Colleagues' Steamy Sauna Encounter

The retreat hotel sat above a cold lake, all cedar beams and glass, sold to the company as a place where people would finally talk to each other. Heather had talked enough. At twenty-eight, the marketing coordinator could run a pitch without notes, and she had spent the morning nodding through trust falls she did not trust. Wesley, thirty-two, the project manager who usually kept her timelines honest, caught her eye when the facilitator released them for the afternoon. No speech passed between them. Giselle from accounting and Grant from operations simply turned when they turned, four grown colleagues following the sign for the private sauna instead of the group yoga on the lawn.

The door sealed behind them with a soft suck of heat. Wood glowed. The stove hissed. Steam sat in the air thick enough to taste. Robes came off. Towels stayed on, barely. Heather knotted hers high, the white cloth clinging where sweat already gathered between her breasts. Wesley’s towel rode low on his hips, the line of dark hair below his navel disappearing under the fold. Giselle and Grant took the upper bench and tried to talk about the evening mixer. Their voices thinned out. Heather sat on the lower bench because her legs had gone unsteady, and Wesley sat beside her because there was nowhere else that made sense.

She told herself not to look at his chest. She looked. Sweat tracked the groove of his sternum and ran toward the towel. He watched a drop slide from her throat and vanish. Their eyes held. Months of not staring across the conference table burned off in the wet air. When she shifted, her bare thigh brushed his. The contact was small and electric. Neither of them pulled back. Grant stood first, muttering that the heat was too much, and Giselle followed him out with a weak joke about hydration. The door clicked. The latch settled. Heather and Wesley were alone with the stones and the sound of their own breathing.

The temperature climbed. Water spat on the rocks and the room went white at the edges. Heather’s towel had loosened at the knot. She didn’t fix it. Wesley’s eyes moved over the slope of her shoulder, the shine on her skin, the way the cloth had slipped enough to show the upper curve of one breast.

“You’ve been killing me in those blouses all year,” he said. His voice was low, rough from the heat. “I sit across from you and forget what the fuck the meeting is about.”

A laugh caught in her throat and came out shaky. “You stare at my mouth when I talk. I notice. I go back to my desk wet and pretend it’s the coffee.”

His towel had dropped another inch. The head of his cock pressed the cloth, thick and obvious. She looked. She let him see her look.

“Jesus, Heather.” He dragged a hand down his own thigh, then stopped, palm open on the bench between them. “Say it if you want this. I need to hear it.”

“I want it.” She turned toward him, knee bumping his. “I’ve wanted you since the product launch in March. Not a crush. I want your hands on me. Here. Now.”

He put his hand on her thigh, high, fingers spread, thumb stroking the soft inner skin just under the towel’s edge. The touch was deliberate. She answered it by covering his wrist and sliding his hand higher, until his fingertips met the bare, slick heat of her. No panties. Nothing but sweat and how ready she already was. She gasped and rocked into his palm.

“Fuck,” he said, and it sounded like praise. “You’re soaked.”

“Then stop talking and kiss me.”

He did. The kiss was not careful. Mouth open, tongue deep, the taste of salt and the cedar steam between them. She climbed half into his lap without breaking it, towel riding up her ass, his cock straining against her through two layers of damp cloth that suddenly felt like an insult. She yanked his towel open. He groaned into her mouth when her fist closed around him, hot and heavy, already leaking at the tip. His free hand found the knot at her chest and pulled. The towel fell. Her breasts spilled into the wet air, nipples tight, and he broke the kiss only to look at her like he meant to ruin her.

She swung a leg over him and straddled the bench, towel gone, nothing left between her cunt and his cock but the decision she had already made. Wesley sat back against the hot wood, hands locking on her hips, and she reached down, lined him up, and sank.

The stretch stole her breath. He was thick, the head pushing through her and then the rest of him, slow only because her body had to take it. She didn’t stop until she was seated, full, thighs spread over his, ass against his legs, the wooden slats creaking under them. Sweat ran between her breasts and dripped onto his stomach. She braced her hands on his shoulders and rolled her hips, testing, and the drag of him inside her lit every nerve she had been ignoring since the first day he argued with her in a glass conference room.

“Ride me,” he said. “Hard. I want to feel you use me.”

She did. She rose until only the head stayed in her, then dropped, taking him to the root with a wet slap that echoed off the cedar. Again. Again. The pace turned greedy. Her tits bounced with every downward drive, and Wesley surged up to catch one in his mouth, sucking the nipple deep, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and hauled her down onto him, meeting her, fucking up into the clutch of her cunt while she rode. The bench knocked the wall. Steam beaded on her back and ran into the crack of her ass. She ground her clit against the base of him on every thrust, chasing it, filthy little sounds breaking out of her that she would have died before making in the office.

“Look at you,” he said against her breast, voice wrecked. “Coworker in my lap, pussy swallowing my cock like you’ve been starving for it. Take it. Fuck, Heather, take every inch.”

“I am,” she panted. “God, you’re so deep. Don’t you dare slow down.”

He didn’t. He sucked her other breast, mouth hot, one hand sliding to her ass to spread her and drive her harder. The rhythm went ragged and mean. She bounced on him, hair stuck to her neck, mouth open, the wet sound of her cunt filling the sauna until she couldn’t hear anything else. Pleasure coiled tight and low. She chased it without shame, grinding, clenching, using his cock exactly the way her body demanded.

It wasn’t enough. She wanted him deeper, meaner, from behind. She lifted off him with a slick sound that made them both groan, stood on shaking legs, and turned to the wall. Palms flat on the hot wood. Back arched. Ass out. She looked over her shoulder, hair in her eyes, and said, “Stand up and fuck me. Now.”

Wesley was on his feet in a second. He kicked the towels aside, stepped in behind her, and shoved back in with one long thrust that knocked a moan out of her chest. Standing, the angle was brutal and perfect. He filled her to the hilt, hips flush to her ass, and started to pound. Each stroke drove her forward into her own hands. The wall was almost too hot under her palms. She didn’t care. She pushed back to meet him, taking him, the slap of his hips against her ass loud and obscene in the small room.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Like that. Deeper. Fuck me like you’ve been thinking about it in every status meeting.”

“I have.” His hand fisted in her hair, not cruel, just sure, tilting her head so he could speak against her ear while he hammered into her. “Bent over the table. On my cock in the copy room. This. Exactly this. Your cunt is so fucking tight I can barely move.”

He moved anyway. Deep, steady, then faster, the head of his cock striking that swollen spot inside her until her legs threatened to give. His other hand reached around and found her clit, two fingers rubbing tight circles while he thrust. She sobbed his name. Sweat poured off both of them. The air was too thick to breathe and she breathed it anyway, greedy, every inhale full of sex and cedar and him.

“I’m close,” she said. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

“Come on my cock.” His voice broke. “I want to feel it. Squeeze me. Come.”

She did. The orgasm hit hard, a full-body clench that ripped a loud, shameless moan out of her and kept coming. Her cunt pulsed around him in tight, milking waves, thighs shaking, toes curling against the wet floor. She came and came, crying out, pushing back onto him so he stayed buried while she broke apart. Wesley lasted only a few more strokes. The grip of her orgasm dragged him over with her. He slammed in deep, held there, and came with a rough groan against her shoulder, cock jerking, flooding her with thick, hot spurts she felt paint her inside. He kept thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, working every drop into her until he was spent and still hard enough to stay lodged where he was.

They stayed like that, his chest to her back, his cock still buried in her soaked, twitching cunt, both of them panting in the steam. His cum leaked around him and ran down her thigh in a slow, filthy stripe. She clenched on purpose, squeezing the mess deeper, and he swore into her hair.

“Leave it in me,” she said, voice raw, no softness in it. “I want to walk back out there with your load dripping down my legs under that towel, and I want you hard again before dinner so you can bend me over in my room and fuck it back in.”