Call girl

When the pressure builds, the boss reaches for his little black book and dials a number. Minutes later a slender blonde steps into his office. She clicks the lock shut behind her and drops to her knees. Her mouth works him eagerly, wet, warm, thorough—every stroke of her tongue sending heat up his spine. He watches her cheeks hollow, watches the blonde hair sway, until he can’t wait another second. He pulls her up, spins her around, bends her over the desk. She’s tight, slick, ready; he pushes in hard and deep. The wet sound of skin meeting skin fills the office. He grabs her hips, drives into her until his breath breaks. When he finally comes, he stays buried, pulsing, filling her in long, warm pulses. He pulls out slowly, watches a thin thread of white slip down her thigh. A quick straighten of his tie and the boss is back behind the desk, calm, focused, ready for the rest of the day.