Late Monday evening. Prosecutor’s conference room. Door clicks locked. Printer hums in the corner, spitting out Beisse case reports. Coffee aroma mixes with my perfume—musky, teasing. Serge Ampépeur sits across, blond hair tousled, cheeks flushing under fluorescent lights. Open-space glances earlier burned. Now alone. Dossiers piled high between us. Chronology sheets. Victim photos. His mouse clicks fast on laptop. My thigh brushes his under table. He freezes. Doesn’t pull away.
Eyes lock over Jennifer Junipaire’s file. ‘This timeline’s tight,’ he mutters. Voice low. Shoulder touches mine. Heat rises. Printer whirs again. Door’s solid oak—soundproof. Coffee mug steam curls. I lean in. ‘We need deeper.’ Fingers graze his arm. Heart pounds. Hierarchy screams no. Brigadier and prosecutor? Career suicide. But fuck, that shy smile. Stress from Riquebit’s mail, Beisse’s corpse on St. Andrew’s cross—it twists into lust. Pure adrenaline. His breath quickens. Looks dart to door. ‘B.A., we shouldn’t…’ Too late. Hand on his thigh. Hard bulge already.
Tension Builds Between Dossiers
I stand. Push files aside. Conference table gleams. ‘Lock confirmed?’ He nods, red-faced. Pull chignon loose. Black hair cascades. Unbutton blouse. Heavy tits spill free. No bra tonight. His eyes bulge. ‘Fuck, you’re gorgeous.’ Mouse clicks stop. I yank his tie. Lips crash. Tongue invades. Coffee breath, his cologne. Hands everywhere. Rip shirt open. Buttons ping. His cock throbs through pants. ‘Want this pussy?’ Dirty whisper. He groans. ‘Yes, Béa. Fuck yes.’ Zipper rasps. Free thick shaft. Veiny. Precum beads. Stroke hard. He gasps.
Raw Fuck on the Conference Table
Bend over table. Skirt hikes. No panties. Wet slit exposed. ‘Ram it in.’ He hesitates. Printer hums oblivious. I grab his ass. Guide cockhead to folds. Thrust. Fills me raw. ‘Shit, so tight!’ Pounds deep. Desk shakes. Papers scatter. Slaps echo—skin on skin. Coffee spills. Mug clatters. ‘Harder, brigadier. Fuck your boss.’ He grunts. Fingers dig hips. Balls smack clit. Gush floods. Orgasms rip—legs quake. His hand snakes. Pinches nipple. ‘Cum for me, slut prosecutor.’ Dirty talk unleashes. I buck. Scream muffled in arm. He swells. ‘Gonna fill you.’ Hot ropes jet. Deep. Pulsing.
Pull off. Cum drips thighs. Quick wipe with dossier napkin. Button blouse. Hair up. Chignon perfect. He zips, pants sweat. Table messy—right it fast. Files restacked. Printer spits last page. Unlock door. Click. Straighten skirt. Perfume lingers over sex musk. Coffee cold now. ‘Good work, brigadier. Email Riquebit.’ Voice crisp. Professional. He stammers. ‘Yes, madame.’ Smile hidden. Stride out. Open-space empty. Meeting with boss next. Mask on. Lust buried. Adrenaline buzzes. Tomorrow? Repeat. Beisse case cracks. My career? Riskier thrills await.