Zafira can't change

Zafira shows up in her office uniform—blouse and skirt hugging her curves, big tits straining against the fabric. She’s supposed to answer phones, file papers, smile through meetings. Ten minutes in and the itch starts between her legs, wet heat pulsing every time she crosses her thighs. She glances at the clock. If she takes care of it now, she can focus later. Simple math. The blouse comes off first, buttons popping, then the skirt. Stockings stay. She climbs onto the desk, cool wood under her ass, legs spreading wide. Fingers slide straight to her slick pussy, two sinking deep while her thumb circles her clit. She fucks herself in slow, steady strokes, hips rolling, breath catching every time she bottoms out. Her other hand squeezes one heavy breast, pinching the nipple until it stands stiff. Juices coat her fingers, dripping onto the desk. She doesn’t rush. She just keeps working that dripping cunt until the itch burns away and all that’s left is the raw, needy rhythm of her own hand.