A businesswoman gave herself to two workers

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, her heels clicking on the concrete. She was dressed to the nines: a crisp pencil skirt and a white blouse pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Next to these grimy men, she looked like an alien. "This will be my office," she said dryly, adjusting her glasses. "I hope it will be clean by Monday, and not like it is now." "It will be, don't worry," the older man chuckled, looking over her figure as if he was mentally removing that formal jacket. Marina shuddered. And then something happened that she hadn't expected. The young worker, carrying a heavy drill, twisted awkwardly, and the water supply hose, which he had accidentally snagged, came loose from its fitting. A powerful stream of cold, rusty liquid shot straight into Marina's chest. She yelped and staggered back, but the water was already splattering her legs and her white blouse, which instantly became transparent. "Are you fucking nuts?" she screamed, but her voice broke into a squeak. The young man dropped the drill and stared at her. Two neat semicircles of a bra were clearly visible through the wet silk of her blouse. Not the kind a housewife wears, but an expensive one, with lace that now looked ridiculous under the layer of rusty moisture. A heavy silence fell. The only sound was the dripping of water. “Sorry,” the young man said brazenly, without a hint of guilt in his voice, “I didn’t mean to ruin my suit.” The senior worker, without getting up from the bucket, grinned into his smoke-stained moustache: "Oh, come on, Igor. Look, it even suits the woman. You can tell right away that she has those tits." Marina flushed at this rudeness. Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she suddenly realized that she was hotter than just anger. These two were talking about her as if she were nothing, just a piece of meat. And for some reason, this was more arousing than all the compliments from her suitors. "Shut your mouth," she hissed, but didn't move. She stood there and let them stare. "Listen, boss," the young man stepped toward her, coming very close. He reeked of cigarettes and sweat. "Why did you come to the construction site dressed like that? To show off your underwear?" “You’re being rude,” Marina whispered, but didn’t move away, feeling the cold of the concrete column on her back. "Or you can write me up for rudeness," he said, roughly running his rough palm over her wet shoulder, brushing away the water. "Or fire us. But who's going to finish the repairs for you?" Marina looked up at him. There was no fear in her eyes, only animalistic interest. The young man believed this to be true. "Take off that wet thing already," the elder ordered quietly but firmly, rising from the bucket. "What are you shaking for?" And Marina obeyed. Her fingers trembled, and the buttons on her blouse were difficult to open. The young man tugged impatiently at the fabric, tearing it, and revealed her firm breasts in wet lace. He immediately squeezed them with his palms, staining her underwear with cement dust. "There you go," he exhaled. "It's obvious this boob hasn't been washed by hand. It's so smooth." The older man came up behind her and pressed his groin against hers. Marina could feel the hard bulge even through the rough fabric of his pants. He didn't ask permission; he simply pressed down, pinning her between himself and the younger man. What happened next was some kind of wooden workbench, where they sat her down. Her skirt had ridden up to her waist, and her tights had split at the seam. Marina, accustomed to being in control, now simply surrendered herself to the hands of these rough men. She liked the smell of a construction site, the way her expensive jewelry looked out of place here. “Come on, foreman, get busy with your mouth,” the young man commanded, unzipping his fly, from which a thick, swollen member fell out. Marina was roughly grabbed by the hair, forcing it into a perfect bun, and her face was forced into the younger man's groin. He smelled of dust and urea. Meanwhile, the older man pulled down her torn tights and panties and, without thinking twice, drove his rough finger into her wet flesh. "Dry? Oh well, we'll warm it up in a second," he croaked into her ear, nipping at her lobe. Marina moaned around the cock in her mouth, bracing her palms against the young man's muscular thighs to keep from falling. She'd never been taken like this before—roughly, like a pig, without asking. All her lovers were office slobs, afraid to wrinkle her suit or ruin her manicure. These two, however, were simply using her as a construction site mat. “Get on all fours,” the elder one commanded. The young man pulled his penis from her mouth, and Marina gasped, choking on saliva. She was immediately turned to face the cold workbench, bent over, her cheek pressed against the rough wood. She felt the head of his penis press against her buttocks from behind, searching for entry. He thrust hard, balls deep, and Marina moaned loudly. The sound echoed off the empty concrete walls. It hurt, but she thrust her hips back, pushing deeper. They fucked her silently, in a work-like manner, as if they were doing their job. Only the slapping of bodies and muffled grunts. Then, to avoid boredom, the older man stood at Marina's face and began to move his cock, still wet with her saliva, over her lips, smearing lube across her cheeks. "Office whore," the young man growled, pulling her hips toward him. "All you know how to do is look in the mirror. And yet you're dripping like a bitch." Marina was no longer a stern boss. She was simply a female, driven into a corner and covered. An orgasm washed over her suddenly as the young man grabbed her by the neck and lightly choked her. Her body arched, her legs trembled in their heels. "You're finished, bitch!" he breathed, making one last sharp thrust. Marina felt hot semen spilling inside her. The older man, seizing the opportunity, clamped his fingers around Marina's jaws, forcing her mouth open, and spilled his load onto her tongue. She stood propped against the workbench, feeling semen trickle down her thighs. Her expensive blouse lay in the dust, her glasses lay somewhere underfoot. The men, as if nothing had happened, began gathering their tools. The young man zipped up his fly and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "You... for cleaning and moral damages," he chuckled, looking at her ruined clothes, "take ten percent off the estimate." Marina rose slowly, smoothing her tangled, wet hair. She glanced at the older man, who was already sitting on the bucket again, as if nothing had happened. And instead of anger, she suddenly asked quietly: — Will you come tomorrow? "Of course," the young man chuckled. "We'll finish the wiring tomorrow. And you too. Just put on a shorter skirt, otherwise we might undress you ourselves. Right, Palych?" The elder just chuckled and looked closely at the boss's bare knees. Marina turned and walked out of the office, leaving traces of sperm on the concrete floor. For the first time in a long time, she didn't care at all how she looked.