You fuck her

She keeps working your cock with her mouth for a solid ten minutes, the wet heat of her tongue swirling, the soft pop of her lips pulling off the head every few strokes, the faint scrape of her teeth when she gets greedy. You’re still riding the edge from Jane, so it takes nearly the full stretch before the pressure coils tight in your balls. When it hits, you fist her hair, **** her down until her nose presses into your pubes, and unload thick ropes straight down her throat. She gurgles, swallows hard, the muscles in her neck fluttering around you. When you finally let her up, a thin string of spit and cum bridges her lower lip to your tip. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, looks up, and smirks. “Is that all you got?”

You bark a laugh, cold and dismissive, and lean forward so your shadow swallows her. “That might’ve sealed the deal with the other fossils, sweetheart, but I’m not them. I own your ass for the next hour—and all night after dinner. Don’t forget it.” Her brows knit in confusion until you flick your gaze down. Your cock hasn’t softened a millimeter; it juts up, angry red, veins pulsing. She blinks, then wraps her manicured fingers around the shaft, gives a few slow pumps, the slick sound loud in the quiet office.

You haul her up by the hair, the blonde strands twisting between your knuckles like silk rope, and spin her over the desk. Papers scatter, a coffee mug clatters to the carpet. You kick her feet apart, the sharp click of her heels on hardwood, the rustle of denim as you yank her jeans and panties down in one motion. The air smells of her now—warm skin, faint coconut lotion, and the sharper tang of fresh arousal. You line up, the fat head of your cock nudging her slick folds, and push.

A tight barrier stops you cold. You freeze, feel the resistance, the impossible clutch of untouched muscle. “No fucking way,” you mutter, half-laughing. “You’ve been in this snake pit since you were in pigtails and never let anyone in here?” You drag the head up and down her slit, coating yourself in her wetness, then lean over her back, lips at her ear. “Holding out your cherry just to stay relevant? That’s commitment, you little whore. Lucky for you, I’m not one of those creeps who’ll use you and ghost. We’re gonna build you a career—starting right now.”

Her cunt flutters around the intrusion, a soft whimper slipping out as you notch against that thin membrane. You pull back until just the tip kisses her entrance, then drive forward—hard enough to sting, not hard enough to bruise. The barrier gives with a wet pop; she cries out, a sharp, startled sound that melts into a moan. Blood streaks your shaft, warm and coppery in the air, mixing with her slick. You bottom out, balls pressed to her clit, and hold there, letting her adjust to the stretch.

Now that you’ve blown twice, you’ve got stamina for days. You fold her over the desk, the cool mahogany biting into her tits, and pound her until her breath fogs the polished surface. Then you drag her to the couch, the leather creaking under your weight as she straddles you, riding slow at first, then frantic, her thighs trembling, the slap of skin on skin echoing. You drop to your knees, spread her open, taste the metallic tang of her virginity mixed with her sweetness, tongue flicking her clit while two fingers sink into her ass, scissoring, stretching. She comes hard, back arching, a broken sob tearing from her throat.

Back on the desk, you grip her hair like reins and rail her until the desk legs screech across the floor. She’s come four times now—each one louder, wetter, her cunt milking you in rhythmic pulses. Sweat beads between her shoulder blades, drips down the curve of her spine. You’re close, the hour almost up, and you picture flooding that tight, fertile heat, maybe putting a kid in her tonight instead. But no—you want her around longer than nine months. You yank out, spin her to the carpet, and shove her to her knees.

“Open,” you growl, fisting your cock, slick with her juices and streaks of red. She obeys, tongue out, eyes glassy. You paint her face in thick, hot ropes—across her cheeks, her lips, a pearly strand catching in her hair and dripping slow onto her collarbone. She swallows what lands in her mouth, the rest sliding down her chin in glossy trails. Your cock twitches, spent for the moment, a lazy half-mast as you admire the mess. You can’t wait to watch her walk past your assistant with your cum drying on her skin like a badge.