Let me steal a few minutes to spill my extraordinary tale. Sure, it might sound mundane next to those porn-star epics, but it’s mine. Philippe, my man, 32, towers at 1.98m with a bit of extra padding. Me, Amélie, same age, just 1.59m, slipping into heels to bridge the gap. Curvy too—soft belly, killer ass in tight jeans, 95D cleavage spilling out. We’ve been together two years, shacked up months now. I call him kitten. He calls me my heart. Pure love.
Saturday afternoon overtime in the empty office. Open-space hums quiet. Printer whirs faintly down the hall. Coffee scent mixes with my vanilla perfume, thick and heady. He’s sprawled at his desk, laptop rugby match blasting low. Casual weekend vibe: his jeans, polo. Me? Tidying files got me hot. Stripped to black shorty and matching bra. Practical. Everyone knows housework heats you up.
The Tension Builds
I tease. ‘Go full nude, babe. Cooler.’ He grins. ‘Come unhook my bra then.’ Knows I’m comfy, he’s lazy. Won’t budge from the screen. Shorty hugs modest—no thong for me, too scratchy. He digs the tease of coverage.
Filing time. Low drawer by his desk. I bend, legs straight. No squat. Fabric stretches taut over my plump ass cheeks. Feel his stare burn. Rugby forgotten. Heart races—open-space empty, but thrill of risk. Straighten quick. Back to sorting. He adjusts in his seat. Cock stirring, I bet.
Minutes tick. Mouse clicks his frantic scrolling. I announce done. Final files. Bend again. Same arch. Shorty strains. Imagine him yanking it down, slamming in doggy. No ass stuff—love the position, hate anal. Mutual. His bulge tents now.
‘Hand over your polo, kitten. Laundry bag needs it to fill.’ ‘Nah, match on.’ I push. ‘Complete the load, or no dice tomorrow.’ He plays generous. ‘You earned rest.’ Bullshit.
I pounce. Fingers at his button. He twists away, laughing. Towering frame pins me playful. I wriggle, hand slips crotch-ward. Button pops. Zipper rasps down. Palm his hard-on. Bingo.
‘Kitten, what’s this?’ Smirk. Eyes sparkle. He mutters about hot half-naked filer. I bolt to kitchenette. Snag mint candy. Back fast. Match over. Pants drag down. Boxer follows. 17cm throbs rigid.
The Explosion Unleashed
Slow strokes, right hand. Left roams his chest. Kisses inner thighs. Closer. Mint kicks in—cool rush. Grip tightens. Pace ups. Then mouth engulfs. Heat clashes cool. Tongue flicks glans. Hand pumps base. Killer.
Printer drones distant. Door to meeting room? Nah, his desk edge. But tension—someone could ping. His hands fumble my bra. Off. Gropes tits hardening. Nipples peak. I’m soaked.
Eases to hand only. Locks eyes. Grins wicked. ‘Happy, kitten?’ ‘Beyond dreams,’ he gasps. Proud, I dive deeper. Suck hard on ups. Aspire vacuum—Isabelle’s trick. Fresh mint amplifies. Insane.
Door locked? Click echoes memory. We shifted quick—open-space risk too high. Meeting room now. Table cool under him. My heels dig carpet. Coffee-perfume haze.
He begs. ‘My heart, wanna fuck you.’ Ignore. Pump harder. ‘Risky, kitten…’ ‘Risk of your cum.’ Squeeze base brutal. Tongue, suck, stroke frenzy. He bucks.
Pulls out. Aims tits. Five-six thick spurts paint my 95Ds. Hot ropes drip. Gasp. Calm settles. Printer hums on. Wipe quick. Bra snaps. Shorty tugs up. Skirt over. He zips.
‘Reunion in five,’ I wink. Stride out. Heels click open-space. Poker face. Files neat. Lust masked. Back to pro grind. Adrenaline buzz lingers. Perfect taboo high.