Not yet

Brittney’s tongue is numb, her jaw aching, the taste of Nicole’s arousal thick and salty on her lips. She’s crouched under the desk, knees grinding into the carpet, the lobby’s AC blowing cold across her bare back where her top’s ridden up. Every muscle screams for this to end, for the chance to bolt to her car, scrub her face, and prep for tonight. The cum in her hair has dried into stiff, itchy strands that tug when she moves.

The lobby door swings open with a soft whoosh. Brittney freezes, breath catching. A sharp slap cracks across her cheek (Nicole’s palm, quick and stinging).

“Don’t you fucking stop, stupid cunt,” Nicole hisses, voice low but venomous. Brittney’s eyes water, but she dives back in, tongue lapping frantically at the slick, swollen folds, Nicole’s juices smearing across her chin, mixing with the crusty remnants of your load.

She strains to hear the conversation above, Nicole’s thighs clamping tighter around her ears. A new voice (smooth, confident, laced with authority) cuts through the hum of the office.

“Yes, Angela, pleasure to meet you,” Nicole says, her tone polished, professional, as if Brittney’s not **** on her clit below. “Ricky’s well aware of your position. I was just about to email you. He’s locked in the lead for that new show. Taking her to dinner tonight at The Britely, then bringing her to meet the exec team.”

Angela laughs, warm but sharp. “Thank God. I was about to chase him down. He’s been dragging his feet, hunting for the perfect girl.”

Brittney’s mind races. Angela. Disney exec? Is she in on Ricky’s games? The casual way Nicole’s talking, the lack of surprise, suggests yes. Probably some power-hungry dyke who gets off on watching girls like her get railed or doing the railing herself.

Nicole’s voice again: “She’s the one. Here, take a look.” A drawer slides open with a soft scrape. Brittney catches a flash of her own headshot as Nicole pulls the file, but it’s gone too fast to spot any notes (no clue if you scribbled “virgin” or “eager slut” in the margins). The folder rustles, pages flipping, while Nicole’s hips grind subtly, forcing Brittney’s tongue deeper.

The women chat (schedules, budget meetings, some producer’s ego), like Brittney’s just a piece of furniture. Her face is drenched now, Nicole’s wetness dripping down her neck, soaking her collar. The lobby smells of sex and toner. Brittney’s world narrows to the pulse of Nicole’s clit, the wet schlick of her own tongue, the burn in her knees.

The drawer slides shut. Nicole shoves Brittney’s head harder into her cunt, muffling everything. The lobby door opens and closes again (Angela’s gone). The air shifts, heavy with intent.

Nicole’s chair rolls back with a creak. A drawer rattles, and Brittney’s eyes widen at the sight: a massive black strap-on, ten inches of veined silicone, glinting under the fluorescents. Nicole grabs Brittney by the hair, yanking her up and slamming her chest-first onto the desk. Papers scatter; a stapler clatters to the floor. The wood’s cold against Brittney’s nipples as Nicole rips her jeans and panties down, the denim scraping her thighs raw.

Nicole leans in, breath hot against Brittney’s ear, the strap-on’s weight pressing against her ass. “Other than Ricky, you ever taken a ten-inch cock?”

Brittney’s heart hammers, but before she can answer, Nicole cackles, low and cruel. “Don’t bother. I’m not as gentle as he is. This’ll hurt. And if I hear one word out of that pretty mouth, it’ll hurt worse.”

The silicone head nudges Brittney’s entrance, slick with Nicole’s juices and her own lingering wetness. Brittney bites her lip, tasting blood, as Nicole lines up, ready to drive in.