Printer hums faintly down the hall. Door clicks locked. Stale coffee scent mixes with Libane’s musky perfume. Heart races. Open-space glances all week built this. Dossiers piled high between us. That Lebanese dragueur from accounting? His conquest stories at the office cafe—our ‘Café Flore’ breakroom—had us betting Richter scale scores. Laughs over lukewarm espressos. Then he introduced them: Libane, voluptuous brunette in her forties, curves screaming under pencil skirts. Liba, tall, sleek, charming as sin. Classy couple. Chats turned filthy fast. Rosé from the fridge loosened tongues. Libane’s invite: ‘Our conference room tonight.’ No hesitation.
I arrive on time. Flowers and bubbly in hand—polite touch. Liba ushers me in. Vast Haussmannian office suite. Salon area plush. ‘Libane’s prepping.’ She emerges in sheer veils over lingerie. Oriental fantasy. Falls over me like a spell. Glasses clink. Amuse-bouches. Talk loops to dragueur’s exploits. Heat rises. Veils swirl, teasing her sensuality. She slips away. Liba leans in. ‘We crave fucking in front of someone. Longtime fantasy.’ Brain buzzes. Seconds tick. ‘Why not? Libane cool?’ ‘Her idea. Your quiet vibe fits.’ Perplexed stare. ‘Bail if you want.’ Past couple flings flash good. I nod. ‘First time. Condition: you’re bound. No touching.’ Mind spins. Curiosity wins. ‘Deal.’ He fetches her. Scripted, they are.
The Build-Up
Follow to conference room. King-size table looms like a bed. Louis XV armchairs. Libane, belly-dance gear sparkling, grips my hand. Sits me down. Mistress of ceremonies. Blindfold on. ‘No harm.’ Wrists to armrests. Ankles bound. Senses ignite. Oriental track plays low. Door’s lock echoes. ‘She’s dancing,’ Liba says. Frou-frou feet. Approaches. Unbuttons my blouse. Leaves. ‘Not fair—can’t see!’ Blindfold off, gags my mouth. Silence mine.
She dances. Belly rolls. Grinds on Liba, then me. Veil drops. Balconette bra glitters. Pearls and gold medallions jingle—glin-glin. Shakes tits near him. Ondulates. His hand caresses. She arches. ‘Hot… rub on me?’ ‘Not yet.’ He strips tee. ‘Touch me.’ She teases, bends—transparent panties flash bushy pubis. He rubs cock through pants. Troubles me too. Pants off. Joins her laughing. Kisses fierce. Leg between hers. Vulva grinds thigh. ‘Woo, good!’ Eyes glued.
He spins her. Grips hair. Bends. Slides panties. Luxuriant dark bush. Colors swirl in me. ‘Fascinating slut. Time to roar.’ To table. Legs spread. Fingers claim pussy. G moans ecstasy. Jangles drown music. ‘Fuck me deep!’ ‘Not max yet.’ ‘Submit.’ ‘Yes… audience too.’ Eyes lock on me. Pants soaked, bulge obvious. ‘Look, he’s dying.’ ‘He wants you.’ Nod eager. Her pink glistens.
The Explosion
Pushes her down. Devours cunt. Lascivious tongue. She crescendos. ‘Liba! Cumming!’ Spasms rack her. ‘Explode, love!’ Alangue. I’d scream ‘more!’ Strains bonds. Pleading eyes ignored. ‘Voyeur’s wrecked.’ ‘Stay tied.’ Palms my crotch. ‘Ripe.’ Kneels for him. Cock horizontal, pre-cum pearl. Licks. Stares me down. Blowjob heats. ‘Stop… gonna blow.’ Pulls back. Grins wicked at me. Grabs his dick. Approaches. Arms on shoulders. Licks ear. Shivers rack me.
Legs spread. Ass out, slit dripping. ‘Fuck me soft first.’ Whispers: ‘Feel him? Feel my heat on you?’ Slow deep thrusts. Pushes her against me. Belly grinds pubis. Cunt lips tease through skirt. ‘He’s perfect against me.’ Fingers clit. Juices soak me. ‘Harder! Pound!’ Arm slips, hand fists my mound. Fingers mimic fucking. Feels like she’s jerking me. He slams. Fucks hand-pussy-me sandwich. Orgasms crash. ‘Yessss! Cumming forever!’ I buck, muffled howls. Soak panties.
Groggy haze. Cuddles him. ‘Thanks for the show.’ Presses wet palm on me. Wipes cum-gag, sniffs offered. Unbinds. Bubbly toasts. ‘Richter?’ ‘8.5—sky high.’ ‘8 for you.’ ‘8—wild script.’ Untouched bliss. ‘No encores. One-offs only.’ Kiss goodbye. Readjust skirt. Door unlocks. Back to late meeting. Poker face. Coffee breath lingers.