Finish up

You rest a hand on the back of Cheryl’s head and feel the pressure crest past the point of control.

“I’m going to cum,” you tell her, voice rough.

She pulls off just long enough to speak, lips wet and close to the head of your cock, and what she says is truly filthy.

“Do it. Empty those heavy balls straight down my throat. I want to taste every frustrated drop your wife has been too vanilla to take. Flood me. I will swallow it all and still be wet for the next round whenever you decide you need this mouth again.”

She sinks back down immediately, taking you deep, and the climax hits hard. You unload in thick pulses straight into her throat. Cheryl stays locked there, swallowing around the spurting length, taking every drop without pulling away until you are spent and twitching on her tongue. Only then does she ease back, licks the last traces clean, and sits on her heels with a satisfied, swollen-mouthed expression.

She stands, smooths her skirt down, and reaches for the scattered folder as if the last hour never happened.

“We really should get this work done,” she says, voice still rough from use. “The regional numbers need tightening and the conversion projections have to be airtight before Friday.”

The two of you spend the remaining time at the table going through the data side by side. Charts are revised. Weak points are cut. Alternative strategies are noted. The professional focus returns, but the air between you stays charged with what just occurred. When the final slides are in workable shape you check the time and decide to call it a night.

Cheryl gathers her things, then steps close one more time. She slips a hand under her skirt, hooks her thumbs into the soaked lace of her knickers, and draws them down her legs. She presses the warm, wet fabric into your pocket without ceremony.

“This is not over,” she says, eyes steady on yours. “You smash the Friday presentation out of the park and I will make sure you get exactly what that cock needs. Consider those a promise and a gift. Do not wash them.”

She turns and leaves Conference Room B, leaving you alone with the finished work, the weight of her panties in your pocket, and the clear knowledge that the competition between you has only just changed shape.