You sigh deeply as you step from the Uber, hauling your heavy backpack with you as you emerge onto the busy street, the sounds of engines accelerating and horns blaring coming to you from the major roadway nearby. You wave to the driver, thanking him for the trip, and turn to face your office block as he pulls away from the roadside and into the afternoon throng. You exhale again. It had been one
hell
of a long day. Unresponsive servers, problematic software, troublesome computers, and topping it all off, hellish clients. But at least you have something to look forward to, waiting for you in that office, you hope, feeling yourself twitching in earnest even at the thought of it. You shake it from your mind for the time being, however, and gather yourself.
It wasn't much; a modest building nestled in behind an apartment block and a multi-story, multi-generational office complex, part old 50's building, all red-bricks and arched windows, and part ultra-modern additions, itself all glass and white-on-black aluminum and steel. The result was a three-way-sandwich of cover that shaded the once garden shed (or perhaps servant's quarters?) in near all-day cover, and an office that looked decidedly out of place. It housed little more than a makeshift boardroom separated from a squad of desks by an added glass partition. There were even old-fashioned shelves and fixtures still on the walls, half of them painted over. And one of those desks was yours.
You turn the handle and find the door open. A good sign, you think to yourself as you step inside, hoping that one person, and one person alone, is waiting inside. You grin as you see her arm through the doorway.
'Hey!' You say as she turns, smiling at you.
'Hey.' She responds, pushing her chair back with her knees as she stands, stretching herself out in long needed respite from the lengthy sit. You pass her and toss your bag down, slumping into a couch chair that sits beside the desks. You're hopeful, but even now, even after having successfully triggered it three times by this point, you're still afraid one of these times it's not going to work, and you're going to be left sitting there like a HR-meeting-to-be.
She seems to be looking at you as she reaches for her laptop, sliding papers off the old MacBook's closed lid and reaching for the power cable. For all you know, she might just be checking that it's plugged in. Or...
'Well,' you begin, 'I can't say much for their infrastructure. Their server was outdated and showing a BIOS fault, half their desktops still use
hard drives,
and don't even get me started on the boss. He--and his feral little PA--were like two angry cats, just looking for something to scratch and hiss at.' As you speak, you shuffle your thumbs around the waistline of your pants, lifting your tucked-in shirt from its rather sweaty grasp, eyeing her as she opens the lid and begins typing something. You'd take this as a bad sign, but a moment later, she reaches for her own waistband and begins pressing the button through the front of her pair of jeans, quickly and immodestly slipping her flat palmed hands around her own waist as she begins shimmying them down, over her bubble-like rear end. You stiffen even as you reach for your own fly, watching her undress as casually as if this were part of the everyday workplace routine.
Only you knew that it practically
was
part of the everyday workplace routine.
It had taken a few months to get to this point, but you had known you wanted her even since your first time meeting her, when she had been far more dressed up than this jumper-and-jeans getup. It had been at a function put on by her--and your--boss, presenting the IT stack his company offers. He had been in a neat blue and silver suit, and she had worn an embroidered white dress, her hair up tight in a circular shape on her head. You shook her hand, heard her introduce herself as Samantha, felt her cool fingertips in your own warm palm. Her figure had practically been all you could look at, and a month later you began working in their team, freshly employed. She was still as good looking in an off-green jumper and jeans as she was in that dress, and you knew you wanted in, badly. You took your time, working away until you could gain access to her computer, sneaking onto it when she went out for lunch one afternoon. You installed the program that you had paid way too much for online, watched it disappear from existence on her system, and removed your USB from the computer's interface, hoping beyond hope that it would work.
At first, there had been no way to tell. Her outward attitude had been as normal as ever, but you gave it time. More time than you were told you needed to, just to really let it sink in. It didn't help that you could only watch her closely for any reaction to the program when no one else was in the office, not to mention when you were in the office, running all over the place seeing clients as you often were. And then, finally, nearly six months in, the time came. You were alone together in the office, knowing the boss wouldn't be back that afternoon. It had been the first chance you'd had in months, long past the initial point where she should have been ready. You stepped from your desk, eyeing her closely, looking to see if she might respond...
Samantha slips the jeans over her hips and down her thighs, bending over as she discards the material on the floor around her ankles. 'So, how did it go? Did you get the problem solved?' She asks you, as casually as if you were both sitting across the coffee table, apparently unaware of her body's actions. She puts her hands either side of the jumper she has on, criss-crossed in front of her, as women across the world are given to doing, and in one fluid motion, pulls the off-green fabric over her head, her unkept shirt pulling across her chest as she does so. You eye the breasts beneath it, knowing what hides there as you reach for your fly and lower it, pressing your own button free and quickly slipping your trousers over your hips, revealing yourself in your underwear, a bulge already growing between your legs. You had nearly forgotten what you had been talking about as you watched her undress.
'Yeah, we made it work in the end. Had to rebuild the server profile from the ground up; resyncing the network, reinstalling the management software, and even the domain link was gone.' As you speak, you unbutton your shirt, pulling it open as you finish undoing the buttons, allowing your chest to breathe freely at long last. You're sweaty from your day removing and reinstalling servers, carting around faulting laptops, hoisting desktop computers to and from desks, and doing about a hundred other intensive tasks - but what you're about to do isn't going to help with that whatsoever. 'But in the end, Frank wrote a script for the domain stuff, and I managed to recover the network configs and reinstall them. Once the network was back up, we could sync their computers to the server much more easily.'
As you spoke, Samantha repeated the gesture of removing her jumper once more, now using it to pull her decidedly casual "T-Swift" shirt over her head. You trail off as you look at the cleavage now presented between the cups of her black bra, your cock starting to take over the task of thinking. You watch her hands slide back down to her hips, passing over her curves as her thumbs hook into the modest black fabric there and begin to draw it downwards. Her eyes still stare into yours, two small black orbs of intensity that, in any other circumstance, would have almost been grilling. They were; but exposed as she is, and preoccupied as you are, their focus is lost on you. Your gaze flicks down to the silhouetted shape of her body as it reveals itself between her thighs, and the last vestiges of professional strength ebb from your mind as you slip out of your head and into your body. You reach for your underwear and draw it away as Samantha picks up her MacBook and walks up to you, now almost completely naked save for the black bra which keeps her breasts at bay. It was the same black bra she had been wearing the first time.
She was gorgeous. You knew she worked out, yes, but holy smokes, you thought as you watched Samantha's jacket slip from her arms, she was hot. She stepped from her own desk, moving towards you as she began to unbutton her shirt, allowing your hands to slip between the slackening folds of her clothing and over her breasts. They're soft, warm, intense. They feel like two round pillows and fit perfectly in your hands. Samantha seemed unphased even as you squeezed each in turn, cupping them both and running your fingertips over the flesh of her bosom. She just continued to stare into your eyes, her face blank. If anything, she looked--quizzical, or inquisitive, as though she was curious as to what you would do with her next. Nothing in any part of her attitude told you she did not wish for you to continue, and you did not stop.
Her shirt fell free from her body, and you pushed it from her shoulders, watching her chest press forwards as her arms went back. The only thing that forced your touch from those two perfect bulbs was the intimation of something greater, which beckoned you from below, and as your hands descended towards it, hers pulled free the grip of her pants, allowing them to slacken for you so that your searching fingertips could slip unrestricted over her soft navel. Your touch met warm fabric as your fingertips slid along a gently curving shape, the shape of her most sacred space, until they met a heated, slightly damp core that seemed to welcome your touch in ever closer, ever deeper. You could feel her wetness, feel the warmth emanating like vaginal exhalations as she breathed, as if her second set of lips were panting in time with her first. You watched those upper lips part as she gasped slightly at your touch, the edge of her teeth appearing between them, and couldn't resist. As your touch pressed slightly harder into her sex, you put your face against hers, and felt the soft touch of both sets of her lips at once for the very first time.
Samantha's naked body nears yours and you ready yourself, making sure you're in a good position as the nearly naked woman steps casually over your legs, straddling you. You keep your chin out of the way as she transitions to kneeling on the sofa either side of you, feeling the warmth of her hairless calves slipping against your much hairier thighs as she shuffles into the space directly above your body. You're throbbing already, despite not even having touched yourself yet, but you don't care. You know as well as your body does that it yearns for what's about to happen. You've had a long, hard week, and now you're going to work all that stress out on a wonderful fuck.
'So, our to-dos.' Samantha says casually even as she works herself into place, inches above your body, the setting far too intimate for a workplace discussion. She speaks as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
Go Russian malware,
you think to yourself as you reach between her straddling thighs to hold yourself upright for her.
'We had: one, restore server functionality. Two, check network connectivity, including additional networks. Three, check user device connectivity--' she stumbles for a moment as her body begins to lower itself. By now, you're used to how she sets herself up, and you've got yourself pointed exactly in the right direction. In moments, you go from feeling her body around yours, to feeling the damp extremities of her pussy parting over your erect helmet as she sits atop you, your manhood pressing into her tight entranceway with an easy, constant pressure. You let out an uncontrollable groan, and her voice falters, one hand grasping your arm to stabilise herself as she feels the penetration with every bit as much pleasure as you do.
