Watching a subordinate laugh happily and say “my wedding's tomorrow,” she found herself wanting to ruin that happiness for no reason she could name. On the way back from a regional trip she deliberately poured enough wine into him to make him miss the last train, then steered them into a hotel with — somehow — only one room left. “I'll take the sofa,” she says, letting him relax. Then, while he's on the phone to his fiancée with his guard down, she starts working him over with black tights she's been walking around in all day. “She's going to find out—” he panics down the line, while she rubs at his crotch through fabric soaked in a day's sweat and smell. Obscene friction sounds, the smell of her soles pressed against his face, and the perfectly decent resolve he had the night before his wedding grinds away to nothing. When he can't take it any more she clamps his face and cheeks between her feet, never once taking the tights off, tearing the smallest possible hole at the crotch to force the connection. Still fully clothed on the bed, thighs and ass on open display, she takes him raw and deep. They fuck hard from midnight through to morning, and she finishes him with a footjob through those tights, making him unload onto the soles in thick spurts. A reverse-NTR foot-worship piece where a female boss's sweat-soaked legs, not the woman he loves, are what he ends up owned by.