Conference room door clicks shut. Locked. Printer hums low. Coffee stench mixes with my jasmine perfume, thick and heady. Jupiter at the head, suit crisp, eyes sharp. PM fidgets with reports, MdE scrolls phone, MdP taps pen. I’m the ambitious exec assistant, legs crossed tight under table, pussy already tingling from the power vibe.
“Numbers tonight?” Jupiter demands, voice gravelly. Turns me on.
Tension in the Conference Room
“498 dead, sir. Not good,” PM mutters.
“Make it good,” Jupiter snaps. They bicker. Masks gone. “Mandatory!” No stock. Slips as masks? MdE’s cousin factory. Laughter echoes. Absurd. My nipples peak against blouse. Glances flick my way—MdP winks, MdE licks lips. Hierarchy stress flips to wet heat between thighs.
Mouse clicks punctuate. Foot slides under table, brushes Jupiter’s ankle. He smirks, doesn’t pull away. PM drones on: “Panoramix potion heals, but Astronomix pushes DĂ©guelassus—big bucks.” Tension coils. Door’s locked. No interruptions. My hand grazes his knee. Invitation.
Jupiter’s eyes lock mine. Hungry. “Masks from slips. Genius.” He stands abrupt, grabs my wrist. Pulls me up. Papers scatter. “Need to vent this crisis.” Desk edge bites my ass as he shoves skirt high. Panties yanked aside. “Wet slut,” he growls. Cock springs free—thick, veined, boss-hard.
Thrusts in raw. No condom. Desk rattles. Printer whirs louder, masking wet slaps. “Fuck the dead count,” he grunts, pounding deep. Legs wrap his waist. Nails dig back. PM watches, hand down pants. MdE strokes bulge. MdP moans soft. Adrenaline spikes—could be caught any second. Pussy clenches. “Harder, sir! Own this crisis!” I hiss.
Quick Desk Pound and Aftermath
He rails brutal, fast. Two minutes tops. Grips tits, pinches nipples. I shatter—cum gushes, thighs quake. He yanks out, ropes hot cum across my stomach. Sticky. Reckless.
Pant. Wipe with tissues. Perfume over musk. Blouse tucked. Skirt smoothed. Sit prim. “Diogenes next?” I chirp, voice steady. They chuckle, zip up. Business as usual.
Cut to rooftop garden. Break from hell-meeting. MdP drags me up. Diogenes there—straw hat, ragged, watering veggies. Lantern nearby. Cynic janitor type, defies corp bullshit. “Why cynic?” MdP asks.
“Like dogs—fest on givers, bite harmers.” Simple. Hot. Kid runs up—office brat, maybe intern’s. “Thirsty.” Drinks from hands. No cup needed. Diogenes tosses his old mug. Lesson hits: ditch useless shit.
Jupiter storms in. Pompous announce. Diogenes ignores hat signal. “Outta my sun, salads need it.” Ballsy. Turns me slick again. They clash—Plato vs chaos. “I’d execute you ministers,” Diogenes spits. Jupiter films it. Debates freedom, illusions, fuck the system. Raw truth buzzes like post-orgasm glow.
I watch, thighs slick. Kid returns, drinks again. Lantern lights face—found ‘man’? Fade out. Back to boardroom normalcy. My secret: crisis fucked into ecstasy. Hierarchy lust. Uncaught. Addicted.