Petra Bösche was twenty-one, though her wide black eyes and the determined set of her jaw made her appear both younger and older simultaneously. Standing at just five-foot-three, she possessed a compact, lithe body that moved with unconscious sensuality—slender hips, breasts that were small but perfectly shaped, and legs that looked endless beneath the hem of her blue office skirt. Her brown hair, usually pinned back in a sensible style for her new position, had begun to escape in damp tendrils around her face.
It was the summer of 1985, and Westphalia was suffocating under a heatwave that seemed to have settled permanently over the industrial landscape. The metal fabrication company where Petra worked as a newly minted administrative assistant—a position she’d fought three years of apprenticeship to secure—had become an oven. The old brick building trapped heat like a kiln, and even the shaded factory floor offered little relief.
The worst part wasn’t the temperature, though. It was the women.
Frau Meier and the other office harridans—women in their fifties with permanent frowns and grudges against youth—had made it their mission to break her. Since passing her exams and earning her permanent contract, Petra had become their personal errand girl. Twice a week, without fail, they sent her traipsing through the factory hall to the storage room at the far end of the complex, knowing exactly what awaited her there.
The men.
They made no secret of their appetites. When Petra walked through the factory, catcalls followed her like exhaust fumes. Worse, they left their pornographic magazines splayed open across their workbenches—graphic, explicit images of women servicing men, multiple partners, every conceivable act of penetration and submission. They wanted her to see. They wanted her to know what they imagined doing to her.
And Petra saw. God help her, she saw.
Her cheeks burned crimson every time she passed, a telltale flush she couldn’t hide beneath her makeup. She belonged to a strict religious community—fundamentalist, conservative, uncompromising. Sex before marriage was forbidden. Impure thoughts were sins. Yet her body betrayed her with every step, her eyes darting to the images despite her prayers for strength, her skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with the weather.
The men knew. They laughed, their voices echoing off the machinery, crude offers shouted above the din.
Today, Frau Meier had waited until ten minutes before four o’clock.
“Frau Bösche,” the older woman called, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Be so kind as to fetch printer paper before you leave. We’re completely out.”
Of course we are, Petra thought, her stomach sinking. And of course you’ll wait until I’m about to miss my bus.
She’d dressed lightly that morning—a white blouse unbuttoned lower than she would have dared in cooler months, the blue skirt cut just above her knees. The fabric clung to her perspiring skin as she walked, and she felt the trickle of sweat sliding between her breasts, pooling in her navel, making her underwear damp against her most intimate flesh.
The factory yard was blinding, the asphalt soft under her sensible heels. By the time she reached the shade of the main hall, her blouse was nearly translucent with moisture, her nipples visible as dark shadows beneath the thin cotton.
That was when she saw him.
Walter leaned against a support beam, a beer bottle dangling from his thick fingers. At nearly fifty, he was an imposing figure—six-foot-one, broad-shouldered, with a hard beer belly that spoke of decades of heavy drinking and harder labor. His hands were enormous, calloused and scarred from the machinery, capable of crushing or caressing with equal strength. He wasn’t unattractive in a brutal, weathered way—craggy features, silver-stubbled jaw, eyes that missed nothing.
“Well, well,” he called out, his voice like gravel rolling in a barrel. “Little Petra’s running late. Let me guess—the old bags gave you another shit job?” He laughed, a sound that seemed to vibrate in Petra’s chest. “That’s how it works, girl. The young ones fetch and carry. But I’ll say this—you look sweet enough to eat in this heat.”
Petra forced a smile, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered on her damp blouse, her exposed throat. “Just getting paper for the printer, Walter. Someone has to do it.”
She turned quickly, escaping into the storage room before he could say more. But as the heavy door began to close, his voice followed her like a caress: “Hey, little one—if you need a hand with anything, just say the word.”
The storage room was dim and cooler than the factory floor, smelling of dust, metal, and old paper. Petra scanned the shelves for the specialized printer paper. Not on the usual shelf. Her heart sank as she spotted it—tucked away on the top rack, impossibly high. She couldn’t reach it. She’d have to ask—
“Need help, sweetheart?”
She hadn’t heard him follow. Walter stood in the doorway, filling the frame, his shadow stretching across the concrete floor toward her. Without waiting for an answer, he crossed the room in three strides and reached up, his body pressing close enough that she could smell him—beer, sweat, machine oil, and something darker, muskier. Male.
“Here you go,” he said, handing down the package. But he didn’t step back.
“Thank you, Walter. I couldn’t have managed without you.”
He smiled then, a slow, predatory expression that made Petra’s breath catch. His eyes traveled down her body with deliberate slowness, from her flushed face to her heaving chest, down to her legs, and back up again. When he met her gaze, his grin had widened.
“Petra, you’ve become quite the sexy little thing,” he said softly, dangerously. “Tell me—how’s your love life? Got a boyfriend yet? Someone to fool around with?”
“I… I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
“Don’t you?” He stepped closer, crowding her against the shelving. “Have you ever seen a real man’s cock? Touched one?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve watched you, you know. Looking at those magazines when you think no one’s watching. You want to see what I have?”
Before she could answer—before she could flee—he was unzipping his trousers.
Petra’s mind went white with shock. There, in his calloused hand, lay his cock—thick even in its semi-erect state, growing harder and longer under her wide-eyed stare. It was nothing like the medical diagrams she’d seen in school. It was heavy, veined, the head already flushing dark red, pulsing with his heartbeat.
“Walter,” she gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing yet, sweetheart.” He took her hand—she was too stunned to resist—and placed it on his shaft. The heat was shocking, the skin like silk over steel. “He won’t bite. Come on, don’t be shy. No one will know.”
He guided her, showing her how to grip, how to stroke. Up and down. Firm. Faster.
“See? He likes you. He’s standing up nice and stiff for you. That’s it—beautiful. Keep going. Faster. Harder.” His breath was coming in rough pants now, his hips subtly thrusting into her palm. “Oh yes, that’s good. Faster, little mouse. You can taste him a little if you want.”
Petra’s heart hammered against her ribs. She shouldn’t. God, she shouldn’t. But her body was moving without her permission, her curiosity a traitor to her upbringing. She bent forward, her tongue darting out to touch the swollen head.
Salt. Heat. The tang of musk and something uniquely male.
She licked again, and Walter groaned, the sound sending a pulse of heat to her core. But then her conscience screamed—Sin! Forbidden!—and she jerked back.
“Walter, this is wrong. This is forbidden.”
“Come on, sweetheart, keep going. You’re a natural at this.”
She shouldn’t have continued. But her hands moved on their own, stroking him with both hands now, watching in fascination as he grew impossibly harder, the veins standing out in relief, the head darkening to purple. He was panting, grunting, his hand covering hers to set the rhythm.
“Faster,” he groaned. “I’m going to come—”
The first spurt hit her hand, hot and thick. Then another. The white-yellow fluid coated her fingers, dripping onto the floor between them, the smell sharp and undeniable.
“Lick me clean, Petra,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Suck my cock clean.”
But that was too much. The spell broke. Petra snatched the printer paper and ran, her heart thundering, her hands still sticky with his seed, her mind a whirlwind of shame and arousal.
