Switch it up

You keep the hard pace going until Cheryl’s arms finally give out and her chest drops fully onto the table. She is moaning without restraint now, the earlier conflict in her voice dissolving under the force of every thrust. When you slow just enough to let her catch her breath she pushes back against you and starts talking, the words tumbling out between gasps.

“My husband… he is a good man. He wants a baby. We have been trying. I should not be doing this. I should not be letting you stretch me like this when I am supposed to be saving it for him.”

The sentences come out undecided, half conviction and half surrender, as if she is arguing with herself while her cunt keeps gripping your cock and her hips keep moving to meet you. You pull out of her with a wet sound, spin her around, and drop into the nearest conference chair. Cheryl understands immediately. She straddles you, knees braced on either side of the seat, and sinks down onto the thick length in one long, continuous slide that leaves her fully seated and trembling.

The new angle lets her take you even deeper. She starts to ride, rising and falling with growing confidence, the yoga-strong muscles of her thighs flexing as she works herself on your cock. Her blouse hangs open. Her skirt is still bunched around her waist. Every downward stroke forces a fresh moan out of her, and the undecided talk about her husband continues in broken fragments.

“He would be so hurt if he knew. We have been trying for months. I am supposed to be the one who waits. I am supposed to want only him inside me when it matters. But you feel… fuck… you feel so much bigger. So much more. I cannot stop.”

She rides you harder, hands braced on your shoulders, head tipped back, the conflict in her voice growing weaker with every wet slap of her body against yours. You grip her hips and help her, thrusting up to meet every descent, the chair creaking under the combined force. Cheryl’s words turn into pure sensation, the mentions of her husband growing shorter and less certain until they are little more than gasps of lingering guilt mixed with open pleasure.

You let her set the rhythm for long minutes, watching the way her toned body takes the full thick length, the way her expression keeps flickering between residual loyalty and raw need. When the pressure at the base of your spine becomes impossible to ignore you lock your hands on her waist, still her movements, and look her dead in the eye.

“Where do you want me to cum?”

The question hangs between you while she is still impaled, still breathing hard, still undecided, the choice left entirely in her hands as the empty conference room stays silent around the two of you.