“On my face.”

“On my face.”

The words leave Cheryl’s mouth without hesitation this time. Any remaining conflict about her husband is gone. She lifts herself off your cock, drops to her knees between your spread thighs, and looks up at you with an open, hungry expression that matches the photo she once left for you to find.

You stand, fist the thick length still slick with her, and stroke hard. Cheryl stays right there, mouth open, eyes locked on the head of your cock as the pressure builds past the point of no return. When the climax hits you aim straight for her. Thick ropes of cum stripe across her forehead, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. More lands on her parted lips and tongue. She keeps her face tilted up and takes every spurt without flinching, the same proud, filthy acceptance she showed in the Bahamas picture now happening in real time under the fluorescent lights of Conference Room B.

You keep stroking until the last pulses are spent, painting her skin in heavy streaks that drip down her chin and onto the upper curve of her bare breasts. Cheryl stays on her knees afterwards, breathing hard, face thoroughly marked, the earlier talk of babies and loyalty nowhere to be found. She reaches up with two fingers, gathers a thick strand from her cheek, and sucks it clean while she looks at you, the smug control she wears on the office floor completely replaced by raw, satisfied hunger.

The chair behind you is still warm. The table is still scattered with papers. Outside the locked door the rest of the office remains dark and empty. Cheryl makes no move to wipe her face. She simply stays there on the floor between your feet, cum cooling on her skin, waiting to see what you will do next now that she has taken exactly what she asked for.