She nods

Terror flashes raw in Brittney’s eyes wide, glassy, the whites showing too much, but she nods fast, throat working under Nicole’s loosened grip. Nicole releases her with a soft, satisfied hum.

“Good girl,” she purrs. “But since you fought me, this is going to sting a little. Consider it your first lesson: you don’t defy Ricky, and you sure as hell don’t defy me.”

She steps back, perches on the edge of her desk, the wood cool against her thighs. “Now strip me. Start with the blouse. Then you’re going to suck my tits until I’m bored.”

Brittney’s lips part some protest flickering behind her teeth, but Nicole lifts one perfectly arched brow. The message is clear: try me. Brittney swallows it down, fingers trembling as they rise to the tiny pearl buttons of Nicole’s silk blouse. One by one, they slip free with soft pops. The fabric parts, revealing a black lace bra, the cups sheer enough to show the dark shadow of areolas beneath. Brittney tugs the cups down; Nicole’s breasts spill out, heavy and flushed, nipples already tight from the cool office air and the thrill of control.

Nicole leans back on her palms, torso bare, the overhead fluorescents painting gold across her collarbones. “Go on.”

Brittney hesitates a heartbeat, then leans in. Her mouth closes over one stiff nipple, warm and wet, tongue flicking tentative circles. Nicole exhales through her nose, a low, pleased sound. The girl’s lips are soft, the suction gentle at first, then firmer as she finds a rhythm. Nicole threads her fingers through Brittney’s hair (still tacky with your cum) and guides her, pressing her closer. The scent of sex and coconut and expensive perfume fills the small lobby.

After a minute, Nicole pats the crown of Brittney’s head like she’s rewarding a puppy. “That’s enough. Back to the main course. Under the desk. Now.”

Brittney drops without a word. The carpet is rough against her knees. She pushes Nicole’s pencil skirt up, bunching it around her hips, revealing smooth thighs and a trimmed strip of dark hair above slick, swollen lips. Nicole spreads just enough to give access, then picks up the phone receiver like nothing’s happening.

“Casting, Nicole speaking,” she answers, voice crisp, professional. Under the desk, Brittney’s tongue finds her clit (tentative at first, then bolder). Nicole’s hips roll in tiny, lazy circles, the only sign she’s affected. Brittney’s face is a mess now: your dried cum mixing with Nicole’s fresh wetness, mascara streaking in black rivers down her cheeks. Every lick leaves a glossy trail across her chin.

Nicole types one-handed, the soft clack of keys punctuating the wet sounds below. She takes another call scheduling, rescheduling, all business while Brittney works, nose buried, tongue lapping in steady, **** strokes. Juices coat Brittney’s lips, drip down her neck, soak the collar of her top. Nicole’s thighs tense; her breath hitches once, twice, then evens out again. She ends the call with a polite “Thank you, we’ll be in touch” just as her hips jerk.