Monday Standup

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding.

Tiffany stepped out alone.

Hair brushed.

White blouse buttoned—barely.

Her skirt hugged her hips tighter than ever.

She’d worn the black lace again.

The receptionist didn’t say anything.

Just glanced once—at her thighs, then quickly away.

By the time she reached her desk, the group chat was already pinging:

“she’s wearing that black lingerie again that she posted on her social media”

“pretty sure she’s dripping”

“anyone know if she’s free for lunch?”

She sat.

Legs crossed.

Opened her laptop.

An hour passed.

Then two.

No one came by.

No one said a word.

She checked her messages.

Nothing.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs.

Still nothing.

Her thighs were slick now.

She tapped out a message:

to: Mason, Derek, Ethan, You

are you seriously ignoring me?

you’re all pretending like you didn’t fuck me full 48 hours ago and leave me leaking on your rug

No reply.

Her stomach twisted.

She stood up.

Walked.

⸻

Conference Room C.

Lights off.

Door half-cracked.

She slipped in.

You were already waiting.

So was Derek.

Mason.

Ethan.

Jake.

And one more guy.

The intern.

Her breath caught.

“You bastards,” she whispered.

Mason stood. Crossed to her. Lifted her chin.

“Were you getting needy out there?”

She didn’t speak.

He smiled.

“You wore those heels for us?”

She nodded.

“Get on the table.”

She did.

No hesitation.

Legs spread.

Skirt still on, panties sliding off.

Bare cunt, glistening.

You stepped forward.

Pressed two fingers inside her.

She moaned.

Still wet.

Still open.

“She’s ready.”

“Of course she is.”

⸻

They took turns again.

But this time—it was silent.

No jokes.

No teasing.

Just the sound of skin.

Of breath.

Of Tiffany moaning.

Used.

Carefully.

Ritually.

Like she belonged here now.

Because she did.

Her back arched.

Her mouth stayed open.

She came quietly, her legs twitching.

When the intern pulled out and came across her stomach, she grabbed his wrist—

And licked it clean.

⸻

You dressed her again after.

Pulled the blouse back down.

Smoothed her skirt.

Kissed her cheek.

“You’ve got a 2PM, remember?”

She nodded, dazed.

Smiling.

⸻

That afternoon, she presented a forecast deck to the execs.

Nobody noticed her flushed cheeks.

Nobody noticed the faint trail of white dripping down the back of her calf.

Nobody except you.

And her.

And she loved it.