The Hot Consulting Firm

The Hot Consulting Firm

I'd always been the small guy. Not just short--5'6" in shoes with a decent sole--but small in every way that mattered growing up. Small voice, small presence, small dreams that never quite stretched past the edges of a graphing calculator. High school was a blur of A's and acne, college a slog of late nights with code and coffee. So when I landed a job at Pinnacle Consulting, it felt like a glitch in the matrix. Pinnacle was

the

firm--sharp suits, sharper minds, clients with bank accounts bigger than some countries' GDPs. I'd aced the interviews, out-calculated MBAs twice my age, and now here I was, 24 years old, stepping into my first day with a laptop bag that weighed more than I did.

The assignment was a new bank branch--shiny, aggressive, the kind of place where the air conditioning hummed with quiet arrogance. I adjusted my glasses, pushed my bangs off my sweaty forehead, and shuffled into the open-plan office they'd set up for us consultants. My tie was too tight, my khakis too beige, but I was determined to make it work. Then I met Melanie.

She walked in like she owned the place--34, slim, brunette, and dressed in a way that made my palms sweat just looking at her. Her blouse was a deep teal, unbuttoned one notch past professional, and her skirt hugged her hips so tight I wondered how she sat down. Heels clicked like gunfire on the hardwood floor, and when she turned to me, her smile was a weapon--sharp, bright, the kind that could cut you open and leave you thanking her for it. "You must be Robert," she said, voice smooth and warm, like she was pouring honey over gravel. "Welcome to the team."

"Uh, hi," I stammered, shoving my glasses up my nose. "Yeah, that's me. Robert Kessler." I held out my hand, then yanked it back when I realized it was clammy. She didn't seem to notice--or care--just tilted her head and sized me up like I was a puzzle she'd solve later. Then she was gone, sashaying toward a glass-walled conference room where a big, grizzled guy waited. Steve, I'd learn later. Project manager. My first thought was that he'd be the one calling the shots. My second thought was that Melanie's perfume--something floral and expensive--lingered longer than it should've.

The first week was a grind. I was the new guy, so I got the leftovers--endless spreadsheets, data pulls that made my eyes blur, reports nobody bothered to read. I didn't complain. Numbers were my safe zone, always had been. Give me a dataset, and I'd tame it, turn chaos into columns that marched in perfect order. The bank's financials were a mess--expansion plans, loan projections, risk models half-baked by some overpaid exec. I'd sit at my desk, headphones on, lo-fi beats drowning out the office buzz, and lose myself in it. Twelve-hour days didn't faze me. I'd survived worse in college, fueled by ramen and Red Bull.

Melanie, though? She was a mystery. She was my boss, technically--senior consultant, name on the org chart above mine--but she didn't act like it. She'd call meetings at random, show up late with a Starbucks cup and a breezy "Sorry, traffic!" then spend the whole time scrolling Instagram while Steve blabbered about timelines. If someone asked her a real question--like, say, what our deliverables were for the risk assessment--she'd flash that smile, toss her hair, and say, "Oh, I'm sure Robert's got that handled." Then all eyes would turn to me, and I'd blink, stammering through an answer while she sipped her latte like she'd invented delegation.

At first, I figured she was just busy. Big-picture stuff, right? Strategy, client schmoozing, things a nerd like me wouldn't get. But by day five, I was doubting it. I'd hand her a report--20 pages, charts, the works--and she'd skim it for ten seconds before tossing it aside with a chirpy, "Looks great, Rob!" Rob. I hated that nickname. Made me sound like a used-car salesman. Worse, she'd take my stuff to meetings and present it like she'd written it, tripping over words like "amortization" until Steve swooped in with a grunt and a "What she means is..." I'd sit there, jaw tight, wondering how she'd gotten this far.

Then I saw it. Steve. Big, old Steve--50s, beer gut, voice like he smoked a pack a day. He'd lean back in his chair, smirking at her, eyes glued to her chest while she giggled at his terrible puns. "Synergy's our bread and butter, eh, Mel?" he'd say, and she'd laugh--loud, fake, leaning forward just enough to give him a show. I caught them once in the break room, her hand brushing his arm while he muttered something about "late nights." She winked, and my stomach twisted. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't even clever. She was sleeping with him--or at least letting him think she would--and he was covering for her.

I started watching closer. It wasn't just Steve. Greg from compliance, a wiry guy with a goatee and a nervous tic, would hover by her desk, offering to "double-check" her work. She'd bat her lashes, and he'd scurry off like a puppy with a bone. Tom, the IT contractor--balding, awkward, probably hadn't had a date since dial-up--was next. She'd call him over with a pouty "My laptop's acting up again," and he'd blush so hard I thought he'd pop a blood vessel. One night, I saw them duck into a supply closet, her giggling, him fumbling with the door. Five minutes later, they were back, her lipstick smudged, him grinning like he'd won the lottery.

Melanie wasn't just bad at her job--she was

useless

. No skills, no clue, nothing but a tight skirt and a knack for picking the right guys to screw. The clients loved her, too--middle-aged bankers who'd nod along to her flirty small talk, too distracted by her legs to notice she hadn't answered their questions. It was a system, and she was running it like a pro. Steve gave her cover, Greg and Tom did her grunt work, the clients signed off. And me? I was the idiot keeping it all afloat, hunched over my laptop while she coasted.

I should've been mad. I was killing myself--bags under my eyes, coffee stains on my shirt--while she flirted her way to a paycheck. But I wasn't. Not really. See, I'd spent my life being invisible. Small, nerdy Robert, the kid nobody noticed unless they needed homework help. Melanie was the opposite--loud, bold, untouchable. And yet, she was so blatant, so

obvious

, that even I could see through her. It was almost funny. Almost.

By week three, I had her pegged. She wasn't dumb--not in the way that mattered. She knew people, knew how to twist them around her finger. Steve was her shield, Greg and Tom her minions, the clients her pawns. I could've gone to HR, typed up a complaint about "unprofessional conduct." But what would that get me? A pat on the head and a reputation as a snitch? No thanks. I'd never had power before--not real power, the kind that shifts the room when you walk in. Watching Melanie, I started to wonder if I could grab some for myself.

It started small, just testing the waters. One day, I handed her a revised budget--clean, tight, hours of my life in those cells--and said, casual as I could, "Steve seemed real happy with the last one. Said you two went over it late last night." Her eyes snapped up, sharp for a split second, then softened. "Oh, you know Steve," she said, laughing too loud. "Always overanalyzing." But I saw it--the flicker of worry. She was wondering what I knew, how much I'd pieced together. I didn't push, just smiled and walked away. Step one.

A few days later, I tried again. We were in a meeting, Steve rambling about deadlines while Melanie doodled hearts on her notepad. I piped up, all innocent: "Melanie, didn't you and Greg sort out the compliance stuff already? I thought I saw you two working on it." Greg choked on his water, coughing into his fist. Melanie's pen froze mid-swirl. She recovered fast, tossing her hair with a laugh. "Oh, Robert, you're so observant! We were just brainstorming." Steve grunted, oblivious, but I caught her glance my way--longer this time, sizing me up. Step two.

I wasn't sure what I was doing, not at first. I'm not a player--never have been. My romantic history was a string of flops: a girl from stats class who'd zoned out while I explained p-values, a Tinder date who'd left halfway through my rant about blockchain. Melanie was a league I couldn't even see from my bleachers. But this wasn't about liking her. It was about the game. She thought she had everyone figured out--Steve, Greg, the clients, me. I wanted to prove her wrong, show her I wasn't just the quiet nerd in the corner.

The tipping point came on a Thursday. Long day, office half-empty, and I was still at my desk, tweaking a forecast model. My eyes burned, my tie was a noose, but I was close to cracking it--numbers aligning like stars. Melanie sauntered over, hips swaying, and perched on the edge of my cubicle. "Burning the midnight oil, Rob?" she asked, voice low, teasing. I glanced up--her blouse was half-unbuttoned, teal fabric gaping, and she was close enough I could smell that damn perfume again. My throat went dry. "Just finishing up," I managed, shoving my glasses up.

"You're so dedicated," she purred, leaning in. "I love that about you." It was bullshit--I knew it, she knew it--but her eyes were locked on mine, and my pulse kicked up. Flattery, sure, but there was something else, too. She was fishing, testing

me

now. I saw my shot. "Yeah?" I said, leaning back in my chair, trying to look cool even though my hands were shaking. "Guess I learned that from you and Steve. You two seem to get a lot done after hours."

Her smile slipped, just for a heartbeat. Then she laughed, too loud, and stood up straight. "You're funny, Rob. I didn't expect that." She turned to leave, skirt swishing, but I wasn't done. "I'm full of surprises," I called after her, voice steadier than I felt. She paused, looked back, and this time her smile was different--wary, curious, like she'd underestimated me. Step three.

Friday dragged. I kept my head down, plugging numbers, but I could feel her eyes on me. Mid-afternoon, an email pinged:

Need to discuss the forecast. My office, 6 PM.

From Melanie, no CCs. My stomach flipped, but I typed back

Sure

and waited. The office emptied out--Steve lumbered off to happy hour, Greg and Tom vanished--and at 5:55, I grabbed my laptop and headed to her corner office. Blinds half-drawn, lights dim, she was there, leaning against her desk, skirt riding up her thigh.

"Close the door," she said, casual but firm. I did, heart pounding. She crossed her arms, tilting her head. "You've been busy, haven't you? Digging into things." Her tone was playful, but there was an edge. I shrugged, playing dumb. "Just doing my job." She stepped closer, heels clicking, until she was right in front of me. "You're smart, Robert. Smarter than Steve, that's for sure. I like smart."

I swallowed hard. She was too close--her hand brushed my arm, light but deliberate. My brain screamed

trap

, but my body didn't care. "What's your angle, Melanie?" I asked, voice low. She laughed, soft, and leaned in until her lips were an inch from mine. "Same as yours, I think. We both want to win."

Then she kissed me. Hard, hungry, her hands yanking at my shirt. It hit me like a freight train--Melanie, the office siren, the woman who'd turned Steve into a drooling idiot, had her mouth on mine, all teeth and tongue and heat. I stood there, stunned, glasses fogging up from her breath, my nerdy little world flipping upside down. Her lips were soft but insistent, pressing hard enough to bruise, and she tasted like spearmint gum mixed with the bitter edge of her third latte of the day. My hands hovered, unsure, until she growled--actually growled--into my mouth, and I snapped out of it, kissing her back with everything I had.

It was messy, sloppy, my tongue fumbling against hers, but she didn't pull away. Her fingers tore at my shirt, buttons popping like tiny gunshots, one skittering across the floor. "Fuck, Robert," she rasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank the fabric off my shoulders. "You're full of surprises." Her voice was low, rough, vibrating through me, and I didn't know if she meant it or if it was just another line. My tie was already gone, lost somewhere in the chaos, and she shoved me backward, my skinny ass crashing into the filing cabinet with a metallic clang.

The cold steel bit through my khakis, but her body was a furnace--slim, tight, pressed so close I could feel her tits squashing against my chest. That teal blouse stretched over them, unbuttoned low, and my dick twitched, waking up fast in my pants. I grabbed her hips, tentative at first, palms sweaty, then gripped harder when she moaned--a real, throaty sound that shot straight to my cock. Her skirt was bunched up already, black fabric clinging to her thighs, and I could feel the heat of her pussy through it, radiating like a promise.

She smirked, pulling back just enough to rip her blouse open. Buttons flew, pinging off the desk, and her bra--black, lacy, barely containing her--came into view. My mouth went dry, cock straining harder against my boxers, and she didn't hesitate, unhooking the bra and letting it fall. Her tits spilled out--full, pale, with dark pink nipples that tightened under my stare. "Touch me, Rob," she said, grabbing my wrists and slamming my hands onto her breasts. I hated that nickname, but my fingers squeezed anyway, thumbs brushing those hard peaks, and she gasped, sharp and loud, head tipping back.

Her skin was soft, warm, unreal, and she arched into me, guiding my hands like I was her puppet. My cock throbbed, fully hard now, leaking precum into my boxers, and I shifted, embarrassed until she ground her pelvis into me, feeling it. "Someone's eager," she teased, and her hands went for my belt, metal clinking as she tore it free. My khakis hit my ankles, and she palmed my dick through the cotton, grinning when I jerked. "Let's see what you're packing, nerd boy."

I flushed--half mortified, half proud--but she yanked my boxers down before I could overthink it. My cock sprang free, stiff and red, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Seven inches, maybe more on a good day, nothing to brag about, but she licked her lips, eyes glinting. "Fuck," I muttered, voice shaky, and she laughed, wrapping her fingers around me. Her grip was tight, hot, stroking slow and deliberate, spreading that slick precum down my shaft until my balls tightened, sperm already churning.

"Sensitive little thing," she said, then sank to her knees. My brain blanked--Melanie, on her knees, tits swaying, skirt hiked up to her hips. Her breath hit my cock, damp and searing, and then her mouth closed over me, sucking hard. I groaned, loud and dumb, hands slamming back against the cabinet. Her tongue swirled around the head, lapping up my precum, and she took me deeper, lips stretching, throat tight. My balls ached, cum building fast, and I clenched my fists, trying not to blow in her mouth like some virgin.

She pulled off with a wet, filthy pop, smirking up at me. "Not yet, Robert," she said, standing and shoving her skirt higher. No panties--just her pussy, bare and smooth, lips glistening with her own slickness. My dick pulsed, and I stared, jaw slack, as she hopped onto the desk, spreading her legs wide. "Come here," she ordered, beckoning me with a crooked finger. I stumbled forward, pants tangling my feet, and she grabbed my cock, guiding it to her cunt.

"Ever fucked a girl like me?" she asked, rubbing my tip against her pussy lips, teasing me with that wet heat. I shook my head, mute, and she grinned. "Good." She yanked me forward, and my dick slid in--halfway, then deep as she tilted her hips. Her pussy was tight, soaking, gripping me like a fist, and I gasped, glasses slipping, hands bracing on the desk. She moaned, loud and shameless, nails raking my shoulders, and I thrust--jerky, uncoordinated, but she didn't care.

"Harder," she snapped, legs wrapping around me, heels digging into my ass. I slammed into her, desk creaking, her pussy squeezing my cock with every shove. "Fuck, Melanie," I grunted, and she laughed, breathless, tits bouncing wildly. Cum was building, sperm ready to burst, but she wasn't done. "Don't stop," she hissed, hand dropping to her clit, rubbing fast, frantic. Her cunt clenched tighter, wetter, and I pounded her, sweat stinging my eyes, papers sliding everywhere.

"I'm gonna cum," she gasped, and then she did--hard, shaking, her pussy spasming around my dick. That broke me. I groaned, thrust deep, and came, sperm exploding out, flooding her cunt in thick, hot spurts. She locked her legs, milking every drop, until I collapsed against her, panting, cock softening inside her. Cum dripped out, smearing her thigh, and she pushed me back, hopping off the desk with a smirk. "Good team," she said, smoothing her skirt. I nodded, dazed, pulling up my pants as she grabbed her phone, already moving on. I'd fucked her--won her game--and it felt like power.

"Good team," she said, smoothing her skirt down over those killer hips like we'd just aced a client pitch instead of fucking each other senseless on her desk. My legs were jelly, my khakis still bunched around my ankles, and I stood there, panting, glasses crooked, trying to process what the hell had just happened. Melanie--34, slim, brunette Melanie, the woman who'd turned half the project team into drooling idiots--had just let me, Robert Kessler, nerd extraordinaire, pound her pussy until we both came. My dick was softening, slick with her juices and my own cum, dripping a little onto the hardwood floor of her corner office.

She smirked, that sharp, knowing look back in her eyes, and grabbed her phone off the desk, tapping at it like nothing was out of place. Her blouse hung open, tits still bare, nipples soft now but still pink against her pale skin. Cum glistened on her inner thigh, a messy streak of white against the black of her skirt, and I couldn't stop staring. My sperm, inside her, on her--it was surreal, like I'd hacked the system and won the jackpot. She caught me looking, arched a brow, and laughed, low and throaty. "Enjoying the view, Rob?"

I flushed--hated that damn nickname--but nodded, fumbling to pull my boxers up. My cock was sticky, sensitive, and I winced as the fabric brushed it. "Uh, yeah," I muttered, voice hoarse. "Guess so." She set her phone down, hopped off the desk with a grace I'd never manage, and stepped closer, heels clicking. Her skirt was still hiked up, pussy just visible, and my dick twitched again, even though I was spent.

"Not so fast," she said, dropping to her knees again. My breath caught--

what now?

--and she grabbed my hips, tugging my boxers back down. My cock hung there, half-hard, coated in our mixed mess, and she smirked up at me. "Can't leave you like this, can I?" Before I could answer, she leaned in, her tongue darting out to lick the tip. I jolted, a dumb groan slipping out, and she chuckled, lapping at me slow and deliberate.

She cleaned me off--her tongue sliding along my shaft, sucking lightly at the head, tasting her own pussy and my cum like it was no big deal. It was filthy, hot, and my hands hovered, itching to grab her hair but too chickenshit to do it. She took her time, licking every inch until my dick was shiny with spit instead of spunk, then gave it a final, teasing kiss before standing up. "There," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "All tidy."

I stared, brain blank, cock tingling from her touch. "Thanks," I managed, stupidly, and she laughed again, stepping back to grab her bra off the floor. She slipped it on, hooked it, then buttoned her blouse--what was left of it--over those perfect tits. Her skirt slid back into place, hiding the cum still trickling down her leg, and she looked like Melanie again--hot, untouchable, ready to strut out and flirt with Steve or whoever else she had lined up.