What happens next

You’re waiting at the top of the stairs for me. I walk up slowly, counting each one as my foot hits the tread. Twenty-one steps in all. I don’t pause at the top but walk straight past you and into your office.

You follow me in, watching me walk, stilettos clack against the polished concrete. Without waiting for permission, I sit in your desk chair and lean back. My legs are parted, enough that you can see I’m not wearing anything under my short dress. I see your eyes flick from my face to my cunt and back again.

There are people in your office, your staff, behind panelled wood cubicles they speak into phones, one-sided conversations bouncing off hard walls and floors and back to us. It would take only seconds for one of them to walk into the hallway outside your office door.

You stand in the doorway and stare at my cunt. Your cock is hard inside your shorts but you remain still. To move would expose me to the view of any passerby. You want to fuck me but your head is urging, nay, screaming caution. This is your place of work, your employees. Chances are some of them know your wife, or at the very least they know of her. I presume your marriage isn’t a secret. Not like me. Not like us.

I can see you sizing up the risk, following the possible options through to their conclusions and trying to find a way that lets you bury your face between my legs.

We still haven’t spoken but I know how badly you want this. It’s been weeks since we saw each other, a blur of parties and family gatherings. Too much food, too much drink, toys still in their boxes.

You want to taste my tongue on yours, sucking it from my mouth and into your own.

Your office door is clear glass, an unwise decision in hindsight. Something you obviously didn’t consider when you started the renovations. Closing it now will only alert the staff something is amiss. They will come to investigate, oh not obviously, but they’ll suddenly decide they need a coffee, a tea, to pee so they can walk past and see … what would they see?

A woman, not your wife, caressing the outer lips of her cunt with an exploratory finger on your desk chair, her heels planted to prevent the chair from rolling across the dusty concrete floor. You really need to clean this place up, by the way.

What will you do Married? What happens next?

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