Stories in at work
75 stories · Page 1I'll tell you how I fucked my former classmate, now a neurologist. It all started when I started having some strange pain in my groin. My wife said, "Go see a doctor, stop putting up with it." So, I made an appointment at a private clinic to avoid lines and prying eyes. I show up, sit in the hallway, and wait. The nurse calls out, "Come in, room twelve." I walk in and am stunned. Sitting at the desk is Olya Smirnova, my classmate about ten years ago. She's aged, sure, but not much. She still has the same bangs, but instead of jeans and a sweater, she's wearing a white coat. "Wow," I say. "Olya? Is that you?" She looked up, squinted, then smiled: - Oh, my God. I didn't think you'd end up here. Come on, sit down and tell me what's bothering you. I sat down and began to explain. She listened, nodded, and wrote something down. Then she said: - Okay, let's watch. Lie down on the couch and take off your pants. Well, I undressed.
Hello everyone. It's me again, and again, the story isn't about me. Or rather, it's about me, but not in the way you might think. This time, the story is told from the perspective of a man—an acquaintance of mine with whom I once got to talking about this topic. He allowed me to record it but asked not to use his real name. Let's call him Igor. He's 34, lives alone in a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts, and works remotely in IT. I'm quoting his words almost verbatim, only editing them a bit for readability. So. It happened last fall. I was working on a project, sleeping five hours a night, and eating whenever I had to. That night, I finished a call around twelve thirty, realized I hadn't eaten anything decent all day, and went to the app to order something. I opened it, chose burgers, fries, and a cola. I looked at the delivery time—thirty-five minutes. Okay. I ordered, went to take a shower, and then sat down to finish watching the series. The
My name is Vera. This is the story of how I ordered new wallpaper and received something completely different. My husband, Andrey, had been promising to renovate our bedroom for six months. One less-than-ideal day, tired of listening to his excuses about being busy, I simply hired a crew. More precisely, one person—Timur. A friend recommended him, praising his skill and reasonable prices. My husband reacted to my high-handedness with a sluggish air: "Okay, let him try. Just don't bother me with all this nonsense; let him figure it out himself." Timur arrived on Monday morning. Tall, calm, with calloused palms and a piercing brown gaze. Compared to my perpetually tired husband, hunched over his laptop, he looked like an alien from a planet where men still have arms growing out of their shoulders. For the first two days, I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. He did everything himself: removing old furniture, stripping wallpaper, and spackling the walls.
I got a job as a security guard at a construction site the summer after my second year. The pay wasn't great, but the work was easy: sit in a trailer, patrol the area twice a night, and make sure cables and tools weren't stolen. The site was secluded, behind garages, with not a soul around. It suited me—I was reading a lot back then, and here it was quiet. The woman showed up a week later. Her name was Lyuda. She worked as a crane operator, but the crane at that site hadn't been installed yet, so she was assigned to work as a storekeeper—handing out gloves, hard hats, and nails. She lived right there, in a trailer next to my trailer. She was about thirty-five, maybe a little older. Not a beauty, but shapely: strong arms, a wide backside, large breasts, but not sagging, like dough in a pan—they rose when she laughed. She was cheerful and loud. She would come out in the evening in her robe, sit on the steps of the trailer, and smoke, looking at me. I would pretend to read.
Marina Lvovna stood in the middle of her future office, wincing in disgust. Cement dust hung in the air. Two workers in stained overalls were laying wiring. More precisely, one, the younger, stocky fellow, was drilling into the wall, while the other, older, with a weathered, red face, simply sat on an overturned bucket, squinting at their boss. Marina was used to men in the office barely daring to look at her. She'd bullied them, fired them, and promoted them without a second thought. But here, in the dim light of the unfinished office, she felt uneasy. She was a queen here only on paper, but in reality, she was just a woman who got in the way of her work. The men smelled of sweat and burning, not expensive perfume, like her subordinates in expensive suits. "Well, mistress, we'll be done soon," the young man said without turning around, shouting over the noise of the drill. He didn't even look at her. It was annoying. Marina stepped around the construction debris
My name is Vera. This is the story of how I ordered new wallpaper and received something completely different. My husband, Andrey, had been promising to renovate our bedroom for six months. One less-than-ideal day, tired of listening to his excuses about being busy, I simply hired a crew. More precisely, one person—Timur. A friend recommended him, praising his skill and reasonable prices. My husband reacted to my high-handedness with a sluggish air: "Okay, let him try. Just don't bother me with all this nonsense; let him figure it out himself." Timur arrived on Monday morning. Tall, calm, with calloused palms and a piercing brown gaze. Compared to my perpetually tired husband, hunched over his laptop, he looked like an alien from a planet where men still have arms growing out of their shoulders. For the first two days, I watched him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. He did everything himself: removing old furniture, stripping wallpaper, and spackling the walls.
I sat in my office, nervously tapping my pen on the desk. It was already getting dark outside, the office was empty, and only the quiet hum of the air conditioner broke the silence. Sergey, my assistant, was late again. And not by five, not ten minutes—a whole hour. This young brat had apparently completely forgotten who was in charge here. Finally, the door quietly opened, and his guilty face appeared in the doorway. "Come in, Sergei," I said in an icy tone, without raising my head. "Have a seat." He slid inside like a kicked puppy and sat down on the chair opposite my desk. I slowly looked up. His blond hair was tousled, his cheeks slightly flushed—whether from running so fast or from embarrassment. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the top button undone. He was clearly nervous, fiddling with his car keys. "What should I do with you?" I asked, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest. “Irina Viktorovna, I really overslept,” he began to bab
Alla Borisovna, the senior call center administrator, a forty-seven-year-old woman with a figure that her expensive pantsuit clung to like a gift-wrapped, overripe peach, sat in her office, listening to a recording of the call. Behind the glass partition, the open-plan office hummed, but here, all was quiet, save for the tapping of her perfectly manicured fingers on the desk. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said without raising her head. Maxim entered the office. Twenty-three years old, a third-line operator, skinny and awkward, wearing a wrinkled jacket that he'd obviously worn to a job interview and hadn't ironed since. He fidgeted by the threshold, unsure what to do with his hands. Alla Borisovna gestured to the chair across from him. He sat down, resting his hands on his knees. She turned off the recording. She removed her glasses, leaving them lying on the table, and looked at Maxim. Her gaze was long and appraising, the kind one might look at not an erran
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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?”
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.
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