Overtime

In the dim hush of the supply closet, Roman Heart corners his assistant, Koen Bradshaw, his gaze sharp and unyielding as a predator's. Roman, the demanding boss who's long savored the sight of Koen's lithe form bending to every whim, orchestrates the trap with sly precision. He dispatches a lackey for paper clips—mere subterfuge to clear the path. Koen, oblivious, steps in, only to find the door sealed behind him. 'You can't—' Koen starts, his protest a fragile thing, voice catching as Roman presses close, heat radiating like a promise. But resistance crumbles fast. Roman's hands claim him, fingers digging into hips, pulling jeans down in one swift yank. Koen's cock springs free, already hardening under the boss's commanding stare. Roman drops to his knees, mouth enveloping the length in a hot, insistent slide—tongue swirling, lips sucking with expert greed. Koen gasps, hands fisting in Roman's hair, thrusting instinctively as pleasure coils tight. Roman doesn't relent. He works Koen deeper, throat relaxing to take every inch, humming vibrations that shatter any lingering doubt. Koen bucks, spilling hot and urgent down Roman's throat, the release a shuddering wave that leaves him boneless. But Roman's far from done. He rises, shedding his own slacks with deliberate grace, his thick shaft bobbing heavy and eager. 'Your turn,' he growls, voice rough with need. Koen, eyes glazed with aftershocks, sinks willingly, wrapping lips around the pulsing head. He sucks with fervent rhythm—tongue lapping the underside, cheeks hollowing as he takes Roman deep, mirroring the boss's earlier fervor. Roman groans, hips snapping forward, fucking Koen's mouth with restrained power. The perks unfold in mutual surrender. Roman pulls back just in time, stroking himself to the brink, then flips Koen against the shelves. He slicks his fingers with spit, probing the tight ring before pushing in—first one, then two, stretching with careful insistence. Koen moans, arching back, and Roman thrusts home, burying his cock in one smooth glide. They move together, hard and fast, skin slapping, breaths mingling in ragged harmony. Roman's hand wraps around Koen's renewed hardness, pumping in sync until they both crest—Roman flooding deep inside, Koen spilling over fingers in a second, exquisite peak. In the aftermath, tangled and spent amid reams of forgotten paper, the power dynamic blurs into something sweeter, equally rewarding for the assistant who's just claimed his due.