.I'm always wet.At night, I slide the ballgag into my mouth. I moan. I beg as I cup myself. Begging for the orgasm, that few moments of pleasure, denied to me. This hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it aches....I even called him going straight to voicemail each time. I whispered into the cell, into his voicemail. Whispering how sorry I am, please let me do it, please let me cum, would he like to watch? Masturbate for him?He never replied.I'm laying on my bed, in my work clothes, staring at my cell laying next to me. It doesn't ring, it doesn't tell me if a text comes in, nothing. I close my eyes and roll onto my back, one hand slowly slipping into my pants, wanting, needing, and desperate.I sigh and pull my hand back. I get up to my laptop and start scrolling the messages in my email. After a couple of minutes, I refresh the screen...he's written me!I open it up and start reading, barely aware that the tip of my thumb is in my mouth, my tongues wishing back and forth over it. I. We owe them. If they want to say 'atta boy' to us, then we should be grateful as hell." Fine ... you go up there and get the trophy." Pop, it's not a trophy. You're the president. You're the guy they expect to see up there saying thanks. You don't have to make any big speech. But don't spoil this for our employees. They get to see the guy they work for being told he's done a good job. Don't cheat them out of that," I pleaded."I wouldn't know what to say. I'd probably make a fool out of myself. I'm not a real president ... just a boss," he complained, but no quite so loudly."Helmut," Marla interrupted, "you are every bit a president. You run that business and everyone knows it. Just because Dieter is the majority owner doesn't mean you aren't the man. I'll be very disappointed if you don't do this," she said with a hug and a sorry smile.Marla could do what I couldn't. She could get the old man to feel guilty. He would do anything for her, and if that meant maybe embarrassing himself.
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