Let Ingrid be nice to you.

Infiltration

Taking your silence for acquiescence, her red lips break into a please smile. (Who ever heard of a custodian wearing that much lipstick to work? Or that heavy?) They’re on yours in a blink, pressing down sweetly, needfully, and her tongue follows on its heels. She’s not merely sitting on your lap, but suddenly she’s riding it, grinding herself against you. Your hands clamp down on her ass as she rocks it, soft muscles flexing and rippling beneath a layer of even softer booty.

“Are you sure this is OK, Will? Like, here… In the office…?” She glances around.

“I don’t think anybody else is around, right?”

Her lips purse in consideration for a moment, but you kiss it away and are soon right back at it. You haven’t made out with someone, just kissing and touching and admiring one another’s aroused noises, for some time. At some point you realize you’re losing yourself in it, but before you can worry too much about the time, Ingrid’s lips pull away with a soft wet pucker. Yours follow after them as they withdraw, but they’re moving too quickly though, and moving in a direction you dare not stop.

Squatting between your legs, Ingrid gingerly takes hold of your belt, unbuckling it and starting on the pants. “You’re sure?”

“Sure? About…? Oh. Yes. Definitely. We have the whole place to ourselves, hon. Relax.”

“No, I know that. But I mean, we _work _here. It won’t be weird, coming to your desk every day and thinking about when some janitor lady sucked your cock right there where you work all day? Would that be too… dirty? I don’t want to make your workplace too dirty.”

If she doesn’t unzip you soon, you’re going to burst out on your own.

“I think it’ll be OK, Ingrid.”

She nods, looking relieved, and proceeds to help you out of your pants. Curiously, she stops you from shucking down your underwear. Instead, while you’re still standing, she rises up and with impossible gentleness, nips the waistband in her mouth and draws it down, adjusting the grip of her teeth each time she begins to meet resistance. When she finally eases it down enough, there’s a sudden squeal of surprise followed by delighted laughter as your cock lurches out and slaps her in the chin on its way up.

“Sorry about that. Guess I’m sort of keyed up after everything.”

Ingrid nods, frowning sympathetically as she eases you into your desk chair. “You poor baby. Here, let me help you relax.”

A moist pink tongue extends, and she gives your shaft an experimental lick. If it weren’t so hot it would almost be comical as she proceeds, gently licking at your cock from myriad angles as if you needed help getting it up. You’re not about to tell her to hurry along.

“You’re sure Avery won’t be mad?” she asks softly before finally taking the whole of you into her mouth. Whatever the answer is, it doesn’t seem apt to deter her.

“We’re not a thing,” you reassure her. Indeed, Avery hasn’t touched your cock since that wild night with the three of you. Except the one day when you were a few minutes early picking her up for work. You headed inside to find her clipping her earrings on at her wardrobe mirror in naught but her panties and a clingy shift. Catching you admiring her, she’d flicked you in the crotch softly and instructed you not to make her even later. “Don’t you worry.”

Ingrid’s only worry seems to be maximizing your enjoyment. Watching your eyes try to probe deeper between the zipper of her coveralls, she eases it down all the way, enough to give you a brief glimpse of simple white cotton panties. She then tugs her t-shirt up, forming a neat triangle that tries its best to reveal the entirety of those spectacular titties of hers. They seem to almost be fighting to escape, but the uniform is too tight, leaving only two half-tits exposed almost to the nipple, the metal zipper digging into each soft white orb like it too can’t wait to sink its teeth into them.

“Is that better? Ugh, this probably looks stupid. I’ll–”

“You look great. Better than great. Amazing.”

She smiles. “Flatterer.” Apparently flattery is more than enough to get her mouth back to work, only now instead of a persistent but gentle touch, she’s sucking you off with enthusiasm that’s too enthused not to be genuine. Her red pony tail bounces in time with her exertions, little moans of satisfaction emanating from somewhere deep in her throat.

Somewhere in the middle of it, without meaning to, you find you’ve taken hold of that ponytail. It’s really nothing more than a place to rest your hand, only then with your eyes closed, you feel her silken hand gliding down your forearm to close over your fist. Remembering yourself, you make to release it, except suddenly her hand has closed down hard around yours, clamping your loose grip into a clenched fist around her hair.

Two bright green eyes lock on yours, and though she never stops her noisy bobbing on your cock, you detect the slightest of nods.

You take over. There’s no transition, no easing into it, no testing the waters. One moment she’s giving you an incredible blowjob, and in the next, you’re fucking her incredible face. She’s given you permission like no woman ever has, and you’re using it. Her neck relaxes, letting you take complete charge of her. Luckily she’s got one hell of a head of hair; it’s a veritable rope you’re holding, pulling back and then slamming down. Her throat gurgles as you go deeper, but nothing in her resists. If anything, the sounds of her own enjoyment are only growing more intense.

Then you’re on your feet, her mouth never leaving your cock. Your other hand joins in, clasping above the top of her neck. You go harder. Your hips join in. Harder. Ingrid’s fingers are sunk deep into her tits as you fuck her face like a gorgeous wet rag doll. Harder.

At some point you realize you’re barely giving the poor girl a chance to breathe and let her ease off a moment. “Come for me, Will,” she pleads between gulps of air. “Come. Come for me.”

It wasn’t your intention – probably – but the woman gets what she asked for. You come like you haven’t since… well, since the last time you had sex with her. She takes hold of your shaft in a two-fisted grip, aiming you at her chest, her face, pumping every drop she can muster until at last you’re spent.

“Wow. That was so much!” she exclaims, dragging a nail through a splotch on her left boob and scooping it into your mouth. “Do you feel any better?”

“Loads,” you answer, sinking back down into your seat.

“Good.” She smiles, rising to her feet. “Well I’ll let you get back to what you were doing, Will. Guess we both have jobs to do.”

“Pretty sure you performed a hell of a job just now.”

She gives you a wink. “You hiring? For nineteen an hour, I’m yours.” Then she seems to realize what she said and her eyes go wide with embarrassment. “Oh my gosh, pretend I did not just say that. That was so slutty. Oh gosh.”

You pinch her on the butt as she’s turned around to hide her shame while she zips up, apparently content to let her shirt absorb your cum. She squeaks, but is smiling bashfully over her shoulder at you. “You, Will, are a bad influence on me.”

“I sure hope so.”

A rag hanging from her coverall’s hip pocket serves to wipe the mess off her face, though it leaves a slimy sheen behind in spots. “Do I look all right?”

“No.” She winces, taking another swipe, but you catch her wrist. “You look gorgeous.”

She breaks out in pleased giggles, but seems at a loss for words. With a goofy grin on her face, Ingrid grabs her cart and eases it back out of your office.

You catch your breath – and then lose your cool altogether when you get a look at the clock. Fuck! It’s 8:40. Not even half an hour before the codes go out. For a moment you marvel that you’ve arrived at a place in life where a sexual encounter like that isn’t enough to forfeit your half-baked plans of stealing a code to maybe get to a floor to maybe conduct espionage and/or maybe track down some lady with jizz on her breath who flashed you in an elevator some weeks back.

But it isn’t. It really isn’t.

Only, what the hell to do about it now? There’s no time to write some half-baked code to intercept this thing. No time to invent some donut-buying scheme. Shit! How did everything go so wrong tonight? What is it with the women of Monarch, spinning you in circles all the time? They couldn’t be doing a better job of throwing up roadblocks than if Ingrid’s blowjob lips and that bitch Brook’s psychotic break were part of the security system. Maybe you should add those as commendations in your final report.

As it stands, you know one place the code is going. If Ingrid is to be believed, it’s right here in the building. With no plan in mind, you make for the stairs and hustle on up to marketing.

Dark as the halls and offices are, the stairs are bright, full of potential for anyone to pop open a door and catch you with nowhere to run. You got lucky that it was Ingrid and not someone else on custodial who caught you before. There won’t be any talking around some stranger when she demands to know why a consultant is skulking around the stairwells hours after closing.

You make it to her floor unnoticed, however. Better yet, the stairwell door isn’t locked – a fact which you had forgotten, but did note previously in your audits some weeks ago. Only every third overhead light is active, creating long pools of shadows punctuated intermittently by inescapable light. You move cautiously, watching for someone entering the hall from a side angle. It’s quiet, though, and as you slip through the wide reception area, there’s no sign of any other present.

You’re getting close now, and thanks to your stealthy approach, there’s no time to waste. The black tile down the hallway to the junior VP’s office makes for loud footing on your dress shoes; you quickly kick them off and make your way sock-footed. Her hallway is completely unlit save for the glowing exit sign behind you and, as your eyes adjust, a wan light filtering out from the windows that you recall leading into Amy’s office. The corridor’s architecture suddenly takes on a sinister edge, an alternating series of recesses and protrusions, leaving numerous crevices in inky blackness where even those faint lights cannot penetrate. You can see the floor in front of you though, and so on you go.

You’re not sure if you’re hoping she’s in there, or hoping she’s not.

Jesus. It’s come to this. Watching to make sure you’re moving in total silence, that you’re not even casting a shadow where she might see it on the floor, you creep towards Amy’s office. The wall along the hallway is made entirely glass excepting the door itself, which looks to be black painted steel. It’s an odd effect, new agey and quirky, suitable to the chamber’s occupant. From prior visits you know Amy’s desk is a few paces deep into the office with the chair on the far side, a small meeting table situated in between the window and it. A small sink is set into a counter to her left, cabinets mounted above it, and a large steel cabinet sits beside that. It’s got a fair amount of empty floor space in between it all.

With bated breath, you peer around the corner and get a glimpse of the interior. The only lighting inside is coming from her computer monitor, facing away from you. There at her desk is none other than Amy Marchiano, her feet propped up on her desk and leaning back lazily in her chair. No, not lazily, you decide, realizing that she’s a bit flushed, even fanning herself with a manila folder. She’s changed since last you saw her, from her smart businesswoman outfit into a black turtleneck tank top, pale blue gym shorts and a pair of strappy sandals. No dress code after hours, apparently.

Was she working out? You smile at the thought that maybe she had her own booty call from custodial, and before you realize yourself, you find yourself letting out a soft chuckle.

Suddenly the woman on the other side of the door sits rigidly upright, squinting in the direction of the hall. You throw yourself around the corner before her eyes register you.

“Is someone there?” she asks. There’s clear nervousness in her voice bordering on outright fear. The pale light spilling onto the floor shifts and you realize she’s standing up.

There’s no way to explain away your presence. No time. You don’t even have time to make a mad dash down the hall to get out of her corridor. There’s nothing to do but throw yourself into one of the dark recesses, huddle into the shadow, and pray.

Once you’re in there, you almost immediately realize it’s less cover than you hoped. The corner of the alcove casts a shadow over most of the area, but there’s still a zone starting not an inch from your shoulder where even the minimal light would likely give you away. Too late now.

You can hear the door swing open, hear her sandals on the tiles. That’s not the only sound, though. It’s faint, but unusual enough that your ears immediately perk up. Manly moans, a woman’s panting… Amy was watching porn?

Still, not like you would confront her about it even if it wouldn’t mean getting arrested and terminated.

“Hello? Somebody there?” A pause. “Ingrid…?” There’s no mistaking her skepticism over that possibility.

You hold your breath as she emerges into view, peering with eyes accustomed to looking into a light source, and in vain. “God, I really don’t wanna die tonight…” Her tone is dry, but she’s obviously afraid. It’s brutal not being able to comfort her.

She turns around to where the corridor dead-ends at a pair of restrooms, shakes her head, then takes a few more steps in the direction you’re hiding. Any second now, her eyes will adjust and will make out the contours of an unusual shape in the crevice. She passes you, but is close enough you can pick up her scent, a mix of classy perfume, sweat, and something more feminine.

Desperation. You have to do something.

You use the cover of an elevation in the sounds from her office to slip a hand into your pocket where you find, of all things, a dog treat, left there from heaven only knows when or why. Why would you even have one? No time to contemplate. It will have to do. She’s studying the far wall now, and in a moment she’ll turn around and find you.

With thumb and forefinger, you launch the treat down the hallway. It hits the tile with an audible click, skipping several times before falling silent. Amy’s head jerks in that direction immediately.

“All right, now I _know _I heard that,” she mumbles. Then, louder, “OK, I know you’re there, so whoever you are, you can knock it off…”

When no reply comes, she starts tepidly in that direction. Once she’s gone a few steps, you make your move. Your mind has already been made up to get that code, so there’s only one thing to do.

A minute later, Amy returns to her office, clearly shaken. She even twists the lock behind her, giving one last study of the hallway before letting out a sigh. At last she remembers she has a light in here and flips the switch, but by now you’re curled up beside her desk, and the angle’s wrong. You hunch your shoulders down as best you can, but her video ended only seconds after you crept in, which means there’s no more noise now, so keeping quiet is more important than keeping small.

You can hear the chair moving mere feet away. Will she restart the video? No. There’s a few clicks, a few keystrokes, but she’s apparently out of the mood.

“Merriman’s nuts if she thinks I’m camping out up here by myself again any time soon,” she grumbles. “Freaking hearing things.”

It stays quiet. Seconds stretch out like hours. Her fingers drum rapidly on her desktop only inches from where you’re crouched. Your phone in hand, you risk swiping it on. 8:58. If they keep to their schedule, it should be any moment. God, let it be on time.

You extend your camera around the corner, recorder on. Volume muted, you peek, and there’s Amy, her chair angled away from you and leaning forward like she means to sprint out of here the moment she can. Perfect.

Two hundred and eighteen finger-drums later, there’s a buzz. “About freaking time,” says Amy, speaking your own thoughts aloud.

Here it is. All or nothing. You raise your phone, silently praying you can get an angle and a resolution that will let you see–

“One oh seven oh nine four,” she mutters. You lower your phone. “One oh seven oh nine four. One oh seven oh nine four.” She repeats it a few more times. “All right, how do we… hmm. Last number’s four. If we take the first four numbers, there’s two oh’s. Two plus seven is nine, two’s surrounding the seven. Hmm. One. What do I do with you, my friend.” She pauses, then lets out a bemused giggle. “Right. I’m number one. Hooah!”

For a few minutes, she sits there drilling herself, rehearsing her weird little mnemonic and repeating the number. With time to consider, it strikes you as a strange code. For all the secrecy they’ve surrounded it with, a simple six-digit code isn’t much. The elevator code? You feel like your brief glimpse when Jenna used it showed a number pad. It’s definitely possible.

Amy stands up, still mumbling the code under her breath. The lights suddenly go out, but it’s obvious she’s using her phone as a flashlight this time. Good. You’d hate for her to be caught off guard if some actual creep came along. Scuttling behind the desk just in case she looks back, you give yourself a ten count after hearing the door lock behind her before you at last stand up.

You did it. You got the code.

So now what?

Decision time! Voting takes place for patrons $5+ at https://www.patreon.com/icebear. Results will continue to be posted here for free, though, so no pressure. Not subscribed? Check it out. Hundreds more Ice Bear stories available on the cheap.

Your choices:- Get the heck out of here before your luck finally runs out.

• Go for broke. Head for the elevator and try the code now.

Separately, but not for nothing… While you’re in here…:

• With your security know-how, you could probably log into Amy’s computer see what got her so hot and bothered.
• With your conscience, you’d probably sleep better at night if you didn’t.