Boss’s office. Late afternoon. Open-space buzz fades behind the door. Printer whirs downstairs. Mouse clicks staccato from desks. Coffee aroma clings to air, mixes with my jasmine perfume. Sharp. Intoxicating.
I clutch two fat dossiers. Ernest’s eyes lock on me across the floor. Seventies, silver hair slicked, suit crisp like 1950s Paris. Hazel stare burns. Ambitious me, brunette spitfire in pencil skirt, heels clicking. Hierarchy thrills me. Stress flips to pussy heat.
Building Tension
He nods. I enter. Door shuts. Click. Locked. Heart hammers. “Victorine, close those blinds.” Voice gravelly, trembling slight. Like that rainy November night long ago. But here, fluorescent hum, AC whisper.
Dossiers drop. He paces. Pulls Leica from drawer. Vintage. Heavy. “You resemble her. Antoinette.” Pauses. Eyes wet. “My fiancée. 1900. Gone. Accident.” Fumbles wallet. Tiny velvet box. Ruby heart ring glints. Simple gold band. “Bought for her. She reserved it herself. Never worn.”
Adrenaline spikes. Risk of colleague knock. I pose. Skirt hikes. Blouse gaps. Click-shutter snaps. Fast. Profile. Smile. Pout. No sex yet. But tension coils. His breath quickens. Coffee mug steams nearby. Perfume thickens sweat.
“Why me?” I whisper. He steps close. Fingers brush thigh. “Pity. Beauty. Her ghost.” Tears well. Story spills short: Paris streets, fiacre crash, lost purse found years later. Rage destroyed photos. Now me fills walls in his mind.
Door rattles faint outside. Someone passes. Pulse races. Forbidden rush.
He grabs camera aside. Hands shake. “Stay. Model full-time? No more hustling files.” Lies bare. Lust cracks facade. Lips crash mine. Rough. Tongue invades. Hands rip blouse. Buttons ping floor.
The Explosion
Desk clears. Papers fly. I perch edge. Skirt bunches waist. No panties today. Bold. Pussy drips. He unzips. Cock veiny, hard despite age. Thick. “Fuck, you’re her.” Growls. Slams in raw. No rubber. Wet squelch. Desk groans under thrusts.
Hard. Fast. Brutal. Hips slap. Printer echoes distant bangs. Mouse clicks mimic urgency. Coffee spills. Hot drip on tit. I bite lip. Moan stifled. “Harder, old man. Fuck your ghost slut.” Dirty whisper. He grunts. Fingers dig ass. Ruby ring cold on skin.
Pounding peaks. Balls slap clit. Tension snaps. I clench. Cum gushes. He swells. Floods deep. Hot spurts. Groan muffled in neck.
Gasps slow. Cum leaks thigh. Reality crashes. Meeting in five. I slide off. Wipe desk quick. Perfume sprays. Skirt smooths. Blouse buttons crooked but fuck it. Hair fluffs.
He tucks ring away. Eyes soft. “Tomorrow? More shots.” I smirk. “If you pay overtime.”
Door unlocks. Click. Step out. Colleagues glance. None suspect. Dossiers under arm. Stride to conference room. Sit prim. Legs cross sticky. Adrenaline buzzes. Serious face on. Luxure hides perfect. Hierarchy intact. My secret fuel.