I knew she was dangerous the moment she called me into her office.
It wasn’t her words—she always spoke with the same clipped confidence—but something about the way she sat behind her desk that day. One leg crossed too slowly. Her fingers tapping her tablet like she was already bored of me.
“Close the door,” she said. Her voice was soft. Too soft.
I obeyed.
She didn’t look up as I stood there, awkward in my blouse and pencil skirt, heartbeat climbing into my throat. We weren’t friends. We weren’t even equals. She was my boss—older, brilliant, unreadable. The kind of woman who walked into a room and made everyone sit straighter. Speak less.
“You’ve been underperforming,” she said at last.
I swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t mean to. I can do better.”
Her lips curled.
“Can you?”
She finally looked at me, and in that moment, I wasn’t sure if I was about to be fired… or fucked.
“Come here,” she said, and patted the corner of her desk.
I hesitated. She tilted her head.
“Now.”
My heels clicked against the floor as I moved toward her. My skin burned under her gaze. She didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just looked.
“You blush easily,” she murmured.
I looked away. She touched my chin and turned my face back to hers.
“Don’t hide it. It’s cute.”
Her thumb grazed my bottom lip.
“Have you ever thought about kneeling for someone?” she asked.
I froze.
“Thought so,” she smiled. “You’ll kneel for me now.”
My knees hit the carpet before I realized I’d moved.
She stood and walked around the desk slowly, heels clicking with that same rhythm I’d heard in meetings—the sound of power.
When she stopped in front of me, I felt the air shift. Her fingers unfastened the top button of her blouse, just one. Then she lifted her skirt—high enough to show me the tops of her stockings, the black lace edge of her thigh-highs, the slick shine of arousal on her inner thighs.
She wasn’t wearing panties.
“Put your hands behind your back,” she said.
I obeyed.
She leaned forward, one hand in my hair, the other guiding my mouth.
“You’ll taste me until I say stop.”
She was wet and soft and sharp all at once.
I moaned as my tongue slipped between her folds, tracing her slowly, gently. She tasted like need—hot, clean, commanding.
Her fingers tightened in my hair.
“Slower. Stay on my clit. Don’t rush.”
I licked carefully, trying to keep rhythm. She rolled her hips against my mouth, just slightly, just enough. I could feel her legs tremble—then tense.
She gasped.
Once.
Sharp and low.
Then she pushed me back with a single hand on my forehead.
I sat there, breathless, mouth wet, staring up at her.
She smoothed her skirt back down, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then walked calmly to her desk.
“Stand up,” she said, still without looking at me. “Fix your lipstick.”
I stood. My knees shook.
“One more thing,” she added, glancing up.
“Yes?”
“If I ever catch you underperforming again…”
She smiled. Her fingers tapped the desk once.
“You won’t get to taste me next time. You’ll only get to watch.”
