Black Angel Wings
Copyright© 2025 by Anton
Chapter 2
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Partly true story about the life journey of an ordinary straight guy from a small provincial town — a path as crooked as the walk of a drunk transvestite. Genre: homoerotic thriller. Setting: Moscow, present day. Reading time: about two hours.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Drunk/Drugged Romantic Slavery Gay Heterosexual CrossDressing Fiction Crime Workplace FemaleDom Gang Bang Group Sex Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory White Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Pegging Sex Toys Big Breasts Transformation
For a second- or third-year student, landing an internship at some well-known company isn’t that hard. The catch? They pay peanuts–or nothing at all–while making you do the most boring, soul-sucking routine that eats up your entire day. Want a line on your resume about experience in a big corporation? Sure, just slave away for free! Of course, the lack of pay is generously “compensated” with promises of professional and career growth ... someday, maybe, if you really bust your ass.
I got lucky: from day one, I earned a little money, at least. The thing was, I got the gig through connections–my friend Anya asked one of the company’s top managers, her “good acquaintance,” to take me in. Back then, I didn’t know that Anya wasn’t just my friend–she was also his. Nor did I know that besides her main job, Anya had another one, far better paying.
So I landed at GazMyas, in one of the towers of Moscow-City, three full days a week. The breakup with Anya that followed shortly after didn’t affect my work there at all. Officially, I was a tech support specialist, but in reality, I was a gofer. Very quickly, I realized that almost any GazMyas employee could toss a task my way. In a management company of a giant holding, every floor is crawling with vice presidents and department directors – and any whim of theirs is law for me. So from morning to evening, I dragged boxes, untangled wires, hooked up extra monitors on someone’s desk, all while answering calls and helping tedious old farts figure out software. The idiots couldn’t even connect to a video conference on their own – I had to do it for them!
What pissed me off the most was running around the floors changing printer cartridges that constantly ran out. Supposedly, this was supposed to be handled by some outsourced crew. But why bother calling, waiting, and scheduling them, when they could just dump it on me? According to the “Health” app on my phone, I was walking seven kilometers a day around the office!
And it wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the strict dress code: no suit, no tie, and the guards wouldn’t even let you into the office! They had orders, and they didn’t give a shit that you forgot your tie at home. Off to Afimall, buy a new one, and come back. Or beg a colleague to lend you a spare. And then write an excuse for being late ... So yeah, when you’re constantly crawling around printers, your clothes get trashed instantly, and nearly half your paycheck goes to dry cleaning and new clothes. Anyway, enough whining about the miserable life of office plankton – time to get to the main part of my story.
If the job itself was, to put it mildly, not all that exciting, the people were a whole different story – dazzlingly diverse and impossible to ignore. The secretaries were the real spectacle. As I mentioned before, the company staff was mostly made up of vice presidents, all kinds of directors, branch heads, and other “top” and “VIP” types. And with every pompous title came a personal assistant – or, put plainly, a secretary. On our floor alone, there were maybe fifteen of them. Most of the time, they either slept in the reception areas outside their bosses’ offices or buzzed around the kitchen, preparing snacks and gossiping among themselves.
I’d never seen such an abundance of gorgeous breasts and asses anywhere else! You’d think that in a prestigious place like this, even the low-level positions would be staffed by decent, educated people – but no. Most of these girls looked and acted like prostitutes. I swear, it seemed like the management was competing over whose secretary had the bigger tits and ass. Or maybe, having climbed the ladder, these assholes just picked their assistants according to their own aesthetic tastes.
In my opinion, the top management’s tastes were mostly crude and vulgar–but their love for big tits was one thing I wholeheartedly shared. Watching them was both a pleasure and torture! My dick and I were in a constant state of arousal. Sadly–and I say this with tremendous regret–not a single one of those busty beauties felt a shred of attraction toward me. I wasn’t cool enough for them, and they cared too much about their image to ruin it by interacting with someone like me. Behind my back, they called me “Printer Boy.”
One day, I was setting up and connecting a whole pile of office gear for some “top” guy at his desk while he stared out the window with a deep, contemplative expression. The wires had to be neatly tucked into the tray, nothing dangling or in the way. Then I moved under the desk to plug everything into the floor sockets. The floor socket setup was a nightmare–awkward, dusty, and the adapter just wouldn’t fit into its compartment. Muttering curses under my breath, I fiddled with the mess.
Then, above me, the boss’s landline rang. He came over, picked up the receiver, and plopped into his chair as if I wasn’t even there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him adjust his balls with his left hand. The motion seemed far too long, far too deliberate... “What a brazen motherfucker,” I thought, but kept wrestling with the wires. His desk was massive, plenty of room underneath for me to work.
Suddenly, the door flew open and three people stormed in–the director of a neighboring department with his entourage.
“Ivan Ivanovich! Urgent matter! It’s on Fyodor GazMyasovich’s radar!”
“What do you need from me?” he asked briskly, without leaving his chair.
A quick detour about GazMyas corporate etiquette. Technically, a boss’s office should be guarded by a properly trained secretary who filters everyone at the door. But there’s a catch: even if she’s there, that doesn’t always mean much. The company’s hierarchy is a maze, and everyone’s obsessed with proving how important they are. If you outrank the person you’re visiting, you just walk right in–no knocking, just kick the damn door open. Those little ritual gestures mean a lot around here.
They kept talking while I finished wiring up the sockets under the desk. When I finally crawled out, I realized how the whole thing must’ve looked. Everyone was staring at me like they’d just caught me doing something filthy. Maybe they just thought I looked like shit, covered in dust? I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand – big mistake. That only made things worse. That’s how I learned what “reputational damage” really means. Rumors spread fast that I’d been blowing the boss under his desk.
One day I overheard two secretaries in the hallway: “I’m so fucking sick of coloring Excel cells for my boss all day!” “Ask the faggot, maybe he can automate it for you.” They were talking about me. The “Printer Boy” nickname was dead. I was “the faggot” now.
Later, one of my only friends at the office asked, “So, I heard about your little ... incident. Care to comment?” “What incident?” He started singing in a fake gay voice: “Bluuuue moooon...” “Oh, that shit. I was under the guy’s desk, plugging in cables, and that asshole just sat down in his chair. Don’t tell me everyone really thinks I was giving him head down there? Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Relax,” he said. “Look at it this way–doesn’t matter what they think. You can’t change it anyway. But now everyone believes you’re Ivanovich’s favorite. Nobody’s gonna mess with you. The guy’s big-time! You actually lucked out–and didn’t even have to suck a dick, haha.”
And so I just stopped caring. My plan was simple: stick around for a year, get the line for my resume, and get the hell out. I’d had enough of this corporate circus anyway.
The year flew by. I didn’t even realize until HR called me in. Turns out, anyone who makes it a full year without taking a sick day gets a free gym membership in the next tower. A fancy place–several weight rooms, a big pool. I started going there at lunch, sometimes after work.
The best part? Nobody bothered me during lunch hour. At one o’clock sharp, everyone would vanish to the Afimall restaurants. I had a full hour to swim in peace. I’d eat later, either my packed lunch in the office or something quick from the food court. By the way, if you ever end up in City, I can tell you where to find the best shawarma in town.
Unlike the gym, the pool was almost empty during the day. A few people floated around lazily, and sun loungers lined the perimeter–occupied mostly by bearded rich guys and bronzed women from the demi-monde. Some looked like they were still recovering from last night’s party, while others were just doing what they always did–nothing. A lot of those girls had boobs just as impressive as our office secretaries’ tits.
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