The copier hums steadily, spitting out page after page of the quarterly reports I dumped on you at 4:57 PM. You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching the machine do its job while your phone buzzes in your pocket—another text from your buddies asking where the hell you are. 'Spring break, my ass', you think, thumb hovering over the screen before shoving the phone back without replying. You could’ve been three beers deep by now, laughing over some stupid meme, but no. Here you are, playing errand boy for the most infuriating, intoxicating woman you’ve ever met.
Mrs. Winter.
Just her name sends a jolt through you, straight to your cock. You shift, trying to ignore the way your slacks suddenly feel two sizes too small. It’s not just the work—though God knows she loads you up with enough of it—but the way she *looks* at you. Like you’re something to be *used*. Not in the way your dad’s buddies clap you on the back and call you “kid,” but like you’re a toy she’s considering taking out of the box. And fuck if that doesn’t make your dick twitch every damn time.
You remember this morning, when she “accidentally” spilled her coffee—black, two sugars, exactly 170 degrees, because of course she’s that specific—and made you clean it up while she stood over you in those fuck-me heels, her skirt riding so high you could see the lace edge of her panties every time she shifted.“Josh, darling, you’re missing a spot,” she’d purred, her voice like honeyed razorblades, before pressing her stiletto into your shoulder just hard enough to make you flinch. The whole office saw. No one said a word. And when you finally handed her the fresh cup, she took it without so much as a thank you, her nails grazing your palm like a promise.
Then there’s the way she dresses. Christ. Those corsets she wears under her sheer blouses, the ones that make her tits look like they’re about to burst free any second. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve “accidentally” walked in on her adjusting her necklace—some delicate gold chain that always, always leads your eyes straight to her cleavage. And her perfume—something dark and floral, like jasmine and sin—lingers in every room she’s been in. You’ve caught yourself inhaling deeply when she passes, like a fucking dog in heat.
Your hand drifts down, fingers pressing against the growing bulge in your slacks. You’re not even thinking about it, just imagining the way her skirt rides up when she sits, the flash of lace you’ve seen more times than you can admit. The way her stockings cling to her thighs, the seam running right up the back like an invitation. The copier beeps, signaling it’s done, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned. What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re hard as steel over your boss, a woman old enough to—well. Old enough to know exactly what she’s doing to you.
You grab the stack of papers, willing your dick to behave, and turn back toward your office. The door’s ajar. That’s odd. You always close it when you—
And then you see her.
Mrs. Winter is perched on your desk, her blazer open to reveal a black lace corset that barely contains her tits, the swell of them threatening to spill over the deep V of the neckline. Her skirt—if you can even call it that—is hitched up around her waist, her thighs spread wide. No panties. Just smooth, glistening skin and the dark, swollen lips of her pussy, already slick with arousal. Her fingers are buried between her legs, circling her clit with slow, deliberate strokes, her breath coming in little gasps.
“Josh,” she murmurs, her voice thick, “I heard you working so hard. Thought you deserved a little… appreciation.”
The papers slip from your fingers, scattering across the floor. Your cock throbs painfully, trapped in your slacks. You should leave. You *should*. But then she arches her back, her tits straining against the lace, and slides two fingers inside herself with a wet, obscene sound. “Come here, sweet boy. Show me how grateful you are.”
You’re moving before you can think, dropping to your knees in front of her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her scent hits you—musky, rich, hers—and your mouth waters. She guides your head forward with a hand tangled in your hair, her nails scraping your scalp. “That’s it. Just like that. Lick me like a good little intern.”
Her pussy is dripping. You lap at her like a starved man, tongue swirling over her clit before diving deeper, fucking her with your mouth. She tastes like salt and heat, her thighs trembling around your ears. “Oh, fuck yes,” she moans, her free hand gripping the edge of the desk, “just like that, you filthy thing. Make me come all over your tongue.”
You obey. You always obey. Your cock is leaking, your slacks ruined, but you don’t care. Nothing matters but the way her breath hitches, the way her hips buck against your face, the way she tightens around your fingers when you slide them inside her. “I’m going to miss this,” she pants, “miss having you under my heel. My perfect little pet.”
And then she’s coming, her pussy clenching around your fingers, her juices gushing over your chin, your desk, your mouth. You drink her down like it’s the last drop of water in the desert, your own orgasm crashing over you without warning. Your cock spasms, hot cum soaking through your slacks as you whimper against her.