Conference room at Navale Composite. Zone artisanale d’Arzon. Printer hums outside. Mouse clicks rapid-fire. Coffee stench mixes with my perfume—sweet, musky. Dossiers stacked high. Class 6.50 boat specs. Tirant d’eau two meters exact. Twelve-meter air draft. Carbon hull under 400 kilos. My eyes gleam. This boat will fly.
Dylan across the open space. His heterochromatic gaze locks mine. We collaborated all week. Sailing club trials. Gulf du Morbihan runs. Now here, Hervé’s offer sealed. Part-time gigs. Fat checks for studies. Corenthin lurks at his desk. Still seething from philo spat. ‘Puissance,’ he bragged. Muscles over brains. I shot him down. He grabs collars now? No. Dylan crushed his nose. Respect earned. Fist bump. But tension simmers.
The Building Tension
Looks dart. My thighs clench. No release since beach chalet sieste. Kerhillio sands. Kite surfers. His hand up my skirt then. Now? Need it. Rhythm infernal. Deadlines bite. I stand. Grab blueprints. Nod to Dylan. ‘Review time.’ He follows. Hearts pound.
Door swings shut. Click. Lock engages. Open space fades. Printer whirs distant. His breath hot. ‘Lisa, fuck.’ I shove him to table. Edge bites my ass as I perch. Skirt hikes. No panties. Office rule—quick access. His eyes widen. ‘Shit, you’re soaked.’ Fingers trace. Wet already.
Perfume clings. Coffee lingers on his tongue. Kiss crashes. Tongues tangle. Like New Year’s gui. But urgent. Riskier. Door could burst. Hervé calls meeting soon. Hands rip blouse. Buttons ping floor. Bra snaps free. Nipples harden. Air cool. His mouth latches. Suck hard. Bite. I gasp. ‘Yes, Dylan.’ Mouse clicks outside mock us. Someone types frenzy.
He drops. Kneels. Legs spread. Tongue hits clit. Circles slow. Then fast. Like under couette. That night. Mmm. Finger slides in. Gush. ‘So tight, baby.’ Thumb presses. Pinches bud. I buck. Hand over mouth. Muffle moans. ‘Muhhh, oui.’ Second finger. Thrusts quick. Tongue dives pussy. Twirls walls. Body arcs. Cum crashes. Juices flood his chin. Legs shake.
The Raw Explosion
No pause. Stand. Yank his belt. Zipper rasps. Cock springs. Thick. Veined. ‘Fuck me now.’ Bend over table. Blueprints crinkle. Ass up. He grips hips. Slams in. Raw. No rubber—risk we crave. ‘God, Lisa, your cunt grips.’ Pounds hard. Desk rattles. Coffee mug tips. Spill. Wet slap. Skin on skin. ‘Harder. Deeper.’ Grips hair. Pulls. Neck arches. Clit grinds edge. Printer jams? Buzz spikes.
He grunts. ‘Gonna fill you.’ I clench. Milk him. Hot spurts. Deep. Overflow. Drips thigh. Collapse. Pant. Smell sex. Cum. Coffee. Perfume cocktail.
Pull off. Cum slicks legs. Wipe quick. Tissues shred. Skirt smooths. Blouse buttons crooked. Hair pins in. His fly zips. Desk wipe. Blueprints flatten. Unlock. Click. Step out. Faces neutral. Open space stares? No. Corenthin glances. Smirks? Ignore.
Hervé waves. ‘Meeting. Now.’ Sit. Legs jelly. Cum leaks slow. Adrenaline buzz. Serious nod. ‘Hull ready. Autoclave lisses.’ Eyes meet Dylan’s. Secret fire. Pro mask on. Lust hides. Perfect.