Coffee For Boss

Simon Kitty pushes through another brutal meeting, jaw tight. Jimmy Bud hovers near the coffee machine and pipes up: "Boss, you need fingers, not caffeine." She pauses mid-pour, half-laughing, half-glaring, because that little shit isn’t wrong. Her shoulders scream and the quarterly crunch hasn’t let up. So when she finally shuts the door behind her and kicks her heels under the desk, she tips her chin at him: "Prove it, or I’ll order decaf on principle." Jimmy’s eyes light up like it’s his birthday. He rounds the chair, warm palms slipping beneath her blouse. His knuckles dig under her shoulder blades in slow, expert circles while she grips the armrests. Fabric rustles; buttons give. Simon arches, sighs, shifts. Soon her open blouse drapes over her elbows and his thumbs trace the top swell of her breasts before sliding the cups aside. Her nipples stiffen the instant the cool office air kisses them. He palms each one, rolling the peaks between slick, circling thumbs until her thighs press together. Downward he kneads her ribs, the curve of her waist, the angle of her hips. Her skirt rides up on command. Jimmy hooks two fingers under the gusset of her panties and drags it aside, exposing her already slick folds. He kneels. Tongue flat, he licks a lazy stripe from entrance to clit, sucking the tender nub once, twice, before pushing two fingers knuckle-deep. Simon's head tips back, lips parted, tiny whimpers turning to full-throated groans as his knuckles rock against her. One flick of his tongue, two strokes of his fingers, and she pulses around him, coming with a shaky laugh that lands somewhere between "God, yes" and "you little menace." He grins into her thigh, face shiny, and when she catches her breath she tugs his hair. "My turn next time, employee of the month."