The Exit Interview
- 3 months ago
- 12 min read
- 890 visitas
You walk tentatively into the office, your hair mussed, a confused look upon your face, a face I’d thought of as charming the first time I saw it in the break room last week, as you munched on a breakfast donut, sugar powder dotting your stubbled chin. You didn’t know who I was yet.
You said, “Are you one of the new hires? Did you meet the new vice-president yet? I heard he’s tough.”
“She is,” I said, and I couldn’t help but give you a wolfish grin as the pink color climbed into your cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” you said, practically choking on the donut.
“I’m not.” I liked the way the embarrassment looked on you. “It’s not the first time I’ve surprised people.”
“Men,” you muttered.
“What was that?”
“Men. I suppose you mean it’s not the first-time men have been surprised.” Chastened, your big hand reached for another donut and then seemed to think better of it.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Not just men. But mostly men. They’re not used to seeing a woman in power.”
“I’m not like that,” you said. “I’m not. I’m just…I’m just an intern. I’m just starting out. Or I was. This is my last week before graduate school.”
“Hey, we all had to start somewhere. And don’t put yourself down. You’re not just an intern. The company wouldn’t have recruited you if you didn’t have potential.” And then I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “You just have to live up to it.”
I thought I saw you gulp, your Adam’s apple bob up and down as your hand hung just above the box of donuts, like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to leave, like you weren’t sure if you wanted to leave. And in that moment I almost thought I might do something crazy, if I hadn’t worked so hard to get the position, if there hadn’t been people right outside the break room who would definitely hear if I pulled you to me quickly, leaving trace donut dust in the air and mashed my lips into yours until I made you bleed with my desire.
Just then my secretary walked in wanting a latte. I could see your eyes hover over me for second, downcast. I supposed I’d done it again. I knew I could be intimidating. Now I’d probably put you off. Word would get around. I’d be the office bitch, once again. Not that I totally minded. It got things done, and it got them done right. But it could be lonely. And frustrating. It had been a while since I’d had a man in my bed, or anywhere else for that matter, and my vibrator was running out of batteries.
But I could have sworn I heard you say, “I like women in power,” low, as you walked past me out of the room. You got donut sugar on my blazer.
So, now here you are, a week later, your last day at the office, if I’m calculating correctly, which I am. I definitely am. Not that I haven’t been attending to my responsibilities. But I’m good at multi-tasking. It should be 8:00 PM, and you should officially not be employed or connected to the company in any way.
Except your presence, which is present in front of me. Sitting in a cushy chair in front of my desk. And still adorable. I’ve asked you to stay late. We should be alone. Even the housekeeping staff goes home by 6:30 PM on a Friday.
“Did I do something wrong,” you ask. I can see you’ve been biting your nails. My, you look young in the warm office lighting. Did I mention that I have a little thing for young men? They’re so…accommodating. And so full of energy that needs a little direction. I’m really good at giving directions, or so I’ve been told.
“Not at all,” I say. “From what I hear, you’ve been an excellent addition to the team. I’m sure they’ll want to recruit you for a full-time position when you finish school.”
“Thank you,” you say.
“Thank you, what?” I raise an eyebrow at you. Playfully, of course.
You bite your lip. I can hear you suck in a sigh. “Thank you, ma’am?”
“Now that wasn’t so hard. Was it?” I’m glad my desk chair has rollers on it, because it easily slides over to your chair, so I’m sitting right in front of you.
“No, ma’am,” you say.
“Do you have a fever?” I reach out and gently place my palm on your forehead. I can’t help it if my breasts lightly brush over your dress shirt. Or if my nipples are hard. These new bras just don’t have enough padding, and they keep it cold in the office. “Because your face is very red, and you seem to be sweating. Frankly, I’m a little concerned.”
“No ma’am,” you croak out. “It’s just.” Your eyes are all the place now, the wall, the floor, the ceiling, that weird chicken figurine my predecessor left, and I’ve forgotten to throw out. They’re everywhere but on me. “It’s just, you’re very pretty ma’am.
I laugh. I really can’t help it. “Why, thank you,” I say. I slip my finger under your chin, lightly encouraging your face upwards so your eyes meet mine.
“I’m sure you hear it all the time.” You’re biting at your lip by this point, and I can see a faint outline of a bulge underneath those gray dress pants of yours. Which is to say that you’re exactly how I want you to be. I take the opportunity to slide off one of my pumps, exposing my stockinged foot.
“You’d be surprised,” I say. “And a woman can never hear how pretty she is enough times from a man she likes.”
Your eyes are wide as saucers and your mouth is hanging open a bit. You’ve got plump, juicy lips, and they’re just begging to have my fingers between them. But I can be a little patient. My foot starts a slow slide across the gap between us, which is not very wide, really. I place it on your shoe.
“You know that as of three hours ago, you’re no longer an intern at the company,” I say.
“Oh, yes. I suppose your right.”
“So, therefore, I am in no particular position of authority over you.” My foot makes its way over your ankle and glides up your pants leg over your calf, then your thigh and finally your groin, where it rests comfortably on top of your cock, which is definitely bulging and impressively sized. Just the right size, if my foot is doing proper reconnaissance, which is seems to be from your squirming.
“Technically speaking,” I say. I make a small circle over the bulge with my toes and you whimper appreciatively.
“That is to say that you are completely free to go.”
I arch my brow.
“I mean, no ma’am. Please. I don’t want to go.”
I shouldn’t be surprised, since my foot is really proving itself now. I’m grinding it against your cock and rubbing it up and down. Your slacks aren’t very thick, because I can feel the outline of your shaft hard against it, and a slight wet spot appearing on them over the head. You groan and buck just once, which makes me smile.
“That’s good,” I say. “Because even though you’re not my employee, I still feel like I have a lot I could teach you.”
“Yes. I’ve found that young men like yourself--bright, promising young men—can get a little carried away too easily. They’re so…,” I pause, and grip the shaft of your cock with my toes, causing you to cry out. “They’re so excitable.”
“Yes, ma’am.” You nod, but let’s be honest. At this point you’d probably nod if I told you that you were an alien.
My toes continue their massage, the wet spot spreading deliciously.
“And I like to help them channel all of that energy, so they can be more productive. Think of it like a mentorship, but only for promising applicants. Would you say that you are a promising applicant?”
“Oh, yes ma’am. Please. Yes. I am promising. I can be promising. I’ll promise anything. Please, just don’t take your foot away, ma’am. Please.”
“See, that’s exactly what I mean. Just a little too excitable. You can’t help it really. All of that testosterone coursing through you. You wonder how I became a vice-president? I don’t have to deal with all of that testosterone making you do silly things. Like make that mess on your pants. Do you see it? It’s quite unprofessional. Stand up, please.”
I remove my foot, which is a little damp beneath my stocking, and you moan. I didn’t think it was possible for your cheeks to get redder, but they do. When I tell you to undo your slacks, you pull yourself up and out of the chair at lightning speed. Before I can even slip my other shoe off and stand up beside you, your belt is undone and your zipper is down.
“What do you have to say for yourself,” I ask in your ear, as we both look down at the stain on your pants. Of course, it’s on your boxer briefs too, and I’m glad you chose white because I can clearly see your cock underneath them, like you’ve been in a wet t-shirt contest, which I suppose, in a way, you have. Only you’re the only contestant and you’re definitely going to win.
“I know.” Your eyes are on the floor. “I’m so embarrassed. You’re very exciting, ma’am. I just want to please you. What can I do to please you? Please?”
Suddenly you’re all eyes on me, and I can’t help it, and I grab the back of your head with both hands and pull you to me, my lips on yours, like I’d wanted to a week ago. I swear I can still taste donut sugar on your lips.
I’m not a gentle kisser. Some men don’t like it. They ask me why I can’t be more ladylike, but then they’re the ones who are missing out, aren’t they?
Because you’re certainly not. You don’t mind it at all when I take your bottom lip between my teeth and bite, not hard enough to draw blood, but I admit it’s a struggle to control myself. You just moan into my mouth and thrust your hips helplessly against my skirt, your hands fluttering at your side. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at this point.
Darling boy, I have really gotten you worked up.
“Sssshh.” I unclamp my teeth from your lips, with some difficulty, and whisper soothingly in your ear. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I like you a lot. I find you very pleasing.”
Your breath is fast and hot, and it gets even faster when I slip my hand down the front of you and slowly work it under your boxer briefs, tugging them down as I do, so your cock pops free of the tight fabric. I can’t help but look, and my it’s a nice one. I take it gently in my hand, with the other hand still draped across the back of your skull. I gather your short hair, and give it a little tug.
“Just to let you know that you’re mine, at least for the moment,” I say softly.
Then I begin a slow assault on your cock, gently pumping up and down. I don’t even need any lube. That base is already covered.
I watch your face as I do it, my eyes locked onto yours. You’re tense. We’ve barely started and you’re already almost there. I can tell you’re trying hard not to lose control, but your hips can’t help jerking. You’re leaking like crazy, and you’re so hard. So very, very hard. When I take my hand away for a second, you literally cry out in desperation.
“Ask,” I whisper.
“Ask?” The word rushes out of your lovely mouth, but I know there’s not any blood left in your brain.
“Just ask. Ask permission.” I barely place my hand back on your throbbing cock, let my breasts brush up against the side of your chest. I’m only just touching it. Like a feather.
“Please. Please, ma’am. Let me come. Please. I’ll do anything. I swear. I’ll do anything. Just don’t stop. I’d love for you to be my mentor. I’ll be good for you. I’ll be so good. You’ll see. I’ll make you proud of me.”
“Sweet boy. That’s all you have to do.”
And with that, I increase the pressure just a hair’s breath, one slight slide up and down from the base to the head, a small touch behind the head where I know it’s most sensitive, and that’s all it takes.
You shake, explode. Come runs over and down my hand and you let out a thick, masculine groan that sends a pool of heat straight between my legs.
We stand there together, silent, as I give you time to come down from your high, and your neck turns, nuzzling into my clavicle, kissing my neck so gently I want to devour you.
“Did you mean it,” you ask. I can hear a tremor in your voice. Unsure.
“Did I mean what?”
“That I could be yours? That you would teach me? Show me?”
I smile. I want you so much.
“Oh, baby. We haven’t even gotten started yet. We have the entire weekend to get acquainted. And I’ve got donuts.”