Friday drinks were in the kitchenette.
Friday drinks were in the kitchenette.
$name1 had two glasses of warm wine and the same colleague who’d given her a lift home before. People peeled off toward the lifts. $name1 didn’t. $name1 put her glass down, caught his eye over her glasses, and walked toward the disabled toilet at the end of the floor. $name1 left the door off the latch.
He came in thirty seconds later.
$name1 locked it. $name1 dropped to her knees on the tiled floor in her work dress and got his cock out over the toilet lid. $name1 sucked him fast and sloppy, fringe-dark hair in her face, glasses looking up, gagging when he pushed, spit running down onto the lino. The extractor fan was loud. The party was still going twenty metres away.
$name1 stood, turned, then changed her mind and sat up on the basin.
$name1 pulled the dress up, opened her thick thighs, and pulled him in. He pushed into $name1 in one thrust and fucked her against the mirror, deep, hurried, $name1’s arse on the cold porcelain, her heavy tits moving, one heel hooked in his belt. $name1 came watching herself in the glass — glasses crooked, mouth open — and he fucked $name1 through it until the basin taps rattled. $name1 came again, sloppier, dripping down onto the waste bin.
He drove in and finished inside $name1 in short pulses, holding $name1 on the basin while he emptied.
He pulled out.
$name1 stayed sat on the sink with her dress around her waist, thighs still open, his cum already running out of $name1 onto the porcelain and down toward the plughole. $name1’s glasses were misted. The fan kept roaring. Someone knocked, laughed, and went to the other toilets.
$name1 didn’t close her legs. $name1 sat in it and listened to the kitchenette toast the weekend.