Audit Turned Fuck: My Wild Office Quickie with the Auditor

Wednesday afternoon, April. My office. Less traffic, perfect day for my plan. I’m Angélique Denglin, fresh divorcee, red short hair, black dress with that killer square neckline. No bra lines showing, just enough cleavage to hook him. Him: Monsieur Carlier, the auditor I’ve known for years. Stagiaire days, married phase, now free. I’ve waited. Remembered his words over dinners during audits: ‘Turn the page when it’s done.’ Did that. Now, I want his cock.

He knocks. Enters. Eyes widen. ‘Bonjour, Madame Denglin.’ I smile, cross legs slow. ‘Call me Angélique. You’ve seen me evolve.’ We chat divorce, past advice. He stumbles. Good. I lean forward, documents spread. Procedures drone on. My phone buzzes in drawer—app notification, some other guy. Ignore. This one’s here, real, hard already I bet.

The Approach: Building Tension in My Office

He stares at my tits. Pear-shaped, perky-fall, black lace peeking. I know. Procedure 12, I ask opinion. Bend more. He sweats. Goes for water. I smirk, adjust dress lower. He returns, eyes hungry. Past talk flashes: him saying ideal woman like me. Single then, me taken. Now reversed.

I stand for book on shelf. Heels click. Dress rides up thighs. Self-hold stockings, dark bands flash. Ass sways back. Perfume wafts—musky vanilla, hits him. Sit close. Lean over procedure 3. Point. Cleavage spills. Right tit presses desk, left dangles free. Nipple edge shows, pink, hard. His breath hot. Finger near my lips. Tension snaps.

The Explosion: He lunges. Lips crash mine. Soft first, then feral. No resistance—fuck yes. Tongues battle, hands in my hair, neck, down cleavage. I grind on his bulge. ‘Took you long enough,’ I gasp, espiègle grin. Rip his shirt. Buttons fly. His mouth devours tits, sucks nipple hard. ‘Fuck, these are perfect,’ he growls.

The Explosion: Raw, No-Holds-Barred Fuck

Push him back. Unzip pants. Cock springs—thick, veined, throbbing. Stroke rough. ‘Want this pussy?’ I hiss. ‘Been wet since you walked in.’ Desk clears—papers fly. Bend over, ass up. Dress hiked. No panties. He groans, fingers plunge in. Soaked. ‘Dirty slut,’ he spanks. Slams in. Raw, deep. No condom—risky thrill.

Pound hard. Desk shakes. My moans echo. ‘Harder, fuck me like you own it!’ Tits bounce, slap wood. His hands grip hips, bruise. Sweat mixes, perfume and musk fill air. Phone buzzes again—fuck off. Flip me. Legs wide. He thrusts savage, balls slap clit. ‘Cum in me,’ I beg. Eyes lock, feral. Orgasm rips—walls clench, scream muffled on his shoulder. He explodes, hot flood inside.

The Disappearance: Panting. He pulls out, cum drips thighs. Quick wipe with tissues. Straighten dress, fix hair. He zips, ties cravat. ‘Procedures done?’ I ask cool, professional. He nods, dazed. ‘Others to audit.’ Door clicks shut. Alone. Buzzing phone—new match. Smile. Back to work. Strangers again. Adrenaline fades, but pussy throbs memory. Next Wednesday? Maybe.