My office reeked of old paper and stale coffee. Printer hummed in the corner. Door clicked shut behind us. Olga, the curvy brunette in her fifties, sat bold. Mila, her pale blonde wife, barely nineteen, fidgeted beside her. My green eyes locked on them. No bra under my gold-brown blazer, tits spilling from the strassy top. Stress twisted into heat.
‘What’s the emergency?’ I asked, mouse clicking files open. Olga explained. Mila killed a man? Delivery guy tried to rape her. Hit his head on the Stonehenge table. We rushed to Avenue du Maine. Door ajar. Luxe apartment. No body. Blood on the Persian rug. Relief hit. Coffee smells wafted, mixed with their heavy perfume—musky, intoxicating.
The Building Tension
Olga shed her jacket. White blouse sheer, dark nipples poking. She pulled Mila close. Tongues danced deep. I watched, pussy clenching. Thighs tensed. Printer echo faded; now just breaths. Mila broke free, grabbed Olga’s heavy tits. Moans. My mouth dried. Cunt wet.
Mila slid next to me on the leather couch. ‘You’re so nice.’ Soft voice, husky edge. Her lips brushed mine. I froze. Then opened. Tongues fought. Her hand cupped my tit, pinched the hard nipple. I groaned. Jeans soaked. She yanked my zipper, rubbed my crotch. Hips bucked. Offered.
Olga returned with tray. Giggled. ‘My darlings!’ Door locked now—click. Coffee steam curled with perfume haze. They flanked me. Olga unbuttoned my blouse. Tits out—pear-shaped, tiny pink nipples. ‘Little slut,’ she whispered, sucking hard. I growled.
The Explosive Release
Mila stripped. Sheer black stockings, tiny thong barely hiding shaved slit. Olga shoved my jeans down. Ass up, consenting. Fingers plunged my dripping cunt. ‘So wet, you filthy bitch.’ Mila kissed fierce. Olga finger-fucked rough, thumb on clit, pinky teasing ass. Waves built. I squirted hard—first time. Juices sprayed. Thighs shook. They lapped my gushing pussy, sharing my salty cum.
We collapsed, tangled. Eyes locked: we bagged a commissioner. ‘Thanks, I love you sluts,’ I panted. Mila: ‘Haven’t seen nothing yet, fountain girl. Love your ass.’ Olga: ‘Good little whore. Want more?’
Heart raced. Clothes back on. Blazer smoothed. Tits tucked. ‘Gotta file report. Back to precinct.’ Door unlocked—click. Coffee cold. Perfume lingered. Open-space awaited. Act normal. Mask on. But pussy throbbed. Craved round two.