Daily Office Breeding by Her Brother-in-Law

Katarina was twenty-four, and the reception counter still left a lemon-cleaner shine on her wrists every morning. She had been married to Magnus for two years. He was twenty-seven, steady from warehouse shifts, and proud of the office job she had landed with a man he trusted. He did not know the job had a second contract written in sweat and a number on a pay stub.

Her boss was Quentin, thirty-eight, tall enough in the doorway that the frosted glass looked narrow behind him. He was not Magnus's brother by blood and never had been. Magnus's father had married Quentin's mother three years ago, long after both men were grown, so they were stepbrothers and nothing more. It made Quentin Katarina's brother-in-law by marriage and nothing closer. No shared blood. No shared childhood. Just a holiday table sometimes, a hiring form, and the back office where he kept the firm's books.

For three weeks Katarina had been fucking him every single workday, the entire shift, in exchange for a substantial raise. She clocked in, and once the lobby emptied she locked the front and spent the hours bent or spread or kneeling while the phones rolled to voicemail. The rent had jumped. The car needed a transmission they could not float. Three weeks ago she had stood in that office, sober, awake, and clear-headed, and offered the bargain out loud. Quentin had answered the same way, no threat in it, no trick, no drink in either of them, because he wanted her and she wanted the money and, very fast, wanted him too. They said so to each other every morning. They enjoyed the arrangement without pretending otherwise. Magnus remained unaware.

She had already taken him once before nine. Her skirt was neat again, but his spend was still slick high between her thighs, because that was how the days went and because she liked carrying the proof of the bargain while she answered the phones. Both she and Quentin liked that it stayed simple. He used her on the clock. She collected the raise. The frosted door stayed shut.

The chime over the street door broke the quiet just after ten. Magnus stood there with peonies wrapped in green paper, grinning, warehouse dust faint on his boots, come to surprise his wife in the middle of her shift because he missed her face. Katarina's pulse kicked. Quentin was behind the shut door the way he always was by this hour, already waiting. Her shift had hours left on it. The arrangement did not pause for flowers. She set the headset down with steady hands and went to meet her husband.

She met him at the reception desk with a flushed smile, heat high on her cheekbones, and took the peonies like any happy wife. "Magnus. You didn't say you were coming."

"That's the surprise." He glanced at the empty chairs, the silent phones. "Show me where you actually work? I've only ever seen the front."

She could have sent him home. She did not want to. The want was clear, the same want she had named three weeks ago, and it sharpened at the thought of his eyes on the truth. "Come on," she said. "I'll show you my workspace."

She led him down the short hall, his hand warm at the small of her back. She turned the knob. The moment the door closed, the room changed.

Quentin stepped out from behind the walnut desk already hard, belt open, cock thick and heavy in his fist, the head flushed, precum shining at the slit. He looked at Magnus without flinching. "I'm not hiding this. I want her. I've wanted her every day of the arrangement. Say the word and I stop. Otherwise I keep fucking her the way she asked me to."

Katarina dropped to her knees on the carpet between them, sober, awake, cheeks bright. She looked up at both men with open, consensual lust, nothing cloudy in it.

"This is how I earn the extra income," she said. "Every workday. The whole shift. I fuck him for the raise, and I love it. I chose it. I'm choosing it now. Nobody pressured me. I'm not drunk. I want his cock, and I want you to know. If you want to leave, leave. If you want to watch, stay. I need to hear you say it."

Magnus's mouth had gone dry. His own cock stirred hard against his zipper, stunned and hot, and he did not look away. "I want to stay. I'm awake. I'm sober. Nobody's making me. I want to watch you earn it."

"Then watch," she said, and her smile went filthy with relief. "I want him in me. I want you to see what the raise looks like."

Quentin's hand settled in her hair, asking, not yanking. She leaned in and took the head of him into her mouth, jaw stretching around the girth with a wet, helpless sound, eyes up so Magnus could see she was doing it on purpose. Three weeks of practice showed in the way she sucked. Quentin groaned. "Desk," he said after a minute, easing her off, a string of spit breaking between her lip and his cock. "Same as every day. You still want it?"

"I still want it," Katarina said, and she stood, turned, and bent herself over the walnut without being pushed.

She reached back and dragged her panties down her thighs, black lace sticking where she was already soaked, and stepped out of them. The skirt she rucked to her waist herself. Magnus saw the shine on her inner thighs, the leftover slick from the morning, and his breath left him. Quentin stroked himself once, slow, letting the size of it register: insanely thick, heavy, veins raised, the kind of girth that made Katarina's hole flutter before he even touched her. "Tell him you can take it," Quentin said.

"I can take it," she said, cheek to the blotter, ass tipped up. "I take it every day. I want it again. Fill me. Let him hear it."

Quentin set the broad head of his cock against her soaked pussy and pushed. The stretch was immediate and obscene. Her cunt lips clung and dragged, shining, forced wide around a girth that looked unfair, and the sound of it filled the office: a wet, thick squelch, then a deeper gulp as her hole yielded and sucked him in. Magnus heard every inch.

"Oh—fuck—" Katarina's fingers scrambled on the blotter. "You're so huge. I love how huge you feel. Don't stop. Push it in. Let him hear you stretch me."

Quentin gave her another inch, then another, slow enough that the squelching stayed constant, a filthy rhythm of wet flesh being pried open. Her pussy fluttered and gripped and lost, gripping again, cream already forming where they joined.

"Listen to that," Quentin said, voice rough. He drew back a fraction and drove forward, and the sound cracked wetter, louder, a stretch-squelch that made Magnus's knees loosen. "She opens for it every day and it still sounds like the first time."

"I'm hearing it," Magnus said, stunned, one hand braced on the filing cabinet, the other pressed hard over his pants. "She's taking all of that."

"Not all of it yet." Quentin's hips settled. He fed her the last of it until his balls pressed her clit and she sobbed into the desk, stuffed, dripping. The final push made a deep, sticky sound, her pussy audibly stretching to seat him. "There. Whole thing. You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes. Fuck me. I want it. Breed me. I love it. Please."

He fucked her then, relentless, doggy over the desk, the walnut knocking the wall in a steady thud. Each stroke dragged a loud, wet squelch out of her stretched pussy, the girth rearranging her on the way in and the way out, her ass rippling when his hips met it.

"Huge," she panted. "You're so fucking huge. I love how you stretch me. Harder. I want it harder. I've wanted it all shift."

Quentin gave it to her harder. The sounds turned sloppy, obscene, a rapid squelch-squelch-squelch as her cunt creamed around him and splashed the insides of her thighs. Magnus watched the thick shaft piston, shining, too wide, her hole clinging on every withdrawal like it hated to let go and then opening again with a filthy audible stretch. He took his cock out and stroked, stunned arousal plain on his face.

"I'm going to cum in you," Quentin said, pace breaking, balls drawing tight. "No protection. Same as always. You want it in this pussy?"

"Yes. Cum in me. I want your load. Fill me up. I'm asking. Do it."

He buried himself and came with a groan that scraped his chest, pulsing deep, thick ropes pumping into her unprotected cunt. Katarina cried out and clenched, milking him, and the overflow made a wetter sound as he kept grinding through it, stuffing the cum deeper. Magnus saw it froth at the seal of their bodies, white and heavy, and his stroke faltered.

Quentin did not pull out. He stayed seated, breathing hard, and rolled his hips, and the mix of spend and her slick squelched around his still-hard cock. "Again," he said. "I can go again. You want another?"

"More," she begged, voice wrecked and eager. "I love how huge you feel when you're cumming in me. Don't waste it. Give me another. Please. I want more."

He pulled out slow. The withdrawal was a long obscene slurp, cum welling in her gaped pussy. "On your back," he said. "I want your face for the next one. You want that?"

"Yes. On the desk. I want it."

She lay back on the wood, heels hooked at the edge, cunt flushed and creamy with the first load. Quentin pushed back in. The sound was wetter, sloppier, her used pussy squelching around that insane girth, audibly stretching all over again as he sank to the root. He fucked her in long heavy strokes, missionary on the desk, balls slapping her ass, each impact knocking a filthy gulp of cream out of her. The office filled with it. Magnus stood at her shoulder and stroked, watching that thick cock plow her open.

"So deep," she gasped. "So thick. I love how huge you feel. Don't pull out. Cum in me again. Please. I need another load. Breed this pussy. I'm begging."

He slammed in and held. The second flood pulsed hot against her cervix, more than seemed fair, pumping while she clenched and thanked him in broken moans. It leaked around his shaft in white ribbons and pattered on the wood. He stayed inside, grinding, and the mess got louder.

"Still hard," he said. "Legs around me. You want a third?"

"Yes. More. Wrap me around you and cum in me again. No protection. I want to feel you stretch me while you fill me."

She locked her ankles behind his back. He lifted her and fucked up into her, her legs wrapped tight, her weight sinking her down that girthy cock. The stretch sounded deeper like this, a wet suck and a slap, her soaked cunt audibly struggling and taking him anyway. Katarina clung and begged, telling him how huge he was, how she wanted every drop, how she would take this every day and mean it. Magnus watched, cock leaking in his fist, stunned silent except for his breath.

Quentin came a third time with her name in his mouth, hips jammed up, flooding her unprotected pussy again until there was nowhere for it to go but out. It squelched. It dripped. She held him inside and shook, and he gave her the last thick spurts while her husband watched every one.

Quentin eased out of her at last. The final creampie followed in a thick, overflowing rush, white and heavy, spilling from her stretched pussy and dripping in slow ropes down her thighs onto the carpet. She was glazed with it, inner legs shining, cunt flushed and open and still fluttering. He set her on the edge of the desk. She pulled him down by the tie and kissed him, deep and unhurried, tasting herself and the long shift, and when she drew back her mouth was wet and sure.

"Thank you," she said, soft and satisfied. "For another day of breeding me. Same time tomorrow. The whole shift. I want it."

"You'll have it," Quentin said. "Every day you ask."

She turned to Magnus with a satisfied, cum-glazed smile, skirt still rucked, thighs painted, legs open. She was asking if he wanted to drive her home while she leaked her brother-in-law's seed the whole way. "Drive me home?" she said. "I want to leak his seed the whole way. All of it. In your passenger seat. Say yes if you want that."

"Yes," Magnus said, voice ruined, cock still hard in his fist. "I want that."

She stood, cum already tracking toward her knee, and reached for her panties without putting them on.

Magnus would drive her home with that load dripping into his passenger seat, and tomorrow he would kiss her goodbye knowing the whole shift was already spoken for.