Mrs. Evans’ Performance Review

When the meeting turns to the sales report, you know that you’re in deep trouble. Sales this quarter were terrible, you know that, and you think that given the economy it’s not really your fault. You know Mrs. Evans won’t see it that way.

Joan Evans, the Vice President of Sales and Marketing, was as hard-assed as they come. In her early forties but certainly not looking like it, she rose to the top of the company fast by working hard and not taking any shit from her mostly male coworkers. Her tongue was sharp and everyone in the company knew to stay off her bad side or risk being torn open by her scathing criticisms.

As Mrs. Evans flips to your report, directing a stream of vitriol your way while your coworkers try to avoid eye contact, you tune her out and let your mind wander as you looked at the petit yet intimidating woman at the front of the room.

She really was an attractive woman, even though she tried to hide it in her conservative business attire. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun and her small waist gave way to full hips before tapering down to legs that even her knee-length skirt could not hide the shapeliness of. You wonder what she’d look like in a miniskirt.

Just then Mrs. Evans closes the meeting. Everyone rises from the conference table and starts to make their exit. She looks at you with her piercing dark eyes. “Not you. You stay. We have to talk about your performance.” Your colleagues shoot you sympathetic glances before hastily leaving the room to gossip about your future – or lack thereof.

When everyone is gone, Mrs. Evans locks the door. The conference room has no windows,; you can feel the room get more humid. You are for some reason reminded of the times you spent with your college girlfriend, the air of your tiny dorm room heavy with the combined sweat and sexual energy of two young, lust-crazed students. Mrs. Evans bends slightly to get a file and you notice the cleavage just underneath her white button down blouse. You can feel your dick harden.

“I should fire you,” she says and you notice how full and sensual her lips are. “These numbers are unacceptable.” She’s staring into you now, past your eyes and into your soul as if she’s searching for something deep inside you that she… wants. Your mouth starts to water from fear and, strangely, desire.

You notice something change in her hard gaze. It doesn’t soften, but it seems to carry with it a spark of satisfaction, like a lioness who has spotted her easy prey.

“Of course, I suppose there are other ways you can contribute.” She moves to your side of the room and sits on the table, her skirt rising up slightly. Your heartbeat quickens. She lowers her eyes to your lap. You’re fully hard now and the outline is visible through the fabric of your slacks.

“Yes, there are definitely other ways.”

She slides a manicured finger down from her throat to the top of her blouse. She undoes a button. You can see the tops of her full breasts and the edge of her lace bra.

“I think it’s time that you had a full performance review.”

She moves to you and pulls you up by the top of your tie.

“J…Joan…” you finally manage but she jerks your tie and cuts you off.

“You will refer to me as Mrs. Evans.”

You guide off Mrs. Evans’ blazer as she loosens your tie and begins to unbutton your shirt. You lean in to kiss her on those plump, red lips but she stops you and directs you downward. Her skin is soft and you can taste her perfume as you hungrily set your lips upon the exposed part of her chest. You unbutton her shirt and run your hands up her spine to unclasp her bra. She shimmies out of her top and you bury your face in her pale, supple breasts.

She exhales loudly at the touch of your lips to her dark pink nipples and she runs her hand down your stomach and feels your rigid cock over your clothes. Her hands expertly undo your belt and your pants, and in seconds you stand in the conference room fully exposed.

You move your hands down her waist, lips still kissing her breasts as you push her skirt up. She is stroking your dick now, her hands nimble and soft as she runs them up and down the underside of your shaft. You pull her leggings down to her ankles. Flexible, Mrs. Evans rocks back and puts her legs over your head and rests a calf on each of your shoulders. You pull her to the edge of the polished oak conference table and, standing, stick your throbbing cock deep inside her wet, quavering pussy.

She kicks off her heels, pushes her leggings from her feet and wraps her long legs around your neck. She’s moaning now, but not in the forceful way you had imagined she would. As you tighten your grip on her thighs and continue to ravage your boss’s soaking slit, you look down and see not an intimidating power-broker but a vulnerable woman biting her lower lip to keep from screaming at the ecstasy she feels as your cock pounding her over and over again.

You join her on top of the table with your dick still inside her. Now you’re on your knees on top of her and she’s flat on her back, her tits bouncing upward with every powerful thrust. No, she’s not Mrs. Evans, you think, as you pin her wrists above her head. She’s just Joan, and she just needs a good fucking.

She’s writhing underneath you now, looking up at you with eyes glassed over by pleasure. “Oh.. oh God…” It’s her that’s stammering now as you feel her pelvic muscles getting tighter and tighter around your pulsating hard-on. You tighten your grip on her wrists and she groans appreciatively. Her back rises from the table and she contorts as she finally can take no more. She works her hands free and grabs you by the hair. She pulls your mouth toward hers and kisses you deeply in a desperate effort to stifle a scream. She comes, you can feel it, and as she does you can also feel your own hot come rushing toward the top of your still hammering cock. As she finishes her climax you pull out of her drenched pussy. You look at the exhausted and satisfied the woman on the conference table, and feel the explosion racing through your shaft, up to your head and, in long, pearl white streams, on to the face of the Vice President of Sales and Marketing.

She reaches in her bag and finds something to clean herself up with as you get dressed. You look her in the eyes and you know that something has changed. Her eyes are no longer hard, and she averts them as she re-buttons her blouse.

“Will that be all, Mrs. Evans?” you say.

“Yes. That will be all.”