Forbidden Wet Taboos

After We Clock Out Workplace Erotica

The radio on Cole’s hip cracked at 2:07 a.m.

“Aisle C cage. Now. Count’s off.”

Rhea’s voice. Same clipped tone she had used on him since his first week.

Twenty-three years old and already tired of him, or performing it so well it landed the same.

Cole left the pallet jack where it sat, hi-vis still zipped, and walked the dead floor.

Night shift had thinned to a forklift somewhere in receiving and a radio that only seemed to find him.

The cage door was already open. Rhea stood under the one working light with a clipboard she did not need. Dark polo. Hair yanked back. Warehouse dust on her boots. Twenty-three years old and mean in a way that had nothing to do with the count.

“Shut it,” she said.

He shut the cage door. The latch clicked too loud.

“There’s no count error,” Cole said.

“I know.” Rhea set the clipboard on a stack of shrink wrap. Looked him over like she was about to write him up for existing. “You’ve been slow on inbound for two weeks. You look at me when I talk on the floor. You take it. I’m sick of the take-it version of you.”

He waited. The overhead hummed. Cardboard and cold concrete and her gum.

“I’m off the clock in my head even if the badge isn’t,” she said. “If you want to leave, leave. If you want me to keep being your manager in here, I will. If you want my mouth and my hands, you say yes out loud and you can say no the second it stops working.”

Cole’s pulse sat in his throat.

“I want you,” he said. “Yes.”

“Yes what.”

“Yes. I want you to touch me. I want to touch you. I’m not confusing that with the job.”

Rhea’s mouth twitched. Not kind. Interested.

“Lock it.”

He locked the cage. When he turned she was already in his space, close enough that he could see the dust on her collarbone and the place her polo pulled across her tits.

She kissed him like a correction. Teeth.

A fist in the front of his hi-vis. Cole made a sound into it and she swallowed it and bit his lower lip for the trouble.

“Hands,” she said against his mouth. “Under. Ask.”

“Can I put my hands under your shirt.”

“Yes. Don’t get sweet.”

He dragged the polo up. Warm skin. The cheap catch of a work bra. She was soft where the uniform pretended she wasn’t. Cole’s palms filled with the heavy undersides of her tits over the fabric and Rhea exhaled through her nose like she was annoyed that it felt good.

“Higher. On them. I said on them.”

He covered her tits over the bra and squeezed.

She pushed into his hands, still kissing him like she was winning something.

Twenty-three years old, mean, already wet for all he knew, and using his mouth the way she used the radio.

Cole backed into the filing cabinet and she followed, thigh shoving between his, the hard line of him obvious through the work pants when she dragged up.

“You’re already like that,” she said, glancing down, almost laughing. “Two months of me riding you on the floor and this is what it was.”

“You going to keep talking?”

“Yes.” She put her hand over his and pressed his palm harder onto her breast. “I like talking. I like you doing what I say when you choose it. Nipples. Over the bra. Then you can ask to go under.”

He thumbed her nipples through the nylon.

They tightened. Rhea’s head tipped a fraction.

He felt the tell and filed it. She smelled like warehouse air and mint gum and the soap from the women’s locker room.

He kissed the corner of her jaw and she let him for two seconds before she took his mouth again.

“Under,” he said. “Can I.”

“Yes.”

The bra was a hook in back. He didn’t bother.

He shoved the cups up and got his hands on her bare tits, heavy, nipples tight against his palms.

Rhea swore under her breath. Not nice. Honest.

Cole ducked and put his mouth on one because the cage light was ugly and he wanted the taste.

Salt. Warm. He sucked and she grabbed the back of his head and held him there like another order.

“Other one. Don’t you play favorites on my time.”

He switched. Licked a circle, used his teeth the way she had used hers on his mouth. Her hip rolled against his cock through two layers of work clothes and the sound he made her huff.

“Belt stays shut,” she said. “Yours. Mine too. Not yet. I want you wrecked before I let you think about putting it in me.”

“Okay.”

“Ask for the next thing anyway.”

Cole lifted his head. Her polo was shoved up. Her tits were out in the cage light, flushed, wet from his mouth. She looked like his manager and not like his manager. Same age. Same shift. A clipboard behind her like a joke.

“Can I take your pants down.”

Rhea smiled with no warmth at all.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

She put two fingers under his chin so he had to look at her.

“On your knees.”

Cole went to his knees on warehouse concrete.

The cold bit through his pants. Rhea looked down at him the same way she looked at a short stack, mouth flat, eyes bright. Twenty-three years old, polo still shoved up, tits wet from his mouth, and she popped the button on her work pants with two fingers like she was clocking out a line.

“Ask.”

“Can I take your pants down.”

“Yes. Underwear too. Then you ask for your mouth.”

He dragged the pants to her boots and left them trapped there.

Black underwear gone dark in the middle.

He hooked them aside, then down when she lifted one foot.

Her pussy was already slick, flushed, a small patch of hair she had not bothered to make neat for him.

He could smell her under the cardboard and dust. Heat. Salt.

“Can I put my mouth on you.”

“Yes. Against the cabinet. I want to stand. If you get shy I will send you back to inbound.”

Cole put her ass to the filing cabinet and hooked one of her thighs over his shoulder. She grabbed the cabinet edge. He licked through her folds once, slow, and her breath punched out like he had finally gotten a count right.

Then he stopped being slow.

He sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked. Rhea swore at the ceiling cage light. He licked her open, tongue flat, then pointed, then back to that tight peak until her boot heel dug into his back. Wet on his chin already. The ugly hum of the overhead. Her manager voice trying to stay intact.

“That’s—fine. That’s acceptable.” She swallowed. “You’ve been sloppy on labels all month and now you can aim. Keep that pressure. Don’t you wander off to be romantic.”

He did not wander. He ate her like the write-up was happening in real time. Two fingers along the outside of her hole, not in, until she said he could. She said it.

“Finger. One. You put two in me without asking and this ends.”

“Can I put a finger in you.”

“Yes.”

He slid one finger into her while he sucked her clit.

Tight. Hot. She clenched and her hip rolled onto his face.

Cole curled the finger and she made a sound she would have written him up for on the floor.

He stayed on that spot. Warehouse cold on his knees.

Her smell all over his mouth. The hi-vis rustling every time she jerked.

“You look at me on the floor,” she said, wrecked and still mean. “You think I don’t see it. Two months. I should have sent you home. Instead you’re on your knees in my cage. Don’t you cum from this. This isn’t for you.”

He hummed against her. She grabbed his hair.

Rhea came with her thigh shaking on his shoulder and her other boot skidding on concrete.

She bit down on a noise and failed. Pussy pulsing around his finger, wet on his tongue, 23 year old manager coming on a 23 year old picker’s face under a buzzing light.

Cole licked her through it until she tapped his ear, sharp.

He stopped.

Rhea looked down at him with her mouth open and her tits still out and a flush high on her cheeks she would hate in a mirror.

“Up.”

He stood. His knees burned. His cock hurt behind the belt she had told him to leave shut. She shoved him back into the cabinet this time, went for his buckle, and got her hand around him the second the zipper gave.

“Ask.”

“Can you put your mouth on me.”

“I’m going to. You don’t finish. You warn me. I bite you if you forget.”

“I’ll warn you.”

Rhea went down like she did everything else — efficient, a little cruel.

She licked the underside of his cock once, then took him in hot and deep enough that Cole’s head hit metal.

Wet. Tight. She used her fist for what her mouth didn’t want yet, spit running, the filthy sound loud in the cage.

He stared at his manager with her lips stretched around him and had to lock his hips so he would not thrust.

She pulled off and stroked him, looking up.

“This is why you’ve been slow. Standing there thinking about my mouth instead of the pallet map.”

“Rhea.”

“Warn.”

“Close—wait. Close.”

She took her mouth off him at once and squeezed the base of his cock, mean and precise, until the edge backed down. Cole swore at the ceiling. She looked pleased.

Then a pallet jack beeped.

Two aisles over. Maybe one. Backup alarm, short, then again. Footsteps too far to be sure and too close to be nothing.

They froze.

Rhea’s hand was still on him. His mouth still tasted like her. The cage lock sat between them and whoever was stupid enough to be on the floor at 2:20.

The beep moved off toward receiving. A radio muttered a name that was not either of theirs. Gone.

Rhea stood, pulled her underwear up, shoved her tits back into the bra, and yanked the polo down like the last ten minutes were a clip she could delete. Her mouth was wet. Her voice came back clipped.

“Belt. Now.”

Cole got himself into his pants with hands that did not want to work. She unlocked the cage, listened, and looked at him like he was late for a meeting she had called.

“Office,” she said. “Now. You follow two minutes behind. If anyone asks, the count was off and we fixed it.”

He swallowed. “Rhea.”

“You said yes in here. You can say no in the hallway.” She picked up the clipboard she had never needed. “If you come to the office, you’re going to fuck me on the desk because I tell you to. If you go back to inbound, I ride you on the floor Monday like nothing happened. Both are clean.”

She walked out first.

Cole stood under the cage light with her taste on his mouth and his cock aching behind a shut belt, 23 years old, and started counting two minutes.