Open-space hums. Printer whirs nearby. Coffee aroma mixes with his cologne. Sharp. Masculine. My son fidgets by the colorful Niki de Saint Phalle posters. Corporate art day. I savor the vibrant forms. Voluptuous shapes. Lit screens glow. Dim corners shadow. Senses awaken.
A whine pierces. Blond boy pouts. Impatient. Dad bends low. Whispers calm. Shirt strains. Chest hair peeks. Trail down to bulge. Fabric tents slightly. My pussy throbs. Wetness soaks panties. Nipples peak. Time freezes. Heat builds between thighs.
The Ambiance
He straightens. Catches my stare. Eyes lock. Shocked? Intrigued? I smile. Wicked. He blushes. Turns away. Leads son to mosaic print. Gold purples blues. Mesmerizing. But he’s my art now.
Tall. Lean. Blond crop. Polished shoes click. Slacks hug ass. Firm. High. I shift weight. Imagine clay hands. Kneading. Tuesday workshop feel. Model pose. Weight left leg. Right extends. Ass cambré. Chest out. Arm sows seed.
She—no, he. Mental turn. Every angle. Legs stretch. Ass cheeks part. Fingers dig sillon. Cock? Thick. Veined. Balls heavy. Trimmed blond bush. Lips—no, head flares. Girthy shaft. Pre-cum beads.
He moves. Monumental totem print. Dim light. I follow. Close. Heart races. Pussy aches. Clit swells. He glances back. Knows? Ballet starts. Advance. Retreat. His scent hits. Floral fresh. Body-warmed.
Side view. Profile sharp. Shoulders broad. Crotch full. Respiration lifts chest. If only unzip him. Nose straight. Lips full. Blue eyes steel-soft. Cultured voice explains Niki to son. Artist dad. Perfect.
He drifts to next room. Dimmer. My son whines. Rich exhibits. Few crowds. Ideal stalk. I hover back. Hear him on textures. Colors clash. Obesity protects beauty. Father’s influence. Words precise.
Step in. Arm’s reach. Still. Sniff cologne. He senses heat. Doesn’t flee. Bends to son. Ass brushes near. Skin tone glows. Nutmeg tan. Neck begs bite. Supplice. I retreat. Post at door.
The Explosion
Wait. Heels—no, shoes click. Approaches. Chooses my side. Parfum envelops. Heat radiates. Voice clear. ‘Niki freed post-trauma.’ Son asks. She glances. Dips. Cleavage? No, for him—wait, my view his back.
I turn. She offers? No, reverse. He bends. Bulge outline. ‘Free woman? Like mom extra lover?’ Kid asks. Why indeed? Follow to dark room. He sits cube bench. Shifts. Space for me. Thighs touch.
Screen flickers. Niki interviews. Black-white pure. Hand near his thigh. Pinky grazes slacks. No pull away. She watches. Mouth parts. Erotic. Hands lap. Posture proud.
Son returns. Impatient. I send him shop. Rise reluctant. Last room. Wait eternal. He enters. Stands still. Son sighs. I close in. Heat waves. Group bumps. Hands grip hips. Steady.
‘Sorry.’ He nods. Cambers. Cock hard against me? Pussy drips. Son signals. I scribble number. Drop at feet. She—he picks. Reads. Pockets. But no. Urge snaps. ‘Meeting room. Now.’ Whisper.
Door clicks locked. Mouse clicks outside. Printer drones. He pins me desk. Skirt up. Panties rip. ‘Fuck, your pussy’s soaked.’ Cock slams in. Thick. Raw. No condom. Desk rattles. Coffee spills. Perfume chokes.
‘Harder, daddy. Risk it.’ Pound. Gush. Clit grinds. Balls slap. ‘Tight slut office cunt.’ Cum builds. Walls pulse. He growls. Fills me. Hot jets. Quivers.
Pull out. Drip down thighs. Adjust skirt. Button blouse. Hair smooth. Wipe desk. Unlock. Smile cool. ‘Great exhibit.’ Stride to meeting. Legs shaky. Cum leaks. Pro face on. Nothing happened.