Conference room at COJO HQ, Paris. July 29, 2024. Late. Printer whirs outside. Coffee aroma clings to air, mixes with my jasmine perfume. Dossiers stack high. Olympic ‘Réarmement Amoureux’ files. President’s wild demo event. Me, Anne Afort, ambitious exec. Alex Andry, my sharp colleague. Meteorologist side gig. We prep the finale. Eyes lock across open space all week. Heat builds. Whispers about training. Real training. Door swings shut. Click. Lock turns. Heart races. Adrenaline spikes. Risk of janitor. Or boss. Thrill. I lean on table. Skirt hikes. His gaze drops. ‘Ready for 69 quals?’ he growls. Fingers brush. Electric. Chair scrapes. Mouse clicks fade. Silence drops. Only breaths. Heavy. He circles. Hands on hips. Pulls close. Lips crash. Tongue invades. Coffee breath, his. Perfume mine. Blends filthy. Blouse unbuttons. Slow. Bra snaps free. Nipples harden. Air cool. Goosebumps. His tie yanks off. Belt clinks. Zipper rasps. Pants drop. Cock springs. Thick. Veined. Proud. Like French flagpole. I shimmy skirt down. Panties off. Golden bush trimmed Eiffel. Bio jojoba oil gleams tits. He grins. ‘Olympic pussy.’ Laugh low. We strip robes? No. Suits shed. Naked now. Table cleared. Papers scatter. 15-min chrono starts. Mental clock. Ticking.
Table edge. I climb. He opposite. Head to crotch. Classic 69. His mouth dives. Nose buries in Eiffel. Tongue lashes clit. Wet slurps echo. I gasp. Grip his thighs. Cock throbs. Vein pulses. Mouth engulfs. Saliva drips. Suck deep. Gulp. He moans into pussy. Vibes shoot up spine. ‘Fuck, Anne. Taste like gold.’ Dirty growl. Legs quiver. Hips buck. Fingers dig ass. He tongues folds. Circles pearl. Bleubleubleu blows. Air bursts. I pop off cock. Moan loud. ‘Deeper, Alex. Jury watches.’ Fantasy fuels. Suck harder. Balls slap chin. Throat fucks. Gags wet. Pussy floods. His. Juices smear face. Switch. He flips. Missionary slams. Cock spears. No mercy. Table creaks. Bangs wall. Fast pistons. Skin slaps. ‘Take it, champ. 13 minutes.’ Grunts. I claw back. Legs wrap. Heels dig. Nipple bite. Sharp. Stars burst. ‘Boudiii!’ I cry. Thrusts rail. Cock swells. ‘Putaing cong!’ He roars. Walls clench. Milk him. Cum syncs. Floods deep. Shudders rack. 13:36. Best time. Roar escapes. Sweat slicks. Pussy pulses. Cream leaks.
The Building Tension
Gasps slow. He pulls out. Drip plops. Tissues grab. Wipe quick. Cum smears thigh. Perfume masks musk. Coffee lingers. Skirt up. Zips. Blouse buttons. Hair smooths. Lipstick reapplies. Mirror check. Pro again. Face flushed? Blame stress. Door unlocks. Click. Out. Open space quiet. Colleagues gone. Printer hums. Coffee pot gurgles. Meeting resumes. Zoom call. ‘Notes on finale?’ I say. Voice steady. Alex nods. Eyes wink. Secret burns. Jury? Us. Gold bound. Hierarchy bows to lust. Ambitious? Hell yes. Risk? Pure high. Back to work. Legs jelly. Pussy throbs. Smile hides it all.