Wednesday. April. My office. Less traffic means I arrive early. Ambitious. Divorced six months. Celibacy firm intention. Until today. Tight black dress. Square neckline. Plunging just right. Short red hair frames my face. He knocks. Toc toc. ‘Enter.’ Monsieur Carlier. Auditor. Ten years in. Knows me from intern days. Blonde then. Now fiery red. ‘Bonjour, Madame Denglin.’ His eyes dip. Cleavage. I smile. ‘Call me Angélique. Divorced now.’ He pauses. Shocked. Good. We chat past audits. Restaurants. My failed marriage. His single life. ‘You gave good advice,’ I say. He remembers. Door’s closed. I twist lock. Click. Secure. Printer hums distant. Open-space murmurs fade. Coffee brews nearby. Sharp aroma mixes my perfume. Floral. Musky. Seductive.
He spreads docs on desk. I lean in. Mouse clicks sharp. Procedure one. Two. His gaze flicks down. My tits. Perky pears in black lace balconette. Straps taut. Flesh spills slight. I shift. Fabric whispers. He swallows. ‘Procedure 12 too detailed?’ I ask. Bend forward. Right tit flattens on desk edge. He stares. Nose inches from cleavage. Sees lace edge. Hint of areola. Pink. Grainy. Nipple shadow. His breath hitches. I point finger on page. Pretend focus. Heart races. Adrenaline spikes. Hierarchy flips. I’m boss here. His cock hardens. Bulge tents pants. I smell his arousal. Coffee lingers. Perfume clings. Tension coils. Stomach knots. He stands. ‘Water break.’ I nod. Watch him go. Door shuts soft. Click lock holds.
The Mounting Tension
He returns. Eyes darker. We dive procedures. I rise for binder. Heels click floor. Skirt rides up. Thighs flash. Dark bands. Self-hold stockings. Ass sways. Round. Firm. I brush him sitting. Perfume wafts. His hand trembles on paper. Final procedure. I lean extreme. Tit nearly pops free. Nipple peeks. Full view. Rosy halo. He cracks. Lunges. Lips crash mine. Soft first. Then hungry. No resistance. I melt. Tongues tangle. Hands in my hair. Mouth devours neck. Dives cleavage. Sucks tits over lace. I gasp. ‘Fuck, yes.’ Lock rattles faint. Printer whirs. Coffee scent thickens sweat.
The Raw Explosion
Pants unzip. Zzzip. Cock springs. Thick. Veiny. I grip. Stroke. ‘Been waiting years?’ He growls. ‘Since intern.’ Desk clears. Papers fly. I hike skirt. No panties. Wet cunt glistens. Stockings frame. He shoves in. Raw. Deep. ‘Fuck my tight pussy.’ I hiss. Legs wrap waist. Desk creaks. Bang bang. Hips slam. Tits bounce free. Nipples hard. He pinches. Bites. ‘Slutty divorcee.’ Dirty. Urgent. Clicks echo. Mouse forgotten. Coffee cools. Perfume mixes cum scent. I claw back. ‘Harder. Fill me.’ Orgasm hits. Walls clench. He grunts. Pumps hot load. Deep. Overflow. Sticky thighs.
We pant. Separate. I fix bra. Snap lace. Tuck tits. Smooth skirt. Stockings straight. His cum drips inner thigh. Thrill. Wipe quick with tissue. Perfume sprays fresh. Coffee sip. Calm. ‘Procedures signed?’ He nods. Dazed. I unlock. Click. Door opens. ‘Next interviewee?’ Smile pro. Walk out. Heels click. Open-space stares oblivious. Tension gone. Mask on. Ambitious. Professional. Lust sated. Celibacy? Shattered. Wednesday win.