Naked Ambition

Book 0: Deep Desire

by Emma Allan

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Dumpy Melanie might be TV's most talented backroom worker but her dedication is not recognised by the powers that be. All around her, gorgeous young girls are using their bodies and not their brains to get ahead. Now it seems that there's only one way to fight back . . .

Blowing all her savings on a radical makeover, a slimmed down, restyled and lusciously repackaged Melanie implements a new plan of action. One that is guaranteed to make her bosses crawl on their knees to satisfy her naked ambition!

Part one of the Deep Desire Series.

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

She lay naked under the single white sheet. Something had woken her. She knew immediately what it was. The door of the bedroom opening, then closing again.

He pulled the sheet away from her naked body and looked down at her for a long time, his eyes studying the details as though trying to memorise the way she looked. Slowly, deliberately he lay down beside her, his body naked too.

She felt the hardness of his muscles and her body seemed to melt over him. He took her into his arms, winding around her, pulling her into him, turning her on her side and hugging her tightly as his lips found her mouth and he kissed her, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth, gagging her moan of pleasure.

His erection thrust against her belly, hot and hard as a bone. She pushed against it, wanting to feel it pressing into her. She felt it throb in response, his balls crushed into her thick pubic hair.

He rolled on top of her without breaking the kiss. She spread her legs for him, opened herself for him, wanting him inside her. She knew she was wet, she could feel her juices running out of her sex, over her swollen labia, down between her buttocks, a river of passion running out of a deep dark lake of need.

‘Please …’ she said, arching her body up into his, the word muffled by his lips.

He moved his mouth down to her neck, nipping and kissing and sucking at the well-defined tendons stretched taut by the position of her head. His cock, pressed into her belly, was so hot she thought it might burn her. His mouth felt as hot as his cock. She moaned again. With no impediment this time the sound was clear, a noise like an animal, throaty, breathy, coming from deep inside her, exhaled rather than pronounced.

He was kissing the hollow at the base of her throat, his hand feeling for her breast, and, finding its objective, cupping and kneading it as though trying to squeeze another moan from her. He trailed his lips down until his mouth hovered over her erect nipple, ruby red and corrugated by her excitement, his body curled above her. He took it gently between his teeth then nipped it hard. He got his moan. She arched her back involuntarily this time, pushing against him.

She wanted him so badly. She wanted to feel that cock nudging down between her thighs, then up, up into her streaming wet sex.

‘Please …’ she gasped. ‘Please …’

But he wanted to make her wait for it. He moved his mouth to the other nipple, his hand cupping the breast, squeezing first as before, then sinking his teeth into the tender flesh. He pinched it, nipped it, sucked it, feeling her body shudder under him. Then he raised himself on his arms and looked down at her. He smiled. It was almost a cruel smile, a smile that said he knew how much she wanted him, how badly she needed him. Watching her eyes he moved his hips back until his cock slipped down between her open legs, nestling in her labia. Then he stopped, letting her feel the helmet of his cock radiating its heat.

She tried to wriggle her body down on him, to impale herself on his erection, but he was too strong for her. He held her down with the weight of his body, his thighs unyielding, his hips locked.

‘Please …’ it seemed to be the only word in her vocabulary.

He was still looking into her eyes, an intense searching stare, as though trying to find something there, some secret meaning that only he could recognise. For what, to her at least, seemed to be hours but was only seconds, he held himself against her like this, his back bowed, his cock at the portals of her sex. She felt as though she had stopped breathing, as though time had stopped, as though she were suspended in a world where there was only her overwhelming need for him.

Suddenly, explosively, he bucked his hips and in one smooth, powerful movement drove his cock up into her soaking wet cunt. She almost screamed. He did not pull it back again but pushed on further and further, deeper and deeper, until his cock was buried in her, until she could feel his pubic bone crushing her clitoris at the front, and his balls, loose and heavy, up against her anus at the back. He ground forward, moving from side to side against her clitoris.

She was coming. She could not stop herself. His cock was pulsing inside her just as her clitoris was pulsing against him. He lowered the top half of his body down on to her chest and she gratefully wrapped her arms around him, hugging him to her, clinging to him like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. She was drowning, drowning in her juices, drowning in the feelings he had released, drowning in her orgasm as it broke over his cock and she felt herself sinking into a bottomless pit.

He had not come. His cock still pressed into her as hard as a bone. Now it was his turn.

They rolled over without uncoupling until he lay on his back and she sat up on him. She drew her knees up so she squatted over him, his cock embedded inside her. With one hand she reached behind her back, down between her legs to find his balls. Her fingers wrapped around them, pulling them, playing with them. She felt his cock react, kicking the walls of her sex.

She looked down at him. His eyes were closed. She began to ride him, riding his cock up and down, establishing a rhythm, the juices from her body running down his long hard shaft. He was coming. She could feel his spunk pumping into his cock. She knew she would come again too, that the heat and wetness of his spunk spitting out into the dark cavern of her cunt would bring her off. It always did. It was always the same.

Without breaking her rhythm she looked up into the mirror. She always did. And, as always, what she saw was a shock. It was not her body rising and falling on the long hard sword of his cock. It was different. Firm round breasts, a waspie waist, an iron flat belly, long contoured thighs. The body in the mirror was perfect. It was the same with her face. Her jowly, porky cheeks and big bulbous nose were replaced by high, bony cheekbones and a fine-chiselled nose. Only her eyes were the same, the same big blue eyes, staring back at her in surprise and puzzlement.

She felt his cock spasm. She looked down at her new body, down between her high breasts, over her perfectly flat belly, to the apex of her slim thighs. She felt her body respond, as it always did, her orgasm swelling inside her, taking her over.

The orgasm woke her. It always did. The dream was always the same. Sometimes the man was different, of course, someone she had noticed in the street, or in the office, sometimes an actor she’d seen on television, or the star of a film she’d just seen. She’d had many stars in her bed. Tonight it has been Robert d’Angelo. She’d been to see his latest film so it wasn’t surprising.

She always woke at the same point, with her orgasm heaving through her body, though it was not a real orgasm, just a figment of her imagination. She wasn’t sure she’d ever had a real orgasm.

She always woke and opened her eyes and immediately looked into the mirror opposite the bed, looking at her face and body just in case the dream had come true.

It had been a long day. It was hard enough without having to do Rosemary Harris’s work too but, for the second time that week, Rosemary had been in with Grant Andrews all afternoon and Melanie had had to answer her phone and do all her typing and even deal with the stationery requisition which was supposed to be nothing to do with her. As well as all her own work.

It was seven now and Rosemary was still ensconced in Grant’s office. Melanie could see them. The offices were open plan except for the executives who had their own rooms constructed of wood and glass partitioning, wood to just above waist level, then glass to the ceiling. Melanie could see Rosemary sitting in front of Grant’s desk, her body language telling him how absolutely fascinating she found every word he said, while Grant had his feet up on his desk, his leather-covered swivel chair rocked back, his hands gesticulating energetically as he emphasised the nuances of his story. He was a rather plump man, once a rugby player but rapidly going to seed through too many heavy business lunches, after-work cocktails, and lack of exercise.

Rosemary laughed in all the appropriate places. She even applauded, clapping her hands together and bouncing enthusiastically in her chair, giving, Melanie thought, a fair impression of a performing seal.

At six Grant had broken open the little cocktail cabinet he had installed and tumblers of whisky sat on the desk in front of them together with a bottle of Chivas Regal.

Melanie tore her eyes away from the dumb show at the other side of the room. She was the last girl left in the office, and decided to call it a day too despite the fact that she had four more pages to type on her research report. If it hadn’t been for Rosemary she could have had everything finished today. Taking one final angry glance into Grant’s office – he was standing up pouring more Scotch into Rosemary’s glass as she gazed up at him as though he were accomplishing some death-defying feat – Melanie trudged out into the corridor and waited for the lift.

Rosemary Harris was everything Melanie Chambers was not. They were both tall, admittedly, but while Rosemary was slim with a round ample bosom and long elegant legs, Melanie was overweight, with a sagging bust, a thick almost non-existent waist and lumpy fat legs. Rosemary had long blonde hair, a delicate small-featured face and large blue eyes, while Melanie’s face was podgy, round and dominated by her over-large nose. Melanie did have nice eyes, but no one ever got to notice her eyes: men stared at Rosemary, they only glanced at Melanie. Rosemary was the natural source of masculine attention in the office, attracting men to her desk as surely as a magnet attracts iron filings. Melanie, on the other hand, when it came to men, simply did not seem to exist. They talked to her when they had to, for the purposes of work, but even then did not look at her, not bothering to focus, just staring in the general direction of her voice. With Rosemary they made up little excuses, ridiculous questions, meaningless queries, anything to have a reason to spend five minutes sitting perched on the edge of her desk, gazing into her eyes. Not that she could ever solve any of these elaborate charades, or do anything else, for that matter. She knew nothing and cared less. She was about as useful in the office as a bowl of roses, with the same IQ. But that had not stopped her being given the job. Nor, despite numerous complaints from most of the females in the department, had Grant ever given her even the shadow of a reprimand.

Well, there was one consolation, Melanie thought as the lift arrived. She had applied for the job of production assistant in Pyramid TV’s drama department. Not only was it a promotion and more money but it would get her away from Rosemary Harris and her endless string of drawling male sycophants. Melanie had worked for PTV for three years. She knew everything and everybody. She knew she was due for promotion. She knew she deserved promotion and she could think of no reason she shouldn’t get it. She couldn’t wait. Let Grant see how he would get on with Rosemary without Melanie to clear up after her.

Melanie walked out of the lift on the ground floor and passed the reception desk. It was only as she strode out of the building towards her car that she realised, in her anger and preoccupation, that she had left her bag on the floor by her desk.

‘Blast,’ she said aloud, turning back.

The lift re-deposited her on the fifth floor. She pushed through the double doors into the general office and trudged over to her desk. As she approached, something, she had no idea what, made her slow down, then tiptoe. She glanced over to Grant’s office. The whole floor was gloomy now, the light from the large windows fading. The lamp on Grant’s desk had been switched on and its bright glow seemed to shine across the room like a beacon. For a moment it looked as though Grant and Rosemary had disappeared.

Melanie retrieved her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She should have walked straight out again, hurried home, but curiosity got the better of her. On tiptoe again she crept up to the door of Grant’s office. Unlike the walls it was solid wood and hid her from view. She heard the noise before she saw where it was coming from. It was Grant’s voice. He was moaning rhythmically.

‘Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh …’ over and over again.

Melanie risked a peek around the frame of the door and through the glass partitioning. Grant was sitting on the small black leather sofa sited against the back wall of his office. It was low to the floor which is why Melanie had not been able to see him at first. The cause of his almost continuous caterwauling was Rosemary Harris’s mouth. Rosemary was kneeling between Grant’s legs on the carpet, her head bobbing up and down on his cock, which poked up from his open trousers and the fly of his Y-fronts.

‘Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh …’ he continued, each sound timed to her downward plunge.

Melanie had the urge to turn and run. She was repelled and disgusted. At the same time she was totally fascinated. She had never seen sex before, never watched, never had the opportunity. She knew she should go, that it was wrong to watch like some dreadful Peeping Tom. She stayed where she was.

Rosemary pulled her mouth away and rocked back on her haunches. ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you?’ she said, circling Grant’s cock with her fingers. It glistened with saliva.

‘You bet,’ he said proudly.

‘What do you want, Grant? What shall I do to you?’

‘Anything.’

‘Has everyone gone home?’

‘Long gone.’

‘Good.’

She got to her feet. As was usual for her in the office she was wearing a dress more appropriate to an evening picking up men in a wine bar. It was a tight red jersey that clung to her figure displaying the heaviness of her breasts and the roundness of her full buttocks as well as the outline of her bra and panties. She looked briefly out into the general office. Melanie ducked behind the door, apparently quickly enough not to be spotted, as Rosemary reached down to the hem of the dress and begun pulling it up over her head, wriggling her body out of it as she did so. Melanie watched with amazement as the dress revealed first the tops of flesh-coloured stockings – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn stockings – then the delicate white suspenders stretched taut over her thighs, then the tiny triangle of silky white panties that covered the pert globe of her arse, and finally the strap of her bra.

‘Well?’ She was asking for a compliment as she tossed her head to untangle her long blonde hair. It bounced back into a perfect shape as if by magic.

‘Stockings …’ he mumbled, staring at her thighs.

‘I always wear stockings. So much sexier than tights. More feminine …’

‘God, yes …’

Grant’s cock quivered in agreement.

Rosemary had hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties. She drew them down her long slim legs until they got to her knees where they dropped to the floor of their own accord. She stepped out of them, picked them up and threw them at Grant. They hooked around his cock like a ring at a hoop-la stall.

Dropping to her knees again Rosemary’s hand massaged his cock with the silky panties.

‘Oh …’ he moaned.

‘Do you want to fuck me, Grant?’ she asked, her voice lowered an octave.

‘Yes, yes …’

‘Good. ’Cause I want that very much. You know that, don’t you? You excite me. My little pussy’s hot for you. Really hot.’

She jerked at the waistband of his trousers and underpants. He bucked his hips off the sofa so she could pull them out from underneath him. She slipped off his shoes then pulled the trousers and pants off over his ankles. She didn’t bother to take his socks off. His cock stood at right angles to his body, freed of its constrictions.

Melanie was fascinated. Now she knew what Rosemary was capable of. No wonder men clustered around her. How many other male executives at PTV had been treated to this special private programme with Rosemary Harris in the starring role? No wonder she had never been criticised for her numerous mistakes.

Melanie should have walked away. Instead she stood, peeking around the door like a voyeur. And, just like a voyeur, if she was honest with herself, the reason she stayed was no longer a desire to see what Rosemary Harris was capable of, but an entirely different reason. Melanie was excited. Her pulse was racing and her heart thumping. It was exciting.

She had never been in any situation where she had seen two people having sex. Now here she was, watching her boss being comprehensively seduced by – she had to admit – an extraordinarily beautiful and attractive woman. She had never done what Rosemary was doing. What would have been the point? Men would have run in the opposite direction, if she’d peeled her dress off in front of them. But it was exciting to watch. She wanted to see more.

‘Oh Grant, you’ve made me so wet.’ Rosemary stood up again. Her hands reached up to the clip of her bra and freed it. Immediately she shucked herself out of the big lacy cups and replaced them with her own hands. She massaged and kneaded her fleshy tits then fed one up to her mouth until its nipple, large and swollen, was sucked in between her lips. She moaned with pleasure, then repeated the process with the other breast. She moaned again, her hips swaying slightly. Now she released both tits and shook her shoulders violently from side to side so her tits bounced against each other, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing around the office.

‘You like my titties,’ she said in a little girl’s voice.

‘Oh yes.’ Grant had not taken his eyes off them since the performance began.

‘Do you want to fuck them?’

‘Yes, yes, anything …’ His erection looked as though it were going to burst.

Rosemary lent over him until his face was buried in the middle of her breasts, then she swayed her body from side to side, so they slapped across his cheeks. He tried to catch a nipple in his mouth but she evaded his attempts. On her knees again she nestled his cock into her cleavage, pressing the sides of her breasts to bury it completely.

‘Feels so hot,’ she said.

He bucked his hips and the tip of his cock rose from between the fleshy mounds, pointing at her throat.

‘Are you going to tit fuck me Grant?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Or do you want my juicy little pussy?’

‘Yes,’ he said with equal weight. In truth he did not know what he wanted except he knew his spunk was bubbling up inside his cock and sooner rather than later he would have to come. He was so close. No woman had ever behaved like this, stripped for him, whored for him. . .