Past 7 PM. Office parking lot at Place Pey Berland, Bordeaux. Deadline stress boils over. Boyfriend’s shitty Citroën crawls. I yank door. Leap out. Skirt rides thighs. Heels skid asphalt. Nearly fall. He brakes. ‘Come back! Don’t fuck around!’ Voice cracks angry.
I stomp off. Fast. Ignore stares. He revs alongside. ‘Putain! Stop your bullshit!’ Park. Jumps. Chases. Passersby gawk. No heroes.
The Build-Up
Then Rémi. Colleague. Sports journalist. 35. Divorced stud. Walks Omer, his drooling Labrador. Late shift dog walk. Watches scene. Steps closer.
Ex-bf spots us. Mutters. Flees. I hit plaza bench near building. Tears prick. Fumble purse. Cigarettes.
Rémi nears. Offers tissues. Awkward grin. ‘Thanks. But this.’ Flash pack.
‘Sorry.’ Pockets them.
‘Fire?’
‘Nah. Don’t smoke.’
‘No sweat.’ Wipe eyes. Dry quick.
‘OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Dog’s cute. Mine’s home.’
‘Omer.’
‘Simpsons!’ Giggle. Pet. Slobber drips.
His eyes rake legs. Skirt short. Perfume wafts. Floral sharp.
‘Coffee in office breakroom? Terrace vibe. Late open.’ Points building.
Pause. Rebound fuck? Hell yes. Ambitious me craves taboo rush.
‘Sure.’
Breakroom. Dim lights. Coffee machine gurgles. Aroma mixes my scent. Seductive haze. Dossiers pile between us. Open-space darkens. Last mouse clicks fade.
Names. Rémi. Me, Marie. 23. Commerce whiz. Lille transplant. Office climber.
His ex bailed. Took dog? Nah, kept Omer.
Bf? ‘Ex-con. Immature prick.’
‘Guys mature at 35.’ Smirk.
‘Old man!’ Laugh. Eyes spark.
The Explosion
Flirt heats. Hands brush. Tension coils. Printer hums distant hall. Door latch clicks somewhere. Empty now. Us alone. Hierarchy flips. My lust surges. Pro facade cracks.
‘That book collection? Your office.’ Wink.
Conference room. Door shuts. Lock snaps. Echo sharp. Coffee lingers. Perfume thickens. Hearts pound.
Pulls me. Kiss crashes. Tongues duel. Hands frantic. Blouse rips open. Skirt hikes. Panties yanked. Table edge digs ass.
‘Condom?’
‘Wallet. Here.’
Grab cock. Stroke hard. Thick. Veiny.
‘Easy, slut.’ Grunts.
‘Sorry. Pussy soaked. Fuck me now.’
Nipples peak. Bite them. Moan. Bush wet. Fingers plunge.
Guides in. Tight. Stretches. Thrusts slam. Desk rattles. Chair squeaks. Gémissements rise. ‘Oh fuck yes! Deeper!’
Omer stares. Drool pools. ‘Out, boy!’
Obeys. Grumble.
Resume. Nails rake back. Pussy clenches. Printer whirs phantom. Risk janitor? Boss? Adrenaline spikes orgasm.
‘Coming!’ Nails dig. I shatter. He floods condom. Groan long.
Panting. Sweat beads. Kiss soft.
‘Wow. Best cum ever.’ Whisper.
Fix skirt. Tuck blouse. Wipe gloss. Hair smooth. Perfume resets.
‘Back to open-space? “Meeting” resumes.’ Smirk.
Strut out. Cool pro. Heels click. Ignore soaked thighs. Dossiers wait. Act normal. Rush lingers. Hidden slut wins.
Morning tram. ‘See ya?’
‘Call me.’ Wink. No number. Tease. Office game on.