I slip through the door of your office after the last of the fluorescent lights have flickered off in the hallway, the building settling into that quiet hum of air conditioning and distant traffic. It's one of those evenings where the city outside feels like it's holding its breath, the kind where paperwork piles up but nobody's around to care. You’re at your desk, hunched over some spreadsheet that probably doesn’t matter anymore today, your tie loosened just enough to hint at the long day you’ve had. I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon—watching you in meetings, the way your shoulders tense when you’re focused, the subtle flex of your jaw when you laugh at something dumb. My loose black dress sways against my thighs as I walk toward you, the fabric thin and forgiving, hiding the fact that I ditched my bra and panties before leaving my place. It’s my little secret, one that makes my skin tingle with anticipation.
“Hey, Dave,” I say, my voice low and teasing as I close the distance. You look up, surprise flickering across your face, but there’s that spark in your eyes—the one that tells me you’ve noticed me before, in ways that go beyond office chit-chat. I lean against the edge of your desk, letting my hip brush the wood, my fingers trailing idly over the stack of files. “Working late again? You know, all work and no play makes you... well, you get it.” I smile, tilting my head, letting my hair fall across one shoulder. The flirtation hangs in the air like smoke, easy and deliberate. I shift my weight, feeling the dress slide against my bare skin underneath, a reminder of what’s waiting.
You lean back in your chair, that half-smile of yours pulling at your lips. “Hana, what are you doing here? Thought everyone bailed hours ago.” Your voice is casual, but your eyes dip down for a second, taking in the way the dress clings just a bit too loosely to my curves. I can see the curiosity building, and it sends a warm rush through me.
“Just couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I murmur, pushing off the desk and stepping closer, close enough that you can smell the faint citrus of my perfume mixed with something warmer, more me. I reach up, cupping your face gently, my thumb brushing your cheek. Before you can say anything else, I lean in and press my lips to yours. It’s meant to be quick, a spark, but the second our mouths meet, it deepens. Your lips part, and I slide my tongue against yours, tasting the coffee you must have had earlier, the faint salt of your skin. The kiss turns hungry, French and unhurried, my body pressing into yours as you stand to meet me. Your hands find my waist, pulling me closer, and I moan softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating between us.
We break apart just enough to breathe, my forehead against yours, my chest rising and falling faster now. “Fuck, Dave,” I whisper, my fingers already working at the buttons of my dress. “I’ve wanted this.” The top falls open, revealing my bare breasts, nipples already hardening in the cool office air. They’re full and heavy, the skin flushed from the heat building inside me. I don’t give you time to process—I take your hand, guiding it up to cup one, your palm warm against my skin. “Touch me,” I say, my voice breathy. Your fingers move, tentative at first, then firmer, thumb circling my nipple. A moan escapes me, low and real, as the sensation shoots straight down to my core. It’s electric, the way you squeeze just right, sending sparks through my body.
I arch into your touch, loving how your eyes darken as you explore. We lean in again, mouths crashing together in another deep French kiss, tongues tangling slow and wet. Your other hand joins the first, both now kneading my breasts, pinching lightly, and I gasp against your lips, my hips grinding instinctively against you. The dress hangs loose now, barely covering anything, but I don’t care. All I can focus on is the heat of your mouth, the way your fingers make my skin burn.
When we pull back, I’m panting, my hands on your chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart under your shirt. I look up at you, eyes locked on yours, vulnerability mixing with the raw need twisting in my gut. “Dave, please,” I plead, my voice cracking just a little. “I want you to put your baby in me. Make me a mommy. I need it—need you inside me, filling me up like that.” The words tumble out, desperate and honest, my body aching for what comes next. It’s not just talk; it’s this deep, primal pull I’ve felt building for weeks.
You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide the dress off my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet, leaving me completely naked in your office. The air feels charged against my bare skin—my pussy already slick, thighs pressing together to ease the throb. I step out of the fabric, kicking my heels aside, and move toward the worn leather couch in the corner, the one you crash on during all-nighters. I lay back on it, stretching out, legs parting just enough to invite you. The leather is cool against my ass and back, a stark contrast to the heat flushing my body. “Come here,” I say, reaching for you. “Fuck me on this couch. I want to feel every inch of you.”
You strip quickly, shirt and pants hitting the floor, your dick hard and ready as you approach. I watch, biting my lip, the sight of you making my pussy clench. You climb over me, the couch dipping under your weight, and we kiss again—deep, French, tongues sliding in a rhythm that promises more. Your body presses down, skin on skin, your erection nudging against my thigh. I wrap my legs around your waist, pulling you closer, guiding you to where I need you most.
“God, yes,” I breathe as the tip of your dick presses against my entrance. I’m wet, so fucking wet, and you slide in easily, inch by inch, stretching me in the best way. It’s missionary, open and intimate, my legs spread wide as you thrust deep. The couch creaks under us, the office silent except for our breaths and the wet sounds of you moving inside me. I cling to your shoulders, nails digging in, moaning as you fill me completely. Each push hits that spot deep inside, building pressure that makes my toes curl.
You set a rhythm, slow at first, letting me adjust, but I urge you on, hips bucking up to meet you. “Harder, Dave—fuck me harder.” Your thrusts pick up, powerful and steady, your dick slamming into my pussy with a force that makes my breasts bounce. I love it, the way you take me, the rawness of it all. My hands roam your back, feeling the muscles flex, while yours grip my hips, holding me in place as you drive deeper. The pleasure coils tight in my belly, every slide of you against my walls sending waves through me.
We kiss through it, mouths open and messy, tongues mimicking the motion of your hips. I break away to gasp, “You feel so good—don’t stop.” Sweat beads on your skin, dripping onto mine, and I lick it off your neck, tasting salt. My pussy grips you tighter, the friction building to something intense. You angle your hips, hitting my clit with each thrust, and I cry out, the sensation sharp and overwhelming. It’s pure, dirty bliss—your dick pounding into me, my body arching off the couch.
I shift, wrapping my legs higher around you, pulling you impossibly deeper. The open position lets you see everything—my pussy taking you, slick and eager. “Make me yours,” I whisper, the plea from earlier echoing in my mind. You groan, pace quickening, and I feel it building, that edge approaching fast. My fingers find my clit, rubbing in circles as you fuck me, the dual sensation pushing me closer. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” I moan, and you thrust harder, chasing your own release.
It hits me like a wave—orgasm crashing through, my pussy pulsing around your dick, squeezing as I shudder beneath you. I cry out your name, body trembling, the pleasure so intense it blacks out the edges of my vision. You keep going, drawing it out, until your own climax builds. “Hana,” you grunt, and then you’re coming, hot spurts filling me deep, just like I begged for. It’s warm and perfect, your dick twitching inside as you empty into me, marking me in the way I craved.
We collapse together, breaths ragged, your weight a comforting press on top of me. The couch sticks to our skin, but I don’t mind. I run my fingers through your hair, smiling as the aftershocks fade. “That was... everything,” I say softly, kissing your shoulder.
But we’re not done. After a few minutes of lazy touches—your hand tracing lazy patterns on my thigh, my fingers exploring the lines of your chest—you stir again, your dick hardening against my leg. I laugh, low and throaty. “Already? You’re insatiable.” It’s playful, but the heat reignites quick. I push you back, straddling your lap on the couch, my pussy still slick with our combined release. I sink down onto you slowly, savoring the stretch, riding you with a roll of my hips. This time it’s me in control, grinding down, my breasts brushing your chest as I move.
You grip my ass, guiding me, and we find a rhythm—up and down, slow and deep. I lean forward, capturing your mouth in another French kiss, tongues dancing as I fuck you. The angle hits differently, rubbing right against my g-spot, and I moan into you, picking up speed. “You like that? Feeling me take you?” I tease, nipping your lip. Your hands knead my breasts again, pinching nipples that are still sensitive from before, sending jolts straight to my core.
The second round builds faster, dirtier. I bounce harder, the slap of skin echoing in the quiet office, my pussy clenching around you. Sweat slicks our bodies, and I love the mess of it—the way your come from earlier mixes with my wetness, making everything slippery and hot. You thrust up to meet me, hands tight on my hips, and I feel you swelling inside. “Come again,” I urge, voice husky. “Fill me up more—I want it all.”
You do, groaning as you release, pumping into me while I grind through my own climax, waves of pleasure making me shake. I collapse onto your chest, both of us spent, laughing breathlessly. The office feels different now, charged with what we’ve done, the couch a testament to our abandon.
As we catch our breath, I sit up, still on you, feeling the warmth inside. “You know,” I say, tracing your jaw with a finger, “if this is what late nights look like, I might start crashing your office more often. Who needs spreadsheets when we’ve got this?” You chuckle, pulling me down for one last, soft kiss, and I know this is just the start—messy, real, and exactly what I wanted. We dress eventually, stealing glances and touches, the promise of more hanging in the air like the best kind of secret.