The conference room door clicks shut. Locked. I glance at Sébastien across the glass table, stacks of quarterly reports between us. Open-space buzzes outside: printer whirring like a distant heartbeat, mouse clicks staccato sharp. Coffee stench mixes with my vanilla perfume, thick in the air. Our eyes lock. He knows I know about Paul and Colette. Five months she’s been riding my husband’s cock. His wife’s scent still on Paul’s shirts. Tension coils. I shift in my chair, skirt riding up. His gaze drops to my thighs. Heart pounds. ‘We should talk,’ he mutters. But words die. I stand, heels clicking on linoleum. He follows. Door rattles faintly—someone passes. Adrenaline surges. I crave the risk. Ambitious exec by day, slut by impulse. His hand brushes mine. Electric. Coffee breath on my neck. Perfume clings. I lean in. Lips crash. Tongues fight. Files scatter. Printer hums louder, mocking us.
His fingers yank my blouse open. Buttons ping off the table. Bra exposed, lace black against pale skin. I claw his shirt, nails raking chest hair. ‘Fuck me like Paul never does,’ I hiss. He growls, shoves me onto the table. Papers crunch under ass. Skirt hikes to waist. Panties ripped aside. His zipper rasps—loud in the hush. Cock springs free, thick, veined, dripping pre-cum. I grab it, stroke hard. ‘Revenge for Colette’s pussy on him.’ He snarls, ‘She’ll hear you scream.’ Fingers plunge into me. Wet squelch echoes. Two, then three. Thumb grinds clit. I buck, thighs quake. Mouse clicks outside—colleagues oblivious. Door handle jiggles? No. Panic spikes lust. He drops pants, rubs cockhead on my slit. Slippery. Hot. ‘Beg,’ he demands. ‘Fuck me raw, Sébastien.’ Slam. Full length buries deep. I gasp. Table creaks. He pounds. Relentless. Balls slap ass. Wet smacks mix with printer drone. I wrap legs, heels dig back. Nipples pinched, twisted. Pain-pleasure blur. Coffee mug tips, spills dark puddle. Perfume overwhelms. Sweat drips. ‘Harder—make me cum on your cock.’ He rails. G-spot hammered. Orgasm builds. Clench him. He throbs. ‘Fill me.’ Roar. Hot spurts flood. I shatter, walls milking. Muffled cry—bite lip bloody.
The Building Tension
He pulls out. Cum leaks down thigh. Quick wipes with tissues. Skirt smoothed. Blouse tucked—buttons lost, but hidden. His tie straightens. Zipper up. Chair back. Door unlocks with a snick. We sit. Faces flushed, but pro. ‘Let’s review the figures,’ I say coolly. He nods. Outside, printer spits pages. Clicks resume. Coffee aroma fades under my musk. Meeting restarts like nothing. Hierarchy’s intact. My secret throbs between legs. Risk lingers—sweet. They’ll never know. Paul and Colette? Their loss. This buzz? Mine forever.