Hard sex. Rear entrance

Kirill snorted, sipping his whiskey, but his gaze faltered for a moment as she languidly stretched, her breasts, barely covered by the dress’s fabric, rising as if inviting him to touch the forbidden.

“Keep dreaming. That position is mine. I’ve got connections, experience. You can try, but we’re businesspeople. We should speak the truth, have the guts to admit it. That’s more accurate.”

“Connections break, and experience…” she paused, her lips curling into a smile full of hidden promise, “experience can be too predictable. Boring. And I, you know, know how to surprise.”

She walked away, leaving him angry and rattled, with the taste of defeat on his tongue. His thoughts churned with desire mixed with rage. He wanted her but figured he’d only dominate once he secured the new position. “Then she won’t dare defy me. She’ll do whatever I want,” he thought, adjusting his suddenly tight clothing, strained by inappropriate tension.

Tanya, glancing back, had already forgotten him. Her mind was cold and sharp as a scalpel, ready to cut through any obstacle. Her plan was simple and cynical, like life itself. No groveling, no bribes. She intended to give Viktor Petrovich something he’d likely been denied for years—the illusion of passion, the thrill of forbidden fruit, the chance to feel not like a boss, but a man whose heart could still race.

She waited another hour, patient as a spider weaving its web. She watched Viktor fend off pushy managers, his gaze growing more detached. He was tired of this circus, of fake smiles and empty words. Finally, he stood and headed for the exit, likely to the smoking lounge or elevators, away from the noise and lies.

Tanya followed like a shadow gliding through the dim light. He turned into a deserted corridor leading to the emergency exit and executive offices. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, he paused, searching his pockets. He’d forgotten his lighter. This was her chance. She’d planned to play it differently, but the bird had wandered into the cage on its own, and Tanya couldn’t let the moment slip.

“Viktor Petrovich,” her voice sounded in the corridor’s half-darkness, soft, almost tender, like a whisper of wind caressing skin.

He flinched and turned. Seeing her, he looked slightly embarrassed, like a boy caught in mischief.

“Ah, Tanya… Sorry, I…”

“Looking for a light?” She approached, her steps slow and hypnotic, pulling a delicate gold-plated lighter from her small clutch. A click. The tiny flame illuminated his weary, wrinkled face and her youthful, perfect one, as if carved from ivory. Shadows danced on her cheekbones, making her gaze even more alluring.

He leaned in to light his cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly, betraying inner tension. She didn’t look away, her eyes ensnaring his like a net from which there was no escape.

“Thanks,” he exhaled smoke, trying to mask his awkwardness. “Hiding from the noise?”

“More like seeking silence. And… interesting conversation,” she smiled in a way few women could—promising yet carefree, as if opening a door to a world of forbidden pleasures. “I think we could find common ground.”

“Oh?” He looked at her with interest, not as a boss to a subordinate, but as a man to a woman whose gaze hinted at more than just words.

“Your speech today on development prospects…” she paused, choosing her words like precious gems meant to dazzle, “was the only one with substance, not just corporate clichés. That’s impressive.”

Viktor Petrovich swore to himself that her charm wouldn’t sway him, that he’d remain principled in choosing a candidate. The board would demand results, or he risked losing his own position. Big business didn’t forgive missteps or failures. But her words, her voice, soft as silk, and her gaze, full of hidden promises, were already eroding his resolve.

They started talking. She caught every word, nodded, interjected clever remarks, laughed at the right moments, her laughter ringing like a crystal glass, stirring something deep within him. She saw his shoulders relax, a spark of long-forgotten interest ignite in his eyes. He spoke of business, while she thought of cornering him in a dead end where there’d be no business, no corporate hierarchy—just two people bound by an invisible thread stretched to its limit.

“You know, Viktor Petrovich,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, stepping so close he caught the sweet, intoxicating scent of her perfume, like forbidden fruit, “it’s so stifling within these walls. All this talk… It’s so artificial.”

“What do you suggest?” His voice softened, as if afraid to shatter the moment.

“I suggest forgetting who we are here, just for half an hour. Just a man and a woman,” she glanced at his office door, mere steps away, her look laden with a hint impossible to ignore. “Your office is probably the only place without prying eyes and ears.”

He hesitated for a second. Just a second. Then nodded, pulling out his key card with sharp movements, as if afraid he’d change his mind.

The office was vast, dark, scented with expensive leather and old books lined on long shelves like silent witnesses to his power. As soon as the door clicked shut, Tanya knew the game was won. She didn’t drag it out, her movements precise as a predator delivering the final blow. She pressed against him, feeling his stiff, aging body tense, then respond, like a long-forgotten instrument sounding again under skilled fingers.

Her hands unbuttoned his expensive jacket, untied his tie with practiced ease. She guided him to the massive oak desk, sweeping papers to the floor like clearing all barriers between them. Her burgundy dress, soft as velvet, slid against her skin, baring her shoulders, while the thin black lace of her lingerie, dark as night, barely covered her curves, promising more than just a glimpse.

“Tatiana… Maybe we shouldn’t…” he tried to protest, but his hands were already sliding down her back, under the dress, greedily exploring her warmth.

“We should,” she whispered in his ear, her voice like sweet, deadly poison, her hand dipping lower, finding his readiness beneath the fabric. “Forget ‘shouldn’t.’ You want this. I can see it.”

She was rough and commanding, like a storm that knew no bounds. She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing just a hint of the forbidden beneath thin lace. No tenderness, no foreplay. Just pure, animalistic dominance masked as passion, burning like an unquenchable flame. His breathing grew heavy, his movements jerky and awkward, filled with long-forgotten excitement, as if he’d returned to a youth where anything was possible. She faked moans, clawed at the polished desk, her body arching like a taut bow, but her gaze was fixed beyond his head on the dark plasma screen on the wall, cold and calculating.

Her pale, silky skin seemed hot under his trembling fingers, her curves, soft yet firm, like sun-warmed marble, lured him, promising a paradise he hadn’t known in years. Inside, she felt no fire, only icy calculation, but she played her role flawlessly, letting him drown in illusion while her thoughts were clear as a winter morning: “Contract. Position. Victory.” Her long legs, wrapped around him, tightened like velvet shackles, refusing to let him escape her control, and her heavy, sweet perfume enveloped him like a net with no escape.

When it was over, he sank into his leather chair, panting, looking dazed and aged, as if the years he’d tried to forget returned in an instant. Tanya, unhurried, adjusted her dress, the fabric gliding over her skin like a caress she didn’t feel, and picked up her clutch from the floor.

“About the appointment…” he started, but she interrupted, approaching and gently tracing a finger along his cheek, her touch cold but full of promise.

“I know, Viktor. You’ll make the right decision. You’re a smart man.”

She left the office without looking back, her steps confident, like a victor leaving the battlefield. In the corridor, she pulled out wet wipes and meticulously cleaned her hands, face, and neck, erasing his touch, his scent, the feel of his weary flesh. She dropped the used wipe on the floor, a symbol of a discarded mask no longer needed.

Three days later, the appointment order came. The new head of the creative department was her, Tanya. Victory was hers, sweet and bitter, like wine drunk alone.

Kirill, upon hearing the news, flew into a rage. Finding no better outlet for his anger, he secluded himself in his office, letting his fury spill out in solitude, under his desk, where no one could witness his defeat.

Tanya sat in her new, even more spacious chair, gazing at the rain outside, which seemed to mourn her triumph. She had won, using her body as a key to unlock the door to power and control. Love was weakness, sentimental trash she’d long discarded from her life. And passion… Passion was the simplest, most effective tool in this cruel world. She vowed to use it as long as it worked. And it worked flawlessly, like a razor-sharp blade.

But deep within, in the darkest recess of her soul, something small and long-forgotten still lived. Little Tanya, kind and naive, who believed in fairytales and dreamed of something greater than cold games of power. That Tanya whispered of pain, of the emptiness corroding her from within like acid. But Tanya silenced that whisper, locking it behind a door no one could open. As long as she was on top, nothing else mattered. Nothing but victory.

Chapter 4: Queen Without a Throne

Her new office was larger than the last, expansive like an arena for the battles she fought every day. Floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows revealed the city sprawled at her feet, a conquered territory under the rule of a savage tribal chief. The designer desk, heavy as her ambitions, weighed three hundred kilograms, and the chair, priced like a used foreign car, was a throne befitting her power. A deathly silence reigned in this sanctuary, broken only by the rustle of papers and the ticking of a floor clock, counting down to her next triumph.

Tanya sat enthroned in her regal chair, reviewing a report on ratings. The numbers gleamed like diamonds on velvet—brilliant, perfect, like everything that emerged from her iron grip. She calculated her moves like a chess player plotting checkmate several steps ahead, fully aware that somewhere in the depths of the departments, an unnoticed but ambitious young woman might be lurking, ready to claw at her throne. But her sharp, blade-like thoughts were interrupted by Natasha, a friend from university days whose presence once felt warm but now irritated her like an old scar aching in bad weather.

Natasha entered without knocking, merely tapping her knuckles on the office door as a half-hearted apology for the intrusion. Her face was tense, as if she carried a burden she couldn’t shake off.

“Tanya, can I have a minute?” Her voice was cautious, like footsteps on thin ice.

Tanya didn’t lift her eyes from the monitor, her fingers gliding across the keyboard with cold detachment.

“I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes. Make it quick.”

“It’s about Olga. Did you really fire her?”

“Do I have a habit of joking about such things?” Tanya finally looked at her friend, her gaze sharp as a scalpel, ready to slice through any illusions. Natasha stood clutching a folder, her usual cheerfulness evaporated like morning mist under a scorching sun.

“Tanya, she worked with you for five years! She cut her maternity leave short so you wouldn’t need a replacement! And you threw her out over a single typo in a presentation?”

“Not a typo,” Tanya corrected coldly, her voice like ice that refused to melt even under a heated stare. “Unprofessionalism. In our line of work, there are no small details. One typo is a stain on the reputation of the entire department. My department, our department, after all, whose results also earn you quarterly bonuses.”

“Your department?” Natasha stepped forward, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. “Tanya, wake up! Look at yourself! You’re mowing down everyone in your path like a bulldozer. Kirill went on a binge after the appointment fiasco, Sergey walks around like a broken man, speaking to no one, and now Olga… People are afraid of you!”

“And they should be,” Tanya stood and walked to the window, her reflection in the glass like a statue carved from marble—cold and unyielding. Beyond the glass, the city stretched out like a map of her victories, but in her reflection, her eyes were empty. “Fear is an excellent motivator. It works far better than bonuses. I’m not a chocolate bar to be liked by everyone. Anything else?”

“This isn’t you talking!” Natasha’s voice quivered, like a string about to snap. “I remember the Tanya who stayed up all night working on her thesis, who cried when Daniil left her, who laughed until she teared up over stupid jokes! Where did she go?”

Tanya turned. Her face was utterly calm, and for that reason, all the more terrifying, like a mask hiding neither pain nor regret.

“Do you enjoy being a monster? I’m starting to fear you myself.”

Natasha nervously ran her hands over Tanya’s desk, as if trying to show she wasn’t rattled, that she was saying this half in jest, half in earnest, just in case her words struck a nerve. She clung to the remnants of their old friendship, when they were equals, sharing guys on dates, laughing over trivialities, and crying on each other’s shoulders.

“My life is my business. And my department is my business too. If you don’t like my methods, the door’s right there. You can follow Olga.”

Natasha froze, her breathing heavy, as if the air in the office had suddenly thickened.

“You’re kicking me out? Your only friend? The one who pulled you out of that black hole after Daniil? Who stayed with you for a week when you couldn’t stop crying?”

“That girl you ‘pulled out’ is dead,” Tanya said ruthlessly, her words cutting like shards of glass, sharp and cold. “And I don’t need reminders of who I was. I’m sorry, Natasha. But that’s the price.”

As Tanya spoke those words, for a fleeting moment, she herself feared the abyss opening before her, the situation unfolding now that continued to corrode her from within. But deep inside, another Tanya began to awaken—an unfamiliar, dark version with sharp claws and an icy heart, one she had yet to fully meet. This new Tanya knew no mercy, no weakness, and her voice drowned out all doubts.

They stood facing each other—two women once bound by genuine friendship, warm as a summer sun. Now, a wall of glass, power, and cynicism stood between them, transparent but impassable. They could see each other but couldn’t take a step to bypass this barrier before it grew taller, thicker, stronger, until it became an unbreakable fortress dividing them forever.

Natasha didn’t know what else to say to break through this wall, to bring back the old Tanya, to avoid losing her own job, which was her anchor in this cruel world.

“Fine. I get it.”

She left the office, adjusting her hair and running her hands over her hip, emphasizing her attractiveness as if reminding Tanya that she, too, wasn’t to be underestimated, that she could play these games if forced.

The door closed with a soft click, but the sound reverberated in Tanya’s chest like a hammer strike. The deathly silence of the office suddenly pressed on her ears, as if the walls were closing in, cutting her off from the world. She approached her desk, her hand involuntarily gripping an expensive pen so tightly her knuckles whitened like marble. The harder she squeezed, the less she felt the pain, but the emptiness inside only grew, a black hole swallowing everything left of her soul.

On her phone, she reviewed footage from the night before in a roadside motel room, where, playing a dark game, she recruited another man to her team. He was her secret weapon, a pawn for critical missions if the need arose. His gaze in the video was empty but loyal, bringing her a grim satisfaction. Control. Power. That was all that mattered.

Suddenly, the door opened again, shattering the silence like thunder on a clear day. Alex, her lead cameraman, entered, his face serious, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Tanya, everything’s ready for the shoot. We leave in ten minutes.”

She spun around sharply, all her pent-up anger erupting like lava finding a new vent, spewing forth with unstoppable force.

“Who gave you permission to enter without knocking? Do you think just because we fuck sometimes, you’ve got special privileges? Knock, I said! Get out and come back properly!”

Alex didn’t flinch. He looked at her with that strange mix of stubbornness and pity she despised with every fiber of her being, as if he saw the Tanya she had buried deep inside.

“Tanya, are you okay?”

She couldn’t bear it. Pity was like poison to her, corroding the armor she had so carefully built around herself.

“Get out!” she hissed, her voice laced with fury, sharp as a blade. “Or I’ll throw you out right after Natasha!”

But Alex didn’t budge. He closed the door, turned the internal lock with a quiet click, sealing them off from the outside world, and began to undress slowly, his movements confident, almost defiant.

“I’m going to calm you down now, my queen.”

His presence, his gaze full of inexplicable strength, worked on her like a spell, and in that moment, all her feigned despotism, all her armor of words and threats melted away like wax under a flame. She felt her anger recede, replaced by something deeper, more primal, something she couldn’t control but didn’t want to.

Alex stepped closer, his strong, warm hands pressing her against the massive desk, a movement both commanding and gentle, as if he knew how to ignite the fire she tried to extinguish. Their bodies collided like a storm against a cliff, in a clash brimming with hidden passion, where words had no place, only a rhythm that drowned out everything—pain, anger, emptiness. Her dress, strict yet form-fitting, slid upward, revealing the delicate lace of black lingerie, like a spiderweb barely concealing her pale skin, alluring as forbidden fruit. Her curves, soft yet firm, responded to his every move, her breathing grew heavy like the air before a thunderstorm, and her skin glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, like dew on a morning flower.

He pushed her beyond the edge, to a place with no power, no control, only raw, untamed energy that burned everything in its path. Her fingers dug into the polished surface of the desk, leaving invisible marks, and her body arched like a bow stretched to its limit, ready to release an arrow. Inside her raged a storm, a mix of fury and release, and for those ten minutes, she forgot she was the head of a department with over a hundred employees, a queen whose word was law. She was just a woman, drowning in waves she couldn’t stop, nor did she want to.

When it subsided, her breathing was still uneven, her heart pounding like a drum, echoing in her temples. Alex stepped back, his gaze warm but tinged with a concern she didn’t want to see. She adjusted her dress, the fabric sliding over her skin like cold silk, pulling her back to reality, to the mask she wore as armor. But something inside trembled, a crack in her walls that she immediately tried to seal, refusing to allow herself weakness.

Chapter 5: Falling Mask

Deep in the night, her personal phone rang with a persistence capable of piercing any armor, even the one Tanya had built around her heart. She slept lightly, as always, ready to leap up at any moment like a predator sensing danger. The alcoholic haze from the evening meeting had dissipated, leaving only a bitter taste on her tongue and a heavy throb in her temples, like echoes of a distant storm. She glanced at the screen. “Mom.” Her heart, long trained not to falter, clenched for a moment, like a fist gripped by pain. Her mother called rarely, and certainly never at three in the morning, when the world was steeped in darkness and silence.

She picked up the phone, her fingers cold as ice.

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

From the receiver came a soft, broken sob, followed by a voice she hadn’t heard like this since childhood—weak, trembling, full of unbearable anguish.

“Tany… Leni…”

No more needed to be said. A cold, steel needle stabbed into her chest, under her ribs, and lodged there, freezing her soul. The world didn’t collapse. It froze. It simply ceased to matter, as if someone had switched off the lights, leaving her in utter darkness.

“Lena…?” Her own voice sounded foreign, flat, devoid of emotion, like an echo in an empty room.

“Accident…” Sobs drowned out the words, tearing through the silence. “Ambulance took her… In the hospital… It’s bad… Tanyusha, come…”

She hung up, her movements mechanical, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. She got out of bed. Walked to the window. The night city burned beyond the glass as if nothing had happened, its lights flickering, indifferent to her pain. Somewhere out there, in one of those hospitals, her sister was dying. Her Lenochka. The only person whose calls she always answered, without irritation, without calculation. The only one she sent money to without a single sarcastic remark, as if trying to atone for her dark, poisoned soul. The only ray of light Tanya had so carefully hidden in the furthest, most guarded corner of her heart, to keep it untainted by her darkness, by her endless battle for power.

She drove to the hospital on autopilot, like a machine programmed for motion. Parking lot, elevator, endless white corridor reeking of death and antiseptic, the scent seeping into her skin like poison. The doctor, weary and detached, spread his hands, his voice dry as autumn leaves. “Traumatic brain injury, internal bleeding… We did everything we could.” Those words sounded like a sentence, like a heavy stone dropping into an abyss.

She entered the ward. Her mother, hunched over, instantly aged by twenty years, sobbed into the blanket, her tears silent but heart-wrenching. And on the bed lay Lena. Her Lena. Weightless, pale as a porcelain figurine, with tubes in her mouth and veins, like a web holding her on the edge of life. A bruise on her cheek, a dark stain on a clean page. But still beautiful. Still that little girl with dimples, who trailed after her, calling in a clear voice, “Tanya, wait for me!”

Tanya approached and took her hand. Cold. Lifeless. She waited for a wave to crash over her. For her to scream, to be torn apart by pain, to collapse to her knees, crushed by grief. But nothing happened. Inside was the same icy emptiness as always, bottomless as a chasm where no light could penetrate. Only the needle under her ribs stirred, causing a dull, aching pain that wouldn’t let go but didn’t break her either.

She stood there, unmoving, not crying, like a statue carved from marble, until the monitor emitted a long, steady beep. A sound, flat and merciless, like a stone falling into mud, announcing the end. The end of everything that tied her to something human.

The funeral was gray, like her soul. The sky wept for her, drizzling a fine, irritating mist that soaked through her clothes and skin, as if trying to awaken something alive in her. At the fresh grave, relatives and acquaintances gathered, their faces twisted with sorrow. Everyone cried. Her mother sobbed, her tears silent but heavy as lead. Aunts whimpered, their voices blending into a mournful chorus. Even her perpetually drunk uncle Igor wiped away a rare male tear, hiding his face in his sleeve.

Tanya stood motionless, like a stranger at this festival of pain. In a strict black suit, dark sunglasses concealing her eyes, she was impeccable, as always. A cold marble monument amid human grief, surrounded by a sea of tears, yet dry as a desert where nothing grew but thorns.

Natasha approached her. The same Natasha she’d kicked out of her office, whose words about friendship still rang in her memory like shards of broken glass. There was no reproach in Natasha’s eyes, only endless pity and pain—the things Tanya hated most in the world.

“Tanya…” She gently placed a hand on her shoulder, her touch warm but unbearable. “Cry. It’ll help.”

Tanya slowly turned her head. She looked at Natasha’s hand, then at her face, and in her gaze, there was nothing but icy emptiness.

“Take your hand off,” she whispered. Her voice was quiet, but it rang with steel, sharp and cold as a blade ready to cut.

Natasha recoiled as if stung, her hand trembling, but she said nothing, only stepped back, dissolving into the gray crowd of mourners.