Calling her untimely

I remember the first time you called me into your office, Paco. You were 46, a senior manager with graying temples and that confident way of leaning back in your chair. I was 21, fresh out of college, wearing my favorite tight jeans that hugged my ass just right. Size 5, perky B-cup tits, and an ass that made every guy in the office turn his head when I walked by. I knew what I was doing. Those jeans never showed a panty line because I always wore the skimpiest thongs underneath, little strings that disappeared between my cheeks. Half the office thought I went commando. Let them wonder. You called me in to discuss the Henderson account, but your eyes kept dropping to my chest, then to my legs crossed in that chair across from your desk. I noticed you adjusting yourself under your desk, that subtle shift men do when they’re getting hard. It made me wet, honestly. There’s something about an older man, someone with power, wanting you that badly. “Isis, I’ve been watching you,” you said, your voice low, not bothering with pretense anymore. “That ass of yours is a fucking problem. Every man in this building wants a piece of it.” I should have been offended. Instead, I uncrossed my legs slowly, letting you see the heat in my eyes. “And what about you, Mr. Ramirez? Do you want a piece?” You didn’t answer with words. You stood up, walked around your desk, and I saw the outline of your cock straining against your slacks. I didn’t need much convincing. I slid off the chair onto my knees right there on your office carpet, my fingers working your belt open, your zipper down. Your dick sprang out, thick and already leaking at the tip. I looked up at you as I took you into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the head, tasting salt and skin. You groaned, your hand tangling in my hair, guiding me deeper. “Fuck, your mouth,” you grunted. “Nobody’s ever sucked my cock like this.” I worked you with my lips and tongue, taking you deep until you hit the back of my throat, my hand cupping your balls, squeezing gently. Your breathing got ragged, your hips starting to thrust. But you pulled me up before you could finish, bending me over your desk instead. My jeans came down just enough, and there it was, that tiny pink thong wedged between my cheeks. You ran your thumb along the string, tracing the curve of my ass. “Everyone thinks you don’t wear anything under these jeans,” you murmured, your voice thick with lust. “But this little string is the dirtiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You pulled the thong aside, your fingers finding my wet pussy, sliding inside me while your other hand gripped my hip. I moaned into the wood of your desk, pushing back against your hand. But you had other plans. You wet your thumb with my own juices and pressed it against my asshole, circling slowly. “I want this,” you said. “I want to fuck this perfect ass.” I should have said no. I had a boyfriend at home. You had a wife. But my body was on fire, and when you positioned your cock against my tightest hole, I pushed back, wanting it. The first inch made me gasp, a sharp burn that melted into pleasure as you slowly worked yourself inside me. Your desk creaked under us, papers scattering, but neither of us cared. “Oh god, Paco,” I whispered, and you did, gripping my hips and thrusting deeper, finding a rhythm that had me seeing stars. That was the first time. After that, we got smarter. We started going to a cheap motel off the highway, the kind that takes cash and doesn’t ask questions. Every Tuesday and Thursday after work, we’d drive separately, park in the back lot, and meet in room 214. The sheets were scratchy and the wallpaper was peeling, but we didn’t notice. We’d barely get the door locked before we were tearing at each other’s clothes. Those motel afternoons were filthy and perfect. You’d bend me over the dresser, my naked reflection in the mirror showing my tits bouncing as you fucked my ass from behind. You’d pull my thong to the side instead of taking it off, that little string digging into my hip while your cock stretched me wide. Sometimes you’d make me ride you on that lumpy bed, my ass slapping against your thighs while you sucked my nipples, biting just hard enough to make me cry out. And then my phone would ring. Almost every single time. My boyfriend’s name flashing on the screen while your cock was buried deep in my ass. “Don’t stop,” I’d whisper, reaching for the phone. You’d slow down but keep moving inside me, your grin wicked as I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. “Hey baby,” I’d say, while you gave a particularly deep thrust that made my eyes roll back. “Where are you? I thought you’d be home by now,” he’d ask, completely clueless. “Just stuck in traffic. There was an accident on the highway. I’ll be home in an hour.” Meanwhile, you were pounding my ass, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the motel room. I’d bite my lip so hard I tasted blood, trying not to moan into the phone. “Okay, I’ll order pizza. Love you.” “Love you too,” I’d manage to choke out, hanging up just as you drove deep and I came, my ass clenching around your cock, my pussy dripping down my thighs. I don’t know how he never figured it out. Maybe he wanted to believe the lies. Maybe the traffic excuses and the late meetings and the girls’ nights sounded plausible enough. Or maybe he just didn’t want to know that while he was ordering pepperoni pizza, his girlfriend was getting her ass fucked raw by her 46-year boss.