Fire Against the Files

From a young age, I learned to wear the mask of the poised, reserved, almost shy woman… but all it takes is one person gazing at me with the right kind of craving to uncover what I truly am: a wildfire. A blaze that never fades, simmering quietly, but when it breaks free, it engulfs everything in its path.

I’ve spent my life chasing desires. But only the ones that spark something real. Only with those who earn the privilege of seeing the raw, untamed side I keep locked away.

He… he fought for it.

I’d been watching him for weeks. The way his eyes lingered on me whenever I passed by his desk, like he was trying to cage a hunger that was already clawing its way out. I relished how he’d stiffen when I leaned in to review his work, my voice low, giving him some mundane task. The way his breath hitched if I brushed past him in the hallway. He was young, strikingly handsome, and at that age where he could make any woman’s pulse race, no matter her years. You could see it in him – that restless, primal drive to conquer everything. The kind of man whose body reacts to the faintest touch. And me? His manager. Far from immune to his pull.

I’ve always had a weakness for the forbidden. Hidden nooks. Places where the world hums along, oblivious, while I’m unraveling in secret, my body claimed in ways no one would ever suspect.
That evening, the excuse was effortless.

– Head to the archive room and check if the client files are sorted, – I said, my eyes tracing the line of his throat.

He nodded, a little too quickly. Let’s call it: the usual jitteriness he got when I spoke to him.

I waited a few moments, ensuring no one would notice. Then I walked with measured steps to the back office, locking the door softly behind me.

I found him flipping through folders, his brow furrowed like he was lost in the task.

– They’re not sorted yet, ma’am, – he said, glancing up as I stepped inside.

– I figured.

I moved closer, locking eyes with him in silence. His chest rose with a deep inhale. He went still as I stopped just inches away. I reached out, my fingers grazing his jaw – not forceful, but deliberate, like I was staking a claim.

– How long have you been imagining what it’d be like to have me?

A nervous chuckle slipped out. He looked away, cheeks flushing. No answer.

– Easy, now. I’m not mad. In fact… it gets me going.

He met my gaze, and I was closer now, my lips hovering near his. I parted them slightly, letting my tongue trace their edge. Sometimes, that’s enough. I knew he’d close the distance.

And he did.

His kiss was urgent, a little messy, all raw need. I steadied him, guiding his lips to find a rhythm with mine. My fingers curled into his hair, tugging him closer until our bodies pressed together. I felt his arousal, hard and insistent against my thigh, pulling a soft gasp from me. It wasn’t just his youth that thrilled me – it was the way he looked at me, like I was the embodiment of every fantasy he’d been harboring.

I turned around, bracing myself against a stack of boxes. I hiked up my skirt – the same one I wore when I first met him. Not scandalously short, but tailored to hug my curves, accentuating every line of my hips and thighs. The kind of skirt that plants dangerous ideas in a man’s mind.

(In every one of my fantasies, there’s a skirt like this. As if it’s whispering to me to part my thighs and surrender to the thrill that sets my soul ablaze.)

– Remember this skirt? – I asked, voice low.

– Yeah, – he rasped, his voice thick with want.

– That day, you were already picturing this, weren’t you?

He nodded, hands trembling as he fumbled with his belt, freeing himself. His cock was hard, straining, brushing against me through the thin fabric of my panties, already soaked with my arousal. Ready. Aching.

I slid my underwear aside, guiding him to me. He entered slowly at first, cautious, like he couldn’t believe this was real. His cock stretched me, a delicious pressure as he pushed deeper, finding a rhythm. His hands gripped my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, grounding himself as he groaned into my ear – low, desperate sounds that sent shivers through me. I closed my eyes, letting the sensation consume me, every thrust stoking the fire inside.

The archive room was silent, save for our ragged breaths and the soft creak of the boxes beneath me. Outside, the office droned on: phones ringing, keyboards tapping, the hum of normalcy. In here, I was taking him, his young, eager cock driving into me as I bit my wrist to stifle a scream, the sharp pain mingling with pleasure.

– Jesus… this is unreal, – he gasped, voice breaking.

– It’s real, – I murmured, not looking back. – And I want it again… and again… until you master how to fuck a woman like me.

His hands roamed, one sliding up my spine, the other spreading my thighs wider, opening me to him. He fucked me with a hunger that felt like worship – like I was a prize he’d won, a need he couldn’t contain. His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, each one pulling a shudder from me as he hit that perfect spot inside, over and over, building a pressure that threatened to break me apart.