I push open the heavy carriage door of the Haussmannian mansion. Cross the courtyard. Step into the vintage elevator. Punch the code. Enter our fifth-floor office suite. Wax and paper scent the air. Six rooms turned pro workspace. Head to my desk. Boot up the PC, three monitors flicker alive. Hang my three-quarter coat, hat, scarf, bag. Peek into Céline’s office. She’s early, always. Nibbling her pen cap. Eyes on screens. Mid-thirties stunner. Hired me post-BTS. Trained me as accounting aide.
“Morning, Céline! Good?” I lean in for cheek kisses. Coffee breath mixes with her floral perfume.
The Building Tension
“Great, Léa. You?”
“Fine. Cold out?”
“Scraped ice off the windshield. Summer, please.” She laughs. Lives in posh Hauts-de-Seine villa. Me, cramped Chapelle studio. Hunting bigger place.
Boss Nicolas out sick. We chuckle. Workaholic founded Bertrand Finance. TPE clients: bakeries, cafes. Us three. Good pay, fat quarterly bonuses.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.” She lets me pass first. Cross plush-carpeted salon. Heels click on kitchen tile. She brews. I butter rusks. Weekend chat. Her makeup mesmerizes: teal eyeshadow, matching jewels. Boss nixed my student rags day one. She shopped me chic. Culture vulture pals: Opera, Pleyel.
Lately, eight-year age gap fades. I crave her. But she’s straight? Divorced hetero. No lesbian shows? Resigned. Wash dishes. Wipe table. Admire Notre-Dame spire. Back to my pink-pastel office. Cat pics on walls. No pet, landlord rules.
“Damier file incoming,” she calls. Mouse clicks echo. Printer hums.
“Got it.”
Less need her help now. Miss her leaning close. Perfume haze. Breath on cheek. Rare cleavage. Once, palm on shoulder, tits against her.
Sigh. Dive into dossiers. Doorbell chimes. She dashes. “Mine!” Back with ribboned white box.
Lunch: she drags me to Mikado. Japanese spot, Ile de la Cite. Reserves table. Upper floor window view. Shochu for her, umeshu me. Her calf presses my shin. Ignore. Tiny table. Laugh at jokes. Tipsy on sake, plum digestif.
Back. Collapse on client sofa. She hangs my outerwear. “Three minutes,” I mumble. Black out.
Wake enveloped in her coat scent. Perfume overload. She’s reading, legs crossed. Garters peek. She catches my stare. Smirks.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens. Thought of kissing you awake.”
Blush. Jump up. Clock: 3:39 PM. Two hours gone!
She brings lilies, that box. “For you. Anniversary of your hire.”
Explosive Release and Sweet Aftermath
Nose in blooms. Open box. Silk paper: Mademoiselle Beatrice. Lace balconette bra, shorty, self-hold stockings. Hug her tight. Head on her bust. Her fingers trace my spine.
“Try it on.”
“Here?”
“Your office.”
Heart pounds. Dash in. Strip. Clothe in finery. Lace hugs curves. Slip skirt, blouse over. Emerge.
Salon dimmed. Flowers vase’d. Table moved. She waltzes me. Dips me low. Faces inches. Eyes ask. I nod. Lips meet. Tongues dance.
“Want you now, Lea. Nod for yes.” I do. Door locked earlier? Click confirmed.
Kisses rain. She pins me. Thigh slip fails. Spins me to chair. Remote buzz: sofa unfolds to bed. Fresh sheets.
“Tested it this morning.”
Giggle. Strip mutual. Her D-cups, garter belt, sheer stockings. Goddess. Tumble laughing. Wrestle playful. She pins. “Mine first.”
Kisses trail. Unclasp bra. Suck nipples. Belly. Tease pussy breath. Legs worshipped. Spoon. Praises whisper: “Love your slim body, almond eyes, scent.” Fingers circle clit. Dip in nectar. I buck. Cum hard. Cling.
“My turn.” Escape. Grab cream. “No grabbing or I tie you.”
She submits wrists. Undress slow. Kisses. Prone. Massage: scalp, back, ass knead. Moans. Thighs, feet. Flip. Face, tits spiral. Nipples harden. Pubic landing strip. Lick vulva. Fingers fuck. Tongue flicks clit. She arches, screams “Yes!” Waves crash.
Cuddle. “Yours forever. Bi, gaydar pinged you year ago. Waited.”
“Us? Age ok?”
“Perfect.”
Adjust clothes. Printer whirs distant. Mouse clicks resume. Back to desks. Coffee-perfume lingers. Secret sealed.