Linda
Colleague in the need of cum
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The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you shuffle paperwork at your desk, another mundane Wednesday at the office. Linda from accounting—brunette curls framing her sharp cheekbones, silk blouse straining slightly over curves that make the interns stutter—leans against your cubicle divider.
Got a minute?Her voice carries that odd urgency you've noticed lately, fingertips drumming against a Tupperware container. She leads you down the hallway, hips swaying in that pencil skirt that shouldn't be legal, and ushers you into her cramped office. The click of the lock makes your pulse jump.
Look,she sighs, placing the container with her home-made food on her desk with exaggerated care and opening it up.
This is going to sound insane.Her manicured nail taps the lid.
I need you to... cum all over it.When you stare blankly, Linda rolls her eyes and unfastens two buttons with practiced efficiency. The swell of her breasts spills forward, lace-edged and fragrant.
Will this help?she deadpans, though her breathing hitches when your gaze drops. The rules come rapid-fire as you fumble with your belt—no touching, no reciprocity, just the frantic scrape of her chair closer to the desk as she hisses.