Mostly Consensual

In this story, the participants are very good at reading each other. In real life, if someone wants to use a condom, use a condom, and don't sexually proposition your work subordinates.

With that unsexy disclaimer out of the way, I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it.

***

Anne hesitated with her hand about to knock on Mr. Schreiber's office door. It was nearing 9 p.m, and the man showed no signs of intending to quit for the day and head home. As his personal assistant, she felt obligated to stay as long as he did. But she wished she could at least take a break to get some toiletries, in case they would be there all night. Having worked for the nonprofit--his nonprofit--him--for less than a year, she was not sure as to whether it was more proper to interrupt him to ask permission or to just leave and hopefully get back before he noticed her absence.

The decision was all the more stressful because she knew Mr. Schreiber was having a terrible day.

The native German in his late forties did not smile much to begin with. He didn't smile to put people at ease, as Anne, coming from the United States, was used to. She wasn't sure she ever saw him smile from being happy either, despite his organization accomplishing so much undeniably positive philanthropic work. He certainly never laughed at one of her casual attempts at a joke, only stared at her stony-faced until she blushed.

She would blush because despite their age difference--her being in her mid twenties, he was old enough to be her father--she had a bit of a crush on him. And she couldn't tell if he could tell.

His face was not particularly handsome, lined with age as it was and marred by some imbalance in the features, but it was distinctly masculine. Long, with a strong nose and jaw. And he kept himself well. His light brown hair was always neatly coiffed, and his well proportioned frame filled out his suits in a way that made him look very tall.

Anne, when she moved to Berlin and joined the organization, quickly picked up on the unspoken dress code and culture of the place. After her first week, she only ever wore her straight, auburn hair in a tight, high ponytail, and she cycled through neatly pressed business outfits religiously. Today, she was wearing a grey sheath dress and modest black pumps. Her frame filled her outfits out well too, she was pretty sure. She was all legs and athletic trimness from years of sport. But she kept her makeup minimal, to match her austere work environment.

Once, when she was bustling about setting up the materials for a presentation Mr. Schreiber was about to make, she thought she might have caught Mr. Schreiber staring at her ass, transfixed, but when they made eye contact, he didn't look away or smile sheepishly with embarrassment. He only looked back at her calmly, mouth set in its firm frown, like she had seen him staring at one of the charts being prepared, so maybe she was mistaken.

Another time, at the staff Christmas party, he had put his hand on the small of her back to direct her into the room, and it felt so large, commanding, and warm, burning through her sweater dress, making her flush. But that was just the gentlemanly thing to do.

She felt his eyes on her more than she noticed him looking at anyone else, but maybe she only noticed him looking at her more because she was biased and eager to find proof of his preference for her. Or worse, maybe because he didn't trust the young American to perform all her duties correctly.

It wasn't as if she thought anything could actually happen between them. Though the Johanna of the Elias and Johanna Schreiber Foundation had passed long ago, Anne was not there to seduce philanthropists, but to work, to establish a career in the nonprofit sector. But sometimes she couldn't help fantasizing a little.

That whole ambiguous history was running through her mind as she stood frozen outside Mr. Schreiber's office, when a low, distinctly accented voice came from inside. "Frau Campbell?"

She started, surprised that he could tell she was there. No use hiding now. She turned the door handle and entered.

Mr. Schreiber was certainly in a state. The organization had just found out that almost all of their aid shipments for a particular impoverished city had not reached their intended recipients for months, and he was going mad trying to trace the thefts. His hair was sticking up in tufts where he had run his hand through it, stubble dotted his chin, and a dark blue tie was loose at his neck. Papers were strewn all about his desk, covering his keyboard.

Those tiny bits of imperfection emanated endearing vulnerability from a powerful man. Yet Anne couldn't forget her place, because he still had on his full charcoal suit, buttery smooth white dress shirt, expensive watch, and polished black oxfords.

"Yes, Herr Schreiber." She stood at attention with stick straight posture. Clutching a folder in front of her chest and stomach made her feel safer somehow.

"How long have you been lurking out there?" His signature lack of expression made it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or amused.

"Not long, sir. I only wanted to ask if it would be all right if I took a short break to fetch some things."

He turned away, rubbing his temple with one hand while waving her off with the other. "I didn't know you were still here. You're dismissed for the night."

She reflexively stepped backward to leave, but compassion made her linger. "Can I help get you something first, sir?"

He covered his eyes to rest them. "No, thank you, Frau Campbell."

Was he going to stay up working on this all night? Anne could tell he was no longer making progress. After too much mental work, anyone would start going in circles. But it wasn't her place to say. Was it?

He stretched his neck and moved it gingerly like it had a painful crick in it, wincing slightly as he did so.

Anne just wanted to help somehow. "I'm pretty good at massages."

Mr. Schreiber looked back at her, as if a little startled she was still there. He didn't say anything for a while, leaving her to stand there turning beet red while he seemed to look straight through her with those piercing hazel eyes.

"All right, come on then. We can add it to your official responsibilities if you turn out to be as skilled as you say."

That was definitely a joke, even though he hadn't cracked a smile. He took transparency at the organization entirely seriously, so he would never use nonprofit resources, like Anne's employment, for his personal benefit.

Relieved, Anne grinned at the dry banter as she click-clacked over in her heels. She set the folder on top of some other papers on his desk and went to stand behind him. As she reached out to grip the muscles connecting his neck to his shoulders, she hesitated again, like before knocking on the door.

"I'm waiting, Miss Master Masseuse."

Thankful that he was facing away, since she was surely as crimson as her hair by now, she reasoned, "Your jacket will be too thick to massage through."

"Of course, with your delicate hands that can't knock on doors." Was he teasing her? Didn't teasing border on flirtation?

He obliged her by removing his jacket, casting it among the existing desk clutter. Was it her imagination, or did he then sit up a little straighter?

She took a deep breath and, for the first time, broke the touch barrier between them herself. Initially, she feared crumpling his shirt, but she stopped overthinking and became absorbed in the task when she began to find knot after knot in his dense muscle. She pressed into them deeply, as hard as she could, with her thumbs going in circles in two spots for a while before moving along to massage elsewhere, eventually doubling back to repeat the process.

He was silent throughout, but she was so concentrated that she wasn't even worried about his judgment until he craned his neck out a bit farther, a soft moan escaping his throat. "That does feel good."

She jumped backward out of shock. Oh, how uncool she was being. She tried to play it off with a reference to his earlier comment. "My delicate hands are getting tired." She smiled nervously. "I hope that helped, though."

He slowly spun around in his rolling chair, leaning back in it as he met her eyes again and studied her.

When Mr. Schreiber stood up, Anne had to fight the urge to retreat. He wasn't that much taller than her, since she was tall herself and in heels, but his authoritative presence and broad shoulders made her feel like he loomed over her.

He took a step toward her, and she successfully didn't take a step back.

He took another step toward her, and she couldn't help but move backward, all the while staring at him like a rabbit might stare at a wolf it was trying to figure out how to escape. As if he couldn't do anything to her as long as she was watching him.

He very gently took her hands in his, examining them, running his thumbs along them. She hated how she loved how their hands looked together, her slender fingers in his overpowering ones. She mused that they must be so dexterous in bed, so much more experienced than the men her age she had been with.

Suddenly, her hands were pinned over her head, her back against the wall, and he was kissing her.

*

Elias didn't know what he was doing. Why in such a violent manner? Why her, someone so inappropriate to do this to?

He didn't know how he got from point A to point B, only that he thought she wanted it and knew he wanted it.

So after months of her sly glances and form-fitting dresses, on a night when he had no willpower left to resist after a particularly arduous day of work, he did it.

And it felt good. It felt good to envelop her lips with his own, hungrily invade and explore her mouth with his tongue. It felt good when she tried to break her wrists free but he only held them in the one hand more firmly, and she quickly recognized the futility and gave up. It felt good that she was desperately kissing him back the whole time.

And tonight, he needed to feel good.

He wanted her to feel good, too. With his free hand, he tested a squeeze of her breast. Her groan of approval reverberated in his own throat. He squeezed again, and harder, and felt through two layers of clothing where the nipple was, and circled it with his index finger. Her captive writhing broke their kiss.

He pulled her forward from the wall so that he could unzip her dress, unclasp her bra. He let her wrists go through the sleeves of the dress, tore her bra off, and captured her hands above her head again.

But she was topless now, and he did not go to kiss her again. He drank in the sight of the bare, freckled skin that was too pale to have ever seen sunlight, the weighty breasts that curved in perfect, impossible ways. Both of her nipples were a dusty rose, and the one he had tormented stood erect.

His own instrument began to follow suit.

When she saw him looking, she flushed like she often did, but this time, he could see that the shade of embarrassment extended below her neckline, tinting her whole chest.

His mouth homed in on the untouched nipple, while his hand revisited the other one.

She gasped when his tongue made contact, but swallowed the sound as if she feared their being discovered and having to stop. There was no one else around at this hour, but the self-imposed restraint made him harder.

He swirled his tongue around and around, varying how hard he pressed with it, how fast he went, sometimes ceasing motion entirely. When he did, she would start emitting a frustrated hum and squirming, only to groan from deep within her chest when he finally licked the nub again.

He hadn't been with someone Anne's age since he himself was that young, and he was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to arouse her. It wasn't long before she was teetering on one high heel as she cloudy-mindedly, ineffectually tried to hook a leg over his hips around the back, to bring his lower body closer to hers.

He released her again, this time to finish sliding the dress off. He took the panties with it, and she must have found the two-for-one deal too sudden, because she indignantly covered herself with her newly freed hands.

He almost smiled at her shyness. He just lifted her up by her waist, out of the clothing crumpled at her feet, kicked his chair out of the way, and set her in front of his desk. He hiked her up onto it, knocking a pile of paper off the back and dropping her onto his keyboard, which caused the computer to complain that too many keys had been pressed at once.

They laughed together and slowed down. They shoved things aside and rearranged her placement until she would be able to, if she lay back, lie on the desk along the long side, with no debris beneath her.

He went back to kissing her, coyly spreading her legs by setting himself between them. They clutched each other tight as he ground his clothed-but-obvious erection against her center. She had finally gotten her legs around his hips, using the leverage to press herself against him harder.

How far could he get her to let him go?

He paused their devouring of each other to take a metaphorical step back and assess the situation.

She was completely, utterly nude before him, panting slightly, dark green eyes half-lidded as they peered upward at him through thick eyelashes. She was starting to lean back, her breasts falling at a different angle of gravity, opening her legs to him.

Only then did he realize how wet the front of his pants were. When he ran his hand along it, it came away slick with the young woman's arousal, which he held up to the light for her to see.

"Enjoying yourself, Frau Campbell?"

Her trademark blush heated her whole body, all across her smooth, supple skin. The temporary redness made her red hair, rose nipples, and pink lips stand out less for a moment. Just a moment.

Then those pink lips stood out from her creamy white thighs as starkly as one red rose in a bouqet of white lilies.

Dripping with her natural lubrication.

Blossomed open from the friction of their grinding.

When he used his thumbs to spread her lips apart further, just to innocently examine her, she threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth parted, trembling from the tiniest stimulation.

He was rock hard at that point, the tension in his crotch turgid, swollen, and tender. He figured he could take her already, at the most basic level, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to make her forget herself enough to give him everything. He shouldn't--there would be consequences--but he really wanted to, and that was enough justification for that night.

*

Anne was tired of being stark naked while Mr. Schreiber paraded around fully clothed. Also, she couldn't tell if his initial aggressive animalism had settled down because he was savoring the moment or because he was starting to think with the head in his skull, which meant he might put an end to what was happening.

So she reached out to undo his belt.

But that made him grab her hands and hold them down at her sides, to instruct her not to touch him there. Just not yet, she hoped.

She begrudgingly nodded to show that she understood, and when he let go of her, she used her hands only to caress his cheek and the back of his neck.

He laid her down on her back softly, forcing her to bring her feet onto the desk so that her spine wasn't bent in an awkward position. And her feet being on the desk forced her knees to bend and splay herself open too intimately, like she was presenting her sopping wet vulva to him.

He bent over her, keeping his face close to hers, watching her reaction.

His hand rubbed the inside of her thigh up, and up, and up...

Until he was rubbing her pussy.

She clenched involuntarily. What was he doing? He was going to make her come with his fingers if he wasn't careful. She wanted to come on his cock. Was he setting a boundary? Was he planning not to plunge himself into her with that all-consuming greed he had shown at the beginning of this tryst? Would he let her finish him with her mouth at least?

Usually, such worries would distract her from being able to enjoy being fingered. But as she had suspected, he was very, very good at it. So good that he led her away from her fretting, led her to simply bask in the sensation of his hand swirling circles around her lips, rubbing her own wetness all over her. He traced the labia, pull the outer lips apart, pressed one finger into her. A second followed, then a third, with some difficulty despite her copious natural lubrication. He thrust them in and out, and though it felt good, it was easily the least dangerous thing he had done, until he added a thumb into the mix, to rub her aching clit at the same time. The feeling of simultaneously being filled and having her clit manipulated was too much. The tide was rising, rising, rising, and she could feel that the colossal wave would soon crash.

Suddenly, the ocean evaporated.

She opened her eyes, blinking in confusion at the sudden lack of contact, vagina still lightly pulsing with residual momentum.

The clink of a belt being unbuckled. Mr. Schreiber was unzipping his fly. He brought his boxer briefs down just enough to pull his dick out. It was bulging, thick, stiff, reddened, veiny, throbbing. Uncircumcised.

She reached out again, this time to unveil the head, something she had never done before. She had heard it would be more sensitive, more fun to play with, more fun to torture.

He automatically held her hands down again.

This was getting suspicious, now. Was he that loath to cede any control to her? Why was he resisting losing his mind, when she had clearly already lost hers? What was he afraid of her being able to make him do, once she had any power over him?

Of course she wanted him to fuck her, but first she wanted to make him feel as good as he was making her feel. And, admittedly, yes, to repay some of the torment, the denied climax, that he had given her.

She lowered her chin demurely and batted her lashes. "Please, Herr Schreiber." She leaned forward to whisper in his ear with her breath tickling him. "Please let me touch your huge, hard cock."

The words alone made him shudder, closing his eyes and nodding reluctantly.

Asking nicely does wonders.

She got off the desk and pressed him into the chair. She towered over him since he was sitting and she was standing, especially since she was still in her heels. But his nonchalant body language, as he leaned back with his forearms on the armrests, made it feel like he retained the upper hand, a king in his throne.

We'll see how long that lasts, Anne thought.

She began unbuttoning his shirt from the top, maintaining his gaze the whole time. When she was done, she smoothed the shirt open, revealing robust pecs with a healthy pattern of chest hair. His body was that of an effortlessly, naturally fit European, not obsessively sculpted, neither thin nor fat. She ran a hand through his chest hair, pulling it a little. She leaned down to kiss him and let her hand roam lower.

*

Elias hadn't planned to get distracted from his main mission, but he was too curious as to what Anne would do, and here they were. God, they didn't make women like this in his generation and country. He cursed his past self for giving in.

She flashed her straight white teeth, slid his belt the rest of the way out, setting it aside, and knelt down in front of him, tugging his underwear down further to reveal more of him.

She dug her thumbs into the crease between his abdomen and thighs, like when she was massaging his neck, and worked her way inward. Hungrily, hastily, missing the teasing patience he had practiced on her. Seeing her stare at his package so intently was too much. His penis twitched on its own, which seemed to delight her, because she smirked.