at work Erotic Stories

Igor had only worked in the sales department for six months and quietly hated his boss, Alla Borisovna. She was forty-eight years old, tall, with a heavy gaze and a habit of muttering her words through clenched teeth. She dressed strictly—knee-length skirts, buttoned-up blouses—but even through this shell, her powerful figure was visible: a wide backside, impressive breasts. In the smoking room, the guys joked that having sex with such a woman was like hugging an iceberg, but Igor sometimes dreamed of her in the most obscene positions. And then there was this remote worker. Alla Borisovna complained that her work laptop was slow and the system administrator couldn't be reached. Igor volunteered to help—the sales quota was hanging by a thread anyway, and a little sweetness wouldn't hurt. On Saturday morning, he was already standing at her door with a flash drive and a bunch of software. The apartment turned out to be unexpectedly cozy. The boss's husband, some important c... continue reading

Marina froze, clutching a duster in her hand. Her husband's voice was heard from behind the office door. "Thanks for staying late, Stas. Let's go over the estimate again, and then I'll let you go. Lenka's probably waiting at home, and she's probably pissed off." "It's okay, Sergeich," Stas replied. "Lena can wait. It's important." Marina was kneeling before the director's desk, completely naked except for rubber gloves and a headscarf. This was exactly how she was supposed to look on Fridays, when she came to "clean" her husband's office after hours. Only her husband didn't know this. He thought the cleaning lady came on Saturday mornings, and that it was some Aunt Zina from the cleaning company. In reality, for six months now, Marina had been coming here every Friday, undressing in the utility room, and getting down to her duties. But instead of a mop and bucket, she was given a different task. Sometimes it was... continue reading

I was in a private room—luckily, my relatives had gotten me there. My appendix had been removed two days earlier, and the puncture site still hurt a bit, but it was already gone. It was night, quiet, and the nurses occasionally shuffled their slippers down the hallway. I was dozing off, sedated, but woke up when the door quietly opened. In fact, I was lying facing the wall, the blanket pulled almost up to my chin. The only light in the room was a nightlight above the door, so anyone entering would hardly be able to tell whether I was asleep or not. I decided not to move. “Come here, there’s no one here, this is a private ward,” I heard a young female voice, quiet, with a kind of nervous laugh. I carefully turned my head, millimeter by millimeter, so I could see what was happening out of the corner of my eye. Three people entered the room: Sveta, a very young intern, about nineteen; a thin brunette I'd seen during my rounds; and two doctors. One was a surgeon of about forty-five,... continue reading

Everything started to spiral when our Olimp chain fitness club was acquired by Golden Energy. For me, a Pilates instructor, it was a low blow. Rumors of personnel purges were terrifying: even star trainers were being fired. I'm thirty-two, I maintain the figure of a twenty-five-year-old, and this place was my bread and butter. Three days after signing the documents, the five of us instructors were called into the main hall for an "interview." The new manager, Denis, a strong, muscular man in his forties, sat in a leg press chair. Beside him stood his three assistants—equally muscular "muscle men." The conversation began with banalities: training plans, attendance statistics. Then Denis put down his protein shake and asked point-blank: — Tell me, Angelina, is this job your last chance? “Yes,” I exhaled, clutching my fitness tracker. "Okay. New rules. Your work attire is leggings one size too small and a sports bra with no support. You leave your bra in the loc... continue reading

Our company sold expensive foreign cars. We had a peculiar team: the managers were all hardened windbags in cheap but well-pressed suits, the secretaries had silicone-like everything, and then we—the service department. The techies. There were three of us: Sanya, Dan, and me. We didn't wear suits, we swore, and we were the only ones who actually understood how all these fancy cars worked, and weren't just kissing customers' asses for a percentage of the sale. Taras Arkadyevich was the head of this entire cesspool. A fat, sweaty man in his late sixties with a perpetually purple neck and a gold signet ring on his little finger. He yelled at everyone, delayed wages, and considered himself a business genius simply because he'd once borrowed money and opened a dealership in the right location. We quietly hated him, but tolerated him because he gave us the opportunity to tinker with expensive cars and occasionally make a small profit on spare parts. But he had one asset wh... continue reading

I'm twenty-nine. I work for a large logistics company. In the sales department. Our team is small and close-knit. Dimon, Seryoga, and I are the trio that manages half the workload. And above us is Tatyana Leonidovna. She's the executive director. She's forty-three years old. She's a striking woman. Tall, stately, with the posture of a former basketball player. Broad shoulders, long, strong legs. Her C-cup breasts are always encased in formal blouses. Her butt is round and curved, tightly clasped by a skirt below the knees. She wears heels and clacks down the hallway so loudly that heads turn. Her hair is light brown, cut in a bob. Her face is well-bred, with fine features, and her gaze is sharp and commanding. She's been divorced twice. No children. She lives for her work. She had a rock-solid character. Her voice was well-trained and commanding. At the slightest provocation, she'd call you to the carpet and scold you so hard the walls would shake. But she wa... continue reading

Kira pushed a cart with a bucket and mop down the empty hallway of the seventh floor. The office building hummed with ventilation, and this monotonous sound was the night cleaner's only companion. She put in her headphones, turned on some music, and began mopping the floors—the rhythmic back-and-forth movements of the sponge, creating puddles of soapy water on the gray linoleum. Kira didn't notice the lights go out on the entire floor. The girl straightened up and pulled out her earphone. The silence was absolute, save for the sound of dripping water from a poorly closed faucet. Kira fumbled for a flashlight on the cart and switched it on. The beam revealed office chairs, monitors, and a ficus tree in the corner—a typical, deserted open-plan office. She took a step toward the fire door leading to the stairwell. The door was ajar, though Kira clearly remembered closing it an hour ago. A damp smell wafted through the doorway. The flashlight beam darted inward and rested on a b... continue reading

My wife's name is Karina. She's thirty-one, but looks twenty-four at most—a slender brunette with long hair down to her waist, expressive brown eyes, and full lips. She has B-cup breasts, but very firm, with large, dark nipples that always protrude. She has a flat stomach that tapers to a shaved pubic area with a thin strip of hair. Her labia are well-groomed and tightly pressed together. She has a round butt with a small anus that I sometimes fuck on holidays. Her legs are long and flowing—her measurements are 88x58x92. We've been together for seven years. Karina works for a large IT company, managing the testing department, and she has a team of men. The team is young and ambitious, all between twenty-five and thirty-five. The company planned a corporate retreat for late November at the Sosnovy Bor country spa hotel, an hour's drive from the city. The two-day program included a conference, team building, spa treatments, and an evening banquet. Wives and husbands we... continue reading

I hated all the pre-wedding chores. My best friend had decided to throw a big ceremony, and as best man, I was forced to wear a tuxedo. Not just buy one, but have it custom-made at some fancy tailor. A nasty autumn rain was drizzling outside, and the prospect of hanging around for an hour or two while they took my measurements was depressing. The Velvet Atelier was located in the basement of an old mansion. Inside, it was dim, cozy, and cramped with endless rolls of fabric. I gave my name to the receptionist, and a minute later she came out to meet me. Her name was Elvira. She couldn't have been more than twenty-eight, but she carried herself with that calm, slightly haughty grace that comes from women who know their worth and their craft. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a high, sleek ponytail. A strict black pantsuit clung to her figure, emphasizing her slender waist and the sharp curves of her hips. Underneath the jacket, she wore an ivory silk blouse, and I could have... continue reading

Lena couldn't remember how much she'd drunk. The office party dragged on, and she, standing at the bar in her black, form-fitting dress, stockings, and black stiletto pumps, felt the alcohol blurring boundaries. Dima was probably already asleep at home. She'd promised him "not to get too drunk," but the third gin and tonic with Andrey from the next aisle had done its job. Andrey stood too close. His hand had been on her waist for fifteen minutes, and then it slid lower—to her thigh, where the fabric of her dress merged into her stocking. Lena felt the warmth of his palm through the nylon. "You're absolutely stunning today, Len," he said quietly, leaning toward her ear. The scent of his cologne and alcohol assaulted her nose. "That dress... and those stockings. I can't take my eyes off you all evening." She laughed, but it came out hoarse. Everything inside her was already burning. - Stop it. I'm married, by the way. “I know. So what?”... continue reading

My name is Seryoga. My partner, Dimon, and I work at a 24-hour supermarket on the outskirts. I'm a security guard, he's a loader. It's a night shift, from ten to eight. The job isn't particularly grim: you only get a couple of drunks a night, but you can grab something from the shelves in peace while no one's watching and spend some time on your phone. The only downside is the cameras, but we know the blind spots by heart. Our administrator's name is Vika. She's about twenty-five, and has a stunning figure. She always wears a tight skirt that falls just below her butt, a blouse a couple of buttons unbuttoned, and underneath, she wears obviously expensive lace lingerie, which Dimon and I noticed a couple of times when she bent over. She has slender legs in heels, and plump lips painted scarlet. Her hair is dark, shoulder-length. We called her "Star" among ourselves. Because for us, ordinary working people, such a woman would never be in our future.... continue reading

I was sitting in the office until late, as usual. The computer light was already glaring, and it had long since gotten dark outside. Elena Sergeevna, my boss, was usually the last one to leave, but that evening she suddenly summoned me. "Come in," she said curtly into the chat. Nothing out of the ordinary, I thought. Another report, which I must have screwed up somewhere again. I walked in and immediately caught that scent—her expensive perfume and something else, barely perceptible, that always took my breath away. She was sitting at her desk in her usual office attire: a black leather skirt hugging her hips so tightly it seemed about to split, a white blouse unbuttoned one button too many, and under the desk—those same black stockings and high-heeled shoes. Black, patent leather, with a pointed toe. I tried not to look. It didn't work out well. "Sit down," she said, without looking up from the screen. Her voice was even, but it already had that note that usuall... continue reading

Château de Valmont, hidden in the dense vineyards of the Loire, was transformed every April into a temple for the most discerning collectors. The stone vaults of the main hall trembled with hushed voices, and the air was thick with the aroma of aged Cabernet, old oak, and expensive tobacco. I, a twenty-four-year-old sommelier, was working at this private auction for only my second time. My task was simple and honorable: introduce the lots, describe the terroir, pour into glasses, and ensure that not a drop was wasted. None of the guests noticed how I nervously twitched my fingers behind my back as the price of yet another bottle of 1947 soared. The auction proceeded as usual—the gavel banged, the glasses clinked, and I stood at the long table with decanters, smiling and nodding. No one suspected that below me, two floors down, in the ancient wine cellar, a completely different game was already underway. After the last lot, as guests began to disperse to the terrace with cigars, the... continue reading

"It's so stuffy," Zhanna kicked the box of shower stalls and reached for the collar of her uniform shirt. "Denis, are you serious? Working my ass off until the morning?" Denis, a young manager with a neat haircut, clinked the metal shutters on the front door, locking the Plumbing and Tile store from the inside. "An order from above. A re-stocking of the entire 'Bathroom Everything' department. And yes, Zhanna, don't slog, just work. The results will determine which of you will become the senior salesperson. I need someone responsible." Kira emerged from behind the faucet rack, wiping her hands with a rag. The curvy blonde, her vest strained against her ample bust, chuckled, crossing her arms under her chest. "Did you hear that, Zhannochka? A responsible person. Not someone who just blabbers." "I'm just talking about what's for sale," the skinny brunette snapped, adjusting her short haircut. "Buyers run away from you... continue reading

This story happened to me the summer of my fourth year at agricultural technical school. I had just turned nineteen. My major was agricultural mechanization, and I was sent for an internship at a large dairy complex near Poltava. For two months, I had to tinker with the machinery: milking machines, tractors, and feed dispensers. Every day after my shift, I was black from machine oil, dust, and straw. The workers' quarters had two showers—one for men and one for women. The men's shower was old, the pipes rusty, and the hot water only came on after the evening milking, when all the men had finished. The women's shower, however, was kept constantly heated because the milkmaids and the processing plant operators arrived at different times. I quickly realized it was easier to shower there alone before the shift ended. I always left an hour or an hour and a half before the other student interns, so no one would catch me. The shower was simple: a long room with six stalls, a co... continue reading

It all started at a corporate party at this boarding house outside Moscow. The company had rented an entire building near the forest so the staff could relax completely after the quarter. I was an ordinary sales manager, sitting in the office with paperwork, and suddenly everyone was drunk by lunchtime. Our boss, Sergey, had brought his wife, Anna, along. She didn't often show up at such get-togethers, but this time she decided to join him. She looked so good that half the department immediately lost their minds: tall, with long legs in tight jeans, her blouse slightly unbuttoned, her hair loose. Sergey strutted around all evening, like he owned the place, and she smiled at everyone, but her eyes were bored. By evening, the boarding house bar was packed. Some were blaring karaoke, others were already lounging in the chairs. I was standing at the counter ordering another round when Anna came over and asked if I wanted to play pool. "Sergey always wins, and I get bored watchin... continue reading

Dima, a quiet IT specialist in the development department, usually spent office parties in a corner, sipping juice and checking code updates on his phone. That day, after three hours of frantic paintball at a nearby playground, the entire team returned to the office loft to celebrate the victory. The loft was enormous—an open space with brick walls, high ceilings, and neon signs that now shimmered softly in the dim light. The smell of fresh paintball paint mingled with sweat and adrenaline, and multicolored stains still glittered on the floor. Most of his colleagues had gone home by nine o'clock, leaving behind piles of disposable dishes, sweat-soaked T-shirts, and a pile of empty bottles. Dima, as always, couldn't refuse when Vika, the HR manager, asked him to help "clean up, otherwise the cleaning lady will come tomorrow morning and give her a hard time." Vika had been the epitome of propriety all day: a crisp white shirt, dark pants, hair pulled back into a ponyta... continue reading

I flew to St. Petersburg for a three-day logistics conference—the usual routine for a mid-level manager: presentations, coffee breaks, and the constant exchange of business cards. The hotel was decent, right in the center, overlooking the Neva. On the very first evening after the official part, I went down to the hotel bar—my feet were buzzing from my heels, just wanting to relax with a martini. He was already sitting behind the counter—Dmitry, one of our key clients. We'd been corresponding for months about work, but had only seen each other in person a couple of times at group meetings. Tall, confident, about forty-five, with an expensive suit and a wedding ring he wore all the time, even here. Next to him was a young woman, about twenty-five, in a formal but form-fitting dress. Alina, his assistant. I'd only known her by email: always crisp letters, perfect spreadsheets. In person, she was even more beautiful—long legs, a neat bust, shoulder-length blond hair, and those e... continue reading

I work as an IT specialist at a mid-sized company, handling corporate email, chats, and everything security-related. It's a mixed team, but our sales department is full of women, and one of them—Lena from marketing—has always been a bit of a stretch for me. She's 33, tall, slender, and has a perfect figure: D-cup breasts, a narrow waist, and a butt so perfect that a pencil skirt fits her like a glove. She always wears smart blouses, heels, and perfect makeup. She's married with two kids, and her husband is some manager at another company. She never even looked at me, just said "hello" in the hallway. That day was a typical Thursday, the end of the quarter. She was supposed to send me an advertising report on our corporate Teams. I was checking my email and saw it was from Lena. I opened it—and it wasn't Excel. There were her intimate photos. A series. First, she's in black lace lingerie on the bed, then braless, her breasts exposed, her nipples hard. Then... continue reading

I work as an IT specialist at a mid-sized company, handling corporate email, chats, and everything security-related. It's a mixed team, but our sales department is full of women, and one of them—Lena from marketing—has always been a bit of a stretch for me. She's 33, tall, slender, and has a perfect figure: D-cup breasts, a narrow waist, and a butt so perfect that a pencil skirt fits her like a glove. She always wears smart blouses, heels, and perfect makeup. She's married with two kids, and her husband is some manager at another company. She never even looked at me, just said "hello" in the hallway. That day was a typical Thursday, the end of the quarter. She was supposed to send me an advertising report on our corporate Teams. I was checking my email and saw it was from Lena. I opened it—and it wasn't Excel. There were her intimate photos. A series. First, she's in black lace lingerie on the bed, then braless, her breasts exposed, her nipples hard. Then... continue reading