Conference room door clicks locked. Printer hums low. Mouse clicks echo from my laptop. Coffee scent mixes with my perfume—sharp, floral. Gaspard and I run this firm. Married 26 years. Bodies still tight: me, blonde Nordic curves, firm tits from swimming; him, tall, fit like Rochefort. Stressful year. Storm hit hard last night. Flooded the river nearby.
Morning walk. Gaspard spots kayak wreck. Hears cries. Dorothée, 25, stranded on a rock in wetsuit. He throws line. Pulls her in. Carries her limp body back. Bursts in: ‘Marie, help! Dry her, warm her.’ I strip the neoprene. Big, perfect tits spill out. Not a kid—woman. No leering. I towel her. He brews hot coffee, sweet.
The Build-Up
She sleeps it off in the lounge cot. All day, we watch. 5 PM. She stirs. Eyes wide at our office casual—top buttons undone. Paréo skirt for me. Gaspard naked under towel? No, slacks loose. She sobs: ‘You saved me. I’ll do anything.’ Hugs me tight. Face in my cleavage. Hands slide to my ass, belly. Fingers tease my trimmed blonde pubes.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ she whispers. ‘Naked at work?’ I laugh. ‘Private office perks. Naturist vibes here.’ My hands slip under her tee—my spare. Pinch her nipples. ‘Show us.’ Tee flies off. Endless legs, boy hips, muscled abs, perky tits, wild dark bush and pits. Tan lines scream virgin skin.
‘No way,’ I say. Grab razor, foam. Chair by desk. Shave her pits smooth. Then lips. She moans, legs spread. ‘Fuck, that tickles good.’ I finish ticket strip. Gaspard: ‘Too dark on pale. Full bald.’ He takes razor. Brushes slow over clit. Creme deep in folds. She bucks. I bronze her lines. Now matching uniforms—smooth, pink.
The Release
‘Your turn,’ she says. My blonde curls gone. We squat, tailleur. Compare: my plump pink lips, her tight dark slit. Gaspard hard as rock. Cocks up stiff. We pounce. Four hands, two mouths. Suck, stroke. ‘God, your dick’s huge,’ Dorothée gasps. I mount him on desk. Papers scatter. She grinds pussy on his face.
Printer whirs. Storm rumbles outside. Door rattles—locked tight. Her tongue laps my ass. Gaspard’s cock slams deep. ‘Fuck me harder,’ I groan. Switch: Dorothée rides reverse. I kiss her, tweak tits. Coffee spills. Perfume heavy. Climax hits—screams muffled. Cum floods. We collapse, slick.
Quick wipe. Adjust skirt, blouse. Button up. Dorothée borrows blouse—nipples poke. ‘Meeting now,’ I say cool. She nods, dazed. Back to open space. Looks exchange. Smirks. Printer hums on. Coffee brews fresh. No one knows. Adrenaline buzz. Hierarchy intact. Lust hidden. Perfect.