Office Politics
"His CEO has been fucking him for months in exchange for promotions. Then her daughter joins the company. Same expectations. Same office. Sometimes the same hour."
Catherine Mercer built this company from nothing.
Twenty-five years ago, she maxed out her credit cards and started a tech consulting firm in her apartment. Now Mercer & Associates occupies the top three floors of a downtown high-rise, employs four hundred people, and clears eight figures annually.
Catherine is sixty-one, divorced twice, and weighs roughly two hundred and eighty pounds.
She's also been fucking me for eighteen months.
It started simply.
I was a senior analyst, due for promotion. The VP slot had my name on it—everyone said so. Best performer, most clients, highest satisfaction ratings. The job was mine.
Catherine called me to her office.
"Close the door," she said. "Lock it."
I obeyed without thinking. She was the CEO. You didn't question her.
"You want the VP position." It wasn't a question.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You'll get it." She rose from behind her desk. Even in her sixties, she commanded attention—silver hair cut short and stylish, tailored suits that cost more than my rent, and a body that defied every corporate expectation. Her breasts strained against silk. Her hips swayed when she walked. "But I want something first."
"Anything."
She smiled. "Careful what you promise."
That first time, she sat on the edge of her desk and made me kneel.
"I've been watching you," she said, spreading her legs beneath her skirt. "Three years. Every meeting, every presentation. Do you know what I see?"
"No, ma'am."
"Hunger." She hiked her skirt higher. No underwear. "The same hunger I have. The kind that never gets satisfied, no matter how much you feed it."
She pulled my face between her thighs.
"Show me how hungry you are."
I ate Catherine Mercer to three orgasms on her mahogany desk.
When I stood, she was smiling.
"The VP position is yours," she said. "But I expect... continued performance."
"Weekly reviews?"
"Daily, when I'm in the mood." She handed me a tissue. "Clean your face. You have a meeting in ten minutes."
I've been her personal performance consultant ever since.
The arrangement works well.
She's demanding but fair. She wants my mouth at least twice a week, wants me inside her every Friday, wants me available whenever she texts. In return, my career ascends at record pace.
VP in six months. Senior VP in eighteen. Now I'm being discussed for Chief Operations Officer—a position that reports directly to her.
No one suspects. I'm just another talented executive on the rise.
Only Catherine knows what I've traded for every promotion.
Then Jessica joins the company.
"This is my daughter," Catherine says at the all-hands meeting. "She'll be heading our new West Coast expansion."
Jessica is thirty-three. MBA from Stanford. Work experience at three Fortune 500 companies.
And she looks exactly like her mother did at that age.
She's maybe two-forty, two-fifty, with the same commanding presence, the same silver-blonde hair, the same curves poured into tailored clothing. Her breasts are massive. Her hips are wide. When she walks across the conference room, every eye follows.
Including mine.
Catherine notices.
That Friday, in her office.
"You were staring at my daughter."
I'm already inside her—she likes to talk during, likes to establish dominance while I'm vulnerable.
"I wasn't—"
"You were." She clenches around me. "Don't lie. I saw it. I also saw how she looked back."
"Mrs. Mercer—"
"Catherine." She pulls me deeper. "After eighteen months, I think you've earned my first name."
"Catherine." I thrust into her, making her gasp. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"It will." She's smiling. That's rarely good. "Because I'm going to give you my blessing."
"What?"
She flips us over. She's on top now, all two-eighty pounds settled on my hips, riding me with the same intensity she brings to quarterly reports.
"I told you I've been watching you. What I didn't tell you is that Jessica's been watching too. Since the day she started."
"She's your daughter—"
"She's a grown woman. With the same hunger I have. And the same taste in men." Catherine grinds down. "I used to fight her for partners. Now I'm old enough to share."
"Share?"
"You'll fuck both of us. Her during the week, me on Fridays. And sometimes—" She leans down, whispers in my ear. "—both at once."
I come inside her without warning.
She laughs.
"I'll take that as a yes."
Monday.
Jessica texts me at nine AM.
My office. Now. Lock the door.
I recognize the phrasing. The tone. Like mother, like daughter.
I obey.
Her office is smaller than Catherine's but just as intimidating. She's waiting behind her desk, legs crossed, pen tapping against a legal pad.
"Close the door," she says.
I do.
"Lock it."
I do that too.
"My mother explained the arrangement." She uncrosses her legs. Like her mother, no underwear. "I wanted to meet you. Privately. See what she's been so protective of."
"Jessica—"
"Ms. Mercer, in the office." She stands. Walks toward me. Her hips sway with each step. "Or Jess, when you're inside me. But we're not there yet."
She stops in front of me. Her breasts are at my eye level.
"Show me what you showed her. Then we'll negotiate."
She's different from her mother.
Catherine is commanding, dominant, in control. She tells me what she wants and expects perfection.
Jessica is hungrier. More aggressive. Less patient.
She doesn't make me kneel. She pushes me against the wall, drops to her knees herself, and swallows my cock like she's trying to absorb it.
"Jesus—"
"Quiet." She pulls off, looks up at me. "No talking unless I say."
She swallows me again. I stay quiet.
When she's satisfied that I'm hard enough, she bends over her desk.
"Fuck me," she says. "Hard. Now."
I don't hesitate.
She's tight—tighter than her mother, maybe from youth, maybe from something else. She moans when I enter her, pushes back against me, takes me deep.
"That's it—fuck—right there—"
I grab her hips. So much soft flesh. I thrust harder.
"My mother said you were good." She's panting. "She was right. God, she was right—"
She comes in under three minutes. I'm not far behind.
After, she turns and kisses me.
"Welcome to the family business," she says.
"What are the terms?"
"Same as with my mother. I promote you. You perform. And when we both decide, we share."
"Catherine mentioned that."
"I'm sure she did." Jessica's hand finds my cock. Already hardening again. "She's been waiting to play together for years. Now we have someone worth playing with."
She strokes me.
"Friday," she says. "My mother's office. Seven PM. Don't be late."
Friday. Seven PM. Catherine's office.
Both of them are waiting.
Catherine in black. Jessica in red. Mother and daughter, two-eighty and two-fifty respectively, dressed like they're going to a gala instead of a sexual ambush.
"You came," Catherine says.
"I was summoned."
"And you always obey." Jessica moves behind me. Starts unbuttoning my shirt. "We like that about you."
Catherine moves in front. Starts unbuttoning my pants.
"We've been competing for years," she says. "For positions, for power, for men. It's exhausting."
"So we made a deal." Jessica's hands slide inside my shirt. "One man. Shared. No more fighting."
"Just pleasure." Catherine frees my cock. "Mutual benefit. And you."
They work me together.
Mother on my cock, daughter on my mouth. Then they switch. Then again. I lose track of whose hands are where, whose mouth is on me, whose body I'm inside.
They kiss over me—mother and daughter, sharing the taste of me on their lips. They touch each other without hesitation. They compete not to take me from each other, but to make each other feel more.
"He's good at this," Jessica gasps as I thrust into her.
"I trained him well." Catherine is riding my face. "He's been practicing for eighteen months."
"Practicing for me?"
"For us." Catherine moans. "For us."
I come inside Jessica while eating her mother.
They come within seconds of each other—bodies shaking, voices blending.
We collapse in a heap on the executive carpet.
"Same time next week?" Jessica asks.
"Every week," Catherine confirms. "Until further notice."
She looks at me. Both of them do. Sixty-one and thirty-three. Mother and daughter. CEO and West Coast Director.
"Welcome to the Mercer family," Catherine says.
"We take care of our own," Jessica adds.
And somehow, impossibly, I believe them.
One Year Later
I'm the new COO of Mercer & Associates.
The board approved unanimously. I'm the youngest person to ever hold the position.
At the announcement party, I shake hands, accept congratulations, pose for photos.
Across the room, Catherine catches my eye. Jessica stands beside her.
They raise their glasses.
Friday, Catherine mouths.
Our office, Jessica adds.
I raise my glass back.
Some promotions are earned.
Some are negotiated.
And some—the best ones—are paid for in the oldest currency there is.
I wouldn't have it any other way.