Click. The conference room door locks. Printer hums from the open-space outside. Stale coffee stench mixes with my floral perfume. Tension coils tight.
“There, unbutton your collar a bit more.”
The Ambiance
His words hit like an order. My brother-in-law, Roland, owns me now. I glance at him. Artist eyes gleam. But rewind. How’d we get here?
I’m Antigone. Ambitious office drone at my husband Charles’s accounting firm. Ten years married. Sex? Routine snooze. Charles runs the place. Hired my sister Brigitte as IT whiz. She climbed fast. Me? I handle admin crap. Numbers? Hate ’em. Charles does home finances. Brigitte saves my ass.
Our families tangle tight. Brigitte wed Roland, Charles’s wild brother. Boho artist. Writes kids’ tales. Draws, snaps pics. Muscled, hairy beast. Unlike smooth, waxed Charles.
Yesterday, Charles and Brigitte jetted to Netherlands. Euro accounting conf. New regs. Tech side for her.
Today? Just Roland and me. He dropped by for ‘business’ sketches—promo art maybe. Lunch at cafeteria: two aperos, wine bottle split, digestifs. I never drink. Today? Barriers crash. Euphoric Roland drags me here. Hot afternoon. Casual Friday. Black tennis skirt. Beige semi-sheer blouse over bikini. Heatwave mercy. He? Swim trunks only. Bold.
Open-space eyes lingered as we slipped in. Dossiers stacked between us. Mouse clicks echo faint. He props sketchpad. “Portrait for Charles.” Flattered, I sit. Undo one button. Neckline dips.
“More. For the art. And your comfort.” Heat chokes. Fingers obey. Pop. Another.
He rises. Fingers brush mine. Parts blouse. Bikini top peeks. Cleavage swells.
“Too much?”
“Nah. Artist’s call. We redo if not.” Back to stool. Charcoal scratches. I stare at tits. Perspective tricks, right?
Half-hour drags. Or more. Wine buzz throbs.
“See?”
First sketch: me. Wild lion hair. Pert nose. Full lips dream. Deep but tasteful cleavage.
Second: same face. Topless. Imagined tits perky, pink.
Mouth drops.
“Like?”
“First yes. Second…”
“Just fantasized. Mad?”
Alcohol spills truth. “Not my tits. Heavier. Wider, darker areolas.”
The Explosion
Why say that? Fuck.
“Phew.” He stands. Trunks tent. Huge. For me.
He nears. Lifts me. Finishes blouse buttons. Tugs bikini bow. 95D breasts flop free. Sag real. Areolas spread dark. Nipples throb hard. Painful ache.
“You’re hard too.” Fingers graze right peak. Gasp escapes.
Sensitive tits betray. He kneads. Firm. I melt. Lips crash. Resist? Futile. Tongues duel. Endless.
Hand yanks skirt zipper. Bikini side-tie rips. Naked.
His trunks gone. Guides my hand. Can’t circle girth. Shorter than Charles. Thicker. Monster.
Printer whirs. Door rattles faint? Heart slams. Caught thrill surges.
He shoves me on table. Dossiers scatter. Legs spread. Tongue dives pussy. Wet slurp. “Fuck, soaked for bro-in-law cock.”
“Shut up. Fuck me quick.”
Roland grins. Fat head prods. Stretches. Inch by inch. Gasps rip. Table creaks. Coffee mug tips. Spill.
Thrusts pound. Short, brutal. Desk bangs wall. Mouse clatters floor. Perfume chokes air.
“Tits bounce perfect. Real sluts better.”
Nails rake chest hair. “Thicker… fills… gonna cum!”
He grunts. Slams deep. Hot ropes flood. Quake hits. Scream muffled on shoulder.
Pulls out. Cum drips. Chair spins.
Pant. Wipe. Bikini ties hasty. Blouse buttons crooked. Skirt zips.
“Meeting soon. Act normal.”
Unlock. Click. Stride open-space. Smiles nod. Dossiers clutch. Legs shake. Cum leaks thigh. Secret burns.