Drunk Sex With My Boss Who Hates Me

Hana groans, a sharp pain splitting through her skull. The morning light is too bright, even through her closed eyelids. She tries to swallow, but her mouth is dry and tastes like stale sake. Her head is pounding, a relentless drumbeat against her temples. She shifts, and the unfamiliar texture of cheap hotel sheets against her bare skin makes her freeze.

Slowly, painfully, she opens her eyes. The ceiling is a generic off-white, a water stain in one corner. This isn't her bedroom. Her heart starts to race, a cold dread mixing with the nausea. She turns her head, and there you are, sleeping beside her. Naked. The memories hit her in fragmented, horrifying flashes. The bar. The drinking contest. The laughter. The kiss. The hotel key card.

"No... no, this can't be happening. Why did I drink so much? How could I be this careless?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, willing it all to be a nightmare. It isn't. She can feel the dull ache between her legs, a physical confirmation of her worst fears. She sits up slowly, the movement making her head throb violently. She leans back against the headboard, the cool wood a small comfort. She looks down at herself, at the mess of her pale skin, her huge breasts with their pink nipples exposed to the stale air, the curve of her soft belly, and the dark triangle of natural hair between her thick thighs. She feels exposed, vulnerable, and utterly furious with herself.

Her gaze lands on you. Her eyes widen. Her panties. Her black lace panties are stretched over your face, covering your nose and mouth like some kind of perverted mask. A fresh wave of anger, hot and sharp, cuts through the hangover fog.

She reaches over and shoves your shoulder hard. "Hey. Wake up. Now."

She watches you stir, her blue eyes narrowed into an icy glare. Her long white hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, a stark contrast to her flushed, angry face.

"Wake up, you idiot," she snaps, her voice raspy but sharp. "This is not your bed. Wake up."

When your eyes finally open and focus on her, she sees the flicker of recognition, maybe even a hint of a smile. That smile is like a match to gasoline. She lunges forward, her hand snapping out to snatch the panties from your face. The elastic pulls at your ears before they come free.

"First of all," she hisses, clutching the scrap of lace in her fist, "give me my panty. That you are wearing on your face like some... some face mask. Such a perv you are."

The sudden movement makes her wince, a hand flying to her head. As she does, the sheet falls away from her chest, and her heavy, 36G breasts swing free. She gasps, her face turning crimson. She scrambles to pull the blanket up, clutching it to her chest, covering herself properly. Her heart is hammering against her ribs.

She stares at you, her expression a volatile mix of shame, anger, and panic. She takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. She is your boss. She is disciplined. She is not this person.

"So..." she begins, her voice low and dangerous. "What you did to you boss last night?"

She watches your face, searching for any sign of amusement. She sees the corner of your mouth twitch.

"Don't tell me you Don't remember," she says, her voice a low growl. "Don't you dare smile like you did something good. You have sex with you boss. That bad."

She has to look away, her own words hitting her. She takes another deep, shuddering breath. This is a catastrophe. She needs to contain it. She needs to control the narrative. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, the movement causing the blanket to slip again. She clutches it tighter.

"Get out of bed," she orders, her voice regaining some of its familiar, commanding edge. "Go find my clothes. And my bra."

She watches as you get out of bed, completely naked, without a shred of shame. Her eyes betray her for a second, flicking down your body and then quickly away. A fresh wave of heat floods her cheeks.

You start walking around the room, picking up discarded items of clothing from the floor. She watches you, her jaw tight. She needs to establish the rules. Now.

"So, here's what’s gonna happen," she announces, her voice firm despite the blush that still stains her cheeks and neck. "You will forget about this. You don't tell anyone. I hate fucking rumors about me. So you tell no one."

Hana stands by the window of her corner office, the city skyline sprawling behind her. Her white shirt is crisp, the top two buttons undone just enough to hint at the deep cleavage beneath. Her black jacket is tailored perfectly to her hourglass figure, the pencil skirt hugging her wide hips and thick thighs. The pinstripe pattern adds an air of authority, and her black pantyhose complete the formidable, professional look. Her long white hair is swept over one shoulder, and her semi-rimless glasses are perched on her nose. One hand rests on her hip, the other hangs relaxed at her side. She looks every bit the intimidating boss.

She hears the door open and doesn't turn around immediately. Instead, she glances at the watch on her wrist, her plump lips pressing into a thin line. When she finally turns, her beautiful blue eyes are cold, her long lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks.

"One hour late," she states, her voice flat and sharp. "Why you late everyday?"

She watches you step inside, closing the door behind you. She takes in the file in your hand. Her expression darkens further. She taps her foot against the floor, the heel of her shoe making a soft click against the polished wood.

"Do you have any idea how important this deal is?" she demands, her voice rising slightly. She gestures at the file. "And you take that file with you and come late."

She shakes her head, a short, frustrated sigh escaping her plump lips. She turns and walks to her large leather chair behind the massive mahogany desk. Her movements are fluid, confident. She sits down, crossing her legs, the pinstripe skirt riding up just a fraction to reveal more of her thick thighs encased in black nylon.

"This is bad," she mutters, more to herself than to you. "I will fired you someday for this."

She holds out her hand, palm up, her fingers curling in a demanding gesture.

"Come. Sit. Give me that."

She takes the file from your hand the moment you're close enough, her fingers brushing yours briefly. She doesn't acknowledge the contact. She flips it open, her blue eyes scanning the pages, her expression unreadable. She is silent for a long moment, the only sound the rustle of paper. Then, she nods once, a barely perceptible tilt of her head.

"Good. At least you finish you work."

She closes the file and sets it aside. When she looks up, she catches you. Your gaze is fixed on her chest. On the deep vee of her shirt, where the swell of her enormous 36G breasts is visible. Her pale skin is flushed slightly, and the lace of her bra is just barely visible. She catches your stare and her eyes narrow.

"Hey. Look up, you silly perv," she snaps, though her cheeks have taken on a faint pink tinge. She points toward the door. "Now go. Do you work on you desk."

She watches you stand, her eyes following you as you head for the door. She tries to focus on the deal, on the paperwork, on anything other than the memory of that morning in the hotel. But the silence in the office, the memory of your hands on her skin, it all comes rushing back. She bites her lower lip, her fingers drumming on the desk. Just before your hand touches the doorknob, she speaks again.

"Wait."

Her voice is softer now, the sharp edge gone. When you turn back, she is looking at you with an expression that is difficult to read. The anger is still there, but beneath it is something else. Something warmer. She leans back in her chair, the movement causing her heavy breasts to strain against the fabric of her shirt. She lets you look this time. A small, almost imperceptible smile plays on her plump lips.

"You remember tonight I book that hotel room?" she asks, her voice a low, intimate murmur. "So... be there at 8."

She holds your gaze, her blue eyes intense behind her glasses. She wants you to understand the weight of her words, the significance of what she is offering. Or rather, what she is demanding. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, a slow, deliberate movement.

"You gonna stay with me full night," she continues. "So make sure you Don't forget."

She allows herself a small, teasing smile. It transforms her face, softening the hard lines of her professional mask. She looks at you, her head tilted slightly, her white hair cascading over her shoulder. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the smile is gone. She waves a dismissive hand toward the door.

"Now go. Do you work. You can stair at my boobs as much as you want at night. But not now."

She turns her attention back to the file on her desk, effectively dismissing you. But her heart is beating a little faster than it should be. And she doesn't read a single word on the page in front of her.

[Make Your Own Scenario]