the open position [M30/F22] [sexy young co-worker] [flirting in finance] [eating that pussy and ass] [she wants anal]

When Wendy stops by my desk first thing in the morning and throughout the day and last thing before she leaves, even though I’m not her boss I think she’s just doing her job, checking in how she can help. When she smiles at me and brings me from the shop in the lobby cups of medium roast pour-over instead of that instant crystal trash from the breakroom, I think she’s just happy to have found a fellow coffee connoisseur. And when, after one time when she’d come with our accounts team to a celebratory happy hour at the dive bar down the street where Mikey had drunkenly blurted out “…yeah and Harrison with his thing for skirts, the shorter the better” and I’d buried my face in my hand to hide my embarrassment, she starts wearing skirts to the office, I think it’s just to play into the teasing, to give me a hard time.

I mean, yes, she’s cute as fuck, petite and with a tight little body and long platinum blonde hair that tickles her ass, but that’s the game we play, one of temptation and boldness and dressing ourselves for success. And she’s also gotta be ten years younger than me, not to mention the whole ‘non-fraternization’ thing our firm insists is the rule even though if so much as one percent of the rumors are true doesn’t seem to apply to executives. Not that I’m an executive. My badge declares for all to see that I’m a lowly Account Supervisor II, the roman numerals dangling at the end, a vestigial remnant of some long-distant HR attempt at further clarifying pecking order amongst us and the Account Advisors and Account Managers and Senior Account Supervisors and Executive Account Managers and Vice Presidents of Account Services and endless strata of those above me in rank, pay, clout, privilege, eminence, spending authority, sexual prowess, everything.

Yet Wendy, when I ask her why she’s being nice, says to me, “You’re quiet but you’ve got what it takes, I can tell,” even though I don’t feel half as ruthless or a quarter as thirsty as guys like Mikey, always on the chase, always running down some hot lead. Five years ago, when I started, I tried being like Mikey. And just when that whole false persona was about to break me, to burn me out of the forty-forth floor of our glass monolith a block off Maiden Lane and back to the low-rise suburb from which I’d crawled, I’d discovered despite all guidance to the opposite that success can and does exist in my methodical, patient, orderly, stubborn comfort zone. That day when my manager begrudgingly admitted in front of our team — amidst many sighs and rolls of the eye and mocking scoffs — that yes, somehow I, Harrison, was topping his target metrics month over month over month you’d think would have earned me respect. But respect seems to come only from Wendy, despite the reputation of elegant exacting ice-cold girls like her. I don’t get why she bothers with me when all the other pretty young thing administrative assistants are busy bagging the filthy and filthy rich Senior Vice Presidents who can while their spouses pretend ignorance fling them onto a ‘business trip’ sex holiday to every beach resort in Baja.

Clearly, though, she’s found something in me she likes. Else why would she be here after-hours, helping me? It’s not as if moving desk is the type of task for which one enlists friends, offers them pizza and beer in exchange for labor. It’s a simple thing, putting the heavy glass company-issued ‘Rising Star! Award’ paperweight and the red Lego Ferrari I built with my nephew and the ‘energy healing crystal’ that moonbat Janice in AP gave me in the office Secret Santa which I’ve been too self-conscious to throw away and the photo of me on a cruise last year with my mom and sister and her kids into a box with enough space left over they rattle as I walk. And Wendy follows along behind, quiet, carrying for me my backpack with my laptop and papers and fifteen-dollar weighted brass pens, biting her lip and beaming at me when she thinks I don’t notice, and I trudge forward self-consciously, the late afternoon sun shining in long and low and perpendicular through the big windows, just over the horizon, reducing to stark silhouette the chairs and desks and ferns of the offices we pass.

Reaching the door with my name and new title freshly etched into the golden plastic insert, it’s still surreal. The blinds are shut, what lies within a mystery soon to be discovered, a gift to be unwrapped.

“They say Caruthers met with you himself,” Wendy says, almost reverently, “Upstairs. In his big office.”

“Uh. Yeah. Thought I was getting fired, to tell the truth.”

“If you were getting fired, Harrison, it wouldn’t be Caruthers doing it. It’d be some HR goon in a conference room downstairs. That’s what happened to James last month, at least.” She’s slight, slender, delicate, pretty enough that when I look at her, I have a hard time finding words.

So I turn back to my new door. My eight-foot oaken symbol of success. “Well, here we are,” I say lamely, and open it, step inside.

I place my box of accouterments down on the polished mahogany, sweep my gaze through the big window making up the far wall, red dusk light illuminating the city below from one side only, casting long shadows in the opposite.

“Makes you almost dizzy,” she says, watching the scene fade to purple, fade to blue as the city’s artificial lights take hold, “Being so close to the edge.”

I really have no idea what to say to her. “The glass is thick. It’s safe.”

“I know.” She turns away, looks at me. “So. What’re you going to do to celebrate? Drinks out with your friends?”

I arrange my few decorations, experiment with setting the laptop down to the left side of the screen, then the right. “Oh, I hadn’t even thought that far yet. I figured Caruthers would want me to get right to work, anyway. Prove I’m worthy of his notice.”

She comes up to my side, hovers just over my shoulder. “Harrison. You’ve already proved you’re worth it. You wouldn’t have this title if you hadn’t. Take a moment, enjoy yourself. Enjoy your accomplishments.”

I sink down into the seat, the plush leather and lacquered wooden armrests a luxury that yet feels above my station. She leans back against the desk in front of me, casual, so close our knees almost touch. Mine are in slacks, hers in stockings, her skirt stopping just above them, charcoal, tight, cinched down even tighter at her waist. I look up at her wearily, let my smirk show through. “I don’t know how to do any of that. I only know work, and then, more work. Been forever since I’ve seen my friends. And my old buddies on the Accounts team are mostly just seething with jealousy. Life here has made truth of cliche, turns out.”

“There’s one part of the cliche you’ve yet to embrace,” Wendy says, biting her lip again, “But you could, if you wanted.” She takes my hand in hers, which seems unexpectedly sweet, tender, but then she places my hand on her knee, pushes it up under her skirt.

I suck in air, stop breathing entirely. “Oh,” is the last sound I make, feeling the soft mesh of her stocking as it wraps around the gentle, subtle pale skin of her thighs. I am suddenly aware that my office door is closed, that the blinds are still drawn. We are alone, cut off from view of the office which is mostly empty anyway, and considering the hour unlikely to be overheard or interrupted. My fingers reach the stitched hem, then drag over the inch of bare skin between stocking and panties. She’s silk, warm, sensitive, inviting.

“You’re going to need an assistant,” she says, “Mister Vice President. And I can think of nobody more eager for the position than me.”

“Is that right,” I mutter, my fingertips a hair’s breadth away from her pussy.

“I’m qualified for many different positions,” she says, her eyes swirling with mischief, “Especially the ones where I’m bent over your shiny new desk, skirt up, panties down.”

“Fuck.”

“Do you want to try it before you buy it?”

Am I really doing this? But I don’t even hesitate before rubbing her slit, just about the only cogent action I can at the moment make, watching her grin spread as she happily stands up straight, hikes her skirt up to her waist, and then turns around to show me a tight, firm, round ass bare but for a red thong. And then even that she pushes down, lets slide until it reaches her ankles, bending over in front of me.

Her pucker is tight, her pussy plump. Her sex is so inviting between her thighs, lips pink and plush and waxed, I’m dropping down and bringing my face in without even thinking, nose in her ass while my tongue’s in her pussy, lapping and licking her wet. She’s mellow to the taste, arching her back and ass out to meet my licking halfway. “Ohh…” she’s moaning, “Eat it… eat my ass, you slut…”

And I’ve never done that before, but I’ve also never been presented with an ass so perfect for eating, never had an employee begging me to do it. So I finger her off while tonguing her asshole, and the girl loves it. She shudders and moans. Her pussy gushes with arousal, heat oozing down in sticky drips, and I smear it around, drink it up, keep going until she cums. Wendy’s gasps become quiet, muffled grunts through clenched teeth, a desperate whimpering as her white-blonde hair splays across her back and head rolls on her neck.

“Take what’s yours,” she hisses, fighting for breath.

But I already am, standing up behind her, fly open and cock brought through, thick and tall and ready. I swing it in, rub it between her lips, soak myself in her heat. Her ass is a bubble, round and full below her narrow waist. I put a hand on the small of her back, hold her down against my new desk. “Let’s see if you can even handle me,” I grunt, orbiting her asshole with my thumb, pushing it in.

She quivers. “It takes more than that to impress me.”

I grit my teeth, pushing the head of my slicked cock against her asshole, announce my intention.

She doesn’t flinch.

And I need her so bad. So I do something else I’ve never before done, and shove my rock hard cock up her ass. With a groan and a grunt, despite her petite size she takes it, and it feels to me so fucked up, so empowering. It’s not just the incredible tightness — because she’s crazy tight, golf ball through a garden hose — it’s the knowledge that I’m doing this to Wendy, that I’m fucking my young pretty co-worker in the most dominant way… and, well, it’s intoxicating. Goes straight to my head. Makes all today’s accomplishments suddenly feel possible, feel real.

Wendy’s ass, I realize, is mine to use. Mine to play with. Mine to fuck and fill with my sticky spunk. She wears these skirts for my personal benefit, picks out these thongs while thinking of me. And now she’s bent over, pleasing my cock because my cock is her master. In and out I go, steady, demanding, watching her ass stretch around my girth, watching it spasm and strain and squeeze me tight. I am so deep inside her.

“You’ll be my assistant, Wendy,” I say between grunts, “You’re going to work for me, and only me. Your going to keep my dick hard, keep my balls drained. You’re going to–” As I thrust into her, my hips meeting her ass, I throw my head back, the pleasure suddenly swelling, exploding, overwhelming. I can’t hold back, my erection throbs uncontrollably inside her ass, my hips pushing even though I’m already fully inside her, filling her with my cum as the orgasmic bliss roars through my ears, surges to my toes and fingertips.

When I collapse back onto my chair, cock going limp back in my shorts, I watch the spunk drip from her ass, run down her pussy, puddle onto the carpet below. In the post-nut clarity, I’m anticipating regret. I’m thinking a wave of guilt will come over me.

But it doesn’t. Instead, I just feel the glow of success. The exhilaration of accomplishment. The sight of my pretty co-worker sticky with the result of my lust catching her breath on my desk is a mental image that sears itself into my mind, the way her violated skin looks so soft, the way her skinny legs are turned knees together, heels raised, toes pointed in.

I’m still not a jerk, though. I break open the fresh box of tissues, wipe her clean, finger her puffy pink pussy lips once or twice more for good measure, just to let her know I’m still there.

“Uh, thanks,” she says, putting her clothes back in place, avoiding my eye contact.

“Wendy, hey,” I say, watching her crouch down, try to clean the spunk off the floor, “Let the janitors deal with that. Let’s go get dinner.”

She looks up. “What?”

“Dinner. You know, the evening meal, traditionally enjoyed together by friends, especially those celebrating?”

Her eyes narrow. “Shut the fuck up. But. Where are you taking me?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug, “Which restaurants are good for rich guys taking out their hot secretary that they’re banging?”

“You think you’re joking, but I actually know a couple places that are popular for just that.”

I pull her onto my lap, grab her tit through her shirt. “Fuck, I don’t care which, then. I’m new at this, you pick.”

“You gonna fuck me again, afterwards?”

“Probably, yeah.” I squeeze tight, find her nipple. “You’re pretty fucking cute. Though I might have you blow me first.”

She grins. “Good.”