Chapter 12: The Office Party

The conference room smelled of spilled champagne and pine from the artificial Christmas tree someone had dragged in from storage. Fairy lights twinkled along the far wall, casting soft gold across the long mahogany table still scattered with half-empty plastic cups and crumpled napkins. Company happy hour had started at five like any other Friday, the sales team laughing too loud over cheap catering trays, ties loosened, blouses unbuttoned one notch lower than policy allowed. Vanessa moved through the crowd in her mandatory uniform, the tight pencil skirt molding to the generous swell of her backside with every step, the sheer black stockings whispering against her inner thighs. Four-inch stilettos clicked across the tile, forcing her hips into that deliberate, rolling sway the dress code had trained into her. No panties. She had stopped pretending otherwise weeks ago. The cool air licked straight up under the hem, teasing her bare folds with every shift of her weight, a constant, private reminder that she belonged to the uniform now.

She kept her face composed—smoky eyes scanning the room with the sharp, professional smile she had perfected over three years of corralling egos. But inside, the weekend’s training still echoed through her body like a low, throbbing bass line. The multiple loads deep inside her from Saturday, the way she had ridden Mr. Harlan in his chair until she squirted across the leather, the standing carry-fuck against the window with the city glittering below. Her pussy clenched at the memory, a fresh trickle of wetness sliding down her thigh beneath the skirt. She hated how easily it happened now. She hated how much she needed it.

The last regular employee slipped out around seven-thirty, the door clicking shut behind a final burst of laughter about weekend plans. The room grew quieter, the lights dimmed lower by someone’s hand. Only four men remained: Mr. Harlan at the head of the table, silver hair gleaming, broad shoulders filling his navy suit; Mike leaning against the window with that cocky gym-hard smirk; Derek nursing a drink, his beer gut straining the buttons of his shirt; and one additional salesman from the copier crew, the same one who had helped slap her ass raw the week before. They watched her like wolves who had already tasted blood.

Harlan’s voice cut through the hush. “Lock the door, Ms. Kane. Party’s just getting started.”

Her pulse slammed low between her legs. She walked to the door on unsteady heels, turned the deadbolt, and felt the finality of it settle into her bones. When she turned back, they were already moving. Mike and Derek lifted her onto the long conference table as if she weighed nothing, laying her on her back first so her ass rested at the edge. The polished wood felt cool through the thin blouse. They flipped the pencil skirt up around her waist in one practiced motion, exposing the black garter belt framing her glistening pussy, the stockings taut against her toned thighs, the plump curves of her backside spilling slightly over the table’s edge. Her blouse was unbuttoned fully, full breasts spilling free, nipples already tight and aching.