Dreary Sunday morning. Rain lashes the office windows. I, Michèle Seigner, grip my suitcase. Left my husband. Fled here, my steel sanctuary. Park in the empty lot. Spot her. Fiona. Thumb up by her smoking gray wagon. Hazard lights blink. Mistral whips her wet tee. Leopard tat snarls on her heavy tit.
Pull over. She leans in. Deep cleavage. Brow piercing. Sharp face, hooked nose. Then that smile. Lights her up. ‘Thanks, sister.’ Slide in. Soaked. Nipples poke through transparent shirt. Short jean cutoffs ride high. Leather jacket drips. Bandana binds wild black hair.
Rising Tension in the Empty Open-Space
Unlock office door. Click. Fluorescent hum. Printer whirs softly. Coffee pot gurgles, scent mixing with her musky perfume. My lace blouse clings. We slump at open-space desks. Dossiers scatter. I spill. Marriage hell. Tyrant hubby. Kids. She laughs. ‘Fuck men. They own you.’ Her eyes burn. Vif. Wild.
Share coffee. Steam rises. Clicks of my mouse. Her nails tap. Gazes lock over files. Hierarchy stress flips to thrill. Her thigh brushes mine. Electric. ‘You’re gorgeous, Michèle.’ Voice husky. Heart races. Printer spits paper. Loud. Distracting. She stands. ‘Meeting room. Now.’ Door shuts. Lock snaps. Echoes.
She pounces. ‘I want you. Bad.’ Grabs my hand. Presses to her tit. Warm. Firm. Swells under palm. I gasp. She yanks me close. Lips crash. Tongue invades. Wet. Insistent. Vanilla breath. I push. Weak. ‘No. Not like this.’ She growls. ‘Bullshit. You’re soaked.’ Bites my neck. Hands rip blouse buttons. Ping. Scatter.
Explosive Release on the Meeting Table
Bra unclasps. Tits free. Pale. Nipples harden. She sucks one. Hard. Tongue flicks. ‘Fuck, taste you.’ I moan. Legs buckle. She shoves me on meeting table. Papers fly. Chair scrapes. Skirt hikes. Panties yanked. ‘Wet pussy. For me.’ Fingers plunge. Two. Curl. Hit spot. Thumb on clit. Circles.
‘Never had a woman lick you, huh?’ Nose to my folds. Breath hot. Tongue laps. Slow. Flat. Then tip probes. Sucks clit. Vacuum. I buck. ‘Oh god!’ Printer hums outside. Door rattles? No. Her fingers pump. Sloppy sounds. Coffee scent clings. Perfume overwhelms. Build. Fast. Tense. ‘Cum for me, bitch.’ I shatter. Scream muffled. Waves crash.
She laps remnants. Stands. Wipes mouth. Grins. I tremble. Pull skirt down. Button blouse. Fingers shake. Hair smoothed. ‘Back to dossiers.’ She nods. Unlocks door. Click. Walk out. Heels clip floor. Straighten papers. Glance. Her wink. Pro. Cool. Meeting drags on. No one knows. Adrenaline buzz. Secret fire burns.