"You shouldn't keep me waiting like that. Your desk light was off, so I thought you must already be here. I was about to leave."

He checked his wristwatch, not that he expected any change from a scant moment earlier when he had previously looked. Four oh four. He responded to her smile with a chuckle; she wasn't being as petulant as her words implied. "No you weren't. I know better than to think that. You would have stewed, and fretted, and paced, for another half hour at least. Sorry, though. Whitney from P&G called, I had to take it, I went to the conference room for a little quiet. Good news is, I think we're in perfect shape now, probably better than when we started. I couldn't get a straight answer from them what exactly it was you told them, but I guess at this point it doesn't matter. In the future, if you're unsure on the legal details, just pass it to me for review. I'm more than happy to protect you on something like that. From Charley I mean, more than outsiders like Whitney and all their legalistic assholes. Anyway, I just wanted you to know you hadn't completely fucked up, so you could put your mind at rest. I'll explain the details later. Right now I've got something better on my mind than shop talk."

"Well, I don't know if this is really such a goo-", she started to say, but he smothered the rest of her words with a deep kiss. When he pulled back, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, releasing his erect cock from its confines. "Lift up your skirt."

"Shhh," she cautioned. Funny how it hadn't bothered her when he was talking about the deal, as though nobody would find it odd for them to meet here to discuss it with the door closed. But he wasn't worried. The supply closet was next to the restrooms on one side, the electrical closet on the other. And it was about the only place in the building with a door, except Charley's office upstairs, and the conference room with its glass walls. Not likely anyone would overhear. Still he could understand her nerves. They hadn't done it at work before.

She wasn't too nervous to comply with his command, though. He admired for a moment the view of the garters holding up her nylons, and admired even more the view of her neatly trimmed bush. He liked how he could count on her to dress exactly as he had instructed, and keep herself groomed the way he liked, even when he didn't specifically remind her. He ran his middle finger down the tuft of hair, lingered another instant at her clit, then when she spread her legs slightly farther apart to encourage easy access he burrowed it into her wetness. His thumb now grazed across her lips and clit, and he began working his finger in and out of her fuckhole with a clear purpose. Aw shit, she giggled. He chuckled again; she was visibly uncomfortable with the surroundings but was oh so comfortable with the sensations and with handing over control to him.

It had been this way between them from almost the very beginning. He had sensed her sexually submissive nature even during the job interview, and it was no more than two weeks after the first handshake that he had concocted an excuse why she needed to come to his apartment after quitting time to bring some "important" document he had "forgotten". She had to have known that arriving at his apartment complex was already the first step down the slippery slope, and perhaps she would have chickened out in the parking lot after all, but he was watching for her from his window and called to her to come on up. She had protested when he began to kiss her a heartbeat after closing the door, she protested again when he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bed, and that was really the last time she ever offered any resistance of consequence. Now the most she did was offer an opinion, or token resistance, to be considered or disregarded at his discretion.

He had chosen to offer few compromises. He had agreed to not demand anything of her that might get either of them (or, likely, both) fired, or that jeopardized what remained of her marriage. But he liked pushing limits, was inclined to consider almost any limit "soft", and so was pushing right now on the one regarding the job. A calculated risk always turned him on. A boss-employee relationship involved risk by definition.

He had given her one other compromise, a trivial one: to not call her "Cunt". She hated that word. He called her every other name, though.

Here in the supply room, he stroked her cunt even if he didn't call her that. Her back was to the wall, literally at the moment, figuratively later on he hoped. The arrangement would provide only scant visual protection if someone were to walk in, even now during a mere fingerfuck. Hurried smoothing of skirts and studious examination of notepads and staplers would be utterly unconvincing. But of course a fingerfuck was hardly the end goal he had in mind this afternoon.

He appreciated that the risk was greater for her than for himself. He was young, viewed by all as on the fast track toward running this or some other company within ten years, his MIT EE and UCLA MBA being a classic and potent combination. If he got caught "in flagrante delectable", he would surely land on his feet elsewhere. She by contrast was mid-forties, approaching a point in her life where finding another job this good would no longer be quite easy, and she felt fortunate having arrived at this one. She was married, he was single. She had child-raising responsibilities and privileges, he was free as a bird. Yes, she had a great deal more to lose.

Her sex drive, now as all-consuming as his, had been long dormant until these past six weeks and had never been this strong even before marital ennui had set in, while his had been part of his core since adolescence. Thus things like her occasional disparagement of hubby exuded an implicit desperation to keep this affair going, while he felt only the thrill of the continuing conquest. She told him she had never felt she was an easy lay before encountering him, while he always had viewed women as either an easy lay or not worth the bother. She could easily see herself falling in love with him, and knew how foolish that turn of events would be; for him love never was even part of the equation.

In short, it was a relationship lacking equality in almost any dimension one could name. This was hardly out of character for him, as he avoided equality in relationships whenever possible. He actively disliked level playing fields in general. He preferred the ease of downhill, relished the occasional challenge of uphill, and became quickly bored otherwise.

With his free hand he unbuttoned her blouse. "So what do you want to do now, Pornstar?" he asked, continuing to fingerfuck her to distraction. "Oh god," was all she replied, momentarily testing his recent verbal training of her, triggered by this pet name. "Say it," he insisted. "Oh god," she repeated in a whisper, "I, I want to suck your, prick, Sir." She stared at the object of her desire, rigid and selfish and above all potent. "Say it again, bitch," he repeated, "like you mean it", and received the desired "I want to suck your prick, Sir" in response. He liked hearing her use that word, prick - how it always came out with a slight catch in her voice the first time, then smoothly the second time and thereafter. "Lift up your bra, slut," he now commanded, and closing her eyes in surrender she did so. But as usual, he wanted just that little bit more: "open your eyes, bitch. Watch, while I do what I'm about to do."

When she opened her eyes, he lowered his mouth to one erect pink nipple, and bit hard, then slightly eased the grip of his teeth and sloooowly scraped the hard knot.

Even though he was familiar with her response patterns, he was caught by surprise from the immediacy and strength with which her muscles clenched on his inserted middle finger. He immediately let go of her nipple, and started to pull out of her cunt, but the friction of withdrawal was enough to completely push her over the edge to orgasm - stay in or pull out, by this time it was too late either way he could have chosen. She evidently tried to stifle her own vocalization, but anyone passing by the closet door would have guessed that something was going on. Luckily, most of the department was more interested in beating a hasty exit the other direction from the supply room, eager to get a headstart on the weekend once they noticed that the boss's cubicle was darkened and empty; they wouldn't connect the fact that the new aide was also absent.

He had been confident she would be eager for this brief encounter. Cincinnati for him Monday through Wednesday with a late flight back, some kind of school music thing Thursday evening and a soccer thing tonight for her. And weekends were always unpredictable and nearly impossible for her, given his requirement she make arrangements with him in advance. Most of the previous six weeks, by contrast, they had been able to meet for an hour at his place, after work, two or three times most weeks, and during that fourth whirlwind week when he essentially collared her it was all five weekdays plus a precious furtive Saturday morning, though she couldn't keep pretending that a friend's mother was dying. So he calculated, correctly, that she was more or less climbing the walls by today, having gone without for a week, and that a simple text message "meet me in the supply room at 4:00" would catch her in a deeply receptive mood.