The Corner Office

The email arrives at 4:47 PM.

Mr. Reeves—Report to my office at 6 PM. —V. Chen

Thirteen words. No subject line. No context needed.

Everyone in the building knows what it means when Victoria Chen summons you after hours. You clean out your desk first. You don't come back.

I stare at my screen, my stomach dropping through the floor. The Harmon file. The confidential projections I sent to the wrong client three days ago. I'd hoped—prayed—that it had gone unnoticed, that maybe the client had deleted it without reading, that maybe I could survive this.

Victoria Chen notices everything.

I'm twenty-six years old, eighteen months into my first real job, and I'm about to be fired by the most powerful woman in the industry.

Her assistant is gone by 5:55.

The entire forty-third floor is empty—just me, the hum of servers, and the massive oak door to the corner office. The door that everyone calls the Airlock, because once you go through it, you don't come back to the same atmosphere.

I knock at exactly 6 PM.

"Enter."

Her voice carries through the wood. Low. Controlled. The voice of a woman who built a three-billion-dollar company from a garage and a dream.

I push open the door.

Victoria Chen stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows, her back to me, silhouetted against the Chicago skyline. The sun is setting, painting the city in shades of amber and rose. She doesn't turn around.

"Close the door, Mr. Reeves. Lock it."

My hand trembles as I turn the deadbolt. The click echoes like a gunshot.

"Sit."

There's a single chair in front of her desk. Low-slung leather, designed to make the occupant feel small. I sit.

She still doesn't turn around.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"The Harmon file. I sent it to—"

"To Meridian Capital. Our direct competitor." Now she turns. "Confidential five-year projections. Revenue forecasts. Acquisition targets. Everything we've spent two years developing, handed to our enemy because you couldn't double-check an email address."

I open my mouth. Close it. There's nothing to say.

Victoria Chen walks toward her desk. Each step is deliberate, unhurried. She's wearing a charcoal suit—tailored, expensive, clinging to curves that the fashion industry pretends don't exist on powerful women. She's maybe five-six, but she takes up space like someone much larger. Her hips are wide, rolling with each step. Her breasts strain against the silk of her blouse, full and heavy. Her belly curves softly beneath her waistband—not hidden, not apologized for.

She's fifty-two years old. Silver threads through her black hair, which is pinned up in an elegant twist. Her face is lined with decades of boardroom warfare, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

She's terrifying.

She's beautiful.

She sits on the edge of her desk, directly in front of me. Her skirt rides up, revealing thick thighs in sheer stockings. She crosses her legs slowly, watching me watch her.

"Eyes up here, Mr. Reeves."

My face burns. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to look at your CEO's legs while she's about to fire you?" A ghost of a smile. "At least you have taste. That's more than I can say for your attention to detail."

"Mrs. Chen—"

"Ms. Chen. I divorced the first husband and buried the second. Neither of them gets to claim me anymore." She picks up a tablet from her desk, scrolls through it. "Jacob Reeves. Twenty-six. Stanford, top of your class. Glowing recommendations. Eighteen months at this company, and until three days ago, a spotless record."

"I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I know that."

"You made a mistake that could cost this company forty million dollars in competitive advantage." She sets the tablet down. "If Meridian acts on that information—and they will—we lose the Whitfield acquisition. We lose the Singapore expansion. We lose everything I've spent the last two years building."

"I'll do anything to make it right. Extra hours. Pay cut. Whatever you need."

"Whatever I need." She tilts her head. Studies me like I'm a spreadsheet with an error she can't locate. "That's a dangerous offer, Mr. Reeves. People say it without meaning it."

"I mean it."

"Do you?" She uncrosses her legs. Spreads them slightly. The skirt rides higher. "Let me tell you what happens next. Option one: I fire you. You're blacklisted in the industry—I'll make sure of it. You spend the next ten years trying to rebuild a career from nothing, explaining in every interview why Victoria Chen personally ended you."

My throat closes.

"Option two." She stands. Moves closer. Stops with her knees almost touching mine. "You become useful to me in a different way. Not as an analyst. As something else entirely."

"Something else?"

"I'm a fifty-two-year-old woman who runs a company worth three billion dollars. I work sixteen-hour days. I eat dinner alone in this office more nights than not. I have a hundred people who fear me and not one who satisfies me."

The word lands like a slap.

"Ms. Chen—"

"I've watched you for eighteen months, Jacob." My first name. The intimacy of it makes me shiver. "Watched you work. Watched you move through this building. Wondered what you'd look like on your knees."

"I don't—"

"Don't pretend you haven't looked at me too. I see the way your eyes follow me in meetings. The way you stare when you think I'm not paying attention." She reaches down, cups my chin, tilts my face up. "You want me. You've wanted me since orientation. The question is whether you want your career more."

I should say no.

Should stand up, accept the firing, walk out with whatever dignity I have left. This is coercion. This is abuse of power. This is everything HR training warns you about.

But her hand is on my face. Her thighs are inches from mine. And she's right—I've wanted her since the first time I saw her command a boardroom, all curves and authority and absolute control.

"What would I have to do?"

"Whatever I tell you." Her thumb traces my lower lip. "When I call, you come. When I want you, you're available. You give me what I need, and in return, you keep your job, your reputation, your future. Refuse, and—" She shrugs. "Option one."

"For how long?"

"For as long as I want you." She leans closer. Her perfume fills my head—something dark, expensive, intoxicating. "This isn't a negotiation, Jacob. This is a choice. Yes or no. Right now."

Her lips are inches from mine.

I should say no.

"Yes."

She kisses me like she's claiming territory.

Hard, demanding, her tongue pushing into my mouth before I can react. Her hand stays on my chin, holding me in place while she takes what she wants. I'm frozen—overwhelmed—and then instinct takes over and I'm kissing her back.

She tastes like whiskey and power.

"Stand up," she orders against my lips.

I stand.

"Strip."

"Here? Someone could—"

"The door is locked. The floor is empty. And I said strip."

I pull off my tie. Unbutton my shirt. Her eyes follow every movement, appraising, evaluating. My pants come next, then my boxers, and then I'm standing naked in the corner office of a three-billion-dollar company while the CEO circles me like a shark.

"Not bad." She stops behind me. Her hand slides down my spine. "Better than I expected."

"Thank you?"

"Don't speak unless I ask you a question." She comes around to face me. "Now. Undress me."

My hands shake as I reach for her. The buttons of her blouse are small, delicate. Beneath is black lace—a bra that contains breasts I've fantasized about for eighteen months. I slide the blouse off her shoulders. Reach around to unhook the bra.

They spill free.

Full, heavy, tipped with dark nipples already stiffening in the cool office air. Not as large as some I've seen, but perfect—real, natural, begging to be touched.

"The skirt."

I find the zipper. Slide it down. The skirt pools at her feet, and she steps out of it. She's wearing a garter belt, stockings, black lace panties that do nothing to hide the shadow of her sex.

"Everything," she says.

I kneel to unhook the garters. Roll down the stockings. Hook my fingers in her panties and slide them down her thick thighs.

She's bare underneath. Wet. I can see it glistening.

"You want to taste me." It's not a question. "I can see it in your face. That desperate little hunger."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Ms. Chen."

She smiles. "Good boy. You're learning already."

She walks to her desk. Sweeps aside the tablet and papers. Hops up onto the edge, her ass settling on the polished wood, and spreads her legs.

"Come here."

I crawl to her.

I don't even think about it—just drop to my knees and cross the distance between us on all fours. Something about her demands it. Commands it. She watches with satisfaction as I kneel between her thick thighs.

"Worship me," she says. "Show me what your mouth is good for, since it clearly isn't proofreading emails."

I lean forward and taste her.

The first lick makes her exhale sharply. She's wet—soaked—like she's been thinking about this as long as I have. I run my tongue along her folds, find her clit, circle it slowly.

"Yes." Her hand finds my hair. Grips. "That's it. Just like that."

I worship her.

There's no other word for it. I lick and suck and probe, learning her, reading every catch of her breath and twitch of her hips. Her thighs clamp around my head—soft, warm, powerful enough to crush me if she wanted. I wouldn't care if she did.

"Fingers," she commands. "Inside me. Now."

I slide two fingers into her. She's tight, hot, gripping me immediately. I curl them upward, find the spot that makes her gasp, and work it while my mouth stays on her clit.

"Fuck—" The word sounds wrong in her boardroom voice. Obscene. Perfect. "Right there—don't stop—don't you dare stop—"

I don't stop.

I fuck her with my fingers and tongue, feeling her build, feeling her thighs shake around my ears. Her hand tightens in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. I don't care. I want to make her come. I need to make her come.

"I'm going to—" She breaks off. Her hips buck against my face. "Yes—"

She shatters.

Her pussy clamps around my fingers. Her thighs crush my head. She throws her head back and makes a sound I've never heard from any woman—something between a scream and a growl, something primal and powerful and completely uncontrolled.

I work her through it, gentler now, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her body. When she finally releases my hair, I look up at her.

She's panting. Flushed. Her elegant twist has come undone, black and silver spilling over her shoulders.

"Not bad," she breathes. "For a first performance review."

"Thank you, Ms. Chen."

"We're not done." She slides off the desk. Pushes me backward until I'm lying on the floor—the expensive carpet of the corner office, probably worth more than my annual salary. She straddles me, her wet heat hovering over my cock. "I'm going to ride you now. And you're going to last until I tell you to come. Understood?"

"Yes, Ms. Chen."

She sinks onto me.

She's tight.

That's my first thought—impossibly, wonderfully tight, gripping me like she's been waiting years for this. My second thought is that I'm inside Victoria Chen. My CEO. My boss. The woman who could destroy my life with a phone call.

The thought makes me harder.

"Good," she murmurs, feeling me swell inside her. "Very good."

She starts to move.

Slow at first—rolling her hips, grinding down, finding the angle she wants. Her hands press against my chest for balance. Her breasts sway above me, full and heavy, and I reach up to cup them.

"Did I say you could touch?"

I freeze. "No, Ms. Chen."

"Hands above your head. Don't move them until I say."

I raise my arms above my head, grip my own wrists. She smiles—satisfied, powerful—and starts to ride me harder.

"This is what you're for now," she says between thrusts. "Not spreadsheets. Not presentations. This. You exist to please me. Say it."

"I exist to please you."

"Again."

"I exist to please you, Ms. Chen."

"And you'll come when I summon you. Day or night. No questions asked."

"Yes, Ms. Chen."

"And if you ever—ever—tell anyone about this arrangement—" She slams down hard, making me gasp. "I'll destroy you so completely your own mother won't remember your name."

"I understand."

"Good boy."

She rides me faster now. Her belly ripples with each impact. Her breasts bounce wildly. The wet sounds of our bodies fill the corner office, obscene and perfect.

I'm close—too close—but I don't have permission.

"Ms. Chen—I'm going to—"

"Hold it."

"I can't—"

"You can and you will." She leans down, her face inches from mine. "You don't come until I do. That's rule number one."

She kisses me—hard, biting—while her hips keep moving. I taste myself on her lips. I dig my nails into my wrists, trying to focus on anything except the pleasure threatening to overwhelm me.

"I'm close," she pants. "So close—right there—"

She throws her head back and screams.

Her pussy clamps around me, convulsing, milking me. And finally—finally—she gasps the word:

"Come."

I explode.

I pump into her while she's still shaking, filling her, claiming some small part of her even as she owns every part of me. The pleasure is blinding. All-consuming. I've never come this hard in my life.

She collapses onto me.

We lie there on the floor of the corner office, tangled together, panting. Her weight is solid and warm against my chest.

"You passed," she murmurs.

"The performance review?"

"The audition." She lifts her head, looks at me with those sharp eyes. "Be here tomorrow at six. Same time. Don't be late."

"Yes, Ms. Chen."

She smiles. Kisses me once, almost gentle.

"You can call me Victoria. When we're alone."

That was three months ago.

I still work at the company. Still an analyst, still at the same desk. No one knows anything has changed.

But everything has changed.

Three nights a week—sometimes more—I go to the corner office. I worship her on her desk, her couch, the floor. I kneel when she tells me to kneel. I wait when she tells me to wait. I give her everything she asks for, and in return—

In return, I get her.

Not just her body. Her. The woman behind the CEO. The one who laughs at my jokes when no one else is listening. The one who tells me about her day while I massage her feet. The one who falls asleep on my chest after we've exhausted each other.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," she says one night. We're in her penthouse now—she's started inviting me home. "I was supposed to use you. Discard you when I got bored."

"What happened?"

"You happened." She traces patterns on my chest. "You and your stupid eagerness and your puppy-dog eyes and the way you look at me like I'm something worth looking at."

"You are."

"I'm a fifty-two-year-old workaholic with trust issues and a body that went out of fashion twenty years ago."

"You're Victoria Chen." I pull her closer. "You're the most powerful woman I've ever met. And the most beautiful."

She's quiet for a long moment.

"My second husband used to say things like that. He didn't mean them."

"I mean them."

"How do I know?"

I roll her onto her back. Settle between her thick thighs. Look down at the woman who owns my career, my future, my everything.

"Because I'm still here," I say. "Not because I have to be. Because I want to be."

She searches my face. Whatever she finds there makes her expression soften.

"You're going to ruin me, Jacob Reeves."

"Is that allowed?"

"No." She pulls me down for a kiss. "Do it anyway."

The Harmon file turns out fine.

Meridian Capital never acts on the information—turns out their CEO has his own problems, a scandal that breaks a month later and takes the whole company down. Victoria tells me over dinner, amused.

"Your mistake cost us nothing. And gained me something invaluable."

"What's that?"

"You." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Ms. Chen."

She laughs. Squeezes my fingers.

And later that night, in her corner office with the city glittering below us, she doesn't give orders. Doesn't demand. Just pulls me close and whispers my name while I make love to her.

Some mistakes turn into opportunities.

Mine turned into something I never expected.

Her.

And I wouldn't trade it for anything.