In the room with the boss's wife

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 watching," she said, laughing. Of course, I agreed. We both took a table in the corner, where the lighting was dim and the music wasn't so loud. Sergey stood nearby at first, joking around, but then some important calls distracted him and he went to the window with his phone. We were playing for fun: whoever lost got to drink a penalty shot. I deliberately let her loose at the beginning, trying to get her to relax. Every time Anna leaned over the table to take aim, her blouse would ride up, revealing a strip of tanned skin above the waistband of her jeans. She noticed—she caught my eye a couple of times and smiled at the corner of her mouth. "Don't get distracted," she said for the third time, "or I'll crush you." Her voice was already hoarse from the wine. We were both pretty drunk, laughing at every miss, brushing shoulders as we passed. Once, I stood behind her, ostensibly to show her how to hold the cue, put my hand on her waist, and felt her arch slightly. Sergey returned at that moment, clapped me on the shoulder, "Good job, you're teaching my wife," and went back out onto the terrace to smoke. By midnight, the bar was almost empty. We finished our last game, and I won. Anna lost by a landslide and said, "Okay, you deserve it. Let's go get some fresh air." Just then, Sergey returned from another call, looking angry. "I have to get to the office urgently," he muttered. "Some urgent contract is burning, I need to go to Moscow right now." Anna tried to protest, but he had already waved his hand: "Stay here, rest, I'll be back in the morning or tomorrow. The taxi is already waiting." And he left. Just like that. She and I were left alone in the bar, save for the bartender, who was already yawning. I offered to walk her to her room—the building was large, the hallways were dark, and she was slightly unsteady in her heels. We chatted about all sorts of nonsense on the way: about work, about how bored she was in their huge apartment while Sergey was away at meetings. At her door, she stopped, looked at me for a long moment, and suddenly said, "Would you like to come in for a minute? I don't feel like sitting alone." I went in. The room was standard—a large bed, a balcony overlooking the forest, and dim light from a table lamp. She took off her shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and stretched. "Thank you for not letting me get bored today," she said quietly. I stood by the door, my heart pounding. I said something about how she'd turned everyone on that night at the pool table. She looked up, and there was no longer that boredom in them. "Come closer," she said. I went over. She took my hand, pulled me toward her, and simply kissed me. Without warning, passionately, with tongue. Her hands immediately slid under my shirt, her nails lightly scratching my back. I responded, pulled her close, and felt how hot she was under that blouse. We fell onto the bed without turning on the light. She unbuckled my belt and pulled down my pants, while I unbuttoned her blouse and jeans. Her body was simply incredible—firm, smooth, with those soft curves I'd been imagining all evening. I moved lower, kissing her neck, chest, then stomach. By the time I reached her hips, she was already breathing heavily. I removed her panties and began slowly licking her pussy, running my tongue along the inside of her thighs, then higher. She arched, grabbed my hair, and held me tighter. No one before me, as she later whispered, had done it for her for so long and so precisely—Sergey was always in a hurry, and she was too shy to ask. I worked my tongue and fingers until her whole body began to tremble and she came for the first time, sobbing quietly into the pillow so that no one in the neighboring rooms could hear. Then she rolled me over, sat on top of me, and began moving herself. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, pushing her hands against my chest. Her hair fell across my face, and she bit her lips to keep from moaning loudly. I held her hips, guiding her, and when she began to clench around me again, I rolled her over onto her stomach, positioned myself behind her, and thrust hard and deep. She gripped the sheets and buried her face in the pillow—her orgasm was so intense her legs were shaking. I didn't stop until I felt myself reaching the limit. I pulled out and came on her back—a thick, hot stream. She didn't even move, just lay there, breathing heavily. We lay there for about twenty minutes, smoking on the balcony and chatting in whispers. She said she hadn't felt this good in a long time. In the morning, when Sergey returned, she acted as if nothing had happened—smiling at him, hugging him, and only briefly making eye contact with me once in the hallway as everyone was getting ready for breakfast. Two months have passed since that office party. We rarely see each other at work, but sometimes she texts me at night when Sergey is away on business. She says she wants to do it again.