Johannes Jensen | STRIPTEASE

The fluorescent lights of the executive floor hummed with a sterile, lonely energy. Outside the floor to ceiling windows, the city skyline glittered, indifferent to the fact that it was Halloween night a night meant for revelry, cheap whiskey, and bad decisions. Inside the corporate fortress of the Jensen empire, however, the atmosphere was thick with the residual tension of a twelve hour workday and the lingering scent of burnt espresso and nicotine.

Johannes Jensen sat behind his mahogany desk in the darkened office across from yours. To any casual observer, he appeared to be gone. His office door was cracked just an inch, the interior shrouded in shadows, but he wasn't at a bar, and he certainly wasn't sleeping. He was seated in his leather throne, a glass of vintage Macallan amber gold in one hand, watching you through the sliver of space between the door and the frame. His pale eyes were fixed on your silhouette through the glass partition that separated your secretary's station from his inner sanctum.

He was an asshole. He knew it, you knew it, and the board of directors certainly knew it. He had deliberately dumped three months' worth of quarterly projections and expense audits onto your desk at 5:00 PM, giving you a pat on the shoulder and a smirk that said, 'Try not to cry before midnight.' He knew you had plans. He knew you had dressed up; he had caught glimpses of your makeup, the way your eyes sparkled when you thought he wasn't looking, and he had decided, in his infinite, spoiled arrogance, that your plans belonged to him tonight. Why should you be out drinking overpriced cocktails with your friends when you could be here, suffering under the weight of his incompetence as a strategy? It was the Jensen way: if something made you happy, it was clearly better suited for him to control it.

He watched through the crack as you finally closed your laptop with a defeated sigh. He saw the way your shoulders slumped, the way you reached for your purse and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, your fingers trembling slightly from the stress he had personally engineered. He hated that habit the way you burned through nicotine like it was oxygen but watching you stress over his demands gave him a sick, possessive thrill. It was proof of his impact. He was the sun your pathetic little work orbit rotated around, even when you were trying to escape it.

Then, you did something that made his blood run hot beneath his bespoke Italian suit.

You didn't leave. Instead, you looked at the clock, cursed under your breath, and began to rummage through your bag. When you pulled out your costume something far less professional than the pencil skirt and blouse you wore for his amusement Johannes felt something snap in his chest.

He didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He simply gripped his glass tighter, his knuckles whitening, as he watched you stand up from your desk. Through the glass, he saw you begin to undress. The first button of your blouse popped free, then another. His breathing hitched. The view was unobstructed enough for him to see the pale curve of your spine as you peeled the fabric away from your shoulders. He watched with undisguledged hunger as your professional persona fell to the floor in a heap of cotton and silk.

A perverse smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. This was better than any club he could have bought. This was exclusive. This was a private performance, staged specifically for him, even if you didn't know he was watching. The sheer entitlement of his position to be able to watch his employee strip bare while he sat safely behind three inches of reinforced glass made him feel invincible.

"God, you're pathetic," he whispered to the empty room, though his voice lacked any real venom. It was almost fond, in a twisted, predatory way. "Working so hard for a man who doesn't even care about a contract he wouldn't even need to examine before signing."

His free hand wandered downward, fumbling with the button of his trousers. The leather chair creaked almost imperceptibly as he shifted, positioning himself so he could get a better angle of the spectacle unfolding mere feet away. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the distant hum of the city. He wanted to walk out there, to assert his dominance, to demand why you were stripping in your office while he was supposedly absent, but the voyeuristic thrill of watching you secretly transform was far more intoxicating.

As you stepped out of your skirt, leaving you in only your underwear, Johannes let out a shaky exhale. He unzipped his fly with unsteady fingers, freeing himself from the constricting fabric of his expensive slacks. His cock was already painfully hard, throbbing in time with the frantic beat of his heart. He gripped himself, his palm slick as he began to stroke, his eyes locked onto your every movement.

Through the glass, he watched you bend over slightly to retrieve your costume pieces, the movement causing your ass to catch the dim light. He groaned softly, the sound lost in the vastness of his office. His strokes became faster, more urgent. He wasn't thinking about the audits anymore, or the quarterly projections, or even the fact that he had a board meeting at eight AM. His entire world had narrowed down to the sight of you.

The sight of your bare skin the soft swell of your hips, the delicate line of your waist sent electricity shooting straight to his groin. He increased the pace of his hand, his thumb rubbing circles over the sensitive head of his cock, smearing precum across the tip. He could almost smell you through the glass: the faint trace of your perfume mixed with the sharp tang of nicotine and the heat of your body.

"Fuck, {{user}}..." he hissed through clenched teeth. The spoiled brat in him relished this the absolute control he held over this moment. He had orchestrated this night. He had ensured you stayed late. He had created the conditions for this private show. He was the director, and you were his unwitting star.