fucked at lunch
The other day at the office was one of those ordinary Wednesdays that turn filthy the second you step outside the building. Emails piling up, meetings droning on, but all I could think about was the tight pull of my sheer black tights against my bare pussy—no panties underneath, just the whisper of nylon every time I crossed my legs. The champagne satin blouse felt almost too innocent for what I had planned. My black pencil skirt hugged my hips and ass so snugly it was practically a second skin. And those glossy black patent stilettos? They clicked with purpose when I finally slipped out at 12:20, claiming a “quick errand.”
The hotel was only two minutes away. Heart hammering, I rode the elevator up, thighs already slick with anticipation. He opened the door the moment my knuckles grazed it—tall, impatient, eyes dark with the same hunger I felt. No hello. No small talk.
I dropped to my knees right there in the entryway, carpet rough against my knees. My hands were shaking just a little as I yanked his belt open, tugged the zipper down, and freed his cock. Thick, already hard, veins standing out. I wrapped my lips around him without hesitation, taking him deep on the first slide, tasting salt and heat. He groaned, fingers threading into my hair, not gentle. He fucked my mouth in short, controlled thrusts while I hollowed my cheeks and swirled my tongue, spit slicking my chin, the bow at my throat bobbing with every bob of my head.
He hauled me up by the arms, spun me around, and shoved me face-first against the wall. My palms slapped the cool paint. He hiked my mini skirt up over my hips in one rough motion, bunching the fabric at my waist. Then his big hands were at my thighs and he tore a hole in my tights just big enough—Cool air kissed my soaked cunt for half a second before he was there, cockhead nudging, then slamming home in one brutal stroke. I cried out, loud enough that I’m sure the hallway heard. He didn’t care. He fucked me hard and fast against the wall—deep, punishing thrusts that jolted my whole body, my breasts bouncing under satin, nipples scraping the fabric. My torn tights framed the mess he was making of me, black nylon stretched taut around my thighs. One of his hands gripped my hip hard enough to bruise; the other slid up to palm my throat from behind, holding me in place while he pounded.
I came hard, clenching around him, thighs trembling, a choked moan spilling out. That tipped him over. A few more savage thrusts and he buried himself deep, cock pulsing, flooding me with thick, hot spurts. I felt every jet—warm and heavy, filling me until it started leaking out around him before he even pulled free. When he finally stepped back, cum immediately trickled down my inner thigh, soaking into the ruined crotch of my tights. I reached down with trembling fingers, pulled the nylon back up as best I could. The torn hole let everything seep through; the sheer black turned glossy and dark where his load smeared against my skin. I smoothed my skirt down over the evidence, the tight fabric clinging to the wet mess between my legs. He watched the whole thing with a lazy, satisfied smirk.
The walk back was exquisite torture. Every step made his cum shift inside me—hot, sticky, slowly leaking past the ripped nylon. I could feel it coating my thighs, making the tights cling obscenely, the faint wet sound of my legs brushing together barely masked by the click of my heels. By the time I slid back into my chair at 1:05, I was already a wreck.
I crossed my legs under the desk—big mistake. The pressure squeezed more out; a fresh warm gush soaked the gusset, then trickled backward toward my ass. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, trying not to squirm. Every time I shifted to type or reach for a file, the mess slid further—cooling on my skin, then reheating with my body temperature. The scent of sex clung to me, faint but unmistakable if anyone got too close. My clit throbbed in relentless little pulses, oversensitive and greedy for more even though I’d already come once.
The afternoon crawled. A team call at 2:00—I kept my camera off, voice breathy, praying no one noticed how flushed I sounded. Every time I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, another slow leak escaped. By 3:30 my tights were a disaster—sticky patches all down my inner thighs, the torn crotch dark and sodden. I could feel the cum drying in places, turning tacky, then getting freshened by new trickles. My skirt hid it all, but sitting still was impossible; every subtle rock of my hips ground the mess against my swollen folds.
By quitting time my thighs were gleaming under the ruined hose, my skirt wrinkled from all the shifting, and my cheeks permanently flushed. I walked out of the building with my head high, heels clicking the same confident rhythm as when I’d left—except now I carried his cum inside me like a dirty little secret, still leaking, still warm, still reminding me exactly how thoroughly I’d been fucked at lunch.
