” he asked.
    “No, new venue this year. We needed
somewhere a little larger.” Briefly, Claire remembered her and Zoe’s first
Christmas party, ten years earlier. It consisted of three bottles of cheap wine
at their shared flat in front of the television. Now they had hired a plush
upstairs bar and been able to invite suppliers, boutique fashion designers,
clients and plenty of friends and acquaintances from the media world.
    “Beats drinking warm white wine out of
polystyrene cups in an office – I’ve been at a few companies like that!”
    “Well, that was us not so long ago!”
    “Really? I can’t imagine you ever
drinking from a polystyrene cup!”
    “Hey, back at Uni, I used to drink wine
from whatever vessel I could get my hands on. A pint glass was the usual!”
     
    It was just after ten. The evening had
been a great success. Claire, with her natural pessimism, had obsessed for days
that no one would turn up; that there would be some cooler party somewhere else
across town that would steal all their guests. Zoe had been forced to constantly
reassure her that it would be fine. And, of course, she was right. The room was
packed and the atmosphere festive and a little hysterical with drunken
laughter. Claire had done several circuits and made sure she saw the people she
needed to see and pressed the right palms. Now she could relax, in the corner,
where she felt a little more comfortable, away from hub of the revelling.
    Partying and networking was very much
Zoe’s department. She had always been better at the social side of the
business, even from the start. She was the one that would go out and make new
contacts, not just because she was good at it, not just because it needed
doing, but because she loved it. Going for drinks, whether with friends or
business acquaintances, was her specialty. In the meantime, Claire kept an eye
on what Zoe would see as the duller parts of their work – cash flow,
contracts, IT, general management issues and the deals with clothing
manufacturers, designers and retailers. That, really, was why the company had
been such a success – hard work,