Sexy Steffie

Steffie’s done with spreadsheets for the day. She peels off the blazer, lets the silk blouse slide from her shoulders, and steps into something meant to be taken off again. A black lace bra barely contains her small, round breasts. Matching panties sit low on her hips, the thin crotch already darker where heat has gathered. She slips into sheer stockings and clips them to a delicate garter belt, admiring how the straps frame the smooth curve of her ass. In the mirror she catches her own eye, gives a lazy half-smile, and runs a fingertip along the lace edge of one cup. It teases her nipple into a tight peak. Phone in one hand, she angles the camera, catching the reflection of blond hair falling over one eye and the swell of her breasts above the bra. Snap. The next shot drops lower; she pushes her hips forward so the thin fabric clings to the soft cleft between her thighs. Her free hand drifts down, traces the line of her slit through the lace, then slips inside to gather the slick heat she finds there. She spreads it over her clit, rubs once, twice, and lets out a short breath. Stockinged thighs part. She leans back against the desk, knees bent, and strokes herself in slow circles, hips rolling with each pass. The lace grows wetter. A flush creeps up her chest. She tugs the bra down, exposing both nipples to the cool office air, then pinches one while the other hand keeps busy between her legs. When her breathing turns ragged she sinks two fingers inside, pumps them in short strokes, and grinds the heel of her palm against her clit until her thighs start to shake. She comes with a bitten-off whimper, body trembling, blond hair sticking to her damp cheek. For a moment she stays like that—stockings askew, panties pushed aside, chest rising and falling—then raises the phone again for one last shot: flushed skin, wet fingers, satisfied smile.