I don't usually fuck my employees, particularly the junior ones. Once you get to my age, you realise that the risk isn't always worth the trouble. It takes more than a young body and a couple of drinks to tempt me into even flirting with any members of staff.
But you have been interested in me for months. It's a little obvious, from asking my advice on work that you know how to do, to the way in which you blush when I say hello to you in the morning. You're not my assistant, but you bring me a coffee every afternoon for the chance to see me in my office, and look disappointed when I'm occasionally too busy to give more than a thank you and smile. I eventually have to gently hint to your manager that bringing me coffee is not part of your job description. She looks at me pointedly, both of us aware this is not the reason for your behaviour.
You dress in increasingly form-fitting clothing, still professional but skirts just a little shorter than typical, silky shirts with a few buttons undone to show a glimpse of black lingerie, tight dresses that make all the straight men in the office involuntarily glance as you walk past. When you notice me looking, you stand up a straighter, positioning yourself to make your body appealing. I try not to look.
Today at the work party, we all came straight from the office to the bar of a local hotel for a drinks reception. Most are still in suits, but you changed into a backless silver top, showing a small tattoo of a dragon at the nape of your neck and no bra. You're wearing a lot more make-up than usual, bright red shiny lip gloss and dark eyeliner that is a little severe. Then you flash a wide, almost child-like grin, ecstatic to have caught me staring.
I try to avoid you, but by the end of the night you are sitting beside me on a stool at the bar, having unnecessarily brought me a drink. I notice your hard nipples through the thin fabric of your top, the tanned curve of your arms. You are gorgeous and uneasy about it, thick blonde hair, a curvy muscular body and small high breasts. You joke about wanting to be thinner and pull your skirt down regularly as it rides up while you wriggle nervously on the bar stool. If we were in a relationship, I would beg you not to waste energy on reducing yourself and kiss the parts of your body you claim to hate - your dimpled thighs, your arms, the curve of your stomach. This is what I do for other lovers.
But we're not dating, and I don't want to date you. Your concerns do not interest me and I'm sure you would not be able to cope with the reality of dating a middle-aged man with children. We have a twenty year age gap, you're at the beginning of your career and we have nothing in common but our growing attraction to each other. As you talk, I listen but also appraise you, deciding whether the reputational risk is worth fucking you right now. My resolve is slipping as you put a hand on my thigh, far too high up and let your thumb gently rub up the inside seam until you almost reach my cock. You smile at me, taking a pause to ask if this is ok.
Asking for permission unravels me. I realise I need to have you. I tell you that I have a room in the hotel booked and ask if you would like to join me for a drink there. You agree, blushing sweetly again, all your dreams coming true.
