#tw age difference

The rain pattered angrily against the car windows when your friend, Samira, dropped you off in front of the building. She smiled, reassuring and warm until you got out, then she sped off without a second thought. She would wait in the parking lot for you, but now you had to walk in there on your own.

You rang the bell to Mr. Abbot's office, waited a couple of minutes for someone to come open the door. You figured, since they were hiring a secretary, and it was a relatively small firm, a private practice, it would be him, Abbot, who opened the door for you. Time went by and, even with your ear stuck to the door, you couldn't hear a thing. You doubted anyone was coming to get you, so you let yourself in, pushing the door open and walking into the lobby.

Water droplets dripped from your raincoat to the floor as you scanned the room. A coat hanger sat in a corner with a couple coats hanging from it, a dark umbrella leaned at the foot of it. The hallway walls were covered in diplomas and pictures from the people who worked there. You walked along it until you found one of Mr. Abbot's diplomas and you stopped there, feeling as if you were overstepping.

"Hello?" your voice rang through the walls, nobody replied. You took a deep breath to gather yourself and, with shaky legs and a nervous disposition, made your way to his office.

Your fist rapped fast and soft against his door, although it was ajar, and you could hear him hum quietly inside. You called out again, awkwardly.

"In here." he was quieter than you had expected, softer.

"Hi." You smiled as you walked into his office. It was small and smelled faintly of dusty books and orchids.

"Hi."

Suddenly, the papers you were holding in your hands felt heavy, and so did the word secretary. The very word you had mouthed in the mirror about a thousand times that morning. You swallowed your spit and took a deep breath, pushing a handful of papers— cv's, diplomas, another handful of things you thought would be nice to have printed out— towards him.

"Are you the lawyer?"

"I...yes. Jack Abbot." He watched you with wide eyes, as if you had walked in on him doing something he wasn't supposed to, awkward and confused.

"I—I am sorry, Mr. Abbot, I'll come back later..." You spat out, already halfway out the door.

"No."

You turned around, mouth wide. You were confused, he wasn't ready, was caught off guard by you and you were giving him a clear way out. But he refused to take it, preferring to stare at you.

"No, stay." He said, finally.

"It said 'secretary'," You pointed lazily behind you, hoping he knew you meant the door, or the newspaper, because you did not know what else to say now that you were fully inside his office, face to face with him.

It finally registered, once you looked at him for a second more, how handsome he actually was. Grey hairs curled against his forehead and temples, making his eyes look brighter than they were.

He crossed and uncrossed his arms over his chest, reveling in the way your watchful eyes moved from his face to his chest and arms.

"That's right." He nodded.

You took a seat in front of him, with your hands in your lap, and waited for him to look over the wad of papers you'd brought and ask you questions about it.

About half an hour later you were exiting the building with a pep in your step. It was no longer raining, and you had gotten your first job out of college. Samira's car was the only one in the parking lot when you walked out to it, and you were thankful for that, because you ran up to it squealing and jumping, unaware that Jack could see you from the window in his office.

"I got the job!" You exclaimed as you got into the hot car.

"I knew you could do it!" She squealed, kissing the side of your face.

You nodded, biting your lip with enough force to make it bleed.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

Your desk was neat and tidy when you got there the next morning. The lobby was quiet, too. Your manicured fingers moved over the keys of the typewriter, your expression set in concentration. You liked the dull work, liked that you had time to think, or paint your nails, or look out the window at the birds. A week went by quickly like that, making coffee, answering calls, typing letters and e-mails.

You were a good typist, but not as confident when it came to answering the phone—most times your voice caught in your throat, or you stumbled over your words and said something wrong. It was your first week, so you chalked it up to that.

Unbeknownst to you, Jack Abbot had noticed. And he was already preparing to use it as an excuse to call you into his office. He had been waiting to find an excuse to get you alone with him.

"Did you get enough sleep last night?"

Why would that matter? You were silently doing your job, adjusting to the clanking noise of the typewriter. You debated whether you should tell Jack the truth, tell him that you had spent the evening at a bar with your best friend, that you had stayed up later than you should when a guy Samira called cute, Mark or Marcus or something hit on you, and that you ended up giving him your number; or if you should be professional and lie to Jack, tell him you had gone to bed early.

You stammered, mouth open, unaware as to what you should say.

Jack lifted a hand up, stopping you.

"Uhm, not really, sir." You looked down at your feet, knocking the front of your shoes together, focusing on the clicking noise they made.

"Your boyfriend keep you out late?"

The question caught you so off guard you laughed, short and awkward. "I don’t have a boyfriend."

"No?"

"No."

And Jack refused to tell you he had seen you out at the bar, had seen men approach you, had seen you reciprocate. He refused to acknowledge the jealousy he was feeling, because you were his secretary, he was your boss, he couldn't do something like that. He wasn't sure who the man you had practically glued yourself to the previous night was, if he was a friend or boyfriend, but you refused to tell. He would have to try bonding with you again. He sighed, closing his eyes for a split second.

"You should drink some tea, it'll wake you up and...get a much less hoarse voice out of your throat."

Your hands flew to your neck, as if you could fix the issue from the outside. His gaze stayed on your neck even after you removed your hands from it.

"You know what your problem is? You answer too quickly. You sound startled, like you hadn't meant to pick up." Jack leaned back in his chair, studying you with the same intent focus he used when reading contracts. It made your skin feel thin and see through.

"What are you afraid of? Of...inconveniencing somebody?"

"I just don't want to miss it. The call." You fidgeted with your skirt.

"You won't. Caller can wait thirty seconds." His voice softened.

You became aware of the ticking clock on the wall. The sound of rainwater still trapped in the pipes. The faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes beneath the starch and soap. You wondered if he could smell the cigarettes off your clothes, beneath your sweet perfume, you wondered what soap he used to wash his clothes, if he washed them at home or got them dry cleaned.

Jack tapped once against the desk with his pen. "Sit up straight."

Your spine straightened immediately before embarrassment rushed hot across your face. "Sorry."

A smile stretched across Jack's lips, "There you go." He said, proud.

You hated how good his praise felt, how heat bloomed deep in your stomach at his approval. You stayed in his office, sat in front of him with your knees bumping against each other, wondering whether you should talk back or get up and go back to the lobby. Before you could overthink the length of the silence, Jack spoke up.

"The next call," he said, "you’ll let it ring twice. Then answer slowly."

You nodded, a small smile making its way up your face.

"And," Jack added, "Breathe before you speak. You don't have to sound frightened all the time, you're not a little mouse."

"Okay, sorry." You smiled.

Jack only hummed in acknowledgment and waved you off toward your desk again. The second the door closed behind you he shut his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening. He felt like a creep, like he should apologize for something.

You were back to sitting at your desk, quietly typing, listening to the songbirds right outside the window. That was when the phone rang. You remembered what Jack had said about your voice and breathing, about taking your time with the calls, so you waited for the third ring, and then picked up.

"This is the law offices of Jack abbot, how may I help you?" You grinned, proud of your improvements, of your confidence.

"Hey. It’s me," there was a beat of silence and some rustling on the other side of the phone, the speakers crackled. "uh...Mark, from the bar..."

Your stomach dropped. You hadn't thought he would ever be back in your life, had chalked it all up to drunken mistakes. "Oh. How did you...get this number?"

"I called your landline...uh...your roommate, Samira, said to call here. Didn't know you were a lawyer." He chuckled.

"I'm a secretary, actually." You tried to sound prouder than you were, in reality it was the only place willing to hire you. Or rather Jack Abbot was the only man willing to hire you.

"Cool..." A small laugh. "Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner sometime."

Your fingers tightened around the receiver cord, winding it once around your hand before quickly undoing it again. The office suddenly felt too quiet around you, too open. The ticking clock behind you sounded louder than before. Through the frosted glass of Jack’s office you could see the blurry movement of his silhouette shifting behind his desk.

"I don't know...I've got work, and stuff..." You answered softly, lowering your voice on instinct, though you were not sure why. Maybe because you had a slight suspicion Jack was listening, watching and waiting.

"Oh, come on...you gave me your number, might as well do something."

Your cheeks warmed. You had. Barely remembering it did not change the fact that you had leaned over a sticky bar counter and scribbled your number down onto a napkin while Samira giggled beside you.

"I was drunk, and i just...I didn't think you'd actually call..."

The door to Jack's office opened, and you watched as he stepped out with a folder tucked beneath one arm, looking every bit the composed attorney he pretended to be. His eyes landed on you immediately. His shoulders stiffened slightly beneath his dress shirt. You knew you had made a mistake, you were not supposed to take personal calls on the work phone unless they were important, and whatever this was wasn't.

"Hold on," you whispered into the receiver.

"You are aware you're not supposed to take personal calls here, right?"

"Uhm, yes, sir. Sorry...I...was about to hang up."

Jack approached your desk slowly, the polished floor creaking beneath his shoes. The closer he got, the more aware you became of your posture, your skirt riding slightly up your thighs from sitting so long, the warmth gathering beneath your collar.

"Who's calling?" he said, calmly.

"A friend."

Jack took the phone from your hand and hung up, refusing to look away from your face. The eye contact made you shift uneasily on the chair.

"Ah, a friend," he paused, smiling. "A boy friend?"

You felt heat rise in your face immediately, sharp and humiliating, because it was not just what he said but the way he said it: like he was testing something, like he already knew the answer and still wanted you to stumble into admitting it. It made your fingers curl against your own palm. All of it felt wrong in a way you couldn’t quite name. Not loud enough to be an accusation, not soft enough to be casual.

"I was just being nice, Mr. Abbot."

"You're too nice." He breathed as he began to walk back to his office, "You let people take advantage of that without noticing."

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

There was a subtle change in his demeanor then, nothing obvious. Nothing anyone else would notice. Jack still greeted you in the mornings with a curt nod, still thanked you when you brought him coffee, still corrected your typing mistakes in red pen with the same precise handwriting. But something warm inside him had folded shut. The softness that used to creep into his voice whenever he said your name disappeared. The strange little smiles he used to hide behind coffee mugs were now gone, leaving you to deal with the emotional whiplash.

You had started recognizing the rhythm of his footsteps from down the hallway. Started anticipating the low sound of his voice drifting through the cracked office door. Started waiting for the moments he called you into his office for pointless things—fixing a crooked stack of papers on his desk, rereading a letter that had already been perfect the first time, standing beside him while he explained things you already understood. Now he barely looked at you.

The first few days after the phone call, he became painfully professional. He stopped lingering near your desk. Stopped watching you when he thought you were not paying attention. Stopped offering awkward guidance. It left a strange hollow ache in your chest that followed you home at night.

You found yourself replaying every interaction you'd had with him in your head as you laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling fan. Maybe you had embarrassed him. Maybe he thought you were stupid. Maybe he regretted hiring you entirely. The thought made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

The office itself seemed different without his attention fixed on you. Colder somehow. The yellow lamplight in the lobby looked dimmer in the evenings. The old pipes groaned louder whenever it rained. Even the typewriter sounded harsher beneath your fingers now, every clack echoing through the quiet rooms like a reprimand.

And Jack became unbearable. Unreadable.

It took you a couple weeks to adapt to the new rhythm, but you did, and over time you started to pretend things were normal again.

You sat at your desk, typing as Jack paced around the room and dictated a letter to one of his clients. His voice was controlled, his eyes wouldn't dare land on you.

"...and furthermore, my client has made every reasonable effort to resolve this matter outside of court."

Your fingers moved over the keys. Clack. Clack. Clack. You finished the letter in a kind of careful silence, the typewriter slowing as the final sentence settled into place. For a moment, there was nothing but the faint hum of the office around you, the ticking clock down the hall, and Jack who had sat down on his chair, leaning back.

When you stood, smoothing the paper instinctively, you assumed that was the end of it. You gathered your notes, waiting for his usual dismissal, that small nod that meant you could return to your desk and pretend you were doing something other than painting your nails or listening to music.

Instead, when Jack reached out and took the page from your hands you didn't get the usual "Good girl, now get back to your desk." Jack scanned the page slowly, holding up a hand to still you. He read it once, then again. And then he made a small sound under his breath, something almost like irritation, almost like disbelief.

"No," he said, not looking up yet. “Uh, uh, uh.”

Jack’s finger tapped once against the page. "How many ‘s’s are there in necessary?"

You blinked. "Two, sir."

"Correct."

Jack's eyes lifted from the paper, and when they did there was something sharper in them than before. Not anger exactly, more like tension. Tight and controlled, like it had been building underneath everything and only now had found somewhere to go.

"Then why," he said quietly, "is there only one in your letter?"

Heat rushed up your neck immediately. "I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—"

He exhaled through his nose, as if steadying himself, and set the paper down on his desk with more care than the rest of his movements had suggested.

"Come here," he beckoned you closer with his hand as he stood up from his chair. "I want you to bend over the desk so you're looking directly at it. Get your face very close to the letter and read the letter aloud."

"I—I'm so sorry, mr Abbot, I—"

"Put your hands on the desk, bend over...and read it aloud."

You blinked. "The whole thing?"

"Yes, sweetheart." Jack's large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you face-down over his polished mahogany desk. One of his legs kicked yours apart so he could fit in between your thighs.

"Dear Mr. Bennett," you read aloud, voice slightly uneven at first before you forced it into something more controlled.

Jack only hummed to let you know he was listening. He should have stopped you, should have pulled back, sent you off to your desk, apologised profusely for getting out of line. Should have called HR, or the police. That would have been clean. That would have been professional. Instead, he stayed where he was, because moving away from you was a loss he couldn't afford.

"As per our previous correspondance—" A loud crack echoed through the office as his palm landed on your ass through the thin fabric of your dress, startling you stiff.

"Continue."

You cleared your throat. "I...I am writing to inform you that the matter has been reviewed in accordance with standard proceedure and the relevant legal considerations."

Another strike, proceedure. How careless of you, Jack had to correct that. He pressed his now hardening cock against your ass. You gasped at the contact but kept reading. Jacks hands moved from your back to the sides of your hands and you snaked one shaky hand to hold his.

“And furthermore, my client has made every reasonable effort to resolve this matter outside of cort.”

His palm cracked down sharply again. He was going to leave a mark, and the thought of that excited you. The thought of standing in the mirror that night and seeing mr Abbot's handprint on your body made you tremble with anticipation.You shifted your weight and kept going.

"Should you fail to respond within the designated timeframe, we will proceed accordingly and seek furthur legal action."

Another loud crack and a shallow thrust of his hips against yours.

"Now pull up your skirt."

"Mr. Abbot..."

"Call me Jack, sweetheart. And pull up your skirt."

You could hear Jack unbuckling his belt, could hear the metallic noise of the zipper going down. His hands weren't steady; they trembled slightly as he pushed his pants down just enough to free himself.

"Pull down your pantyhose and underwear."

You did what he said, filled with a strange sense of excitement, the sense that if you made a mistake it would all be over, you would be fired or ignored by Jack. So you stayed quiet, squeezing his hand to reassure him, to tell him you wanted it just as bad as he did.

You felt the thick head of his cock push slowly inside you, one of his hands moved to grip your waist. The desk creaked under your weight.

He didn't say anything else after telling you to pull your skirt up. No commands now that it was actually happening, just heavy breathing and racing heartbeats loud in both your ears, and the slick noise of your bodies together, of your tight cunt swallowing him whole.

The desk groaned again under the shifting weight but neither of you stopped. Sweat already beaded at Jack’s temples; his shirt clung slightly to his back from the nerves. He hadn't done this in years.

Your wetness made quiet sounds with each push-in and pull-out, soft squelches that would've been embarrassing if either of you were thinking straight right now. A droplet of sweat fell from Jack's jawline onto the back of your dress as he leaned over slightly for better leverage and he thought if it had fallen on your bare skin he would've licked it off, licked a path up to the back of your warm neck.

Jack's movements grew more confident as you got more slick. Every time you clenched around his length a quiet groan escaped his lips.

"fuck...so wet, sweetheart," he breathed shakily. "Been wanting to do this since the night at the bar..."

"Wha...what night at the bar?"

Jack froze for a second when he realized he'd said too much. His cock stayed buried inside you, but his body tensed like a deer caught in headlights. He hadn't wanted to admit to that, to having seen you out in public shortly after hiring you, to being attracted to you and never correcting your spelling mistakes before because he didn't want to see a pretty girl upset. It was idiotic, he wasn't like that.

"Shit..." He breathed out. Jack hadn't planned on you finding out while he was still inside you, or ever for that matter.

"…That bar downtown," he started quietly, still not moving inside you, just frozen there with his hands on your hips like he was bracing for impact. "Two weeks ago. Friday night."

Jack's hand fisted suddenly in your hair and yanked your head back slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to arch your spine and expose the curve of your neck. A hot open-mouthed kiss landed there, sloppy, wet with spit as he sucked a mark right onto warm, sensitive skin. "Saw you with a guy."

"Ja—Jack...I wasn't...he was not—"

His hips started moving again harder now; no more awkwardness or hesitation. Deep thrusts slammed into you as sweat dripped from his jawline down both sides of his face. "Not what, baby?"

You opened your mouth and immediately closed it again. You weren't sure what to say. Not my boyfriend. Not important. Not you. Not the person I wanted him to be. You weren't sure, either, if the words would come out right, so you just whined, pushing your hips back against his.

Jack's breathing turned ragged from the jealousy that flared up at seeing you with another guy, mixed with guilt for admitting it now, like this. The kiss on your neck broke wetly as he panted against your skin, still moving his hips in rough, uneven thrusts. Not graceful or practiced; just raw and needy in a way Jack Abbot had never allowed himself to be before.

"Did he get to fuck you like this, huh, baby?" His lips pressed at your shoulderblades.

You shook your head no. Nobody could, Jack was grown and big and warm, making you dizzy every passing minute. He was relieved at that, at the way your eyes were glassy with tears, your hips snapping loud against his, at the fact he was the one getting you fucked out and stupid.

"No, he didn't...yeah...bet he wouldn't know what to do with you..."

Your back arched as a loud moan ripped from your throat. Jack's arm snaked to hold you upright against his chest, putting you on a chokehold. The change in position had him getting that much deeper hitting your g spot over and over.

"Jack…I can’t—" Your nails dug against the hard wood of the table, a futile attempt at grounding yourself when all you could hear was the sounds coming from your joint bodies, all you could think about was him.

"Oh, come on sweetheart, be a good girl and take it for me," he cooed at you, sharp teeth scrapping at the base of your neck.

You were keening, drooling all over his forearm and blabbering about how you were so close and how you needed it pleasepleaseplease

"Jack, please— I’m so close," Your legs shook in between his thighs, the heels you wore struggling to keep you upright.

"I’m right behind you, sweetheart."

Jack pushed you back down on the table, pressing your front to the cold hard wood, lifting your hips up to arch your back. The change in position made your breath hitch and your vision blur.

Tension coiled tight and hot in your abdomen as you spasmed around Jack’s shaft. He wasn’t stilling his movements, thrusting fast and hard against you until your vidion went white and you came with a loud moan, slumped over the table, wood and leather and plastic all pressing against your chest.

Jack pulled out a second after to spill thick ropes of cum over your back. He waited a beat, until you caught your breath and steadied yourself, to zip up his pants and speak again.

"You should straighten yourself up, then get back to your desk." He said, scratching with his fingernail at a cum stain on his slacks. "We can talk about this over dinner on friday, if you’d like that."

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────