The conference room door clicks shut. Locked. Printer whirs faintly down the hall. Coffee aroma clings to the air, mixing with his sharp cologne. Matthieu. The new escort in town. Word of mouth said he’s fire. I slipped him the envelope—crisp bills—under the table in the open space. Discreet. My heart pounds. I’m forty, tall blonde, short crop hair, curves that turn heads. Graphiste designer. Ambitious. Single mom. Love my girl. But work stress? It ignites my pussy.
Eyes locked across desks all morning. Him posing as a client freelancer. Portfolio bullshit. Hierarchy’s electric. Boss lady’s voice echoes from her office. Colleagues clack mice, phones buzz. I adjust my pencil skirt. Nipples harden under silk blouse. He smirks. Knows I’m wet. Dossiers stack between us. Tension coils. Door finally seals us in. Alone.
The Building Tension
His hand grips my waist. Pulls me close. Breath hot on neck. ‘You pay well, slut,’ he growls. Voice like gravel. I shove cash deeper in his pocket. ‘Make it worth it.’ Lips crash. Tongues fight. Coffee breath, his musk. Desk papers scatter. Skirt hikes up. Thong rips aside. Fingers plunge my soaked cunt. Squish. I gasp. Printer drones on.
He spins me. Bends me over oak table. Zipper rasps. Cock springs free. Thick. Veined. Like before. Years ago. That summer fuck that broke me open. But now? Paid perfection. No strings. He slams in. Raw. No rubber. Pussy stretches. Grips him tight. ‘Fuck yes,’ I moan. Desk creaks. Mouse cords tangle feet. He pounds. Balls slap ass. Wet smacks echo. Door rattles—someone passes. Adrenaline spikes. Heart races.
The Raw Explosion
I push back. Grind. ‘Harder, you paid stud.’ He grabs short hair. Yanks. Neck arches. Fingers dig hips. Bruise tomorrow. Good. His thumb circles asshole. Presses in. Double fill. I buck. Orgasms build fast. Clit throbs. He grunts. Sweat drips. Coffee mug tips. Spills. Steam rises. Cunt clenches. I shatter. Scream muffled in arm. Waves crash. He doesn’t stop. Rails deeper.
Pulls out. Spins me. Knees hit carpet. Cock in face. Salty pre-cum. I suck. Deep. Gagging. His hands guide. ‘Take it, boss bitch.’ Throat fucks. Tears streak mascara. Then up. On table edge. Legs spread wide. He dives back in. Missionary brutal. Eyes locked. Like old times. But paid. Pure. Pussy milks. He swells. ‘Where?’ ‘Inside.’ Hot jets flood. Overflow. Drip thighs.
Panting. He zips. I straighten blouse. Wipe cum from chin. Mirror check—lipstick smeared, fixed. Skirt smooth. Thong trashed in trash. Fresh from purse. Door unlock clicks. Voices outside. We exit. Casual nods. ‘Great meeting,’ I say loud. Colleagues glance. None suspect. Back to open space. Dossiers resume. Mouse clicks. Printer hums. Coffee brews fresh. Mask on. Pro again. Pussy aches sweetly. Stress gone. Next deadline? Bring it. Matthieu texts: ‘Worth every cent.’ Smile. My secret fuel.