She sits at her desk like any other day—blonde hair pulled back, glasses perched on her nose—but this isn’t a normal office. The door creaks open just enough for you to see: she’s bent over the armrest of his couch, skirt hiked up so high it might as well be off. His fingers are buried deep inside her already when he stands behind her, pants unzipped in seconds. No foreplay. Just raw need. Her tits bounce with every thrust as he grabs handfuls of flesh through the thin fabric of that ‘professional’ blouse. When she turns around mid-position—mouth half-open like she forgot how to breathe—the way she looks at him says you’re not supposed to be here.
