Twilight filters through the blinds in my medical office at Là Corp. Printer hums low. Coffee aroma mixes with my jasmine perfume. Suzon lies on the exam table, skirt hiked discreetly. My gloved finger probes her ass for rectal temp. Digital timer ticks. Knock at the heavy oak door. ‘One second!’ I call. ‘Enter!’ Aymard steps in, turns back fast, shuts door with a click. Sits on edge of chair, facing away like a gentleman. Suzon asks, ‘Who’s that?’ ‘Aymard, sweetie.’ Awkward hellos fly blind. Timer beeps sharp. 37.4. She laughs, ‘Knew it since morning.’ I wipe my finger on a wipe, note it on my tablet. She gripes about payment, grabs her moon rags—last ones before the strike—and kisses me goodbye. ‘Night, Aymard.’ Door locks with final thud. I rush into his arms. ‘Fuck, baby, day’s done. Hope no one’s in labor tonight.’ We laugh. No time for chit-chat. I drag him to the adjoining conference room. Door clicks shut, locked. Open-space chatter fades outside. Tension snaps. I yank his belt, drop his pants. His cock springs hard. ‘Look at this beauty. Grown since last time.’ I kneel, devour it. Slurping wet. He groans. ‘Ow!’ I tease. ‘Say ow before it hurts.’ He flips me. Skirt up, panties aside. His hands knead my ass. Light spank echoes. I suck harder. ‘Gonna wear it out, slut.’ ‘Nah, pussies don’t wear out.’ ‘Liar! You’ve licked bigger?’ Playful rage. He bends me over his lap on the conference table. Smacks rain on my bare cheeks. Skin burns pink. ‘Ow! Sorry! Yours is the biggest pussy ever! Stop!’ Finger slips in my soaked slit. Dripping. ‘Needs more.’ I spin, straddle him. Legs up on table. He thrusts deep. Hussar style. Grunts like a bull. My cries sharp. Desk creaks. Papers scatter. Explosion hits. Cum floods me. We collapse, panting. Sweat and sex stink mixes with stale coffee. He watches me, eyes hungry. I smile. ‘Missed that cock. Blame the pétanque tourney.’ ‘Drunk with Fernand?’ Silence. I unlatch my blouse. Full tits spill out. Pink nipples perk. He sucks one, tongue flicks. I gasp, grab his curly hair. Legs spread. He dives. Hot breath on my bush. Tongue spears clit. I buck wild. Orgasm rips. Nose buried in wet folds. I quiver. Bliss. We cuddle, disheveled. Mouse clicks from outside. Someone passes. Heart races—almost caught. Straighten skirt. Wipe cum from thighs. Fix blouse. He zips up. ‘Dominique wants scented pads.’ ‘No fucking way. Chemicals on fragile cunts? Tell her or I’ll spank her ass red.’ Later, women swarm my office. Strike news: tampon factory down. No pads. Josée bursts in. Catches me tanning Dominique’s butt over my knee. Girl sobs, ass glowing. Relieved tears. ‘Old shirts to rags,’ I command. Crowd murmurs. ‘No chemises left!’ ‘Rip pillowcases?’ Laughter. ‘Draps next?’ Chaos. Delegate outside rallies: ‘No killer shifts!’ They cheer. Will we shred linens? Tame Dominique? End the strike? Aymard and I keep fucking?