Churchgate at 8:15 a.m. smelled of salt, diesel, and fresh orgasms. Aarav cut through the tide of bodies, linen trousers now clinging to every ridge of his half-hard cock. The wet patch at the tip had soaked through; no one stared—staring was rude. Instead, strangers brushed past, fingertips grazing the outline in silent greeting.
His office tower loomed ahead: *Pulse Dynamics*, thirty-three floors of glass and open-plan hedonism. The lobby fountain was already in use—a junior exec bent over the marble lip, skirt rucked to her waist, while a security guard fed her slow, steady strokes. Water sluiced over her thighs; the splash masked her moans.
Aarav badge-tapped the turnstile. The elevator ride was quiet this time—only a redhead in a pencil skirt who knelt without asking, swallowed him to the root, and hummed until the doors opened on 28. She stood, licked her lips clean, and murmured, "Have a productive day, sir."
Floor 28 was a sun-drenched hive. Low partitions, beanbags, standing desks—every surface designed for dual purpose. The air-conditioning hummed, but the heat came from skin. Aarav's team clustered around the coffee station: Priya in a sheer white blouse, nipples dark against the fabric; Vikram shirtless, cock ring glinting; and the new intern, Tanvi, nineteen and wide-eyed, clutching a tablet like a shield.
"Morning, lead," Priya said, voice syrupy. She poured his espresso, then poured herself across the counter, legs spreading in invitation. "Stand-up's in five. Want a warm-up?"
Aarav sipped the coffee—bitter, perfect—and set the cup aside. He stepped between her thighs, freed himself, and slid home in one slick glide. Priya's back arched; the blouse buttons popped, scattering like hail. He fucked her against the espresso machine, each thrust rattling the portafilter. Steam curled around them, carrying the scent of sex and roasted beans.
Vikram watched, stroking himself lazily. "Q3 projections are on the shared drive," he said, conversational. "Also, Ms. Rhea wants you in the glass pod at nine."
Rhea Desai—CEO's daughter, VP of Special Projects, and the only woman in the company who could make Aarav's pulse stutter. Word was she'd never met a cock she couldn't break. Rumor also said she was looking for one that could break *her*.
Priya came with a sharp cry, pussy fluttering around Aarav's length. He pulled out, still rigid, and painted her stomach in thick, lazy stripes. She scooped a finger through the mess, tasted, tasted it, and grinned. "Fuel for the sprint."
Stand-up was a circle of bodies on yoga mats. The scrum master, Neha, stood at the whiteboard marker in one hand, Aarav's cock in the other. She updated velocity charts while slowly jerking him, her grip twisting on every upstroke.
"Blockers?" she asked the room.
A developer raised a hand. "API latency."
Neha nodded, bent, and took Aarav into her mouth to the hilt. The room watched her throat work, then returned to their laptops. Problem-solving and pleasure—parallel processes.
Aarav's turn: "I'll pair with Tanvi on the latency spike."
The intern flushed crimson but didn't look away. Her thighs pressed together under the table; the faint wet sound of her fingers moving under her skirt was the only tell.
At 8:59, Aarav left the circle, cock bobbing heavy and slick. The glass pod sat at the far end of the floor—a transparent cube cantilevered over the city, visible to every desk. Inside: one ergonomic chair, one low couch, and Rhea Desai.
She wore a charcoal blazer, nothing beneath. The jacket gaped, revealing the underswell of full breasts, nipples pierced with tiny silver bars. Her legs were crossed, one stiletto dangling from her toe.
"Close the door," she said.
The pod sealed with a soft hiss. Outside, the floor continued its rhythm—someone laughing, someone gasping—but soundproofing turned the world to mime.
Rhea stood. The blazer slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Her body was a study in contradiction: soft curves, hard muscle, skin the color of warm teak. Between her thighs, a neat strip of black hair glistened.
"I've reviewed your… metrics," she said, circling him. "Endurance off the charts. Volume in the ninety-ninth percentile. Recovery time under thirty seconds." She stopped behind him, nails dragging down his spine. "I want a live demonstration."
Aarav turned. "Terms?"
"Until I tap out. No safewords—just honesty. When I say stop, you stop. When I say more, you give me everything." Her eyes flicked to his cock, now fully hard, veins like cables under the skin. "Deal?"
He answered by lifting her onto the couch. She spread wide, knees hooked over his elbows, exposing slick folds already swollen. He dragged the head through her wetness, coating himself, then pushed.
Rhea's breath hitched. The stretch was obscene—her lips thinning around his girth, fluttering as he sank deeper. When he bottomed out, the head kissed her cervix; her eyes rolled white.
"Move," she whispered.
He did. Slow at first, letting her adjust, then faster, hips snapping. The glass fogged with their heat. Outside, colleagues paused mid-stroke, mid-conversation, drawn to the spectacle. Phones lifted. Someone started a timer.
Rhea's first orgasm hit at the seven-minute mark—back bowing, nails raking his shoulders. He didn't slow. The second came at twelve, sharper, wetting his balls. By the third, she was babbling—Hindi, English, raw sound.
Aarav flipped her onto her stomach, entered from behind, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades. The angle drove deeper; her toes curled. He felt the flutter of her fourth climax milk him, but his own release stayed leashed.
Twenty-eight minutes. Thirty-five. Sweat slicked their skin; the couch was drenched. Rhea's voice cracked. "More."
He pulled out, spun her to face him, and slid back in missionary. Her legs wrapped his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Their mouths met—messy, desperate. She tasted herself on his tongue.
At the forty-one-minute mark, her body seized. A full-body tremor, pussy clamping so tight he saw stars. She slapped the couch twice—*tap, tap*—and he froze.
"Out," she gasped. "Now."
He withdrew. The moment his cock left her, she squirted—a hard, clear arc that splattered the glass. Her body shook with aftershocks.
Aarav stood over her, cock glistening, still untouched by release. Rhea stared, chest heaving.
"Impossible," she breathed. "You didn't—"
"Not yet." He tucked himself away—barely—into trousers now ruined. "When you're ready for round two, page me."
He left the pod. The floor erupted in applause. Someone had live-streamed to the company Slack; the timer read **41:13**. A new record.
Tanvi waited by his desk, skirt hiked, fingers buried in herself. "Pair programming?" she asked, voice trembling with need.
Aarav smiled. "Let's debug that latency."