You stayed late, spreadsheets, emails, and the hum of the AC, then you heard the elevator, even though you thought you’d shut it down.
She stepped off wearing a blazer, heels, and nothing underneath. She walked past your desk, into the glass‑walled conference room, and sat on the long table.
“I saw your light on,” she said. “Figured you needed a different kind of meeting.”
She unbuttoned her blazer. Let it fall. Leaned back on her elbows.
“Take off your tie. You won’t need it.”
You follow her into the conference room. She pats the table. “Lie down. Face up.”
You obey. She climbs on top, straddles your hips, but doesn’t lower herself. She grinds against you through your pants, slow, wet, maddening.
“You’ve been staring at this table all day,” she says. “Now it’s staring at you.”
She reaches down, unzips you, and guides you inside her. She’s hot, tight, and she doesn’t move. She sits there, letting you feel every clench.
“The security cameras are off,” she whispers. “Scream if you want.”
She rides you. The glass walls fog. The table scrapes the floor. She comes with a gasp that echoes off the ceiling. You follow, emptying into her while she holds you there.
She climbs off, picks up her blazer, and walks to the elevator.
“Same time tomorrow? I’ll bring coffee.”
Quick Sync – 30 minutes. Fast, dirty, and back to your desk.
Deep Dive – A few hours of boardroom naughtiness.
All‑Nighter – She stays until dawn. You’ll miss the morning stand‑up.
The building is dark. She isn’t.
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