God knows how it happened. My boss Stéphane and I, stuck in the supply closet of our 50th-floor penthouse offices. Marble corridors gleaming outside. City skyline mocking us through floor-to-ceiling glass. Door slammed. Fire-rated, soundproof. No escape. I eyed my Mauritius suite dreams fading. Then genius struck: widen the tiny peephole. Stéphane, no handyman—unless Maria from accounting whispered truths post-Christmas gala—enlarged it. I pushed through. Head first. Then shoulders. Stuck at the waist. Skirt hiked, cherry-print silk from Rodeo Drive framing my ass. Perfect offering. He asked consent. Twice. Door muffled, or just savoring my yes. Bespoke trousers unzipped. His scent: aged leather briefcase, crisp cologne. Crystal paperweights rattled as he approached.
Fingers traced hips. Juicy fabric tore—panties shredded, trash-bound. I recalled porn nights: #Stuck tags, stepmoms wedged in dryers, saved by eager cocks. Wetter than Maria’s tales. One finger probed. Two. Three. Soaked. Guttural moans leaked through steel. He gripped flanks, thumbs nearly meeting. Cock freed. Girth split me. Gland flared. Veins pulsed. Rigid heat. Ten centimeters matched my husband’s. Twelve. Unknown thrill. Seventeen: stuffed full. Balls slapped thighs. Luc Sorg, security chief, paused his cigar break. ‘Sophie, what the fuck?’ Hallway humidor wafted Cuban richness. I stammered. He lit a slim panatela, slipped it between lips. Allume. Puff.
The Privilege
Stéphane thrust. Slow. Brutal. Hips bucked forward against unyielding door. Luc clocked it. Primal stir. Cigarette dropped. ‘Forget it. I crave cock.’ His cigarillo—thick, veined—replaced it. Mouth stuffed, pussy pounded. They synced. Tennis rally across partition. No full-body view heightened frenzy. Stéphane eyed my ‘Employee of the Month’ photo pinned there. Face matched the ass he wrecked. Luc unbuttoned blouse. Silk parted. Full breasts swung free, nipples grazing cool air. Rhythmic slap. I shattered first. Whore. Bitch. #CzechGloryhole live. Guttural cry. They unleashed. Hot ropes flooded. Mouth a cum battlefield. Pussy ruined, oozing thick cream. Door clicked open. Miracle.
Handshakes exchanged. Cool as boardroom deals. Days later, pre-Mauritius tour. Luc slipped a USB into my Burberry coat. Airport scanner buzzed. Husband queried. Ten days. Penthouse footage. Our secret. Glass walls guard it all.
