Late afternoon hums in the radio studio. Recording session wrapped. Animator gone. Others vanished. Just me, Magalie Vabesce, ex-film starlet turned radio gossip queen, chatting with Victor Bailly, the TV producer. Richard Donelli lingers, that misogynistic trekker eyeing us. Printer whirs faintly in the corner. Coffee scent mixes with my perfume, thick and teasing.
My blouse clings. No bra today. Nipples poke through fabric. Victor notices. ‘Eyes playing tricks, or no bra?’ I smirk. ‘Eyes see right.’ Richard snorts. ‘Slutty.’ I snap back. ‘You’d grab this ass back when I was hot.’ Banter snaps like mouse clicks on idle screens. Victor defuses, compliments me. Richard pushes for funding his desert hike. Victor shuts him down sharp. Door clicks locked as Richard storms out, muttering.
The Mounting Tension in the Empty Studio
Studio empty now. Just us. Door locked. Printer drones low. Coffee aroma lingers, my perfume sharper. Victor’s gaze drops to my tits. They sway as I laugh. Tension coils. Open-space echoes gone. Heart races. Risk of janitor or stray tech? Pure adrenaline. He steps close. ‘Dinner? Chinese?’ I tease. ‘You forcing my hand?’ His smile flashes. ‘Only for women I want.’
We talk. My past spills: early films, beds hopped, no kids possible. Fire between legs back then. Now? Him. Eyes lock. Nipples harden under his stare. Mouse clicks forgotten. He admits: wants me in his short series, and his bed. Direct. Crude. ‘You’ll know where to put your ass with me.’ I laugh, tits jiggling. Heat builds. Door’s lock the only barrier.
He grabs me. Lips crash. Hands roam my back, thumbs graze tit undersides. I grind on his hard cock bulge. Breath hot. Coffee-perfume haze thickens. Blouse rips open. Heavy tits spill free, nipples stiff. He growls. ‘These fucking tits.’ Sucks one hard. I moan low. Printer beeps, ignored.
Explosive Release on the Desk
Skirt hikes. Panties yanked. Bent over desk. Papers scatter. His zipper rasps. Cock springs, thick, dripping. Fingers my wet pussy first. ‘Soaked slut.’ Then ass. Lubed by his pre-cum. Presses in slow. Tight ring stretches. I gasp. ‘Fuck my ass, Victor.’ He thrusts. Desk creaks. Skin slaps loud. Tits mash on wood. Clit rubs edge. Fast, brutal. Risk spikes thrill.
He pistons deep. ‘Take it, you office whore.’ Anal walls grip. Printer spits paper nearby. Door rattles? No. Sweat drips. Perfume mixes cum-musk. I finger clit frantic. Orgasm hits. Scream muffled. He unloads, hot jets flood my ass. Pulls out. Cum leaks. Intense, raw. Seconds feel eternal.
Panting. He zips. I straighten skirt, blouse. Tits tucked, nipples still poke. Wipe desk quick. Hair smoothed. Perfume over sex stink. Coffee cold now. Unlock door. Click. ‘Meeting’s set for next week?’ I say casual, voice steady. He nods, eyes wicked. Walk out together. Colleagues none wiser. Pro mask on. Inside? Luxure burns. Adrenaline high. Can’t wait for more forbidden studio fucks.