After We Clock Out Workplace Erotica #3
Cole popped her button one-handed and slid his palm down. She was soaked. Swollen. The mess he had left and she had made on the desk. Rhea’s breath left her in a thin sound she killed on the water bottle. He rubbed her clit the way she had taught him twenty minutes ago and she pushed back onto him.
“Belt,” she whispered. “Yours. Not all the way off. I want you in me. Standing. If someone comes in you drop your shirt and you look at the expiration dates.”
“Can I fuck you right here.”
“Yes. Pull out if I tap you. You still don’t finish.”
He got himself out, shoved her pants and underwear just low enough, and pushed into her from behind in one thick slide. Rhea’s forehead dropped toward the fridge door. The magnet calendar jumped. Cole held her hip and her mouth and stayed buried while the vending machine clunked a nothing cycle.
“Short,” she said. “Quiet. Same as the desk.”
He gave her short. The wet sound was small and filthy under the fridge hum.
Her ass met his hips in tiny punches. Twenty-three year old picker inside his 23 year old manager against a break-room fridge at 2:40 a.m., clothes mostly on, boots still tied, hi-vis still zipped like the job had not changed.
A radio murmured in the hallway. Not hers. Passed. Gone.
Rhea reached back and grabbed his thigh.
“Thumb. I want another one. Fast. Then you get out of me and you clock out like a person.”
He put his hand around her, found her clit, and rubbed while he stayed deep.
Rhea came on a swallowed curse, pulsing around his cock, her other hand white on the fridge handle.
Cole felt every pull and locked his jaw and did not follow.
She had trained that into him in an office and a cage and now a kitchen that was not a kitchen.
She tapped his hip.
He pulled out. The empty made both of them breathe ugly. Getting back into his pants hurt. She fixed her waistband with the same two fingers she used on a scanner and turned to face him. Flushed. Mean again. A little wrecked under it.
“Clock out,” she said. “Not together. You first. Lot on the east side. Dark row. Gray Civic. If you’re not there I go home and I ride you on the floor Friday like I always have.”
Cole swallowed. “Can I come to your car.”
Rhea looked at his mouth, then the camera in the far corner, then him.
“Yes.” She tossed him the badge he had left on her desk without remembering. It hit his chest and he caught it. “You coming or not is the last ask of this building. Outside, I’m not your manager unless I pick the radio back up. You can still say no in the lot.”
“I’m coming.”
“Then walk.”
He clocked out at the wall unit. The beep sounded too loud.
Inbound was still a mess he was not going to fix tonight.
Receiving could keep its jammed door. Cole went down the metal stairs into the cold and the east lot, hi-vis open now, mouth still full of the taste of her, cock aching behind a belt that had been a problem since 2:07.
The gray Civic sat in the dark row like she had said.
Rhea came out four minutes later with her bag and her hair still yanked back and her walk still a manager’s walk. She unlocked the car, looked at him over the roof, 23 years old, same age, same shift, and raised her eyebrows once.
Cole opened the passenger door.
Scene A was over.
The lot was not.
The Civic smelled like peppermint and scanner dust.
Rhea dropped into the driver’s seat and didn’t start the engine. East lot. Dark row. A chain-link fence and a sodium light that died before it reached her hood. Twenty-three years old, bag tossed in back, radio off, looking at Cole like the building behind them could still hear her.
“Seat back,” she said. “Or rear. You pick. Ask before you put your hands on me again. Out here I am not signing your timesheet.”
“Can I kiss you.”
“Yes.”
He kissed her over the console. She bit him for it, same as the cage, then grabbed the front of his hi-vis and pulled. The parking brake stabbed his hip. Rhea made an impatient sound and climbed into the back first, knocking a high-vis vest and a case of water sideways.
Cole followed. Work boots on her clean-enough floor mats. The car was too small for two people still dressed for a shift. That was the point.
“Pants,” she said. “Mine far enough. Yours far enough. I want you in me. You’ve been holding it since the cage and I’m tired of being nice about that.”
“That was nice?”
“Ask, Cole.”
“Can I fuck you in your car.”
“Yes. Fast. You still warn me before you finish. Headlights mean you get off me.”
He dragged her work pants and underwear to her boots and left them trapped, same ugly efficiency she liked. She freed him, hissed when she felt how hard he still was, and stroked him once like a threat. Cole hooked her thigh up and pushed into her in the cramped dark.
Rhea’s head hit the window with a dull thump. She laughed into it, mean and breathless.
“That’s what I thought. Two hours of not letting you go and you still remember how to aim.”
He fucked her like the lot might end it.
Short, deep, sloppy strokes the back seat allowed.
Her polo shoved up. His hi-vis scraping the ceiling.
Wet sound loud in the closed car. She was swollen from the desk and the fridge and she took him anyway, boots knocking the door card.
Twenty-three year old manager on her back in a Civic, 23 year old picker still wearing his badge on a lanyard that slapped her collarbone.
“Mouth,” she ordered. “On my tit. The shirt’s already a mess.”
He shoved the bra up and sucked. Salt. Warm. Rhea’s hand in his hair hurt. She clenched around his cock every time he used his teeth and told him not to get proud of it.
“You were useless on inbound,” she whispered at the ceiling fabric. “Standing there with this in your pants. I should have sent you home. Instead—fuck—left, stay there.”
He stayed left. The angle made her swear for real.
Cole got a hand between them and rubbed her clit because he knew what she wanted when her talk broke.
Rhea came fast, angry-quiet, pulsing around him in the dark car, nails in the back of his vest.
He held still through it and did not follow. The habit was in his body now. It hurt.
“Move,” she said.
He moved. The Civic rocked. A water bottle rolled under the seat. Cole’s mouth found her throat and she let him, 23 years old and finally off the clock, still talking like a write-up between breaths.
“Don’t you cum in my car. I have to drive this tomorrow. You warn—”
Headlights swept the fence.
White. Slow. A security loop or a day-shift early or some drunk turning around in the lot. The beam ran the chain-link, caught the Civic’s side mirror, and laid a hard stripe across Rhea’s bare hip and Cole’s back.
They froze with him buried in her.
Rhea’s laugh came out silent and vicious against his mouth. She clenched around his cock on purpose while the light crawled past the rear glass.
“You flinched,” she whispered.
The headlights slid off. Engine noise faded toward the front lot. Dead dark again. Sodium light. Fence. Nobody at the window.
Cole’s heart was trying to leave the car without him. He was still hard, still in her, still not allowed.
Rhea patted his cheek, almost fond, entirely mean.
“Security does the east fence every half hour if they’re awake. They’re not always awake.” She rolled her hips once, filthy, taking him deep while he was still listening for tires. “You going to get off me or are you going to finish what you asked for.”
“Can I keep going.”
“Yes. Warn. And if another light hits this car you pull out and you sit up like we were looking for a charger.”
He fucked her again, shallower, listening. The badge lanyard tapped. Her boot slipped off the seat and thudded. Rhea kissed him like she was still winning and then put her mouth at his ear.
“My place is farther. Yours is six lights if you don’t talk. I’m not doing the rest of this in a seat that smells like peppermint. You last until there is a bed or you last until I say the bed is cancelled.”
“I can last.”
“You keep saying that.” She looked at the dark glass, then at him. “Pull out. Drive is mine. Your hand can stay busy if you ask.”
He pulled out. Both of them made an ugly sound at the empty. Getting her pants up in the back of a Civic was a joke. She did it anyway, shoved him toward the front, and climbed behind the wheel with her hair still yanked back like the shift had never ended.
Cole dropped into the passenger seat with his cock aching and the lot quiet and her smell all over the car.
Rhea started the engine.
“Buckle up,” she said. “I’m still mean when I drive.”
Rhea took the first light on a stale yellow.
Cole buckled because she had told him to. The Civic smelled like sex and peppermint. His cock still ached behind the belt. East industrial bled into a wider road, sodium to white streetlights, warehouse behind them like it had never happened.
“Six lights,” she said. “You talk, I miss one, we sit at a red with my pants a problem. Ask if you want your hand anywhere.”
“Can I put my hand between your legs.”
“Yes. Over the pants until I say under. If I tell you to stop, you stop. If a cop rolls up I will end you.”
He put his palm on her thigh, then higher, covering the seam of her work pants.
Rhea was still wet enough that he could feel the heat through the fabric.
She exhaled once through her nose and kept both hands on the wheel.
Twenty-three years old, manager posture, 2 a.m. road, a 23 year old picker’s hand in her lap.
Second light. Red. She let him stay.
“Under,” she said.
“Can I.”
“I just said it. Yes.”
Cole popped her button one-handed and slid his fingers down. Slick. Swollen. She lifted a fraction off the seat so he could get there and then sat on his hand like the light owed her something. He rubbed her clit slow, two fingers, no show. The wiper stalk clicked when she adjusted nothing.
Green. She drove.
“You’ve been looking at me since October,” Rhea said to the windshield. “Don’t deny it. I put you on extra pallets because it made you stand there longer. That’s ugly. I know it’s ugly. You still showed up to the cage.”
“I showed up.”