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beabakx · 3 days ago

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Her Turn

Pairing: Avis Amberg/Reader

Words: 2.9k

Summary: You’re her secretary—professional, quiet, and far too obsessed. Every time Avis Amberg brings a boy into her office, you lock the door and pretend you don’t care. But when he fails to satisfy her, she turns to you instead—and she doesn’t ask twice.

Warnings: Oral, Voyeurism? (Listening to Avis getting fucked), Masturbation, Office Sex, Fingering.

AO3

You’re not supposed to hear it.

You’re not supposed to listen, either—but when it starts, when the gas station boys are ushered into her office with those tight smiles and heavy lashes, you already know what’s coming.

Avis’s door clicks shut with just the faintest pause before the bolt slides. You barely breathe. You’re seated at your desk just beyond the inner office, close enough to hear the low hum of her voice—but too far to pretend it’s innocent. You never see her do it. You only ever hear.

First, it’s the soft shuffle of fabric, then a strained inhale. Her chair creaks. One of the boys murmurs something low and boyish. Then—

A sharp gasp. Avis’s. Muffled, but unmistakable.

You pause mid-keystroke, heart thudding behind your ribs like it’s trying to break free. This always happens mid-afternoon, when the studio’s gone quiet and the light turns gold through the frosted window. When no one’s around to knock or ask questions.

It started a week ago. The first time it happened, you didn’t know what to do—sit there and type? Cough to remind them you existed? But instead, you froze, pulse fluttering as her moans came soft and broken through the wall, as wet sounds filled the gaps between her breath.

You wanted to be disgusted. Ashamed. Something righteous.

But instead, your thighs pressed together, lips parted, hands trembling as you reached down beneath your desk. Just once, you told yourself. Just to take the edge off. Just because no one would know.

Now it’s a ritual.

When you hear her heels knock lightly against the desk legs, when you hear her purr and sigh, when one of the boys grunts low and desperate like he's barely holding on—your breath catches. Your fingers drift lower. You lock the outer office door, just in case. Slide your chair back a little, skirt hitched up just enough, fingers already damp from anticipation.

It’s wrong. You know that. She's your boss. She's Avis Amberg. She hands you scripts and signs checks and tells you to bring her another drink when she's annoyed. But when she's back there with them, gasping out little noises, voice husky and desperate—you forget all that.

Because you want her. You want to be the one on your knees. You want her hand fisting in your hair, not theirs.

You press your palm flat against your clothed heat, rocking against it slowly as the sounds grow louder. Avis is no longer subtle—she knows what she’s doing. And you think—you think she knows you’re listening.

Today, it’s more intense. There’s a slap of skin, a cry, and then her voice, wrecked and low, begging for something filthy you can barely make out. You suck in a breath and slide your hand under your skirt, biting down on your lip as your fingers find slick warmth.

You moan—quiet, barely-there—but it slips out before you can stop it. Your body arches in your seat. You grind down against your fingers, hips rocking in time with the rhythm of what you hear through the wall.

“Oh, fuck, yes—” she gasps from the other side. “Right there—don’t stop—”

Your legs tremble. Your other hand grips the desk hard enough to leave half-moons in the wood. You imagine it’s you she’s praising. You imagine her pulling you into that office, dragging you to your knees, whispering filthy things in that cool, controlled voice that always makes your spine straighten.

And suddenly the sounds stop. No more moaning. No more creaking. Silence. Then—Footsteps. Heels clicking. Slow. Approaching. Your breath catches. You freeze, fingers still wet between your legs, skirt pushed up indecently.

The door to her office creaks open. She appears in the doorway like a vision, hair tousled, lipstick smudged, silk blouse half-unbuttoned. The boy lingers behind her, shirt askew, dazed and spent.

But her eyes are on you. Steady. Knowing. She smooths a curl behind her ear and leans against the frame, tilting her head. “Well,” she purrs, voice like brandy. “You’ve been busy.” Your cheeks burn. You start to speak, to apologize, to explain, but nothing comes out.

You try to hold her gaze, but your eyes flick instinctively to the boy behind her. He's young, flustered, still panting slightly, the top buttons of his shirt undone. But Avis doesn’t even look at him.

She sighs. Not tired—bored. Disappointed. "You're done," she says over her shoulder, voice crisp as the snap of her garter. “Go.” The boy hesitates. Just a beat too long.

“I said go.” Her tone slices through the room like a knife. He stumbles, nearly trips over his own pants trying to pull them up, shame clinging to him like sweat. His eyes flick to you—fleeting, humiliated. You don’t look away.

Avis doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is all yours now. She listens, head slightly tilted, as the door to the outer office creaks open, then clicks shut behind him.

Silence.

Then: “Lock the door.”

You move to the door instantly. Fingers trembling slightly on the bolt. It thunks into place—final, heavy. When you turn, she’s already watching you, leaning lazily against your desk like she owns the whole building—which she does. Her blouse is still unbuttoned, her lipstick smeared, her satisfaction nowhere in sight.

Her gaze drops to your parted thighs, the dampness between them obvious now. You make no move to hide it. “Sit back down,” she says softly. You obey.

The leather chair is still warm from where you sat minutes ago, but everything else has changed. You’re skirt is up around you waist, your legs open just enough to expose the shameful slick on your panties. Her eyes drag over you like smoke—slow, deliberate, and chokingly hot.

“So,” she murmurs, stepping forward, the click of her heels echoing off the walls. “That’s why you’ve been locking the door.” You try to speak. Your mouth opens, but no sound follows. There’s no point in denying it.

Avis’s smile spreads slowly—dark, delighted. “That boy didn’t know what to do with me,” she says, almost absently, reaching for the edge of the desk and bracing herself. Her perfume wraps around you—rose and smoke and something expensive enough to hurt.

“Too frantic,” she muses. “Too greedy. No rhythm.” She walks behind you now, slow and unhurried, her fingers skimming across your shoulders, ghosting over skin like a whisper. You can’t move. Your breath catches.

“But you,” she says, voice lower now, right behind your ear. “You know how to wait. You know how to listen.” Her fingers brush the back of your neck. Light. Teasing. Just enough to make you shiver. “Tell me something, sweetheart,” she purrs, fingertips trailing down your spine. “Do you want something real?”

You nod, breath hitching, heart pounding so hard it’s painful. Her hand slides up—tangling gently in your hair, tipping your head back so your eyes meet hers. Her gaze is cool, precise, devastating.

“Good,” she says, voice a little sharper now. “Then stand up.” You do, clumsily. She doesn’t help. Just watches. “Shut the blinds.”

You rise on shaky legs. Your fingers move automatically to the blinds, twisting them shut with a soft, metallic click that seems to echo through the office. The light dims. The world narrows to just you and her and the heat pulsing between your thighs.

When you turn around, Avis is seated in your chair like it belongs to her. One leg crossed over the other. Blouse still rumpled, lipstick smudged in the most obscene way. A predator in red silk.

She crooks a finger. You come. She doesn’t touch you right away. She looks. Lets her eyes drag over you, slowly—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your knees wobble like they don’t quite trust your weight.

“So needy,” she murmurs, and you flinch, not from the words, but the way she says them. Pity and hunger, wrapped in satin. “Take off your blouse,” she says.

You do. Trembling fingers, buttons fumbling. She watches, eyes dark and hungry, but patient. Like she’s unwrapping a gift she already knows she owns. “Skirt next.” You unfasten it. Let it fall.

She tilts her head, hums low in her throat. “Look at you. All that self-control in the hallways, and now you’re shaking like a leaf.”

You nod—small, embarrassed. She smiles. Then she moves.

One second she’s lounging in the chair; the next, she’s on her feet, grabbing your hips and spinning you around. Your thighs hit the edge of the desk, hard. You gasp. Her body presses against yours from behind, heat and silk and something violent simmering beneath the surface.

“You think you can just sit out here and touch yourself like a good little secretary while I’m getting fucked on my desk?” she growls against your ear. “You think I didn’t know?”

You whimper something, but it’s cut off by her hand shoving you flat across the desk. Her body follows, chest flush against your back, one hand gripping your wrist, the other between your legs like she owns your cunt—and maybe she does.

“You listen so well,” she purrs, fingers circling, teasing, never quite enough. “But now I want to hear you scream.”

You moan, high and desperate, hips jerking, but she grabs you harder, pinning you in place. “Stay still.”

And then she’s inside you. Two fingers, thick and deliberate, pressing deep. Her other hand yanks your panties down to your knees, careless and fast. You cry out—a broken sound, more surprise than pain—but it just spurs her on.

She fucks you with her fingers like she’s trying to undo you completely. Every thrust hard and deep, no softness left. You’re spread wide across the desk, mouth open, moaning uncontrollably as wet noises fill the room, your slick dripping onto the polished wood floor.

“You like this?” she pants. “Being used like a toy on your own desk?” You nod wildly, tears blurring your vision.

She pulls your hair, yanking your head up, forcing you to look at the framed photograph on the wall across from you—a studio gala, her poised and perfect, shaking hands with someone important.

“Look at that,” she breathes. “That’s the version of me they get.” She slams her fingers deeper. Your body arches violently. “This is the one you get.”

You sob her name. It’s not even a word anymore, just raw sound. She doesn’t slow down. She leans in close, breath hot on your neck. “You come when I say,” she growls.

You nod, pleading. “Beg for it.”

“Please, Avis,” you gasp. “Please—I need it, I need to come, I—”

Her fingers twist inside you, just right, just cruel enough, and you shatter. Your body convulses under her grip, legs trembling as you come hard against her hand, every nerve lit up like a flashbulb.

She doesn’t stop until you’re wrung out and gasping, forehead pressed to the desk, barely upright.

Finally, her fingers slip free. She steps back—slow, deliberate—like she’s admiring her own work. You barely manage to lift your head, and when you do, she’s licking your wetness from her fingers, never once breaking eye contact.

But she doesn’t smirk this time. She tilts her head slightly, studying you with something deeper than amusement. Hunger. Possession. Then she says it: “My turn.”

You barely register her hand curling around your wrist before she’s dragging you to your feet. Your knees wobble, but she doesn’t give you time to stumble—her grip is firm, guiding, commanding.

She doesn’t look back as she pulls you across the outer office. Just opens the door to her space and leads you through like she’s bringing you into a temple.

The lights are low. Her desk pristine. The couch against the far wall looks like it cost more than your monthly salary.

She shuts the door behind you with a soft click. Then she turns. And the look on her face—dark, certain, electric—tells you one thing: Whatever just happened out there? Was only the beginning.

She walks ahead of you like she already knows how this will end—heels clicking against polished floors, blouse more undone. You hesitate a step inside the threshold of her office, every inch of your body humming with what she’s already taken from you.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just crosses to the couch, lowers herself with a grace that feels choreographed, like she’s done this before. Like she’s imagined you here before.

One leg crosses over the other, and she drapes an arm along the backrest, her blouse gaping open as she regards you from her throne of soft leather and shadow.

“Well?” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “I told you—it’s my turn.” You take a shaky breath. Her eyes drop to your mouth. “On your knees.” It’s not a suggestion.

You come to stand in front of her and sink to the plush rug without a word, muscles still weak, thighs still sticky. You keep your gaze low until her fingers curl beneath your chin, tipping your head up so you’re forced to look at her—lips still parted, eyes molten and merciless.

“You’ve had your little secret,” she murmurs, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “Locking the door. Listening to me. Touching yourself while I get fucked.”

The flush in your cheeks burns. She smiles like she loves it. “You want to be good now? Show me.” She uncrosses her legs—slowly—and spreads them. No hesitation. No shame.

“I’m going to sit back,” Avis says softly, voice like smoke, “and you’re going to worship me.” You nod. Eager. Desperate.

But she grips your hair before you can move forward, not hard—but firm enough to remind you who's in control.

“Slowly,” she whispers. “Make me feel what you’ve been thinking about all those times.” And so you do, obedient, reverent, trembling with want.

Your hands find her thighs first, skin warm and smooth beneath your palms, firm with tension she hasn’t released yet. You stroke slowly upward until your fingers reach the soft curve near her hips. You feel her muscles tighten beneath your touch, and she says nothing, but her breath shifts—quicker, shallower.

You lean in, and your lips hover just above her skin. Close enough to feel her heat, but not yet touching. You breathe her in, expensive perfume mingled with the darker, headier scent of arousal, and your mouth waters.

Your lips brush the inside of her thigh. Barely a kiss. A tease. She exhales sharply above you, head tilting back against the couch cushion, one elegant hand lazily resting at her side, the other still tangled in your hair.

You do it again. Another kiss, a little higher. Then another. You trail your mouth upward like a supplicant inching toward the altar, savoring the tension in every heartbeat, every twitch of her hips. Her thigh trembles under your tongue as you trace lazy circles, letting your breath ghost over her folds.

Finally—finally—you taste her.

She lets out a low, guttural sound that vibrates through her whole body and into yours. Her legs shift wider, inviting, commanding. Her hips roll slowly against your mouth, and you take her in like you’ve been dreaming of this—because you have.

She tastes expensive. Rich. Sharp with power. She tastes like everything you’re not supposed to have and everything you’ve ever wanted.

Your tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, teasing, exploring. You pay attention to the way her breath catches, the way her thighs twitch when you flick just right, the way her hand tightens in your hair—not to stop you, but to guide.

“You’ve done this before,” she murmurs, voice heavy with amusement and something darker. “Haven’t you, sweetheart?”

You hesitate for just a second, then pull back just enough to speak, breath hot against her skin. “No,” you whisper. “Only for you.” That stops her breath.

You feel it in her thighs, the way they tense. Her fingers tighten in your hair, holding you there—not to push, not yet—but to feel the weight of your words.

She looks down at you, eyes molten and unblinking, lips parted in something between surprise and hunger.

“Oh,” she says, the sound almost reverent. “Is that right?” You nod now, slow and sure. “I wanted it to be you.” Something in her breaks. Or maybe it deepens.

“Then don’t stop,” she breathes, voice low and unsteady now, all pretense falling away. “Show me what that want feels like.”

Your hands grip her thighs, anchoring yourself as her hips begin to move more insistently, grinding into your mouth. Her control is unraveling, but only because she allows it. She rides the rhythm, and you follow her lead.

Still, she remains composed. Even breathless, even as her thighs quiver around your head and her moans begin to spill from her lips in quiet, shaky curses—she’s still in charge. Always. She moans your name like she owns it. And when she finally cums, it’s with a shudder so sharp it echoes through you.

Her hand slips from your hair as her head falls back against the couch cushion, chest rising and falling. You rest your cheek on her thigh, lips swollen, heart racing, waiting for whatever comes next.

Her voice, when it returns, is low and hoarse—but still sharp with amusement. “Next time,” Avis murmurs, smiling down at you, “you’ll knock.”

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