Karen had always been the office’s quiet one—knee-length skirts, blouses buttoned to the throat, a gold band that felt heavier every year. Then Marcus joined the team, all slow smiles and hungry eyes. He’d lean over her desk, his cologne a warm whisper against her neck, and murmur about deadlines, but his gaze would drop to where her pantyhose strained.

The first time he touched her—a hand on her hip after happy hour—she froze. By the second, she melted. By the third, she let him lead her to the empty supply closet.

He didn’t waste time on softness. He spun her against the shelving, hiked her skirt to her waist, and tore her stockings with a sound like ripping faith. His thick cock—fat, veined, and already slick with pre-cum—found her wetness instantly. She gasped as he shoved into her pussy, a stretch that made her eyes water, her modest moans swallowed by his palm.

He pounded her for a while—long, hard strokes that slapped against her ass, his balls smacking her thighs. “You like this, don’t you?” he growled, thumb circling her clit. She nodded, drooling into his hand, her guilt dissolving into pure, sloppy need.

Then he pulled out. “Bend over,” he ordered, and she complied like a puppet. He spat on her asshole, worked a finger in, then two, stretching her virgin ring until she whined. The first push of his cock head against her tight rear made her squeal—a sharp, burning ache that felt like betrayal.

But he