Every spring, I claim my spot on that battered green bench in the square across from the office tower. Freelance graphic designer, ambitious as hell, but these park ‘vacations’ recharge me. Worn afghan coat, cloche hat with the faded poppy, book in lap. I ignore the world. Pigeons peck crumbs. Sun dips low. I stretch, vanish into the street.
From my client’s building, he watches. Window overlooking the square. Curtain twitches. I’ve sketched him there—voyeur silhouette, hand on voile. Days pass. I feel his eyes. Printer hums faintly through glass. One rainy morning, thunder cracks. I huddle, soaked. He descends. ‘Eugénie?’ Shock hits. How? Blush creeps. We talk. Childhood square. My roots. Storm unleashes. Water lashes. Book soggy. ‘Come dry off in my office.’ Defiance sparks, amusement too. I grab his hand. Dash across street. Door clicks locked behind us.
The Building Tension
Open-space glances earlier? Yeah. Dossiers piled. Coffee breath mixes my perfume—jasmine sharp, his brew bitter. Eyes lock over monitors. Mouse clicks stutter. Now, his office. Imprimante whirs outside. Door bolted. Tension coils. We strip wet clothes. Peignoir too big. I shake like a wet pup. Laugh bubbles. Hair frizzes. Bare feet pale on carpet. Body revealed—slim hips curve, small tits perk up. He stares.
His hands tremble. Pull me close. Lips brush. Tongues tangle. Mint on his breath. I bite his tip, gentle. He groans. Hands slide hips, cup tit. Nipple hardens rose under thumb. I quiver. Legs part. Palm cups my mound. Wet lips part. Finger finds clit—tiny, hooded. Circles. I buck, cling neck. Tongue deep. Body tenses. Cum shakes me.
The Raw Explosion
Push him to desk. Papers scatter. Legs spread. I kneel between thighs. Cock throbs huge in fine hands. Lick shaft slow. Tease frenulum. Salty pre-cum. ‘Fuck, Eugénie, suck it.’ Swallow deep. Throat stretches. He bucks. ‘Your mouth’s heaven, slut.’ Pace quickens. Gags wet. Balls tighten. Explodes down throat. I milk every drop. Tongue presses pulsing vein.
Straddle him. Guide softening cock. Heat radiates pussy. But it wilts. Eyes wide. He sees it—me sketching his spent dick later, trait by trait. Laugh echoes in his head. Limp. Fingers probe instead. I grind. But he fumes. Impotent rage. I smile soft. No mockery. Rain stops. Light shifts.
Stand. Stretch cat-like. Turban falls. Naked grace. Kiss cheek. ‘Spring next year?’ Dress quick. Skirt smooths. Blouse buttons. Hair pins up. Perfume lingers with coffee steam. Unlock door. Click. Stride out. Mouse clicks resume distant. Imprimante spits pages. Back to meeting. Cool pro mask on. Heart races. Adrenaline pure. Hierarchy’s thrill. No one knows. Desk awaits. Dossiers call. Square bench tomorrow? Maybe.