Printer hums in the corner. Mouse clicks echo across the open space. Coffee aroma clings to the air, tangled with my perfume. Late Thursday afternoon. Dossiers pile up. I’m Justine, ambitious admin drone, heels clicking on linoleum. Stress knots my shoulders. Hierarchy bullshit fuels my secret fire.
Eyes flick up. Him. Boris. My summer fling from years ago. Leaning by the door, smirking. Heart slams. Bag slips from my hand, thuds. Papers scatter. Miss Catastrophe strikes again. Colleagues glance, then ignore. He strides over, captures my waist. Natural, possessive.
Tension Builds in the Open Space
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss. Voice surprised, low. His hand lingers. Heat builds. Open space buzzes oblivious. Printer whirs louder. Someone slurps coffee.
“B3, Justine. Bad Boy time.” His breath hot on my neck. That old game. Goosebumps. I laugh, nervous. “You’re crazy. I’m working.” But my body’s betraying. Nipples harden under blouse. He grabs my hand. Pulls toward conference room. Eyes lock. Tension crackles. Door swings shut. Click. Lock engages.
Perfume spikes with coffee steam from forgotten mug. Table gleams under fluorescents. He pins me against it. Lips crash. Tongue invades. Years melt. Hands yank skirt up. Stockings rip. “Fuck, I’ve missed this pussy,” he growls. Fingers plunge. Wet already. I gasp. “Shut up, connard. Someone hears.”
Explosive Release on the Table
No time. Zipper rasps. His cock springs free. Thick, veined. Bad Boy special. I hike leg on chair. He thrusts in. Raw. Deep. Table creaks. “Take it, slut,” he grunts. I claw his back. “Harder, Boris. Fuck me like Brazil.” Hips slam. Printer drone outside masks our slaps. Skin smacks skin. Juices squelch.
He spins me. Bent over table. Ass up. Enters again. Fills me. “Your cunt’s mine.” Pounds relentless. I bite lip. Moan escapes. “Yes, own it.” Fingers find clit. Rub furious. Tension explodes. Orgasm rips. Walls clench. “Cumming! Fuck!” He roars. Jets hot seed deep. Fills me. Drips down thigh.
Panting. Sweat mixes scents. Coffee, cum, perfume. He pulls out. Plug. I straighten skirt. Wipe gloss. Hair tousled, but pro. Unlock door. Click. Step out. Colleagues type away. No stares.
Back to meeting. Dossier in hand. Cum leaks into panties. Smile serene. Ambitious Justine. Secret slut. Adrenaline buzzes. Hierarchy? Just foreplay. Door locked memory burns. Boris texts: “Sunday?” I smirk. B3 forever.