Wearing nothing but a plush bathrobe, Madeline Elizabeth Leeds stood at the edge of the floor-level spa in her twenty-second floor apartment overlooking the lights of Boston. She dipped the toes of her right foot, playfully splashing Dane, a male model half her age.

With his eyes closed, head back and arms outstretched, Dane playfully warned in a thick French accent, “You’re not the only designer in Boston.”

Madeline turned away, stepped in front of the full length window and dropped her robe replying, “I most certainly am.”

“You have a charming backside,” he offered. “You look half your age, but no twenty-year-old could possible wear your curves and soft edges. Even your ankles are gorgeous.”

The ends of Madeline’s sculptured black hair danced atop her shoulders as she unpinned it and shook her head. It dared fall no further as she turned to face him. Dane stood, navel-deep in the bubbling blue-lit water. His hairless chest glistened as channels of soothing warmth made their way back to the steaming broth. Two inches in front of his rippled pelvis, the engorged head of his anxious phallus broke the surface like a meaty periscope.

Madeline offered no expression—no clue to her mysteries as he stepped up with his powerful legs and stood naked on the tile floor, facing her. He waited for her to advance and fall into the grasp of his mighty arms. But she was Madeline Elizabeth Leeds—founder, CEO and chief designer of Madeline’s Moods—a prestigious line of women’s intimates and apparels known worldwide for excellence, comfort and price. Madeline didn’t come when she was called—she didn’t need to. She smiled and turned to look out the window.

Dane approached from behind, placing his strong left palm onto the milky soft skin atop her shoulder. Madeline purred softly—just enough to show approval as his hand fell over the front and onto her ample bosom. His beefy left thigh lightly brushed her buttocks as he leaned closer to her ear. She let out a soft hum of approval as his breath wafted on her neck.

Finally, Madeline had been brought to the hard-to-reach point where she could relax enough to allow a man to learn her cherished privacy. So many duds in a row, she thought to herself. But this time, passion had found her. She would offer herself—turn to face him and allow him the treasure of her intimacy, then send him on his way.

But as she tried to turn, Dane’s strong left arm shoved her forward, pressing her cheek against the window. Madeline winced and cried out as he slapped her buttocks with a loud pop. She clenched her fist and spun, swinging at him with a punch any sissy would be proud of. He caught her wrist, affirming, “So she was right... you do like it rough.”

“I most certainly do not, you Cro-Magnon!” sneered Madeline. “Get your hairy knuckles off me and get out before I have security show you the fastest route off the balcony!”

“Wait!” he pleaded. “She told me to. She said it’s the only way you like it! I swear!”

Madeline threw on her robe and sat, asking in a harsh tone, “Thin blonde? Fifty? Bitchy... looks like a skinny opera singer?”

“Yeah. Allesandra’s assistant.”

“Allesandra has no assistant, Dane. That’s my ex-husband’s wife.”

“Are you—?”

“Just go home, Dane, or wherever you go at night.”

As Dane walked out, Madeline called her ex-husband, Demetrius Demopolis. Ten minutes later, she lay on her back with her legs spread as wide as she could—her heels dug into the mattress as Demetrius quickened his pace. Beneath her buttocks, a wet stain of her own making soaked the sheets in a heart-shaped testament to the fact that there was indeed a man on this Earth who could bring her to orgasm. Unfortunately, he could also drive her to the edge of homicide.

Madeline’s sexual satisfaction with Demetrius stemmed only in part from the prowess he so readily exuded. The quality she found most appealing was the fact that he never complained about her regulations. She didn’t care to take a man in her mouth. It seemed subservient to do so. She avoided doggy-style because she saw no value in letting a man having sex with her unless she could see him. Most of all, Madeline had little desire to have anyone plant their tongue within her. Not only were her womanly secretions intended for other things, she felt, but once they were on a man’s tongue, all kissing was finished for the evening. She reasoned her inhibitions off by convincing herself that a man shouldn’t need to use tawdry foreplay either to arouse or be aroused by her.

Restrictions aside, Madeline was no teetotaler, nor was she a shrew. She simply didn’t care for any activity that didn’t offer her a distinct sense of superiority and control. In fact, she was consistently horny, but apparently for the wrong reasons. In the past, sex brought intimacy and delight, but she hadn’t had such desire in years. Change had found her. She yearned for little more than the moment of orgasm. The value of anything leading up to it was merely a measure of the power it brought her.

Men came to her—young, virile men. They craved her. Most worshiped her. Unfortunately, very few ever satisfied her. They came, performed, then left. Most of them failed to bring from within her the reward that soaked the sheets beneath her, cooling her buttocks as Demetrius locked his hips and bellowed.

Madeline gave a hardy sigh of gratitude as his seedy spray irrigated her walls in successive jets. The pitch of her cry oscillated to the rhythm of his bursts. Demetrius fell to his elbows as his jolts weakened and his stiffness began to wane within her.