This is primarily a science fiction story, but it is also just one of a number of variations on a single story. All of the variations are basically the same, so you can read whichever most appeals to you. They are named in a fashion to make choosing the version you prefer easier.
In each title is a "serial number." That number begins with a letter that signifies the object of desire in the story. The choices are E=employer, A=assistant, F=father, D=daughter, B=brother, and S=sister. At the end of the serial number is a lowercase n (non/consent) or c (consensual). Lastly, some stories end with an uppercase G (the nature of the instigating character is basically good) or B (the fantasizing character is basically bad). Stories that do not end with an uppercase letter to not have variations in the nature of the instigating character.
For early readers... I can only release one story per day (Literotica rule), so if you don't see the version you want to read, just wait. There are a total of 12 versions in all. The available versions will be: BR490n, SR278n, FR737c, BR559c, SR353cB, SR351cG, DR526nB, DR588nG, DR585c, FR252c, AR526n, ER252n.
This story, ER526n, is the non-consent version where the mature employer desires his much younger personal assistant.
— The Author
It stood in the foyer, glistening chrome, overly sleek, yet bulbous in strange places, like a piece of retro-art, a fifty year old vision of what the future would hold, yet now so far from the mark as to appear comical. Still, it was his first commercial success, and so in a way was the keystone of the entire mansion that surrounded it.
Tyler Eugene McClintock was a powerful man, because he was very, very smart. He knew how to do things. He knew how to make things. He knew how to get what he wanted. Most importantly, he knew how to get other people to do things for him.
Cynthia Marie Landloche was very young, yet more than the most competent of personal secretaries. She was part administrative assistant, part financial wizard, part manager, and part punching bag. No matter how good she was at her job, and no matter how much competence she demonstrated in how many varied, unusual areas of expertise, her boss couldn't and wouldn't leave her alone. He could always find fault, or, if need be, create a situation in which she had to fail. He always had a way to berate, belittle and demean her. He made sure of it.
The mansion had one of the most elaborate and sophisticated security systems in the world. Much of it was custom designed by T. E. McClintock himself, and it was supplemented by a well trained, well paid security force. It would keep out any intruder.
It would protect them from everyone but themselves.
* * *
"Mr. McClintock, oh, God, stop! Please, sir..."
He held her squirming form down with his bulk. His fingers dug harshly into her flesh, rubbing the skin too tightly, feeling like the indian burn that your bully of a big brother always teased you with as a kid. But this was no game.
His pants were loosened, pulled down around his thick, hairy, muscular thighs. She felt his bare cock, concrete hard, pressing against her leg, right at the edge of her panties. One massive hand tore at their fabric, peeling them back. She heard them tear.
"Please, sir, no."
His other hand held both of hers together by the wrists, painfully wrenched behind her back and beneath them both. His bulk smothered hers. She smelled the sweat of his exertions, mingled with his expensive cologne. He grunted as he struggled to force her into submission. She writhed and twisted, but he was too strong.
Her cries had devolved into whimpers as she realized that she couldn't stop him. He was going to take what he wanted. He was going to take her.
She clenched her eyes shut as his cock was shoved up inside of her.
* * *
He had been hammering into her with the insistent repetition of a machine for what seemed like days. In and out, over and over, he fucked her ruthlessly. She tried not to smile at the deliciously, wickedly luscious feel of it all. It was what she'd paid for. It was perfect.
She almost wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.
It was amazing what they could do these days with silicone, carbon filaments, and pseudo-synaptic dense-layer neuro-arrays.
She'd been embarrassed to hand her request sheet to the freckled redhead behind the desk. That receptionist, or clerk, or whatever she was, had been even younger than Cyndi. How could they have someone that young at the desk receiving and checking simuloid sexual engagement request forms?
