Won't Even Know I'm Down There!

Kenzie Taylor’s slumped at her desk, trying to look normal when her assistant Kristen Scott pops in. Kenzie’s face says it all—feet burning like she just ran a marathon in stilettos. Kristen clocks the discomfort, offers a foot rub, and after one beat of “you serious?” Kenzie caves. Down goes Kristen, palms already on Kenzie’s arches, when footsteps echo down the hall. Kristen grins like a kid sneaking cookies, slides under the table, and swears the meeting will be none the wiser. Upstairs, her coworkers file in, clueless. Underneath, Kristen’s playful streak kicks in—thumbs sliding past knees, disappearing beneath the hem. Fingers turn into tongue, and suddenly she’s giving Kenzie’s clit the office welcome. Kenzie’s smile twitches; her thighs tense like she’s praying to the holy tablecloth. She swallows every moan while the suits debate quarterly numbers. Every time someone cracks a joke, her cheeks go hotter. Endless meeting. Empty bladders and horny coworker under the desk making sure she stays on edge. Door finally clicks shut. Silence. Kenzie tries the stern-boss routine, threatens pink slips, but Kristen’s wearing that “busted you” grin. "You came, lady. Or you were about to." She tugs Kenzie onto the tabletop; blouses hit the floor. Fingers slide, tongues follow, furniture shudders as they trade the top spot—Kenzie bent, then Kristen, legs splayed like office memos across the lacquered surface. Tongues meet where thighs cross in a messy sixty-nine, the room smelling more like sex than printer toner. When the last shiver fades, Kenzie’s foot-rub policy looks a lot more flexible—and Kristen’s résumé just gained a very compelling footnote.