The morning dawned gray over Little Knobton, the hills of Midlingtonshire cloaked in a damp mist that mirrored Charles Farnsworth’s mood. Five days had passed since the planning committee’s rejection of Farn Hollow, and the sting of defeat still burned. He arrived at the estate office, a terrace building on the village’s edge, before eight, his muscular frame tense in a crisp shirt and trousers. Sheila, his 22 young secretary, was already there, her presence a flicker of light in his darkening world. They had a meeting scheduled at midday with the secret backers of Farn Hollow, shadowy investors who’d bankrolled the scheme through offshore accounts, and Charles needed new plans to salvage their support.
Sheila stood by the filing cabinet, her short, flared tartan skirt swaying as she bent to retrieve a folder. The red-and-black pattern hugged her slim hips, flaring out to tease the tops of her thighs, and Charles’s gaze lingered, his frustration momentarily eclipsed by desire. Her large, enhanced breasts strained against a fitted blouse, a gift he’d funded, and her pert frame radiated a youthful allure that had always undone him.
“Morning,” she said, catching his stare with a smirk. “Coffee’s on.”
He grunted, settling at his desk, but his eyes tracked her as she crossed the room, skirt swishing, a deliberate distraction. “We’ve got four hours to pull this together,” he said, voice rough. “New drainage specs, scaled-back commercial, something to keep them on board.”
She nodded, setting a mug beside him, her fingers brushing his. “I’ve got the old plans digitized. We can tweak them.”
They worked in tense silence, papers and laptops spread across the desk, but the air thickened with unspoken heat. Sheila leaned over to point at a blueprint, her skirt riding up, revealing a sliver of pale thigh. Charles’s hand twitched, and when she straightened, brushing against him, he snapped.
“Fuck it,” he growled, standing abruptly. He locked the front door with a sharp click, the office theirs alone, and turned to her. “That skirt’s been begging for this.”
She laughed, low and throaty, stepping into his space. “Took you long enough.”
Their mouths crashed together, a kiss that was all teeth and hunger, his hands gripping her hips as he backed her against the desk. Papers scattered, a pen clattering to the floor, but neither cared. He lifted her onto the edge, her skirt flaring wide, and she parted her thighs, revealing no knickers, just bare, glistening skin that drove him wild. His fingers dug into her ass, pulling her closer, and she moaned into his mouth, her hands tugging at his belt with frantic need.
Charles shed his trousers, his cock springing free, thick and ready, and Sheila’s eyes darkened with want. “Take me,” she whispered, her voice a plea, and he obliged, entering her with a single, deep thrust that made her gasp. She was tight, hot, her body welcoming him, and he paused, letting her adjust, savoring the way she clenched around him. Then he moved, slow at first, deliberate, each stroke a promise of more. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper.
“Harder,” she breathed, nails raking his shoulders through his shirt, and he complied, thrusting with a force that rocked the desk. The wood creaked, her moans rising, sharp, unrestrained, a symphony of pleasure that fueled him. He angled his hips, hitting a spot inside her that made her eyes roll back, her first orgasm crashing through her fast, a shuddering cry as she tightened around him, wet and pulsing.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice raw, and he didn’t, his pace relentless, hands roaming her body. He yanked her blouse open, buttons popping, and palmed her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples through her bra until they peaked. She arched, offering more, and he shoved the bra up, mouth closing over one breast, sucking hard as he fucked her. The sensation, his lips, his cock, sent her over again, a second climax ripping through her, her thighs trembling as she clung to him, breathless.
Charles pulled back, still hard, and spun her around, bending her over the desk. Her skirt flipped up, ass bare and inviting, and he entered her from behind, a groan escaping as he sank deep. She pushed back, meeting his thrusts, her hands gripping the desk’s edge as he pounded into her. His fingers found her clit, rubbing in tight circles, and she came a third time, louder, wetter, her body shaking as pleasure overwhelmed her. He slowed, teasing now, long strokes that kept her on edge, building her up again. She whimpered, desperate, and he leaned over, kissing her neck, her ear, whispering, “You’re fucking perfect.”
She turned her head, kissing him sloppy and deep, and he sped up, driving into her with a passion that matched her need. Her fourth orgasm hit, a rolling wave that left her sobbing his name, and he followed, his release a flood that pulsed inside her, his growl muffled against her shoulder. They stayed there, locked together, panting, until he softened and slipped out, her body still quivering with aftershocks.
Sheila straightened, skirt falling back into place, and turned to him, flushed and sated. “That,” she said, catching her breath, “was worth the wait.”
He grinned, pulling her close for a lingering kiss. “You’re too good for me.”
She smirked. “Don’t forget it.”
They cleaned up, righting the desk, and dove back into work, new plans taking shape, a desperate bid to appease the money men. Sheila’s skirt still teased, but Charles focused, fueled by the release, determined to claw back control.
At midday, the backer arrived, a wiry man in his 50s, gray suit impeccable, eyes cold as steel. He introduced himself as Mr. Vaughn, no first name, his accent clipped and unplaceable. Charles ushered him into the office, Sheila stepping back, as they sat across the desk, the revised plans spread out.
Vaughn barely glanced at them. “It’s off,” he said, voice flat. “Farn Hollow’s dead. The council’s rejection was a blow, we’re not sinking more into a losing fight.”
Charles bristled. “We’ve adjusted, better drainage, fewer homes,”
“No,” Vaughn cut in, unyielding. “Sixty houses, per the local plan. That’s it. Build those, prove the concept, then we’ll scale up, quietly, over time. The 450 gambit’s gone. Too much noise, too much risk.”
Fredrick, on speakerphone, tried to argue. “We can appeal!”
“Appeal’s a waste,” Vaughn snapped. “You’ve got eyes on you now, village, press, council. Sixty’s the line. Take it or we walk.”
Charles’s fists clenched. “This is bullshit. We had a deal!”
“Deals change,” Vaughn said, standing. “Sixty or nothing. Call me when it’s moving.” He left, the door clicking shut behind him, the meeting over in under an hour.
Charles exploded, slamming a fist on the desk. “Fucking coward! After all I’ve put in!”
Sheila approached, cautious. “Charles, breathe. He’s not cutting you off, just reining you in.”
He paced, rage boiling. “Sixty houses? That’s a pittance. I’ll barely break even!”
She laid a hand on his arm, voice soft. “You’ll turn it around. You always do. Let’s eat, clear your head.”
It took twenty minutes, her calm words, her touch, before he relented. They ate sandwiches at her desk, the silence heavy but easing, and when she brushed crumbs from his lap, her fingers lingered, reigniting the spark.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, standing, and pulled her up, bending her over his desk. She was dressed now in sensible knickers, white, practical, beneath the tartan skirt, and he yanked them to her thighs, exposing her. She gasped, bracing herself, and he entered her hard, no preamble, his frustration channeling into each thrust. She moaned, pushing back, her body eager despite the suddenness, and he gripped her hips, pounding with a raw intensity. Her skirt bunched, her blouse rumpled, and she came fast, a sharp, needy climax that spurred him on.
Halfway through, a rapid click-click-click pierced the air. Charles froze, cock still inside her, and spun toward the door. Samantha stood there, camera in hand, snapping away, his bare ass, Sheila’s sprawled form, the undeniable scene. Her face was a mask of cold triumph.
“Smile, Charles,” she said, clicking again. “I’m filing for divorce. The companies in my name? I’m keeping them. Shell or not, they’re mine.”
He yanked his trousers up, lunging forward. “You bitch!”
She stepped back, unflinching. “Try me. These photos go public unless you back off. Farn Hollow’s done, and so are we.”
She turned and left, the door slamming, leaving Charles seething, Sheila scrambling to right herself. “Fuck!” he roared, kicking a chair. Sheila stayed silent, shaken but steady, knowing better than to push him now.
Samantha drove to Richard’s cottage, adrenaline surging, the camera hot in her lap. She burst in without knocking, finding him in the kitchen, and thrust the camera at him, showing him the photos, Charles and Sheila, mid-act. “Look,” she said, voice tight. “Who’s got the prettier pussy, me or her?”
Richard scanned the images, then met her eyes, a grin spreading. “You, Sam. No contest.”
She dropped the camera, pulling him to her, their kiss a clash of need. He lifted her onto the counter, her jeans and panties shed in a blur, and spread her thighs, entering her hard. She gasped, legs wrapping around him, the sex fierce, his thrusts deep, her nails clawing his back. She came fast, a shuddering peak, then again as he pounded, relentless, her body a live wire under his. He flipped her, bending her over the sink, and took her from behind, long, brutal strokes that lit her up, another orgasm crashing through as he groaned, spilling into her.
They collapsed, breathless, and she laughed, raw and free. “He’s finished, Richard. And I’m just starting.”
He kissed her, fierce. “We both are.”
Outside, Little Knobton’s hills stood sentinel, the fallout of Farn Hollow rippling through, a new chapter dawning in the shadow of Charles’s ruin.
Farn Hollow 
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