The breakroom door clicked shut. Locked. Printer hummed faintly down the hall. Coffee aroma mixed with her perfume—thick, musky. Fyrag and I were out of supplies. No water for two days. Heat wave fried the AC. My disguise as a boyish intern frayed. Couldn’t hold it. We’d ditched safe paths for this marked corridor to the big Hedion Corp temple-office. Voices low. Fyrag pushed solo run. ‘Stay back, too risky.’ I refused. ‘Alone? Fuck no. These suits eye ass.’ He paled. Kissed my temple. ‘Pretend lovers then.’ We entered the empty lounge. Fyrag scouted. Found her. Marganne. Fresh voice. ‘Master’s out. Coffee?’ Poured mugs. Babble. Intense stare at me. ‘Drop the act. Kids in training. Servants loyal. I’m no snitch.’ Shocked. ‘How?’ ‘Mom was vestal-candidate. Kidnapped for Hedion rite.’ Laughed. ‘Just popped cherry. Not fatal.’ Offered shower room. Wellness perk. Door locked. Click. Steam rose. Water hot. She stripped. Heavy tits sagged, dark wide nipples. Round belly, olive navel. Bushy black pubes. Thick thighs. Pinned hair. ‘Marganne.’ Slid in. Fyrag splashed awkward. Hands over cock. I eyed her shameless. ‘Women isolated?’ ‘City yes. Here? I run house. See men daily.’ Leg stretched. Foot nudged her thigh. ‘Bathe mixed?’ Laughter. Toes probed slit. She sighed. Eyes shut. Water rippled. Fyrag bolted. Towel snatch. Slam. Furious whispers. Giggles. Pleasure built. Toe fucked her wet cunt. She moaned soft. ‘Good girl.’
Door creaked later. Dressed quick. To storage loft. Hay-scented files. Printer whirred below. Mouse clicks echoed. Noises. Two suits entered file room. Short tunics, open slacks. Bossy short guy. Taller sub. Fed beasts—shredded papers. Flirts. Brushes. Smiles. Shirts off. Sweaty pecs gleamed. Fork-lift guy flexed. Tall one grinned feral. Tease dragged. Thighs rubbed. Kiss crashed. Hands gripped. Slacks dropped. Pale ass cheeks. Brown torses. Jerked cocks hard. Tall bent. Spread. Short massaged crack. Then flipped. Tall gripped neck. Bent him over desk. Back arched. Legs bent. Cock poised at hole. Thyris—me—hand in panties. Fingers circled clit. Bit lip. Short thrust. ‘Han!’ Grunt. Deep. Sub groaned. Slow pumps. Then gripped hips. Slammed. Grunts. Flesh slapped. Sub yanked own dick. Fisted furious. My pussy clenched. Juices soaked fingers. Fyrag watched. Bulge throbbed. ‘How can you?’ ‘Your tent says you love it, perv.’ He flushed. Stormed back. Hay rustled. Below, roars peaked. Cum splashed. They panted. Buckles clinked. Gone.
Tension in the Breakroom
Adjusted skirt. Fixed blouse. Perfume dab. Coffee sip. Fyrag glared. Silent. Down ladder. Mouse clicked normal. Met Marganne. Supplies packed. ‘Safe path to temple.’ Winked. Back to open-space. Looks slid. Dossiers piled. Door unlocked. Click. Meeting resumed. Heart raced. Pussy pulsed. Mask on. Pro smile. Adrenaline buzzed. Pure office high.