Office Overtime

Valentina Nappi swings by Alex D's desk like she owns the place—and right now, maybe she does. "On your knees," she says, already popping the buttons on her blouse. Lace lingerie, black stockings, those sky-high heels clicking against the tile like they're cheering her on. Alex drops. She kicks one heel up on the desk, wiggles her toes in their silky cage, and waits. He presses his lips to each painted nail, warm breath fogging the nylon. A tiny smirk tugs at her mouth; this is Tuesday for her. Before long the skirt's around her waist and her back's flat on the blotter. Stockings down, heels still on, she opens for him. He slides in deep, desk legs scratching tile with every thrust. She curls a foot up, rubs the sole along his shaft on the outstroke—cool silk, hot skin, balance like she practices this. His breathing gets ragged, hips stuttering. Valentina laughs, low, then pushes him back. "Finish on the feet." He wraps a fist around himself, pumps twice, and paints her toes in thick white streaks. She flexes, spreads the mess with slow, deliberate curls. Somewhere down the hall a vacuum starts. Hope the janitor clocks in late.