Her Commission

Spencer sits at the edge of his desk with a folder in her lap that never opens. Her skirt rides high. She talks slow about the guy from last weekend, how he licked her open then slipped in her ass, and Mick’s fingers drum against his thigh like they have somewhere else to go. She notices. She slides off the wood, steps between his knees, and asks if he’s done pretending to listen. Her mouth finds the front of his slacks first, wet heat through cotton, then the zipper comes down and she sinks lower. Tongue works heavy over his balls, pulls one in, lets it slip free again. She keeps her eyes up while she does it. When he pulls her upright, she turns and bends, palms flat on the desk. He takes his time—fingers first, slow circles, then thicker pressure. She breathes through it, pushes back, takes every inch until her ring hugs the base. He fucks her steady, deep, until the room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin. When he pulls out, she drops to her knees without being told, lips sliding straight from ass to cock, tasting what she just gave him. She sucks him clean in long, unhurried pulls until he spills across her tongue and down her chin. She swallows, sits back on her heels, and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist like it was nothing more than lunch.