Boss and Subordinate: Night Editing

The office was already empty. The silence was broken only by the insistent hum of the system unit under the desk and the occasional click of the keyboard. Alina glanced at the clock in the corner of the monitor: 9:47 PM. In thirteen minutes, her long, hard-won weekend would begin, and she was still tinkering with that damn quarterly report. One error in the pivot table, one incorrect link—and that would be it. Her dream of four days on the couch, drinking wine and watching TV shows was melting away before her eyes. She stretched, hearing a crack in her back. The black tights beneath her formal black pencil skirt rubbed slightly against the leather of the office chair. She'd kicked off her high heels an hour ago, and now her numb toes rested against the cool laminate flooring. Her white blouse was unbuttoned at the top two buttons—a small rebellion against the corporate dress code in the empty space. It was at that moment that the door to her open office creaked softly. “Are you working?” the voice was low, velvety, without a hint of surprise. Alina shuddered, instinctively reaching for the buttons, but stopped. Maxim Igorevich. Her boss. Stern, demanding, with icy gray eyes that seemed to see right through every little flaw in her. An attractive man. In his early forties, he wore an expensive suit as if he'd been born in it. Now the jacket was off, the sleeves of his immaculate blue shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong, dark-haired forearms. "Yes," she managed to say. "Last edits. I can't find the error." He entered without asking permission. His gaze slid over her blouse, lingered for a moment on the unbuttoned neckline, then moved to the screen. He smelled of expensive soap, light notes of sandalwood, and… power. Simple, undeniable. "Show me," he said, approaching from behind. "Before the long weekend, everyone's in a hurry, cutting corners." She felt a shiver run down her spine. His breath brushed her neck. He leaned over, reaching for the mouse. His fingers lay on hers—large, warm. Alina froze. He moved the cursor, his forearm touching her shoulder. "Here," his voice sounded right next to her ear. "There's an error in the formula. Look." She didn't see. She felt only his closeness, the warmth emanating from his body. Her own heart, pounding somewhere in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll… fix it.” "You're all tense," he noted, without moving away. "Your neck, your shoulders. You spend all day at the computer. It's not good for you." His hands settled on her shoulders. At first, they just lay there. Then his thumbs pressed into the tense muscles at the base of her neck. "Maxim Igorevich, I..." "Relax," he ordered quietly, and his fingers began to move. Strong, confident, kneading. "This is simply helping my subordinate. So she can finish her work and not hold me up." He massaged her shoulders, and Alina couldn't help but let out a soft moan. From exhaustion, from surprise, from how damn good it felt. His hands moved lower, to her shoulder blades, then back up, to her neck. He parted her hair with his fingers, exposing her skin. His breathing became a little more noisy. "Still tense," he muttered. "Needs more... intensity." He continued to massage her shoulder with one hand, while the other slid forward, toward her unbuttoned blouse. His fingertip traced the edge of her lacy bra. Alina gasped. "Maxim..."—no longer "Igorevich." There was no protest in her voice. There was only a frightened, damp tremor. "Hush," he whispered. "Everyone's gone. Just us. And this unfortunate report." He turned her chair toward him. His eyes glowed in the dim light of the office. He looked at her as if he saw not a junior analyst, but a woman. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. "Get up," he said. She complied, standing up on her bare feet. He slowly, appraisingly looked her over from head to toe. "Put on your heels," he ordered. "I want to see you focused. Until the end." She bent over and pulled on her high heels with trembling hands. Her heel clicked into place. She straightened up, feeling her posture change, her legs lengthen, her calves tense beneath the thin fabric of her tights. He moved closer. Now she was almost the same height as him. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her toward him. The hard belt of his pants cut into her stomach. She felt his large cock—hard, hot, pulsing through the fabric—pressing against her thigh. “That’s better,” he breathed out and captured her lips in a kiss. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a takeover. A claim. His tongue invaded her mouth with authority, exploring, demanding a response. She responded, losing the last of her sanity. Her hands clutched at the folds of his shirt at the back. He kissed her as if he wanted to devour her, his hands sliding down her sides, squeezing, exploring the curves beneath her skirt. He pulled away, his lips glistening. "My office. Now." He took her hand and led her along. His palm was dry and hot. His office smelled of leather, wood, and expensive coffee. He didn't turn on the overhead light. Only a desk lamp with a warm yellow shade and the cool blue light from the large monitors on his desk. He led her to a huge leather desk and sifted a stack of papers onto the floor with a sweeping motion of his hand. "Lie down," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. Gasping for breath, she sat up, then lay back on the cool, smooth skin. The view from her perspective was surreal: his face against the dark ceiling, the glow of monitors on the walls. He stood between her legs, spread by her skirt. "These tights..." he grumbled, running his finger from her ankle up her inner thigh. "They drive every man in the department crazy. You know that?" She didn't have time to answer. He leaned down and ripped her tights at the groin with a quiet, rough sound. Cool air touched her skin. Then his fingers—warm, confident—found her panties and pushed them aside. She closed her eyes as his tongue touched hers. The cunnilingus was as powerful as his kiss. Purposeful, demanding, merciless. He didn't caress her—he drank her in, explored, found her most sensitive spots, and worked them with his tongue and lips until she began to moan, digging her toes into the air, curling them in her high heels. Her hands beat helplessly against the smooth leather of the table. "You're wet," he whispered, lifting his head. His lips and chin glistened. "And delicious." He stood up, and Alina heard the zipper on his pants. Then he was above her. He grabbed her foot, lifted it, and pressed the sole to his chest. His gaze slid over the arch of her foot, over the stretched toes of her fishnet tights. "Beautiful legs," he said with a kind of dark obsession. "You'll keep them on me." And he entered her. Slowly, but without hesitation, filling her with one long, relentless movement. Alina screamed. He was enormous, his large cock stretching her from the inside, making her feel every millimeter, every pulsing vein. He paused, letting her adjust, his eyes never leaving her face. “Now…” he whispered hoarsely, “…work.” And he began to fuck her. Slowly, with sweeping, deep thrusts, forcing her body down the smooth leather of the table to the very edge. Sounds filled the quiet office: the muffled slap of bodies, her intermittent moans, his heavy breathing. He held her leg on his shoulder, his hand squeezing her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh through her torn tights. "How do you like my... report?" he breathed out, driving himself into her with renewed vigor. She couldn't speak. She could only feel. Feel the wild, uncontrollable pressure building in her lower abdomen. Each of his thrusts hit home. She wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer, craving his kiss, his scent. “I’m… close…” she moaned. “No,” he snapped, not slowing down. “Not now. Finish when I say.” He pulled his cock out of her, glistening with her juices. "On your knees." Stunned, she slid off the table and knelt before him on the soft carpet. He was before her in all his rough beauty. Heavy, aroused, with a prominent vein. He brushed the head of his penis against her lips. "Make me feel good. Finish your job." She opened her mouth and accepted him. Blowjobs were a way for her to regain some measure of control. She licked him, wrapped her lips around him, cupped his balls with one hand, and ran the other over his stomach. She heard him groan above her, felt his hips tremble. He moved his head over hers, guiding the rhythm, becoming rougher and rougher. "Yes... like this... swallow..." His fingers gripped her hair. He moved her head faster, deeper. She felt his cock pulsate against her tongue. "Now," he growled. "In your mouth. All of it." He came with powerful thrusts, filling her mouth with hot, salty cum. She swallowed and coughed, feeling him slowly pull out of her lips. He pulled her to her feet and laid her back on the table. His cock, still hard, was back between her legs. He entered her, this time without ceremony, furiously, completely. And she could no longer hold back. The first powerful thrusts knocked everything out of her. The orgasm washed over her in a wave that broke her in half. She screamed, her body arching, her insides clenching around him in a frantic rhythm. He continued to move, prolonging her convulsions, until he let out a low, animalistic groan and collapsed on her with all his weight, filling her with warmth. Silence. Just heavy breathing. The smell of sex, sweat, and leather. The cold leather of the table beneath her hot back. He rose slowly, looking at her. His gaze was different—rich, tired, human. “The report…,” she said hoarsely, “…is it submitted?” The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Accepted. No modifications required." He helped her sit up. Her legs buckled. "Go shower. Downstairs in the gym. Then come see me. We'll spend this weekend… analyzing your weak points." There was authority in his voice again, but now there was a hint of something new. Something shared. Understanding. Alina nodded, sliding off the table. Her skirt was rumpled, her blouse torn at the shoulder, and her tights were mere shreds on her legs. But she walked toward the door in her high heels, feeling his gaze on her back. The long weekend had only just begun.