NEW: Mommy's Bottom Drawer [cd,femdom] 4/5
Pervitron
out of college. I was a runner on the floor of the Chicago
Mercantile Exchange. Mom's sister was a Senior VP at one of the
major brokerage houses, and she got me this job. It wasn't much
of a job, all I did was hump orders from the phone banks on the
side of the exchange floor to the traders in a pit.
The trading floor was like a beehive, there were thousands of
people packed into a congested arena about the size of a football
field. Working on the floor was an assault on the senses, at the
end of the day my ears would still be ringing from the continuos
roar of the traders. The outer perimeter of the trading floor
was covered with quote boards that hurt my eyes with their
brightness. Workers on the floor wore colored jackets that
distinguished their role in the chaos. Exchange officials wore
bright blue, there were only a few dozen of them. Trading
members wore red. The most active people on the floor were
runners who took orders from the phone to the pits. There were
almost a thousand of us, faceless young men like me, running all
around the floor like drones.
There were about a dozen trading pits on the floor. Each was a
circular amphitheater containing a few hundred traders, screaming
continuously at each other for 6 hours a day. This "good job"
that my aunt got me consisted of running between the phone banks
and the outer perimeter of the pit, where I jostled my way
between a few hundred other young men so that I could shout or
signal an order to one of the firm's traders down in the center
of the pit. More than once I was knocked to the floor by
another runner, determined to get his orders executed faster than
mine. After one particularly chaotic day, I was hanging up my
gold runner's jacket when I noticed a footprint in the middle of
the back. I had been trampled during a stampede near the
International Monetary Market pit.
It was probably one of the most stressful places to work in the
world. There were three thousand men on the exchange floor at
any one time, all swarming around the financial gladiators in the
pits. The vast majority of the people on the floor were men. It
was such a high testosterone, "in your face" arena that most
woman decided they wanted no part of it. But the ones that
stayed were truly extraordinary.
That was Gabrielle. She was one of the head traders for our
firm, and probably the best. And her looks! She had a shapely,
athletic body, with long legs, and jet black hair. She wore
faded jeans that hugged her thighs, and she kept the shirt under
her member's jacket half open. The men on the floor would gape
at her, their eyes would be drawn to her chest, attracted by the
open shirt, and the heavy gold cross that danced in the warm,
shadows of her flesh. More than once I found myself staring,
only to glance at her, and see her icy, black eyes burn my
cheeks. She stood in the center of the trading pit; As the head
trader for one of the largest firms, she was a major player.
She was the only woman in the pit, and she practically dared
anyone to fuck with her. The inside of the pit was a chaotic
place - traders pushed and elbowed each other to get their orders
filled. But there seemed to be an invisible zone around
Gabrielle; she was never jostled like the other traders, she
stood still and regal like a goddess.
Nobody fucked with her.
Gabrielle could out trade anybody on the floor, she'd enter the
pit in the morning like a prizefighter. More than once, some day
trader thought he got the better of her, by making her take an
unfavorable price early in the day; at the end of the day he was
back, pleading with her to let him unload a position that was in
a downward spiral, snared in one of those unpredictable lurches
in the market that a trader like Gabrielle could cause. She'd
just look at him and smile, enjoying her revenge. And she had
something else that was even more feared: She had a mouth like a
viper, Gabrielle had no qualms about taking a man apart in from
of the other traders. The only time I've ever seen trading stop
in the pit was one day when she started screaming at one of the
other head traders; a hush fell over the pit, we all looked at
her, pointing her finger in his face, calling him a "sissy-assed
faggot" in her piercing, traders voice. The pit fell silent
until she finished with him, he walked up the steps of the pit
red-faced, almost in tears. She got excellent prices the rest
of the day.
Needless to say, I was smitten!
She knew I liked her, it must have been obvious from the way I
looked at her, and followed her around when she moved on the
floor. I wasn't the only one; When she walked around the floor
there was a wake of whispers and turned heads behind her. Men
leered at her shapely ass, they stopped what they were doing,
distracted by the teasing dance of her young body. Men that
shouted all day whispered to each other about her, how nice it
would be to feel the warmth of her body against them. She loved
the all the attention, she loved the power her beauty gave her
over men. She seemed to like the runners most of all, because we
were new to the floor; we were like a litter of young puppies,
and I was the youngest, most eager of all. I'd bring her lunch.
I'd wait on line down on State Street for a half hour to get the
sourdough sandwiches she liked, and on the way back I'd buy a
rose, and place it in the bag. She'd give me a little smile when
she opened the bag; I'm sure it was really a smirk, amusement at
the sick loser who was making a play for her, but I was thrilled.
I thought of her all the time, whenever I masturbated I fixed my
mind on her. What I would give to kiss that lovely, perfect ass
of hers.
One day I got my chance. My lunch time trips had become almost
comical. She teased me by saying I was becoming annoying, or some
days she'd have this smug look on her face, and say that another
runner was going to get her lunch today. I'd be devastated, but
I'd still try the next day. There were two other women who had
lunch with her on the side of the exchange floor. They weren't
traders, these were older order clerks who worked the phones.
One of them had short, black hair, almost like a crew cut. She
had a face like a bird, she was thin and angular, and she never
wore makeup. The other was a hippie that had grown old, and
overweight. She wore silver granny glasses and her gray hair was
pulled back into a tight, almost painful pony tail; she looked
like she hadn't been made love to since the 1960s. The men on
the floor said they were dykes. They said this about all the
women, but I believed them with these two. They seemed to hate
men, and they spoke only to each other. I could see that they
were as attracted to Gabrielle as the men were, but for a
different reason. Gabrielle's beauty was still in full flower,
when these girls were around her they seemed energized by its
ambient glow. The two of them could convince themselves that the
looks they got from the men that walked by were for them, too.
They were just plain angry, angry at men who denied them the
chance in their day to trade, and angry at the world, for
extinguishing any beauty they once may have had. Gabrielle had
none of their bitterness. She didn't like men any more than they
did, it seemed, but her dislike was colored more by amused, icy
contempt rather than anger. Gabrielle liked this lunchtime
diversion, the chance to be with girls and bitch about men;
They were a buffer for her, a chance to eat her lunch and not be
bothered by the other traders.
This was another day when she let some other runner get her
lunch. It had been almost a week since she let me do it. I saw
her and her two friends standing there, off to the side, in the
relatively quiet area underneath the visitor's gallery. The
gallery was full with lunchtime tourists, all looking at the pits
and the electric quote boards that surrounded the perimeter of
the floor. But any men among the visitors would be looking down
at Gabrielle; I knew that was why she stood there every day. I
ate my lunch near my broker's station, since it was close enough
to see her. She and her friends were laughing among themselves,
no doubt finding one of the men on the floor amusing. She looked
so ... alluring, so tempting, I looked at her smile, her bright
blue eyes and that gentle tones of her face, and I had a sudden
inner image of her. She was above me with that same smile, and
I was deep inside her, thrilling her with the slow, folding
caresses of my tongue. The image threw a switch within me, and my
cock hardened, and pushed against the silky tightness of my
panties.
I was meant to have her.
Like a knight, fearless of all danger, I got up from the broker's
station and walked towards her.
They saw me coming. One of the older clerks said something and
they all laughed. I knew I'd be mocked, but still I had to try.
I walked up to them, and they fell silent; I was like a solicitor
at an impatient court. "Uh, Gabrielle, can I get you something
... like ..." I knew I sounded stupid. "... a soda, or
something." My heart was pounding in my chest, I was still hard
in my pants, and I knew my face was blood red. I could feel my
pulse there, in my cheeks.
Gabrielle gave a little impatient sigh. My stammering and
discomfort seemed to have disarmed her a bit. She actually held
her tongue ... but just for a moment. "Christ! Will you just get
lost!" She said this using the same tone of voice you'd use
with
a little brat. The words hurt, but the sound of her, the way
she did it, sent an erotic shiver through me.
The black-haired one chimed in: "Is this that guy you were
telling us about. Shit! What a fuckin' joke!"
"Yeah, what an asshole. Thinks he's got a chance!" This was
the one with the pony tail, her eyes seemed to brighten behind
her glasses. "Asshole!" She said it again, to be sure I heard
it.
Gabrielle started laughing. They all did, this was such a hoot
for them, especially for the two clerks. To bury a man like
this, to humiliate him, rub his nose in his own, sick desire.
Yes, they hadn't felt this good in years.
Gabrielle started in. "God, what a desperate sack of SHIT you
are." She took a sip of her drink and thought a moment,
choosing her words carefully. "Why don't you just go JERK OFF!"
Now the clerks were really roaring. "God! What a friggin' PAIN
IN
THE ASS you are!"
This was a bad dream. The ground was opening beneath me. I
could hear her voice rise, and I knew in a minute she'd be
screaming, the floor would fall silent as the men listened to her
rip my heart out. They'd be talking about it in the bars after
the markets closed. The guides in the visitors gallery would
stop talking, mesmerized by the more primeval scene just beneath
them. Still, despite the panic, I was rooted to the spot. I
couldn't move. Not yet.
Gabrielle looked me up and down, searching for something cruel,
something vicious to say. She found it, of course. "Hey girls, I
think he's got a HARDON!"
In a moment, they would know everything. They'd know the color
and texture of my panties and garter. They'd know the look and
feel the soft, feminine things I wore under my street clothes,
and the secret thrill I got from them all day.
Her friends looked down, and started to grin. The black haired
one practically shouted. "Hey! He's GETTING OFF ON THIS!"
I wanted to run past them, slam through the door and run out onto
South Wacker, and leave this place forever. I wanted to be back
in my apartment, where I could cry in my bed, and hide, and
sleep. But I was kidding myself. Once I got there I'd start
masturbating, because underneath the panic, beneath the
breathless fear, there was an intense arousal. My panties were
wet from the thrill of this, this ... exposure.
Gabrielle just glared at me while the other girls egged her on.
The one with the pony tail said: "You know, maybe he's like one
of those guys who want to be a slave or something."
"Yeah!" The thin one picked up the ball. "He seems to like
this
so much! Jenny Jones had a show on about guys like that." She
was watching me while she said this, she seemed to scan my body
and see the truth of what they were saying. "It was so cool,
these guys would like, wait on you, hand and foot."
"Yeah, I saw that show too." The other girl said. They were
like two little demons on either side of Gabrielle. "Remember
the one with the maid's outfit?"
"Yeah, that was fuckin' AWESOME!. I bet this guy would like
that
too. Fuckin' SISSY!" She had the quick, darting eyes of a
reptile, and her mouth was leering with her excitement. "Come
on! Ask him to clean your apartment."
"Yeah, Gabby, go ahead! I bet he'd do it!"
Gabrielle looked at me calmly, as if she was studying me, as if
she could see in my face the depth of my desire. For a moment,
the three of them fell silent, I looked back at Gabrielle, aware
only of the beating of my heart, and the still overwhelming need
for her. If anything, the mockery I suffered only added to the
intense pull she had over me, she seemed like nothing so much as
an erotic goddess, the mistress I was forever joined to.
"I-I-I-I would " I didn't even wait for her to ask, the offer
just spilled out of me like a desperate plea. Take me, I'll
serve you forever!
Once I said it I saw a strange light in Gabrielle' eyes, and I
knew that she had secret desires too, wishes that were the top
half of mine. Yes, she had an inner bitch inside, I would show
her how good it felt to let it out. I had seen it come alive
with anger, in her volcanic explosions in the pits. Now we
would both feel the heat of her awakening bitch, not for anger,
but for pleasure.
**
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