Owen VS the Madam CEO (Patreon)

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Owen VS the Madam CEO

It had been scarcely over a year since Owen realized there was something different about himself. That through the force of his own mind (and libido) he could will certain events into reality. This wild talent was scary and surreal; he could find no precedent for it. No mentors or role models, just a name—telekinesis. It could take years of work to master this strange gift, but he was enjoying the challenge.

Owen had gotten a low-level summer job with Total Exposure LTD, a local media company, doing basic grunt work setting up concerts, weddings and other live events. Essentially a roadie, but less sexy.

Today’s gig was a stockholder presentation. A bunch of old dudes in suits, showing charts and talking to a whole crowd of old dudes in suits.

Only this time, it wasn’t an old dude in a suit making the presentation.

Her name was Stella Alvarez. Owen couldn’t quite guess her age- more stylish and polished than his working-class teachers, but so much more elegant and poised than the chattering girls in her school. Cropped hair, not a strand out of place. Smokey eye shadow that made her deep brown eyes pop. A charcoal suit, obviously tailored to slavishly follow her short but curvy figure. She even smelled high class.

Ms. Alvarez, as she was to be referred to, if you were to refer to her at all. Strutted around the stage as the technicians prepared for her presentation, stiletto heels tap tap tapping. The short, crisp way she fired orders sounded like a silenced pistol from the movies.

She slipped her jacket off so Owen could fit her with a microphone. His hands trembled as he fumbled the lapel mic on her silk blouse, his sweaty fingers just inches from her full breasts. Owen studied the subtle bra lines across her back- so slight and minimal, he wondered if it was one of those front-clasp bras.

The battery pack was a snug fit along the back of her waistband. Her high-waisted slacks fit her slim waist and generous hips like a glove and left little for electronics. 

As Owen wiggled the small battery into her pants, his eye was drawn to the long gold zipper running down the hemispherical curve of her ass. Probably real gold, and certainly designed to draw attention to that incredible parabola of a buttocks…

Pop pop pop! Three little golden zipper teeth splayed open… no sign of panties underneath. Just the shadow of what lay between those round, fleshy cheeks. In the past year, Owen had become a master scholar of panty lines, and if Ms. Alvarez was wearing any, they were remarkably discrete.

“Are you done yet?” she snapped at Owen. She didn’t wait for an answer- the CEO briskly walked away, oblivious to the tiny hole in the seat of her expensive slacks.

Owen and his coworkers were struggling with the auditorium’s quirky speaker system, but Ms. Alverez was having none of that—

“I don’t want to see your people screwing around backstage during my presentation” she hissed.

Owen’s boss was flustered; “but we need a technician on hand in case—”

“Give me the boy.” She pointed a lacquered nail at Owen. “Stick him in the podium.”

And so Owen was stuffed into the small podium on stage right, with a set of tools. His coworkers cleared out, and he could hear the auditorium filling through the thick curtain. 

Her pumps clicking on the hardwood, Ms. Alvarez rehearsed her speech, strolling around the stage in a choreographed way to appear natural and spontaneous. Owen watched those lovely hips roll as she walked, those well-toned glutes flex and quiver with every step.

The gap in her zipper had grown just a little. Big enough to fit a finger in, maybe two. Owen’s attention was definitely exacerbating the situation.

The music cued. The stage lights changed and Owen could hear the curtain open. A round of applause, and Ms. Alvarez began her opening remarks. A giant video screen behind her displayed her face, next to charts and graphs.

Crouched in the podium at her feet, Owen had an amazing wonderful view. Her crotch was right at in his face- he could peek straight through the triangular gap where her thighs met her pelvis. From his low vantage, Ms. Alvarez’s tits looked amazing in her cream silk blouse, almost eclipsing her face. 

Although Ms. Alvarez’s blouse was expertly tailored to fit the swell of her breasts, its buttons were no match for Owen’s sex-fueled telekinesis. The button across her bosom – the one that could fail on an off-the-rack blouse – nevertheless the less surrendered to Owen’s libido. A sliver of cleavage appeared. Soft mocha-colored flesh, hugged in bra lacy cups.

Ms. Alvarez fumbled with the battery pack in the small of her back, making the audio squeal. She broke the flow of her upbeat speech just a moment to flash Owen a bitter look.

And then Owen heard it—or perhaps he felt it. Or even more likely- caused it; the subtle purr of zipper teeth splitting apart.

Ms. Alvarez sensed it too. Her smoky eyes flashed wide, stifling down the panic. She reached back, and most certainly realized half of her bare ass was now hanging out, on stage, in a room packed with stockholders.

Desperate for a problem she could solve, Ms. Alvarez worried at the battery pack with visible frustration. Owen knew the wireless mic was sketchy at best here, so he already had the handheld micro plugged into the cable ready to go.

Ms. Alvarez was having more than a little difficulty with the battery pack. Owen moved to stand, but she planted a hand on his head and roughly shoved him back into the podium.

With a rough tug, she yanked the battery free- and a visible shudder tremored through her body. A moment later, Owen would discover why…

She threw the battery at him contemptuously-- and caught on the battery was a teeny tiny black lace thong! Owen could feel the warmth, and the dampness, in the ripped scrap of lingerie. He nearly fainted!

He could smell her on the thin scrap of lace. Lavender and cocoa butter… and something deeper. A subtle but carnal musk that made Owen’s brain go crazy. His imagination reeled- was Ms. Alvarez turned on by this? Did you like teasing young men at her feet… or did she have a secret desire to be stripped and exposed?

Humiliated at the sight of a sweaty teenage nerd holding her torn panties, Ms. Alvarez abruptly turned from the podium to continue her speech… unaware her lapel microphone was still attached to the battery Owen was holding.

The wire pulled taught. Three buttons burst free, raining to the stage, before the lapel mic tore loose. Her designer blouse, once tasteful and conservative, was now a lewd display of soft, full cleavage!

A gasp swept through the crowd, but ever composed and adaptable, Ms. Alvarez simply buttoned her jacket to minimize her exposure. It turned her ample cleavage from “scandalous” to simply “distracting.”

Owen was breathless and sweating. His thundering heart nearly burst from his chest when the woman focused her penetrating brown eyes on him and held out her hand. 

Owen was too flummoxed to comprehend. She repeated her gesture and cleared her throat.

Owen placed the damp, tattered panties in her palm. She threw them back in his face.

“Microphone!” she hissed.

Snapping back to reality, Owen pass her the handheld microphone and unspooled a few meters of cord.

Ms. Alvarez continued her practiced “casual stroll” around the stage, hyping up “yields” and “returns on investment” while Owen payed out more and more microphone cord. With one hand occupied carrying the microphone, her free hand was pressed against her tummy; no doubt she was well-aware of her failing slacks 

From his unique vantage, Owen could see the seat of her slacks, splayed open like a blooming flower, her round butt cheeks framed by the failing gold zipper. She was taking longer strides, perhaps hoping the motion would keep her slacks north of her hips. But it was also putting even greater stress on the zipper…

POP!

The top of the zipper broke, falling open in a V. Ms. Alvarez broke her flow and made a beeline for the podium, kicking through the messy zigzag of microphone cord she’d left all over the stage. Hiding behind the small wooden prop, Ms’ Alvarez’s body language was becoming increasingly defensive.

Owen studied her broken outfit, up close. The slacks were definitely getting, well, slack, but it was that peek of cleavage that captured Owen’s attention. So close he could almost bury his face in it.

Ms. Alvarez’s suit jack popped open, bidden by Owen’s telekinesis, once again revealing a sleazy amount of cleavage. He skin was flawless; Owen imagined her faithfully massaging her breasts with creams and oils every day, gently kneading them to get them full and firm. Owen could see the fine black lace cups of her bra- and the tiny clasp holding it all together, buried betwixt those fat tits…

Ms. Alvarez broke from her speech to shot Owen an acidic look. The little nerd was leering at her tits shamelessly, but she needed to be more concerned about the camera displaying her wardrobe malfunction on a giant TV monitor to hundreds of stock owners. Not to mention the thousands more streaming the event remotely.

She once again broke away from the podium, no doubt eager to be away from Owen’s shameless gawking. Touring the stage, Ms. Alvarez was conscientious to keep her exposed backside away from view, shuffling and side-stepping as she cheerfully droned on about investments and returns.

The pressure was building on the urbane CEO- and not just from the thousands of eyes devouring the tawdry display her thousand-dollar blouse was presenting. Little did Ms. Alvarez realize, but her finely tailored brassiere was under tremendous stress. Not the stress of her full quivering breasts, which of course this bra was designed to hug and cradle. It was the unearthly stress of an almost supernatural energy, fueled by a nearly limitless source- the unbridled lust of a teenaged boy.
 

And her bra was no match.
 

There was a soft POP – barely detected by her microphone but clearly broadcast across Ms. Alvarez’s face – as the two hooks nestled between her tits surrendered. Her breasts settled as the two lacy cups, very warm and slightly moist with her sweat, slid downward. The electrifying sensation of lace sliding over her tender nipples made her voice catch in her throat.

Her jack unbuttoned, her blouse opened in a sharp V of caramel flesh, from the nape of her neck, nearly to her navel, teasing glimpses of her cleavage. Ms. Alvarez feebly tugged at her jacket, but the walla in the room told her that her fashion faux pas was rapidly going beyond salvaging.

As Ms. Alvarez’s expensive outfit slowly failed, it should be noted that there was another fatal detail about to prove extremely relevant. One that even Owen, with his premium vantage, was completely oblivious to:

The microphone cord. Which Owen had been dutifully paying out. Which Ms. Alvarez had been trailing back and forth and back forth across the stage, spinning a sloppy spiderweb of loops and figure 8s. 

In a flush of panic, Ms. Alvarez decided a leering nerd was a small price to pay for the cover and modesty of the podium. She made a beeline across the stage for it, but never noticed the microphone cord hooking the toe of her boot. She stumbled; feet spread wide. 

She saved herself, but her lunge was just too rough, too athletic for her beleaguered slacks; with a n unmistakable RIP they split, from the golden zipper at the base of her ass, across the seem covering her pussy, and up the front to her belly button. The high-end slacks parted, as if by Moses, and slithered down her hips.

For an ambitious genius with two Masters degrees, two summer homes and a fortune 500 company, Ms. Alvarez now knew only one thing- her shaved pussy was now on display to her hundreds of investors, and thanks to the livestream, the entire world.

Instinct kicked in. Ms. Alvarez grabbed the closest thing she could find to cover her exposed kitty; the shirt tails of her blouse.

For a fraction of a second, she succeeded. With both hands she yanked her blouse south, shield the shaved flesh of her pussy from a million eyes. The white silk pulled taut over her breasts, accentuating her stiff nipples. But the poor blouse, already have undone, was never meant for such stress…

With a POP-POP-POP the blouse burst open, and Ms. Alvarez’s bare tits joined the show, her brown nipples stark under the bright stage lights. The lacy black bra dangled useless at her sides.

Eyes wide, mouth agape, she had no more plans. Animal panic took over, and she ran—

At least she tried to. The slacks wandered down here caramel thighs, hobbling her stride, but it was the microphone cord coiled around her shoes that caused the most havoc.

Her feet slipped out form under her, and she tumbled to the stage in a flurry of tattered clothes and quivering nude flesh.

The room ERUPTED; angry shouts, raucous laughter, camera flashes, but Owen was oblivious to it all. Splayed before was a poised, ambitious CEO worth millions, denuded and spread eagle like a shameless porn star. Although Owen had gotten quite the crash course in female anatomy, he had never seen quite so much, quite so close. 

The dimples where her thighs joined her pelvis. The delicate, flower-like fold of labia peeking out of her hairless vulva. A tiny button peeked out, he could only assume to be her clitoris, deep pink and glistening with moisture.

Owen tore his gaze away to find Ms. Alvarez staring at him, eyes wild with panic. She squirmed and struggled against the tangle of clothes and cords, but it was too late. Every inch of her most intimate places was revealed and displayed to the world and to this dorky young man. 

She twisted and wiggled, vainly cupping a few fingers over the lips of her pussy, over the round cheeks of her ass, over her stiff nipples and soft flesh. Her mind was an addled haze of humiliation, her face flushing crimson. Ms. Alvarez struggled to recover her footing and her modesty, and failed horribly at both. 

Owen was spellbound by her lewd gyrations and animalistic whimpers. He realized he was still clutching the tatters of her ruined panties. Some trace of chivalry in the back of his hormone-inflamed brain told him he should do something. He should help.

Owen crawled from the solace of the podium, and with the tenderest of care, placed the little swatch of black lace panty over Ms. Alvarez’s exposed pussy. The clumsy yet sweet gesture left the older woman utterly nonplussed, for a moment forgetting she was splayed nude before her peers.

The awkward moment evaporated, and Ms. Alvarez found a better cover for her naked body- Owen himself. Her crossfit-toned legs, though tangled in microphone cord, grabbed the scrawny, young boy and pulled him close. Owen flopped over the woman, his face slapped into her bare breasts.

She wore the young man like a smock, his hapless erection straining his jeans and poking her tummy. She tore at the microphone cord, freeing her legs enough for her to stand and slither into the remains of her slacks, all while clutching Owen to her body.

Ms. Alvarez side-stepped off stage, using Owen as a human shield. As soon as she was offstage, she roughly cast the boy aside, closed her blouse as best she could, and purposefully strode out the back door, her bare ass still on display.

Owen kneeled on the floor, even as his workmates flooded the backstage, since he didn’t want to show off his raging erection. Even in the bizarre furor; the laughter, the yelling, the pats on the back, Owen was intoxicated by the smell of Ms. Alvarez all over his clothes.