After the office empties, $name1 locks Conference B, straps on, and ruins her boyfriend’s ass over the glass table until he begs and comes untouched.
$name1 waited until the last fluorescent bank on the twelfth floor clicked off. Twenty-eight years old, marketing coordinator by day, and tonight she had a different agenda locked in the tote bag under her desk. Conference B smelled like dry-erase markers and the leftover coffee from the four o’clock status meeting. The glass walls faced the dark corridor. She pulled the blinds halfway—not closed, not open—and clicked the lock.
Marcus arrived two minutes later in his loosened tie, the same boyfriend who had joked all week that he was “curious.” She pointed at the long glass table.
“Drop the trousers. Hands on the glass. Ass out.”
He laughed once, nervous, then obeyed. $name1 unzipped the tote. Black leather harness. Thick silicone cock, seven inches, veined, with a flared base. She stepped into the straps, tightened the buckles around her hips until the dildo jutted hard from her crotch, and squeezed a palmful of lube over the shaft. She stroked it slowly while he watched over his shoulder, face flushed.
“You said you wanted to know what it feels like,” she said. “You’re going to take every inch while the cleaning crew walks past that corridor. Don’t you fucking come until I say.”
She kicked his feet wider and spat on his hole. Two slick fingers pressed in. He gasped, forehead kissing the cool glass. She worked him open—scissoring, curling, adding a third finger until his rim softened and his cock hung heavy between his thighs, already leaking.
“Fuck—$name1—”
“Quiet.” She lined the head of the strap-on against his stretched hole and pushed. The flare popped inside with a wet sound. Marcus moaned, loud and broken. She gripped his hips and sank another two inches, then another, until the harness slapped his cheeks and she was buried to the base.
“Look at you,” she growled. “Bent over Conference B with my cock in your ass. Say it.”
“Your cock is in my ass,” he panted. “Fuck—so full—”
She started thrusting. Short and mean at first, then longer strokes that dragged the silicone over his prostate on every pull-out. The glass table squeaked under his palms. His tie dangled into a ring of condensation. $name1 fucked him harder, tits bouncing inside her blouse, the slap of harness on skin echoing off the whiteboard.
A shadow moved in the corridor—cleaning cart wheels. Marcus tensed. She didn’t stop. She reached around, wrapped her fist around his neglected cock, and pumped him in time with her hips while the cart rattled past the half-open blinds. He bit his own forearm to stay quiet. She felt his hole clench around the dildo and grinned.
“They almost saw you getting fucked,” she whispered. “My good slut. Take it deeper.”
She yanked his hips back onto every thrust until he was rocking onto the strap-on like he needed it. Lube dripped down his balls onto the carpet. She pulled almost all the way out, let the head catch on his rim, then slammed home. He cried out. She did it again. And again. His cock throbbed in her fist, purple and wet, but she squeezed the base whenever he got close.
“Not yet. You come when this cock fills you and I say so.”
She pulled out, spun him, shoved him onto his back on the glass table, and hooked his knees over her elbows. Face to face now. She drove back into his ass in one wet shove and fucked him missionary, the dildo pistoning while she leaned down and spit in his mouth. He licked it up like a whore. She slapped his cheek lightly, then kissed him filthy, tongue deep, while her hips kept pounding.
“Stroke yourself,” she ordered.
He jacked his cock fast under her body. She watched the tip weep onto his stomach. Conference B smelled like sex and lube. Her clit rubbed the harness base with every thrust; she was soaked, grinding for her own friction while she reamed him.
“I’m going to come,” he gasped.
“Ask.”
“Please—$name1—please let me come with your cock in my ass—”
“Come.”
He painted his own chest in thick ropes, hole spasming around the silicone so hard she felt it through the harness. She fucked him through it, relentless, until he was whimpering and oversensitive. Then she pulled out, climbed onto the table, straddled his face, yanked her skirt up, and shoved her dripping cunt onto his mouth.
“Clean me. Taste how wet fucking your ass made me.”
Marcus licked like he was starving—tongue flat on her clit, then spearing into her pussy, sucking her folds while she ground down and used his face. She came hard, thighs shaking, soaking his chin, moaning his name while she held the strap-on cock against his throat as a filthy reminder of what had just been inside him.
She stayed there until the aftershocks faded, then slid off, unbuckled the harness, and wiped the shiny dick on his discarded tie. Marcus lay wrecked on the conference table, cock soft and shiny, hole still twitching, chest streaked with his own cum.
$name1 checked the corridor. Empty. She packed the harness, tossed him a pack of wet wipes from her tote, and straightened her blouse.
“Same time Thursday,” she said. “Next time you wear a plug under your suit all day. I want you already open when I lock this door.”
He nodded, wrecked and smiling. $name1 unlocked Conference B, flipped the lights off, and walked out onto the quiet twelfth floor with the tote bag bumping her hip—and the filthy knowledge that her boyfriend’s ass still smelled like her cock.
