Tuck it properly

Polly’s lips parted—a silent gasp—before she **** herself to nod. “Y-yes,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she released her **** grip on the blouse. “Mark, could you… help me tuck my blouse into the waist of my skirt?”

The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken tension. Mark’s fingers twitched around his mug, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His gaze flickered from Polly’s trembling hands to Rebecca’s expectant smirk before he set his coffee down with a shaky clink.

Polly’s breath hitched as Mark stepped closer, the scent of cheap office coffee clinging to him.

Mark’s fingers trembled as they brushed the metal teeth of Polly’s skirt zipper, the sound unnaturally loud in the breakroom’s silence. The zipper parted with a slow, deliberate hiss—Polly’s breath catching as cool air rushed against the exposed small of her back. Then his hands stilled.

A choked noise escaped him—half surprise, half something darker—as the fabric gaped open, revealing the smooth, bare curve of her ass. Polly jerked, heat flooding her face as she realized too late what he was seeing. "Mark—" she gasped, her hands flying back instinctively, but Rebecca’s quiet laugh cut her off.

Mark’s fingers twitched against her exposed skin, his breath hitching as Rebecca’s phone camera shutter clicked softly behind them. Polly stiffened, her nails digging into her own palms as she realized—too late—the trap had snapped shut.

“Tuck it properly, Mark,” Rebecca murmured, her voice syrupy with false innocence. “You wouldn’t want Polly to look messy in front of the whole office, would you?”

Mark’s fingers, still hovering over the exposed curve of Polly’s bare skin, twitched as if burned. His breath came shallow, uneven, as he **** himself to focus—gathering the loose hem of her blouse with unsteady hands. The silk slid against his calloused fingertips as he guided it downward, his knuckles brushing the warm dip of her lower back before tucking the fabric into the waistband of her skirt.

His fingers lingered a heartbeat too long—rough against the softness of her skin—before he dragged the zipper back up with agonizing slowness. The metal teeth closed with a whisper, sealing Polly’s humiliation beneath black wool. She didn’t dare move, her pulse hammering in her throat as Rebecca circled them, phone angled just so.

Mark’s coffee sat abandoned, lukewarm now, as he cleared his throat. "There," he muttered, voice thick. His hand dropped away, but not before his thumb—accidentally?—stroked the hollow above her hipbone.

Rebecca’s grin was all teeth. "Much better."

Mark’s fingers flexed once—twice—before he snatched up his abandoned mug, the ceramic scraping against the laminate countertop. His knuckles whitened around the handle as he strode toward the door, shoulders rigid beneath his wrinkled button-down. The scent of stale coffee trailed behind him, mingling with the charged silence he left in his wake.

Polly didn’t exhale until the breakroom door clicked shut, her knees threatening to buckle. Rebecca’s phone screen glowed between them, casting a sickly blue sheen over Polly’s exposed collarbone as she tapped it lazily.

The screen flickered as Rebecca zoomed in, the image of Polly’s bare skin—still flushed from Mark’s lingering touch—filling the frame. Her thumb hovered over the save button, a slow smirk curling her lips. "You should thank me," she murmured, tilting the phone so Polly could see the damning evidence. "Most girls would kill for an ass this photogenic."

Polly’s pulse throbbed in her temples as she reached for the phone, but Rebecca danced back, her heel catching the edge of the counter. The sudden movement sent Polly stumbling forward, her bare thighs pressing against the laminate as Rebecca steadied herself.

Rebecca’s smirk deepened as she straightened, her fingers tightening possessively around the phone. “Thanks for the show, Polly,” she purred, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “This’ll make a lovely addition to my collection.”

Polly’s breath hitched as Rebecca pivoted on her heel, the sharp click of her shoes echoing through the breakroom. The door swung shut behind her with a soft thud, leaving Polly alone—her skirt still snug around her waist, her skin prickling where Mark’s fingers had lingered.

She stared at the empty space where Rebecca had stood, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the laminate floor.

Polly’s bare thighs stuck to the vinyl office chair as she sank into her cubicle, the hum of her computer monitor flickering to life with a muted glow. Her fingers trembled against the keyboard, the memory of Mark’s rough hands and Rebecca’s predatory smirk searing behind her eyelids. The office chatter around her blurred into white noise—muffled phone calls, the clack of distant keyboards—but her own breathing roared in her ears.