SIN ON THE 28TH FLOOR

Emma’s hands were clammy on the steering wheel as she pulled up to her parents’ mansion. The place still felt too big, too perfect sprawling lawn, marble foyer, the kind of home that screamed “new money” even five years later. Mandatory family dinners happened once a month, and skipping this one wasn’t an option. Her mom had texted three times already.

She smoothed down her modest navy dress the one that hit just above the knee and buttoned high enough to look respectable. After last night’s ruined orgasm in the copy room, she’d barely slept. Her body still hummed with frustration. Marcus hadn’t texted. Just that smug look as he left her dripping and desperate.

Inside, the smell of roasted chicken and herbs hit her. Her mom, Elena, bustled around the dining table with wine glasses. Richard, Marcus’s dad, was already pouring drinks. And there was Marcus, leaning against the kitchen island in a casual black button-down, sleeves rolled up, looking annoyingly relaxed.

“Emma! Sweetheart, you’re late,” her mom called, pulling her into a hug. “Marcus was just telling us about his flight back.”

Marcus’s eyes met hers over Elena’s shoulder. That smirk. “Yeah, long trip. But it's worth it to be home with my family.”

Dinner started normally enough. Small talk about work, the weather, some cousin’s upcoming wedding. Emma sat across from Marcus, which felt like a trap. She pushed food around her plate, hyper-aware of his foot brushing hers under the heavy oak table.

Halfway through the main course, while Richard was droning on about golf scores, Marcus’s hand disappeared beneath the tablecloth. Emma stiffened as his palm landed on her knee, sliding up her thigh with zero hesitation.

She shot him a wide-eyed glare. *Stop.*

He didn’t. Fingers crept higher, pushing the hem of her dress up. Her mom laughed at something Richard said, completely oblivious. Marcus’s touch was casual but firm, tracing the edge of her panties. She was wet again. Pathetic.

“Emma, honey, you’ve been so quiet,” Elena said. “How’s that big campaign going?”

Marcus chose that moment to slip two fingers under the lace, stroking her slick folds. Emma gripped her fork tighter. “It’s… fine. Busy. Lots of late nights.”

His middle finger circled her clit slowly. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping. The risk made everything sharper the clink of silverware, her stepdad’s voice, her mom refilling water glasses while her stepbrother fingered her under the table like it was nothing.

“You should take breaks,” Marcus said smoothly, voice perfectly normal. “Don’t want to burn out.” He pushed one finger inside her, then two, curling them just right. Her thighs trembled. She was soaking his hand, the wet sounds barely masked by conversation.

Somehow she survived dessert. When everyone stood to clear plates, Marcus finally withdrew his fingers. He met her eyes and slowly licked them clean behind his wine glass. Emma’s face burned as she excused herself to the bathroom.

She locked the door, breathing hard, panties ruined. Part of her wanted to scream. The other part wanted him to finish what he started.

Back at the office around 10 PM, the floor was dead quiet again. Emma had driven straight there after dinner, telling herself it was to grab forgotten files. Bullshit. She knew why she came.

Marcus was waiting by her desk, jacket off, tie gone.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she said, voice shaky as she approached.

He didn’t answer with words. He grabbed her by the waist, spun her around, and bent her over her own desk. Papers scattered. Her dress hiked up roughly. “You’ve been teasing me for five fucking years, little sis. Time to pay up.”

Emma’s heart pounded. “Marcus, the cameras”

“Disabled them earlier.” His hands yanked her panties down to her ankles. Cool air hit her dripping pussy. She heard his belt buckle, the zip of his pants. Then the thick head of his cock nudged against her entrance.

He didn’t ease in. One brutal thrust and he buried himself balls-deep. Emma cried out, gripping the desk edge. He was big — stretching her, filling her completely.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned, pulling back and slamming in again. “This is what you’ve been craving, isn’t it? Your stepbrother’s cock ruining your perfect little cunt at work.”

“Yes,” she whimpered, shame and pleasure twisting together. He set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against her ass. The desk creaked under them. Each thrust pushed her forward, her tits pressing against the cold wood through her dress.

He reached around and rubbed her clit hard. “Say it. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m… I’m your slut,” she gasped between moans. “Your filthy stepsister whore.”

Marcus growled in approval, pounding harder. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back so he could bite her neck. “Louder. Imagine if Mom and Dad knew their precious Emma was getting fucked like a cheap office whore right now.”

The degradation pushed her over. Her orgasm hit hard walls clenching around him, legs shaking. She tried to muffle her cry against her arm.

He didn’t stop. “Good girl. Now take my cum.”

A few more deep thrusts and he came, flooding her pussy with hot, thick spurts. He stayed buried deep, grinding through it, making sure every drop stayed inside.

When he finally pulled out, Emma stayed bent over, cum already starting to leak down her thighs. She felt wrecked. Used. And terrifyingly satisfied.

Marcus tucked himself away, then helped pull her panties up, trapping his mess against her. “Wear it home. Think about me every time it drips out.”

She straightened slowly, legs wobbly, adjusting her dress. Mascara smudged. Hair a mess. “This can’t happen again.”

He laughed softly, kissing her forehead almost tenderly. “We both know that’s a lie.”

Emma grabbed her bag and left without another word, the sticky warmth between her legs a constant reminder as she drove home. Her stepbrother had finally claimed her. And the worst part? She already wanted more.