It’s a quiet Wednesday in April. My office smells of fresh coffee mixed with my musky perfume. I’m Angélique Denglin, freshly divorced redhead with short fiery hair, squeezed into a tight black dress with a square neckline that hugs my pear-shaped tits just right. No one’s around much midweek. Perfect for audits. Knock on the door. It’s him—Monsieur Carlier, the auditor I’ve known for years. From shy blonde intern to married girl, now this vixen. He eyes me up, remembers my honeymoon glow. ‘Young divorcee now,’ I tease, circling my desk. His gaze drops to my cleavage.
We dive into procedures. Mouse clicks echo sharp. Printer hums in the corner, spitting paper. I lean forward, documents spread. His eyes flicker to the lace edge of my black bra, the swell of my hanging pears straining the fabric. Coffee steam curls up, blending with my scent. He shifts, bulge growing. I smile, knowing. ‘Procedure 12 too detailed?’ I ask, bending more. Click-click. Door’s already shut, but I stand, lock it with a soft snick. No interruptions. Open-space glances outside? Forgotten. Tension thickens. He excuses himself for water. I rearrange papers, heart pounding. He returns, face flushed. Past dinners flash—me asking about his dream girl. ‘Like you,’ he’d said. Now, single me provokes.
The Building Tension
I stretch to the bookshelf. Heels click on tile. Dress rides up, revealing dark bands of my thigh-highs, garter whispers. Ass sways, round and full. Back to desk, brushing him. Perfume wave hits. His breath hitches. Procedure 3 now. I lean right over the paper, finger pointing. Right tit flattens on desk edge, left dangles free. Neckline gapes—pink areola peeks, nipple hardening under lace. His face inches away, inhaling my coffee-perfume cocktail. Printer whirs again. I feel his heat. Eyes lock. Boom—he lunges. Lips crash mine. Soft at first, then hungry. No resistance. I melt, tongues tangle.
The Explosive Release
Hands in my hair. Mouth devours neck, dives between tits. Dress yanked down, bra exposed. His fingers claw my fleshy mounds, pinching nipples stiff. I gasp, yank his belt. Zipper rasps. Cock springs hard, thick. I grind my wet pussy against it through panties. ‘Fuck me, auditor,’ I hiss. He spins me, bends over desk. Papers fly. Skirt flips up. Rip—panties aside. He slams in raw. Deep, pounding. Desk creaks, bangs wall. Mouse clatters off. My tits slap wood, aureolas scraping. Coffee mug tips, spills dark puddle. ‘Tight slut,’ he grunts, gripping garters. I buck back, ass cheeks rippling. Clit throbs. Fast, brutal. Sweat mixes scents. Orgasms hit—mine shudders, walls clamp. He floods me hot.
Panting. He pulls out, cum drips thighs. I straighten dress, tuck tits, smooth hair. Wipe desk quick. Unlock door—snick. Papers realign. ‘Where were we? Procedure 4?’ I say cool, voice steady. He nods, dazed, adjusts tie. Mouse clicks resume. Printer hums. Coffee scent lingers with sex musk. Back to audit, masks on. Professional. My pussy aches full, secret thrill buzzing. He glances, smirks. Tension? Simmering for next time.