This meeting was so annoying. Why can't my assistants do as I ask. It would be so much easier if I had myself cloned or if Nasa found a way for people to read minds. It would help me save so much time and energy.

People around me can't seem to understand what I want, how I want things to be done. I spend endless hours explaining my wishes to those working for me, checking on their work, correcting their numerous mistakes. Are they all dumb? Or am I too demanding, too controlling ?

Sure I am a control freak, loving things to be done in a certain order, respecting schedules. But I don't have OCD. I love to-do lists and crossing things out of my list has always given me a special joy. But no. I don't think something is wrong with me or I would never have gone that far in such a short time.

I am turning 28 in a few months and I am the owner of an advertising company. I employ hundreds of people in the USA and overseas and I make a lot of money.

I am used to money, I was born in a wealthy family, and I have always had my orders obeyed, even from a young age. That is why before entering college, I decided I would distance myself from my family and chose my mother's name. I did not want professors or students in uni to associate me with the Sheffields.

Here on the east coast, that name means power and respect and I wanted to make it on my own. So I never told anyone who I really was and I studied hard to get where I am now. Of course, I'll never know if I got some help from my family, even if I had my dad promise he would not interfere. Having a loaded bank account was probably a great help, but I am smart, determined, a tough boss and I am good at my job.

But getting there had not been easy, and I left some casualties behind, girls mostly. I refused to commit in a relationship, mainly because I considered them a hindrance to my ultimate goal, which was proving my dad I could make it without him. So I used girls for sex. All except one and that was a mistake.

So here I am, on a Tuesday evening, back home to my empty penthouse with no one to share my stressful day with. I check the list of contacts on my iphone and contemplate calling Jennifer. She is pretty much like me: hot, powerful, rich and enjoys sex without strings attached.

But tonight, instead of calling her, I decide to go for a run. I take off my high heels and my power suit. I love wearing suits, blouses especially. I have a large collection of them, in all shades of colours. I am so glad I have a job for which such an attire is compulsory. I could never have been a PE teacher. Wearing loose clothes all day long, such a turn off. Leggings and sweat pants are only acceptable for me when I go running.

I exit the sky scraper in which my penthouse is located. I put my earbuds on and start my playlist in my iphone, and I start running along the track in Central Park.

After 45 minutes, I arrive close to a group of girls playing softball. I usually run lapses around the southern part of the park, but today I ventured closer to the middle, near the Great Lawn.

I decide to casually come closer. I have always liked that sport, even played a little when I was in high school. But I thought sport was not necessary for the over achiever I was, so I soon stopped all sporty activities except if you consider sex a sport.

The girls seem to be having a lot of fun, not all taking the traning very seriously. They are in their late twenties early thirties I gather. Probably too old for championships but they probably play against other local teams.

I feel an ounce of regret and envy wash over me. I wish I were part of something, a group, a team, anything. I sometimes wonder if being alone and lonely is the price to pay for being such the badass I have become. Or maybe I have become too suspicious and afraid of letting people too close. My eyes start to fill with tears as I slow down and sit on the bench next to the softball field. And all those feelings I try so hard to keep hidden resurface.

.................................

« You are so beautiful, I love you », she whispered in my ear.

« I love you too.»

Hearing those three words was new to me and I could not get tired of the feelings I was having lately. I had never had a crush, a high school sweetheart, or a college girlfriend. I considered them unecessary in my conquest of the world as I called it. But that doesn't mean I have never had sex, of course not.

Girls are attracted to me, I have a great body and feel really thankful to my parents because I know the effect my looks have on girls. I have inherited my long wavy blond hair from my mother, together with my curves. My mom was a beauty and still is at her age. My dad gave me his light blue eyes, his clod stare and his brains.

I have never had to try hard to get a girl in bed. They usually ended up there without me asking for it. And they knew what to expect from me : a good fuck and that was it. They never complained. Never asked for my phone number or for a second night and I was more than OK with that.

But that was before I met her, during an internship. I could not fight the feelings I was starting to have for her. I did not even try to.

She was everything that I was not : out going, extravagant, a party girl. I felt light headed in her company and decided to follow her on her nights out. We got on well, became close friends. She believed in me and my potential and was beside me when I built my company.

She knew nothing of my family but she knew I had money and I realized too late she was only attracted to my bank account.

She loved that I could take her out to expensive restaurants, that I could buy her designer clothes and jewels. She never acompanied me on business trips or dinners, and she did not even want to meet my family. After a two-year relationship I decided to end it.

Besides, I knew she was sleeping with someone else but I had not had the nerve to confront her about it. I simply knew. We had stopped having sex, so how the hell did she get those hickies from ? When I ended things, she was pissed off and she told me aweful things that I still believe are true.

I was selfish, a stuck up boring bitch who had never been able to fuck her properly. I felt broken, empty. And of course I believed everything she had said. Two years after I still felt uneasy in the compay of beautiful women who got too close from me. I could not help but wonder if money was the only thing they saw in me.

.................................

I stand up from the bench and shake my head to block out those painful memories. I feel drained and look at the floor. A yellow ball rolls next to my right foot and ends up under the bench. I raise my head and lock my eyes with those of one of the players I had been checking out earlier.

« You guys should be more careful. I could have broken my ankle had I not watched where I was running ! » I almost bark at her.

I pretend I had been running and not sitting on the bench checking them out. My tone is a bit cold too, after all, I have been used to acting as a stuck up bitch for so long I don't even notice. But maybe I should have been more gentle. I see her ill at ease and she stammers an apology.

Then I notice her green eyes on me. Is she eye-fucking me ? No, she couldn't be, I am all sweaty, and wearing shorts, not one of my sexy skirts. She probably saw something odd with my attire.

She seems drawn to my tattoo though. I had it done after my break up, maybe to prove to myself that I could do something a bit crazy, unexpected. I could not have a tribal tattoo, some phrase or an animal. So I opted for a simplistic version of a Kandinsky painting I love. I was very pleased with it even if I spent hours at the tattoo parlour and I have to say...it hurt. I had it on the upper part of my forearm though I wanted it closer to my wrist. But I would never risk my employees to see it. They would probably not take me seriously, I always thought.

I move closer to her so she can have a better look at my tattoo. Quickly I feel her index finger on my forearm, tracing the outline of the shapes. Time stops. I find it hard to breathe.

She notices our sudden proximity, coughs and she takes a step backwards, removing her finger. I feel cold suddenly. I want to feel her fingers on my arms, on my body. I'm craving for her touch.

We talk casually about my tattoo and I am surprised that she notices the srasing is meant to depict a Kandinsky. And I tell her, in a playful way that she must be « one of a kind ».

I notice she is blushing slightly. I want to ask her a million questions, but she is ordered to go back to her training session by an angry and over protective coach. Are they together ? I know softball is a lesbian sport, in people's fantasies, so maybe they are...

Before running back to the field, she tells me she is there every Tuesday and Friday evenings. I grin for myself. Is she asking me to come back in three days ? Well, only one way to find out.