I keep telling myself she's not my type, but every thrust into her tight arse tests my resolve to the limit. She begs for more, tossing that dark mane with its thick blue highlight, and fires a smouldering look back at me over her navy T-shirt. Her eyes darken with need, knuckles whitening as they hold the far edge of my office desk.

“That's not fucking. I told you to fuck me.”

My primal side kicks up a notch. I raise both hands, crash my palms into the flesh of her taut rump and grip it, watching my cock disappear into her tightest ring of muscle again and again as I savage her. She emits a satisfied gurgle, biting her lip and nodding. Each time our hips connect, one syllable per thrust escapes.

“That's. Beh-ter. Fuck. Me. Hard, Mis-ter. Gar-land.”

I grit my teeth and keep at it while Zoë huffs and sighs, deep groans bouncing off the desk, filing cabinet, and whiteboard. Drawn vertical blinds obscure the elevated view over the warehouse floor.

It's lunchtime. The door’s not locked. Any of our colleagues could burst in and see us, my belt undone and clacking against the underside of the desk, her denim skirt flipped up, thong at her knees with my cock buried in her bum. Lust beats common sense, and I’m past caring. Always does when she challenges me. She knows I’ll snap every time.

By all accounts, Zoë is a horny slut. She doesn't seem bothered that we all know it. Sex is part of her; an extension of her, and she embraces it. Owns it. It's part of her appeal.

She tells everyone the ridiculous umlaut in her name is important, yet incorrectly pronounces the flattened vowel as if the diacritic wasn't there. That perhaps indicates her general intelligence level: she doesn't come across as the sharpest knife in the block, but it could be an act. I didn't hire her for Mensa, anyway. She's good at her job, takes no shit from anyone, and told me in the interview she likes anal sex.

Well, not in so many words.

“How would you describe your attitude towards teamwork?”

Zoë smiled, twirling an inky lock around her finger. It hung opposite the blue streak that obscured half an eye and a cheek of dappled freckles. “I know how to work hard and play hard.”

“I see. You work well with others?”

“Yeah.”

“So why did you leave your last job?”

That one tended to trip people up. The usual response involves being candid with the truth, or demonstrating humility. Not her.

“Manager was a knobhead.”

I was surprised. “How so?”

She shrugged shoulders that led to two full-length sleeve tattoos of, well, I wasn't quite sure. They were evidently coloured in by a four-year-old who couldn't stick within the lines. “Kept telling me to do stuff I was already doing. Micromanaging, y’know?”

“And you prefer not?”

“Yeah. Once I know what I'm doing, let me get on with it.”

I scribbled independent on my notepad. “So what makes you a suitable candidate for this role?”

She smiled again. “My tight bum not enough?”

That floored me. I tried not to show it, but she sensed my hesitation and continued.

“I saw you checking it out when I walked in. Everyone does. I know it's fire.”

Fire wasn't wrong. Black leggings. Willowy curves. Enough said.

Clearing my throat, I clarified, “I meant why should I hire you instead of the next person out there?” I indicated the cheap panelled door that was made, like most things in the company, by the lowest bidder.

“Because,” she leaned forward, her low cut T-shirt gaping slightly while I kept my gaze professional. Mostly. “The person out there won't be as good. And nobody else has my arse.”

I stared at her. “Quite,” and scribbled down confident. Backed up a bit and added the prefix: over-.

She lifted her chin to peek. Took a moment, presumably because reading upside down wasn't her forte. Or reading, full stop. She pointed at the page. “You forgot fine arse.”

“If I write that, I might get fired.”

Leaning back in her chair so the front two legs lifted off the floor a fraction, she stretched her chest until her sternum clicked. Even though there wasn't much to her upper half, her tits strained the fabric and I caught the outline of a nipple ring. “No wonder people are so miserable at work.”

“Are they?”

“Yeah. Totes.”

“Here, or in general?”

“In general. At other jobs.”

“My team aren’t miserable.”

“If you say so.”

“I'm not miserable.”

She tipped her head coquettishly and studied me. “But you're not happy.”

“I am.”

“Happy people smile. You married?”

I held up my left hand. “That's what the ring says. By the way, I'm supposed to be the one interviewing you.”

“So I'm not meant to ask questions?”

I paused. “Of course you can, but usually at the end—”

“Why not now?”

“—and they're normally work-related.”

She eyed me, a flash of mischief sparking. “Shouldn't I get to know my boss before I accept the job? You might be a knobhead.”

Couldn't argue she had a point. “Fine. Do you have any relevant questions?”

That impish grin resurfaced. “What's the dress code?”

“Nothing that could easily get caught on machinery or shelving. Besides that, anything goes. We're not customer-facing back here.”

Zoë smoothed the top against her hourglass. “So this is fine?”

“Yes.”

“I know leggings work for you. What about skirts?”

“Yes. Short and tight.” I back-pedalled. “That's not being sexist or anything. Long or flowing clothes can catch.”

“Got it. Underwear?”

“Not my concern.”

She fluttered natural lashes. “But if it was your concern?”

I exhaled. “Functional.”

“Absent?”

I took a breath. “As long as it doesn't interfere with your work.”

“Mint. So do I get the job?”

“I have other applicants to see yet.”

“But I've got a good chance?”

I had to admire her audacity. “We’ll see, Miss Metcalfe.”

As it turned out, the rest of the candidates were NEETs, students or retirees looking to top up their pension before they croaked. I hired Zoë the next day. And she was right. Nobody else has an arse as good.

I peel her cheeks apart and slam into her darkness.

She groans and urges me to finish in her. “Yeah? You like dirty don't you? You filthy fucker.”

I grit my teeth and hiss, “Yess. I love it.”

“Your wife not into this?”

Guilt isn't meant to be a motivator, but it somehow drives me on. “No.”

“See? Told you. Not happy.”

I piston harder. “I am.”

“Fine. Unfulfilled then.”

Yet again, it was hard to argue. My wife is wonderful. And heavily pregnant with our first. But she flat refuses to try anal. Or get up to anything outside the safety net of the bedroom, beyond holding hands or kissing in public. Zoë, however, wants to experience everything. Prefers anal. And the riskier the better.

“Am I your dirty bitch?”

“You’re my filthy fucking girl. My anal loving slut. And I can't get enough of you.”

“Yeah. Fuck me.”

Her moans increase and I lean forward, snaking my hand over her mouth. Haul her half upright, dig the nails of the other hand into her rump and pull her repeatedly onto my girth. I'm getting close.

Circling my hand round her hips to zero on her pussy, she squeaks when I cup it. Bucks into me as the heel of my hand grinds her clit. She huffs into my palm, my fingers seeking and sliding inside her soaked cunt.

I roughly finger her. Time each thrust so as I vacate her butt, my fingers plunge deep. It drives her wild to have both holes filled one after the other, and her movements become erratic.

Somehow, she makes it impossible to experience shame, disgrace or remorse. I ought to be drowning in it. Ought to control the urges I have around her. Be the better man. The guy I promised Robyn I'd be. But everything evaporates when Zoë walks past.

She sees her body as a colouring book, which is about as far removed from what I find sexy as makes no difference. Yet she makes it work. Wears self-confidence like the youthful scent that chases her around, endorsed by some D-List celebrity who once appeared on reality TV. She did tell me. JCool or Pow or Wow or something. Yes, JWoww, that was it. It had been alluring, yet on the periphery, only catching my attention properly when we first fucked. And only captivating me as I moved in close to hiss in her ear after pinning her to the wall by her throat.

She’d stalked into the office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the blinds. “Larry’s such a dick.”

I stopped pecking at the laptop. “What's he done this time?”

“It's what he’s not done.”

I waited. Eyed her as she plonked herself in one of the chairs across from my desk and leaned back. Her mini skirt rode high. Higher when she slid her feet further apart. It wasn't the first time she'd taunted me with her body but was the first time she'd done it without underwear. I held off as long as I could but the draw of her parted thighs won, leading my gaze to her mound. And what a mound. Puffy, shaved lips, tight as a button, glimmering with arousal in the office strip lights.

She caught me staring as my cock took on a life of its own under the desk. “See? That’s what he didn't do.”

I shuffled to rearrange my aching erection and snapped my attention back to her face. “Not sure I follow.”

“That reaction. That look.” She nodded in my direction. “I basically threw myself at him and he said his wife would never forgive him. Walked away.”

I eyed the way her clothes hugged her body. “I admire his strength. Not many could resist you.”

Mischief lit her face. “That include you?”

I said nothing. Tried to stare her down and ignore the urge to take a second look at her pussy. She made it doubly difficult by widening the gap another half step. I held her gaze and willed my cock to wither. To not betray me.

Zoë smiled. Stood and circled my desk to stand alongside my chair. I smelled danger. Sensed the unbridled need in her voice. “Aren't you curious?”

I swallowed. “Curiosity killed the cat.” Slid my gaze up to meet hers. She bit her lip, turned to face the wall behind me and sidled closer, her thigh brushing mine. Then pressing firmer.

We both regarded the bulge in my cargo pants that I tried to cover with my hands. She inched forward, shuffling her stance until the armrest of the chair nudged the material of her skirt.

My throat dried completely when she rose on tiptoes and lowered herself, gasping when contact was made. The chair rocked as she ground her pussy against the armrest then stepped back.

The unmistakable scent of arousal met my nose and I stared dead ahead at the desk surface, not risking the glance I knew would be my undoing.

A tiny chuckle drifted and she dropped a hand to brush mine. “You're good.”

In a daze, I croaked, “No, I'm bad.”

I let her fingertips wander. Curl beneath my palm. Lift. She placed my hand on the armrest, and her juices slid against my skin as I gripped it.

My knuckles whitened. Maybe I thought inaction was a good defence. See, honey, she came onto me and I couldn't do anything about it. Nah, flimsy. I had to face up to the fact I wanted to be there. Wanted it to happen. Had lusted over it happening from the day of the interview.

Yet still I stared at the desk. Did nothing when she inched forward again. Nothing when she lifted. The only outward change was my breath hitching as her pussy made contact with my knuckles.

She ground against me, impossibly slick lips staining my skin with arousal. With infidelity. It oozed. Drizzled over my fingertips and dripped to the floor. I longed to taste. Held the armrest tighter, fighting a losing battle of willpower.

God she was hot. Soaked. The reversing beeps of a forklift below filtered into the office to join her soft panting and the clicks of wet skin on skin.

She slithered back. Crouched and kissed my juice laden fingertips. Stood, peeling my grip away and turned my hand face up. I let her. Did nothing except sigh, heart rate spiking as her pussy slipped onto my palm and her juices pooled.

Zoë humped my hand, becoming more animated. Started to lose herself, breath huffing faster. I made a mistake: my hand twitched and I offered resistance. Curled my fingertips upward, and on the next grind of her hips, a pair of digits slipped between her folds. She gasped. Rocked her hips and began fucking my fingers, soaked and dripping around them. Fuck, she was tight.

The mezzanine vibrated and I thought it was her legs quivering until the clang of safety boots on the metal staircase outside the office shattered the moment of intimacy. She snatched her cunt from my grip and grabbed a pen from the ledge under the whiteboard. Removed the cap and started to draw a small grid. I closed my fist, her juices oozing, and spun the chair to face the board just as the door opened and Larry burst in, flustered in his usual jeans and T-shirt a size too small, showing off impressive gym physique.

“Boss, do you have the shipme… oh, sorry.”

Turning back to face him, I prayed he didn't look at my wet fist. “No worries. Which one?”

He paused only momentarily to flash Zoë a look—might have been regret or relief or dismay—which she reciprocated. “The Carter account. I'm missing one and need to trace it.”

I nodded at the filing cabinet. “Top drawer.”

He crossed the room and slid the drawer on its runners, rifling through the hanging files until he found the one he needed. I made a habit of keeping hard copies of current shipments around just in case the system went wonky.

Zoë shuffled her feet and drew some more on the board. I glanced at her bare legs. A trail of juice smeared her inner thighs where she'd squeezed them together. My cock flexed. I flicked my eyes to Larry and hoped he wouldn't spot the signs. Wasn’t sure if the entire office reeked of her sex or just the bubble we occupied.

“Got it.” He muttered some numbers under his breath, committing them to memory and dropped the file back in place. “Thanks, boss.”

Pacing across the room, he let the door swing shut behind him and descended, boots fading, the slight tremor of the mezzanine floor ceasing as he stepped off.

Zoë replaced the pen and we eyed one another from a few feet apart. She focused on the outline of my cock. I unbunched my fist, her sticky grool in my palm. Sliding my attention up her body, we locked eyes and I gradually lifted my unfurled hand to my face. Inhaled. Brought it to my lips and slithered them in her arousal, coating my mouth and chin. My cock raged and tented my trousers.

She didn’t move, her breathing laboured. Bit her lip. “Now you’ve had a taste, one question remains.”

Returning my hand to the armrest, I took in her stark beauty. “Which is?”

“Are you gonna live a little, or are you gonna wimp out on me? Play it safe with your vanilla life and vanilla wife, or are you man enough to take more?” I dug my nails into the armrest. “Will you show me the real you? The one you’re too scared to unleash in case you upset little miss prim. Bet she’s sitting at home with her princess crown on wishing you’d man the fuck up. Dreaming of being ravaged by someone who isn’t a pussy bitch.” She tossed me a lopsided grin. “Maybe she’s already being fucked by someone with a spine and you’re gonna los—”

She didn’t get any further. I launched from the chair and cut her off with my grip around her throat. Marched her back a few steps and slammed her against the wall by the whiteboard, pulse thundering. With my mouth an inch from her ear, that’s when her perfume took hold, and I snarled, “Don’t you disrespect Robyn. She’s every inch the saint compared to the… the slut you are, with your loose morals and short skirts and no panties and all this,” I brought my palm to her face and smeared her juices over it.

Zoë twisted her face to one side, grabbed my wrist and hauled it down over her body, skimming her chest and belly until I cupped her naked pussy again. She tugged up and ground herself against my palm, groaning, whispering, “Yeah, show me. Make me pay.”

Her grip relaxed and she cupped the back of my hand, curling my fingers up into her scorching cunt. Nodded as I took over. She was fucking drenched. Our breath was out of sync in one another’s ears as I began to saw my fingers back and forth. She chanted, “Show me,” under her breath and I picked up the pace but it clearly wasn’t enough. She grasped my hand again and tugged it free. Angled her hips and brought it up hard against her pussy until I got the idea.

“Oh, I see,” I spat. “The naughty slut wants to be punished.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Like this?”

I slapped her lips with two fingers and she moaned, “Yesss. More.”

“More?” I drew back and splatted my whole palm against her pussy.

“Godyesmore,” she huffed. Gritted her teeth. “Harder.”

Pulling my dripping hand away, I launched it against her cunt and she sank her face into my neck, wailing, “Yes.”

Showing no signs of wanting it to stop and the blood fizzing through my veins, I punctuated each stinging slap with a word. “Fucking. Filthy. Slut.” She moaned her assent and twisted her body around my hand with each spank, uncoiling for the next. ”Dirty. Little…” I pulled back and crashed one more into her. “Cunt.”

While I massaged the stings away, she dripped into my palm and grappled for my belt with quivering hands. Unbuckling it, she yanked the buttons open and dug into my underwear to free my raging cock. We both moaned as she jacked the shaft.

I slid my hand away and she ran the tip of my hardness through her slit. Letting go, she lifted one leg to snake around the back of mine, opening herself for me. Gliding her hand up my back and into my hair, she held me to her and whispered, ”Take me. Everything is yours.”

My cock pierced her slippery pussy lips and sank deep. We didn’t hang around savouring the moment or adjusting to the tightness of her bald little cunt gripping my shaft, our hips found a frantic rhythm from thrust one. I clutched at her frame and she held onto me as I slammed her against the wall.

I’d never known lust like it. There was making love, there was sex, and there was this: raw and primal fucking. Two people expressing what it meant to be human and damn the consequences.

My hands gravitated to her bum cheeks, dug in and hauled her hips to mine. She groaned in my ear, “Take my arse if you want. It's yours.”

My cock swelled in her pussy at the prospect of something new and forbidden. I swung my grip closer to the crease, slid a pair of fingers down either side of my disappearing shaft and swabbed loaded wetness up over her puckered hole. “This arse?”

“Mmmhmm. Right there. You ever done that?”

“No.”

I pounded a few more strokes until she shoved me away and my raging prick hung between us like it belonged nowhere and everywhere. Zoë turned, leaned against the wall, spat on her fingers and massaged them over her arsehole. “You’ll fucking love it.”

Mesmerised by the curvature of her rear and the way it formed a near perfect diamond above her thigh gap, distended pussy lips nestled within, I stood as she sank one then two digits into her tightest hole. She hauled them free and lifted them up behind her to my mouth. “Suck. Soak them.” My involuntary moan wrapped around her fingers, sampling the thrilling musk until she tugged them clear with a pop.

Her grip dropped to my shaft, encased it and guided me forward one step. “Spit,” she commanded. Almost on autopilot, I reached for her cheeks, held them, separated them and spat. It missed, splattering the inner edge of one globe, and I scooped the bubbles into the cleft, massaged, held her apart and spat again. Bullseye. At her insistence, she drew the head of my cock to the slippery entrance and pressed it to the ring of muscle.

I could sense her gaze burning into my scalp but couldn’t pull focus from the sight of my shaft disappearing into her dark crevice. She groaned with each centimetre that was swallowed until I met more resistance and she paused. “Ready?”

My eyes drifted to hers, dark pools of desire and need. The question was clearly rhetorical. A wiggle of her hips preceded pressure and a deep sigh, which I thought was her but ended up being from me. Jesus, it was tight.

We both gasped as our hips touched and she reached back to stroke my chest through the red polo shirt. “You like?”

It was an odd moment of tenderness given what went before, but after I absent-mindedly nodded, still reeling from the sheer decadence and thrill of being buried in her arse, she switched back to slut mode and begged me to fuck her. Hard.

Using the wall as leverage, she shoved back against me as I gripped her cheeks and picked up the pace. Each time I reached the halfway exit point, she sighed and reversed into me so I sank deep again. The sensation of plugging her tight butt rippled through my body with each thrust, and within a dozen or so strokes, she was once again chanting for it harder.

I delivered. Swatted her arse and she cried out. I massaged the hand print. “Shoosh or they’ll hear us.”

“Fuckfuckfuck, don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop fucking your arse or spanking you?”

“Ngggh. Both!”

I swatted her cheeks alternately, using the opposite hand to grab and pull her onto my hardness. Another sensation joined and it took a moment to realise she was fingering her pussy in counterpoint to me ravaging her arse. It was so fucking hot and I rapidly approached the point of no return, just like I’m doing over my desk now.

Memories of our first fuck swim as I rock my hips against hers and finger her cunt. I rut into her dark space, snarling, “Take it all, you filthy whore,” and pull both my fingers and cock free. Fight the urge to cum.

She cries out and I plug her outburst with my juice-infused fingers, grab a fistful of hair with the other and haul her upright, breathing heavily in her ear. She flashes a hand to her clit and carries on where I let off but I nip her lobe.

“No. Present your arse to me.”

With a final grinding circle and a sigh, she leaves her cunt and slides dainty hands to her hips, then behind. Pulls herself apart.

My dick steels. “Good fucking girl.”

I kick the inside of each ankle to widen her stance, bringing her clit in line with the desk edge. She humps and rolls against it and groans into my fingers. Taking half a step back, I admire the slight gape of her rear, line the bulbous head with it and drive inside to the hilt.

She lets out a brief scream and I pull her hair to warn her to keep it down. Tug my cock completely free. Spit on it, wait a second and slam it back into her arse.

Each time I haul free of her ring and plunge back inside, her sensitive clit catches the desk edge. Her whimpers escalate, mouth falling open as her insides melt, moans announcing the arrival of the orgasm that rips through her like a tropical tornado. I bury my cock deep, holding tight and her winking arse triggers my climax.

Jets of hot spunk lash her insides. I groan into her ear as she milks every spurt and mewls around my fingers. We're hot and perspiring, joined as our mutual orgasms roll organically into the office space, pheromones staining the air as the waves of lust pulse and ebb.

When the spasms begin to dissipate, we gradually disengage. I unwrap her hair from my fist and slip my fingers from her mouth. Withdrawing my still hard cock from her bottom, Zoë immediately turns, sinks to her knees and gobbles the globs of spunk from its surface until it shines with saliva. What makes it hotter is the doe-eyed lusty expression up at me the entire time she's polishing my knob clean, ramming my dwindling hardness into her throat like a starved animal, until I regretfully soften.

She pops free, draws my cargo pants and underwear up as she stands and tucks me away. I buckle my belt and watch as she slithers her panties up and wiggles the skirt down over her hips. Finger combs her hair.

I smile. “You look like you've just been fucked. That glow.”

“Yeah.”

“They'll all wonder.”

“Like I give a fuck. Let them wonder. They’re just jealous.”

She crosses the room, a dribbling trail of my cum rolling over the flower tattoo on her upper thigh. Hauling the door open, she flicks a look back at me and winks, then breezes out.

I glance at the desk. The long edge has a wet spot at its centre that I reach to trace. Lift and inhale. Taste. Fuck.

Circling my desk, I sit as my heart rate stabilises. Skim fingertips along the wooden edge where hers had gripped. I've honestly no idea what I'm doing, risking my doting wife and our future child on whirlwind office fucks. But I'm addicted to Zoë; to what she represents.

Maybe it'll blow itself out. Maybe she'll grow bored and seek fulfilment elsewhere. Maybe Robyn will eventually cave to my insistence and renewed hunger that we vary things in the pursuit of our relationship. When her libido returns. If it returns.

I picture bending her curvy arse over our bed edge, dropping to my knees and worshipping her star with my tongue before rising and tenderly taking her anal virginity. But every thought ends with Zoë’s cries for more. Her reddening behind under my relentless spanks. Her unbridled lust when I plough into her arse, and the way it makes my heart soar to yank on that blue streak and hurt her in exactly the way she needs.

Flipping up the laptop lid, I peck at the open document. Contemplate which of the relationships will crumble first. Or if I can somehow feed the best bits of what I have with Zoë into my home life. Design her out, so she can move on and hook up with someone her own age. Someone who can match her fire and give her love too, instead of just mind-blowing sex. Assuming that's what she wants. Doesn't everyone?

Professional distance has to be my only hope. My salvation. Drift away, back to being just her boss. Pray I'm strong enough to draw the line. Because I keep telling myself she's not my type, but every betraying thought of once more ploughing into her tight arse and hearing her scream tests my resolve to the limit.