Office Party Seduction: He Sucks Then Gets Fucked

The company holiday party had already spilled past the catered tables and into the open stretch of carpet between the cubicles, string lights thrown over the monitors and a speaker fighting the hum of the building's heat. Warrick, twenty-eight and the sort of man who treated every December mixer like a hunting ground, stood with a glass and scanned the room the way he always did. He had a reputation and he liked it. Then he saw her.

Miriam was twenty-seven, an analyst two floors up, and tonight she had come in a dress that did not pretend to be modest. Black and tight, it clung to the full swell of her hips and the round curve of her ass, then climbed to a neckline that put her generous cleavage on display every time she turned. Warrick felt the old, easy pull he got around any woman who looked like that, except she looked better than most. He crossed the room with the smile he had practiced in a hundred bars.

"You planning to start a riot in that dress, or is this just for me?" he said, close enough that she could hear him over the music.

Miriam's mouth curved. She did not step back. "Depends who's asking." Her voice was low, amused. She let her eyes travel down him and back up, unhurried. "You've been staring since I walked in."

"Hard not to." He tipped his glass toward the deep line of her chest and grinned like it had been a joke. "I'm Warrick. Sales."

"Miriam. And I know who you are." She took the glass from his hand, sipped once, and handed it back, her fingers lingering on his. Both of them were clear-headed. The champagne was only an excuse to touch. "Womanizer. Office legend. Half the women here have a story."

"Any of them true?"

"I'll find out." She pressed in, the heat of her body against his arm, the soft weight of her breast brushing his sleeve as she leaned past him. Her perfume, warm and spicy, sat in his throat. Every time she laughed she came closer, and the cleavage he had noticed from across the room was suddenly right there, shadowed and generous, the dress working hard to hold her. She had him tipsy on her and nothing else. His pulse kicked. The air between them went tight as wire.

"Careful," he said, rougher than he meant. "You're going to get me in trouble."

"That's the idea."

She pulled him onto the small clear patch they were using as a dance floor. The song was slow enough to be an excuse and fast enough to hide what her hips were doing. Miriam turned, put her back to his chest, and ground against him in a slow, deliberate roll. Her ass fit against his groin. He went hard so fast it almost hurt, and she felt it. He knew she felt it, because she pushed back harder and laughed under her breath, the sound private even in a crowded room.

"Eyes up here," she said, then ruined the instruction by arching so the neckline gaped. He stared. He could not help it. The heavy curve of her tits, the deep line between them, the way the fabric threatened to give up with every sway. She reached back, caught his wrist, and set his hand on her waist, then guided it lower without quite letting him grab. Her skin was hot through the dress. "You like looking."

"I like more than looking."

"I know." She spun in his arms. Her breasts pressed flat to his shirt, soft and heavy, and she stayed there, rolling her hips in time with the bass so that every beat dragged her against the ache in his pants. She held his gaze and fed him one small sip from her own glass, then took the same for herself. His head stayed sharp. What made him unsteady was her mouth an inch from his, the almost-kiss she kept withholding, the spice of her perfume and the way she talked instead of giving in.

"You're shaking," she murmured.

"You're doing that on purpose."

"Every bit of it." She nipped his earlobe, not quite tender. Her cleavage was right under his chin when she leaned up, and she let him look as long as he wanted, smiling when his breath caught. "Tell me what you want, womanizer. Use your words."

He glanced past reception, down the row of dark offices with their doors half shut. His voice came out low and certain. "Empty office. I want you somewhere I can put my mouth on you. No audience. Just us."

Miriam studied him. Her eyes were bright, sober, interested. She smiled like she had decided an hour ago and had only been waiting for him to ask. "Say it again so I know you mean it."

"I mean it. Come with me."

"Then lead the way."

They slipped out while a toast went up near the windows. Nobody followed. The hallway was quieter, the party a muffled pulse behind them. She walked beside him with her fingers laced through his, hips swaying in that dress, heels quiet on the carpet. When he tried the third door and found it unlocked, she went in without hesitation, eager, already turning to face him. He locked it. The click was loud in the still room. Both of them wanted what came next, and neither of them was pretending otherwise.

The office belonged to someone on vacation. The desk was clear except for a monitor and a mug, the blinds were down, and only a little hallway light leaked under the door until Warrick flicked on the small lamp. Miriam did not wait. She hopped onto the edge of the desk and spread her knees just enough that the dress rode high on her thighs. He stepped between them. She caught his open collar and pulled his face down into her chest.

"There," she said. "You haven't stopped looking. So look. Then use your mouth."

He groaned and buried himself in her. She tugged the neckline down, and her tits spilled free, heavy and warm, soft against his cheeks, nipples already tight. He sucked one into his mouth and palmed the other, greedy, lost. She tasted like skin and a trace of that spicy perfume. He licked the deep valley between them, kissed the undersides, sucked hard enough to leave a mark and did not care. His hands could not decide. Squeeze, lift, thumb circling a nipple, back to sucking until she gasped and held his head there. She let him drown in it. Her hips shifted on the desk. A low sound lived in her throat every time his tongue dragged.

"Good," she murmured, petting his hair. "Stay right there. Don't think. Just worship them."

He didn't think. He was gone, face mashed between her tits, breathing her, cock aching in his pants, one hand sliding up her thigh because he needed more of her and could not stop. She shifted. Fabric moved. He heard the soft sound of her reaching under the hem. He was not watching. He was sucking, lost in the weight and heat of her, when something hot and heavy tapped his cheek.

He pulled back.

Her cock was out. Thick, hard, curved up from beneath the hiked dress, the head flushed dark and already wet at the slit. She held the shaft in one hand and let it sway, heavy, inches from his mouth. For a second his brain stalled. Shock hit him clean. She had a cock, a real one, thick and shining, bigger than he had braced for in the half-second he had to brace at all. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Miriam did not explain. She did not apologize. She just waved it once, slow, the weight of it moving through the lamplight, and watched his face.

Warrick dropped.

No words. His knees hit the carpet. His hands found her thighs. His mouth found her. He sucked the head in like he had been waiting for it, tongue flat under the ridge, lips sealing tight. Salt and skin and heat. She hissed and threaded her fingers into his hair, not forcing, just holding, and he went deeper on his own.

"That's it," she said, soft and mean and pleased. "Womanizer on his knees. Suck it."

He did. Hungry, messy, no performance left in him. He took her deeper, jaw stretching, spit slicking the shaft when he pulled back to breathe and then dove again. She was thick enough that his throat fought him. He wanted it anyway. He relaxed, pushed, and the head slid into his throat. His eyes watered. He held there, nose against the soft skin above her cock, swallowing around her while she swore quietly and rocked her hips in short, careful thrusts that still made him choke and moan. He sucked hard on the way up, tongue working the underside, hollowing his cheeks, then sank again until spit shone on his chin and her thighs trembled under his palms. His own cock throbbed untouched. Every sound she made went straight through him. He looked up once, eyes wet, and the sight of her tits still out, her mouth parted, her hand in his hair, made him groan around her and take her deeper.

"Enough," she said at last, voice wrecked. She pulled him off with a wet pop, stood, and turned him before he could speak. "Desk. Bend over. You want this?"

"Yes." It came out hoarse and immediate. "Yes. Fuck me."

He went. Palms on the wood, chest down, ass up. She yanked his belt open, dragged his pants and briefs to his knees, and spat into her hand. Two fingers pressed at his hole, slick and insistent. He pushed back because he wanted it, wanted her, more than he had wanted anything in that building all year. She worked him open just enough, murmuring that he was tight, that he was going to take every inch, and he nodded into his forearm and spread his feet wider.

She lined up. The first push stole his breath. Thick. Relentless. She did not rush the breach and she did not stop, either, sinking in inch by inch until her hips met his ass and he was full in a way that bordered on too much and still was not enough. He moaned into his sleeve. She gave him one breath, a hand stroking his lower back, checking.

"Still yes?"

"Still yes. Don't stop."

Then she fucked him.

Long strokes. Powerful. She drew almost all the way out and drove back in, the desk creaking under his chest, his body jolting forward with every thrust. The angle hit something deep that lit him up from the inside, bright and mean and perfect. He reached for his cock. She caught his wrist and pinned it to the wood.

"No," she said. "You cum from this or you don't cum. Hands off."

She let the wrist go only when he nodded, frantic, agreeing, and he did not touch himself. He could not have formed the thought past the pounding. She took him mercilessly, steady and deep, the slap of her hips against his ass filling the little office. Her tits brushed his back when she leaned over to bite his shoulder through his shirt. He stroked himself once, helpless, a single desperate pull, then stopped because the fucking was enough, more than enough, each stroke dragging over that spot until his thighs shook and his voice broke.

"Miriam—"

"Take it." She hiked the dress higher, gripped his hip, and fucked him harder, long powerful strokes that did not let him hide from any of it. Pleasure coiled low and vicious. He heard himself begging, wordless, pushing back to meet her, and she only drove deeper, using him, owning the rhythm. The desk edge bit his palms. Sweat gathered at his spine. He was loud and he did not care who might walk the hall.

He came like that. Hands-free, cock jerking untouched against the air, spilling across the desk and his own stomach in thick pulses while she kept driving into him, using the clench of his orgasm to bury herself to the hilt. He sobbed out a moan. His hole fluttered around her. She did not slow until he was shaking through the aftershocks, oversensitive and still taking every stroke because he had asked for all of it and she was not done.

Then she slammed in and stayed. A rough sound tore out of her. Heat flooded him, pulse after pulse, her cum pumping deep, filling him until he felt the fullness change, wetter, hotter. She ground there, hips tight to his ass, emptying herself, one hand fisted in his hair, the other spread over his lower back to hold him down on her cock.

"Take it," she breathed against his shoulder. "All of it. Every drop."

He did. He stayed bent and open and let her finish inside him, moaning through the last thick throbs, wrecked and grateful and still hard in the aftershock of his own mess on the desk.

She pulled out slow. The sudden emptiness made him gasp. His hole fluttered, gaping, unable to close, and her load spilled in a warm trickle that ran over his balls and down his thighs, dripping onto the carpet between his shoes. He stayed bent over the desk, pants at his knees, spent and open, the office air cool on wet skin, his own cum cooling on the wood beneath him.

Behind him, fabric whispered. Miriam tucked herself away, smoothed the black dress down over her hips, and checked the neckline in the dark monitor as if she were stepping back into a party and not away from a man she had just ruined. Her palm cracked once across his ass, possessive and final, the sting bright and lingering. She unlocked the door. She did not look back. Her heels faded down the hall, and the holiday music rose to swallow the sound of her leaving.

He stayed exactly where she had put him, used and dripping, while the party went on as if he had never been worth a second glance.