#FlashFuckingContest - Overtime

Forty hours a week, a slave to this desk, what more could I ask? Five o’clock, the office empties. I remain, faithful to the deadline, pen scratching paper. His voice catches my attention, calling my name from around his solid door. My heels clack on tile, the short trip into his office echoing in the silence. He presents a marked draft, bleeding bright red; I gasp and my cheeks flush. Bowing my head, I hike my skirt, pantiless, and bend over his desk. For each stroke of red, he delivers a stroke of cock, hard and rough, like the draft.