Arse it is

You make the choice without another word. The head of your cock presses against the tight pucker of her arsehole, the same one you have pictured while lying awake next to Natasha, the one you imagined using to wipe the smug look off Cheryl’s face. You spit into your palm, slick yourself once, then start to push.

The resistance is immediate and fierce. Cheryl’s breath catches in a sharp, high sound as the thick head forces its way past the ring of muscle. You keep steady pressure, feeding her the first inch, then another, feeling every ridge of the tight passage stretch around the 8.5 inches she is only beginning to take. Her hands scrabble on the polished table. Papers crumple under her palms. She pushes back anyway, the same ferocious energy from the kiss now channelled into accepting the invasion.

You give her more. The second and third inches slide in with a slow, relentless burn. Cheryl’s forehead drops to the table. A long, broken moan leaves her throat. You can feel her body fighting the stretch and surrendering to it at the same time. When the halfway point is reached you pause, buried deep enough that the remaining length rests heavy against the cleft of her arse, and let her feel the full weight of what is still to come.

Then you start to move.

Short, careful thrusts at first, working the tight heat open around you. Each stroke sinks a little deeper. The concrete-hard grip of her arsehole gradually yields, the passage growing slicker with spit and the slow trickle of her own arousal that has already soaked the tops of her thighs. You reach forward, fist a handful of her brunette hair, and pull her head up so she has to arch while you feed her the rest.

The final inches disappear inside her with one long, continuous push. Your hips meet the firm, yoga-toned curves of her arse. Cheryl’s cry is muffled against her own arm. You stay locked there for several heartbeats, letting her feel every thick inch that now fills her, the same cock her photo had teased and the stairwell had already used on someone else. Then you draw back until only the head remains inside and drive home again.

The pace builds. The table rocks. The wet, filthy sound of your cock working her arsehole fills the conference room. Cheryl meets every thrust, pushing back hard, the earlier anger transformed into pure physical demand. You fuck her with the full force of the day’s frustration, the jealousy accusation, the memory of her shocked face in the stairwell doorway, all of it pouring into the deep, steady rhythm that keeps her stretched and full.

One hand stays in her hair. The other grips her hip hard enough to leave marks, holding her exactly where you want her while you take the arse you have dreamt about for months. Cheryl’s voice breaks on every other stroke, half moans, half curses, the smug control she wears on the office floor completely gone. She is open, taken, and still pushing back for more, the tight ring of her arsehole clinging to every inch as you continue to fuck her without any sign of slowing down.