Conference room door swings shut behind the last colleague. Click of the lock echoes. Printer hums outside, relentless. Coffee stench mixes with my musky perfume, heavy in the air. I’m Theodora reborn, low-born temp girl turned presentation queen. Started like her dad, Acacios – cleaning crews at corporate Hippodrome events. Mom pushed me into ‘acting’ – sales pitches that tease. Now, eyes burn on me.
Open space buzzes. Mouse clicks staccato. Verts faction whispers, Bleus stare. VP Justinian – forties, round face, mustache twitch – grips his dossier. Almost 40, veggie-eating stud, eyes my curves. Petite brunette, olive skin, big black eyes smolder. Like Procope said, graceful slut. I lean over projector. Skirt rides up. No panties, law be damned. Heart races. Adrenaline spikes – what if HR walks in?
Rising Tension in the Open Space
Our glances lock during pitch. His pupils dilate. I flash cleavage, accidental-pro. ‘Sales up 20%,’ I say, voice husky. He nods, bulge growing. Team files out. ‘Stay, Theodora,’ he growls. Door bolted. Tension coils like Nika revolt. Desk between us, files scatter. Perfume chokes the space. His breath quickens. I step close. Fingers brush his tie. ‘You want the real show?’
He grabs my waist. Spins me. Desk edge bites my ass. Blouse rips open. Tits bounce free. ‘Fucking actress whore,’ he snarls, like Procope’s rant. I laugh, low. ‘Fuck me like your empire depends on it.’ Zipper rasps. Cock springs, thick, veined. I drop, knees hit carpet. Mouth engulfs him. Gagging slurps fill room. Saliva drips. Mouse clicks faint outside – someone’s working late.
Explosive Release on the Conference Table
He yanks me up. Bends me over polished oak. Skirt hiked. Pussy exposed, wet, aching. ‘Insatiable bitch,’ he grunts. Thrusts in raw. No condom, pure risk. I gasp, nails claw wood. Table creaks. Coffee mug topples, spills bitter scent. Pounds hard, balls slap. ‘Take it, future empress!’ I buck back. ‘Deeper, my Justinian! Fill your courtisane!’ Sweat slicks us. Breaths ragged. Printer whirs – distraction or doom?
He flips me. Legs spread wide. Eyes lock, burning. I wrap ankles, pull him in. Cunt clenches cock. Ride turns frantic. Tits jiggle. His hands maul. ‘Thirty men couldn’t sate you?’ Dirty echo of scandals. ‘Try me!’ I hiss. Climax builds. Moans escape – too loud? Door rattles? No, imagination. He swells. ‘Cum inside, claim me!’ Roars, floods hot. I shatter, juices squirt. Body quakes.
Panting slows. Cum leaks down thigh. I straighten skirt. Wipe desk with tissue. Blouse buttons crooked. Perfume masks sex reek. Hair smoothed. ‘Back to meeting?’ He smirks, zips up. I nod, cool pro. Unlock door. Stride to open space. Mouse clicks resume. Glances follow. No one knows. Yet. Like her rise – from mime slut to throne. Adrenaline lingers. Next climb awaits.