I’m Ashley CEO, nice to meet you Part 4

The first morning back at work began not with a meeting, but a war, me versus my walk-in closet. My heavy and long black cast made everything a calculated complication, a test of my focus. Even sitting on the silk sheets, the weight of it in my hip was a constant, dull, delicious ache I couldn't ignore since it went so high on my leg. 

Six to eight weeks, maybe more, my sexy doctor had purred while licking me. I ran my fingers along the hard surface, letting the contrast stopping where my toes peeked out, ten perfect nails painted a desire-red. 

If I was going to be trapped, I’d still be me.

Pulling on lingerie was the initial battle with my favorite: black lace panties designed to feel like a forbidden secret. I gathered the delicate fabric, stretched the elastic wide, and then, with painstaking slowness, coaxed it inch by inch over my broken leg. My hands worked, where the soft lace met the hard fiberglass, guiding it past the edge until it snapped into place, a subtle, forbidden texture against my hips. 

My fingers lingered where my cast and my inner thigh met, feeling the contrast before smoothing the lace. Just inches from my waiting vagina. My fingers slid down to dip into my vagina, spreading the lips with two fingers slowly but surely.

"Humm," I moaned softly to myself, my eyes closed as I savoured the sensation.

I could feel the orgasm building, my body tensing as the pleasure became too much. My fingers rubbing my clitoris, sending me over the edge. I came, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over me. 

“God Ash you need to get ready to go.” I said out loud.

The bra was easier, sliding under the blouse I'd chosen. But the skirt... My pencil skirt was my uniform, my sexy weapon. Now, with my leg locked almost straight, it was a challenge designed for a dominatrix… but that’s for another story. 

I had to wriggle, balance precariously on one healthy foot, using the cast as a counterweight. After two failed, breath-catching attempts, I sat back, the air knocked out of me, a strand of hair sticking to the damp skin of my neck. I took a slow, deliberate breath, then reached down, my fingertips resting against the silk of my panties where the cast pushed the fabric taut. A little friction, a little heat and some wetness.

My blouse is tight against my breasts. I tucked it sharply into the skirt, running my palms over the smooth silk and fastened a heavy gold watch.

Then, usually my favorite part of my morning routine is the shoes. I stared at the black stilettos waiting, five inches of needle-sharp, pointed-toe power. My right foot slid easily into one, the leather hugging my instep like a second skin. The other was redundant. I held it for a moment, the leather cool in my hand, before tossing it aside. 

My left foot, bare, red painted toes exposed at the end of my cast, suddenly felt incredibly exposed. The contrast was intoxicating. One heel… for 6 weeks at least.

I swung the crutches under my arms, pushing my body upright. The cast was heavy and yet I found the rhythm: tap, swing, tap. I practised in front of the mirror in my bedroom: my hair swaying, the single stiletto tapping a rhythm sharp and confident.

I still looked like me, Miss Cole. Maybe even more dangerous, Mistress Ashley.

My private car dropped me at the glass fortress of my headquarters. I paused, gathering my breath. The world felt taller, steeper. The cast, undeniable, commanded attention in the morning sun. With the help of Marco, my driver, I made it out and on my crutches.

Inside, the grand lobby hushed into almost silence as I entered. My single heel struck the marble: click. The crutches followed with a rhythmic echo. Every head turned. Assistants stopped mid-whisper.

“Ms. Cole,” one of the receptionists breathed, eyes wide with stunned admiration of my long and clearly heavy leg cast. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

I smiled, a slow, predatory curve of my lips. “I’m not the first employee of this company to break her leg. I remembered when you broke your tibia Catherine you didn't miss any time”

Her cheeks immediately colored. Her gaze dipped to the cast again, but she was more interested in my healthy leg and single stiletto, then snapped back to my face. I’d caught her. I always do.

The elevator ride was a momentary, enclosed stage. Two junior executives were pressed against the back wall. Their eyes darted, from the short skirt, to the smooth line of my blouse cradling my breasts, to the black cast and the unshod, red-toed foot that signaled both injury and absolute defiance.

“We’re glad you’re back, Ms. Cole,” one finally stammered.

“Thank you,” I replied, my voice smooth, the curve of my lips suggesting something more private.

The boardroom was waiting. Silence fell instantly when I appeared in the doorway. My cast led the way, an impossible-to-miss new accessory. I paused, allowing the tension to disappear. Settling into my chair was a choreography.

Richard, my ex husband and vice-president was there. His gaze was fixed, not on my face, but on the black cast, on the bare, red-painted toes, on the undeniable fact that a serious injury had somehow made me more visible again to him.

I leaned back, my hand brushing my hair from my cheek. My one stiletto tapped once under the table, a tiny, sharp sound only I could feel.  I was Ashley Cole, CEO, broken leg, daring, and suddenly very aware of the seductive, unbreakable power in being seen exactly like this.

Part 5 to come
Ashley

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