Conference room. August 1995. Three-month assignment in the Gard office. Bungalow at a camping site. Sun. Pool. But evenings drag. No weekends back to Lower Normandy. Coffee aroma clings. Mixed with my perfume. Printer hums softly. Late night. Open space deserted.
Door slides open. He’s alone. Mid-20s. Bermuda shorts. Casual Friday vibe. Hot as hell. ‘Hello,’ I say. Smile. Charismatic. Blouse white. Two buttons undone. Skirt light. Hits above knees. Sit opposite. Legs cross. Fabric shifts. Thigh smooth. Exposed.
The Building Tension
Chat starts. Vacation? Age? Destination? Bordeaux friends? Eyes sparkle. His too. Night falls. ‘Lock the door? Dim lights?’ He nods. Click. Secure. Blinds drop. Mouse clicks stop. Only AC whispers. Cross legs slow. Panties flash. Lace. His gaze locks. Bermuda tents. Bulge grows.
Eyes meet. He flushes. ‘No shame in staring,’ I whisper. ‘Turns me on seeing you stiff.’ Cock throbs. Hurts him. Good. He shuts eyes. Head on chair back. I watch. Hand grazes thigh. Up. Under hem. He jerks. Spreads wider.
The Explosive Release
‘Relax. Let me.’ Fingers dive. Past waistband. Grip shaft. Slick pre-cum. ‘You’re dripping, you naughty boy.’ Zipper down. Button pops. Head peeks. ‘Hmmm.’ Tug shorts to ankles. He lifts hips. Pump slow. Spread juice on tip.
The Mask. Wipe. Adjust skirt. Blouse straight. Unlock. Click echoes. ‘Bye.’ Like a hello. Stride out. Perfume trails. Coffee lingers. Back to desk. Mouse clicks resume. Distant voices fade. Serious face on. Meeting tomorrow. As if nothing. Adrenaline buzzes. Hierarchy intact. Lust hidden. Perfect.