Work Load

Capri Lmonde's stuck taking a work call on a Saturday, and somebody's obviously in the doghouse. You drop to your knees under her desk and go to town on those tired feet, thumbs digging in, mouth working the arches. She keeps her voice level for the boss, but her toes start curling like they have other plans. Her skirt hikes up. Fingers slip under the lace, find herself slick, and she starts rubbing small circles while you push your cock between her feet. Heat and friction. Nails clicking against the wood whenever a quiet moan threatens to escape her lips. Call barely clicks off before she drops out of the chair and crawls between your knees. She tastes herself on you when she licks the tip, swallows the length, wet noise and quick breaths and the urgent bob of her head like she's on overtime now. Soon she's climbing up, shoving panties aside, sinking down reverse so you can watch everything bounce while she rides. Switches directions; cowgirl, hips grinding front-to-front, eyes locked, smirk saying the meeting can wait. Table next. She braces palms on glass and sticks her ass out, greedy, and you take her doggy, chair rolling away. Flip her on her back, knees up by her ears, missionary at this point just an excuse to watch her tits shake while she begs you to go harder. You pull out and she reaches down, rubs your cock along her clit until ropes of cum streak her fingers and belly. Doesn't miss a beat; sucks them clean, still wriggling like she could use seconds right now.