After-Hours Agreement

Anaya Mehra was out of line. She knew it.

Rishaan Malhotra was beyond furious.

She had pushed him too far tonight. And now, she was going to pay for it.

It started with the way she bent over his desk that morning — reaching for a pen that didn’t need retrieving. The way her ass swayed, her skirt tight enough to draw his eyes, but loose enough to invite imagination.

He’d ignored it.

Until lunch, when she leaned across the boardroom table, blouse gaping just enough to flash a hint of black lace and the swell of her tits beneath.

Still, he said nothing. Just clenched his jaw. Adjusted himself under the table.

But now — 10:43 p.m., Gurgaon, Malhotra Industries HQ, Boardroom 17 — she had crossed the line.

Anaya wasn’t just pushing boundaries anymore.

She was begging to be destroyed.

The room was silent when he entered, except for the hum of the AC and the clicking of her heels as she walked slowly toward him, laptop closed, lipstick darker than it had been this morning.

She looked like a problem.

A beautiful, disobedient, dripping-wet problem.

“You stayed late again,” Rishaan said, shutting the door behind him. His tone was low. Controlled. Dangerous.

She turned toward him with calculated slowness. “The quarterly wasn’t aligned. I didn’t want you disappointed, sir.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“No, sir.”

“You think I don’t see the way you dress around me? The way you lick your lips before meetings?”

“I don’t mean to be distracting,” she murmured, stepping closer. “It’s not my fault if your cock pays more attention than your head.”

He moved fast. One hand in her hair, the other around her throat, pinning her to the glass wall with sheer force. Not choking. Just reminding her of power.

Her breath hitched. Her thighs pressed together.

“You’ve been deliberately inappropriate for weeks,” he growled. “And now you’ll get what you’ve been aching for.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, eyes wide and gleaming.

“You’re not leaving this room until I fuck every ounce of disobedience out of you.”

“Please, sir.”

He dragged her across the room by her wrist, throwing her against the long mahogany conference table. Her body bounced with the impact, breath stolen from her lungs.

“On your knees.”

She dropped immediately, pupils dilated, palms on his thighs.

He undid his belt slowly, watching her eyes track the movement. The second he pulled his cock free — thick, flushed, already leaking — she gasped.

“Open your mouth.”

She obeyed without hesitation.

Her lips wrapped around the tip as her tongue flicked over the slit, collecting precum like it was nectar. He hissed and pushed deeper. She gagged, throat constricting, but didn’t pull back. Her hands gripped his thighs as she sucked him deeper, her spit coating his cock, messy and wet.

“Good girl,” he growled. “Fucking take it.”

She moaned around him, tongue swirling, throat flexing, her pace frantic and filthy. He gripped her hair and fucked her mouth, hard, watching her mascara smear, drool running down her chin.

When he pulled out, she gasped for air, her face a beautiful wreck.

“Stand up. Strip. Slowly.”

She rose, breath ragged, and began unbuttoning her blouse one by one. Her tits spilled out — round, soft, her nipples dark and hard.

Then the skirt. She slid it down her legs, revealing a thin lace thong soaked through.

He walked up behind her and grabbed her tits — squeezing hard, kneading the flesh, pinching her nipples until she cried out.

“You walk around here with these tits swinging, trying to get my attention? You want me to bend you over my desk in the middle of a Monday meeting?”

“If it means your cock’s inside me, yes, sir.”

He growled and spun her, lifting her onto the table. She spread her legs willingly.

“Look how fucking wet you are,” he muttered, rubbing her clit with two fingers. “All this for me?”

“All of it, sir. I’ve been dripping since lunch.”

He pushed two fingers into her cunt and started working them in and out. Her head fell back, moans escaping her lips, her tits heaving with every breath.

Then he dropped to his knees again, licking a long, slow stripe up her slit, tongue circling her clit before sucking it hard.

“Fuck, sir—oh my god—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He licked her clit like it was his profession — flattening his tongue, alternating speed and pressure, fingers fucking her deeper, faster, until she was thrashing on the table.

“I—I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t hold—”

“You don’t come until I say.”

But her body disobeyed. Her orgasm hit like lightning — a scream, a quake, her thighs locking around his head as she came all over his face.

He stood up, slapped her pussy lightly, and said, “Now you’ll get punished for that.”

He flipped her over, face flat against the cold table, ass high, cunt exposed.

She looked back at him. “Please, sir. Fuck me.”

He didn’t wait.

He lined his cock up and drove into her in one savage thrust. Her scream echoed off the glass.

“Too much?”

“No, sir,” she moaned. “More.”

He started pounding her, fast and deep. His cock slammed into her again and again, the table shaking beneath them, her tits bouncing, her nipples dragging on the polished wood. Her clit throbbed with every stroke, her pussy gripping his cock, greedy, filthy.

“You think you can wear short skirts and walk around like you own the place?” he growled.

“No, sir.”

“You think you can tempt me and not take the consequences?”

“I want the consequences, sir. Fuck—don’t stop—”

He grabbed her throat from behind, lifted her just enough to whisper in her ear.

“You’re going to come again. And you’re going to thank me for it.”

“Yes, sir—please—”

He rubbed her clit as he fucked her, faster, harder, until her voice cracked into incoherent cries. Her orgasm exploded — violent, soaking, loud — her pussy clenching so tight it dragged him over the edge.

“Take it,” he growled, slamming deep and staying there, his cock twitching inside her, hot cum flooding her soaked cunt.

They stayed like that for a long moment — her bent over, panting, used. Him still buried deep inside, dripping sweat, hands gripping her hips.

Finally, he pulled out slowly, watching the mess leak from her.

His cum was still dripping from her cunt when he stepped back, watching it ooze down the insides of her trembling thighs and pool onto the polished wood of the conference table.

Her body was limp, chest heaving, tits glistening with sweat, nipples dark and stiff, her face flushed and ruined in the most beautiful way. Mascara smeared. Hair tangled. Lips bitten open.

“Stand up,” Rishaan commanded, voice ragged but steady.

She obeyed instantly.

“Face me.”

She turned, and he stepped close again, crowding her space, grabbing her jaw. He made her look up into his eyes.

“No more games,” he said. “No more stunts. No more swaying your hips through my corridors like some little office slut unless you want to be treated like one. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

He smirked faintly. “Too late anyway.”

His thumb dragged across her bottom lip, then lower, tracing a slow line between her tits, down to her clit — swollen, sensitive, soaked.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “This is what you wanted. Didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” she gasped, the words cracking into a moan.

He stepped back, adjusted his belt, watched her stand there — half-naked, dripping, flushed — and still looking at him like she was desperate for more.

But he was done.

For tonight.

“Clean yourself up,” he ordered. “And send the revised pitch deck before you leave.”

Her lips parted. “Yes, sir.”

She reached down and began collecting her clothes.

Rishaan didn’t help her. He just watched her from the head of the table.

He smirked once, just slightly.

“Anaya,” he said, just as she opened the door to leave.

She turned back, startled.

“Don’t ever pull that shit again,” he said.

“But if you do—”

A pause. A devilish smile.

“—wear red lipstick. It looks better around my cock.”

Her knees almost buckled.

She stepped out into the dark corridor. The door clicked shut behind her.

And Rishaan Malhotra — CEO, predator, problem solver — finally let out a low, satisfied breath.

Game.
Set.
Fucked.