Pleasure In Business

I had a lady boss named Lauren who treated me right - never micromanaged, always gave me space to crush my sales targets. She was five years older, a seasoned pro in our mortgage finance game, while I was still climbing. I respected her deeply. But that respect cracked the day we drove through the rush hour to seal a deal with a big broker.

“How’s Kenny and the kids?” I asked, eyes on the traffic.

“He’s still a lanky bookworm. Kids are driving me insane,” she sighed, staring out the window. Then, with a wicked little giggle: “Six-foot-six, and I still have to crane my neck to kiss him. I just wish everything were in proportion.”

I laughed. “Size isn’t everything, Lauren.”

“Maybe not for you,” she shot back, her voice dripping with filthy suggestion. The car filled with her throaty laughter, and something electric sparked between us.

She turned the heat on me next. “You can’t be getting much at home with two little ones, Greg. When’s the last time you fucked your wife properly?”

Her bluntness made my cock twitch. She was right - sex at home had dried up to once-a-month pity fucks. I was aching, frustrated, and suddenly hyper-aware of Lauren’s body: curvy size 18, heavy tits straining her black button-front dress, thick thighs sheathed in sheer black stockings.

I played gentleman and opened her car door after we parked. A gust of wind whipped her dress wide open. There they were - silky black stockings clipped to proper suspenders, shiny silver clasps biting into soft white thigh, and lacy knickers barely covering her mound. My eyes locked on the dark shadow of her bush through the lace.

“Jesus, Lauren…” I groaned, half-laughing, half-hard.

“Traumatised?” she teased, voice husky. “Complain to HR if you want. Or just admit you’re sex starved.”

The meetings dragged. All I could think about was those stocking tops and the warm flesh above them. By evening, our dinner plans with clients fell through. Just her and me at the hotel.

Over dinner she confessed she always wore suspenders. “They make me feel feminine… sexy. In this testosterone pit, I need something for myself.”

In the lift, tension crackled. “I was cruel earlier,” she murmured. “You look fucking handsome in that suit.”

Her room door clicked shut behind us and she shoved me against the wall, kissing me like a starving woman - tongues sliding, teeth nipping. “I’m still the boss,” she growled into my mouth. “You fuck me how I want. Understand?”

“Yes, boss,” I breathed, already undoing her dress buttons.

She laughed low and dirty as I filled my hands with her massive tits, lace bra barely containing them. I squeezed hard, thumbs circling stiff nipples until she moaned. Her hand dove into my trousers, gripping my throbbing cock, stroking with expert pressure.

Lauren spun, grinding her plump arse against my erection, the silk of her dress whispering over her curves. I reached around, kneading those heavy breasts while kissing her neck. She reached back, guiding my rigid shaft between her stocking-clad thigh and warm bare skin above it. The silky friction was obscene. I thrust slowly, groaning at the tight, smooth tunnel she made for me.

“You like my stockings, don’t you, you dirty boy?” she purred.

“Fuck yes.” I dropped to my knees, shoved her dress up, and buried my face between her thighs. I licked her soaked lace, tasting her musky arousal, then yanked the knickers aside. My tongue attacked her swollen clit - fast, relentless circles and flicks. She gripped my hair, riding my mouth, moaning filth: “Suck my clit, you bastard… harder!”

Her thighs shook as she came, flooding my tongue with hot, sweet juice. “Two years since I’ve been licked like that,” she gasped.

We stripped. She wrapped her drenched knickers around my cock and wanked me with them before tossing them aside. Then she straddled me, rubbing her dripping pussy lips up and down my shaft before sinking down inch by inch. “Mmm… that’s what I needed,” she sighed as her tight, neglected cunt swallowed every thick inch.

She rode me steadily, big tits bouncing, nipples hard as pebbles. I sucked them greedily while gripping her juicy arse, thrusting up to meet her. Her pussy clenched like a velvet fist. When I got close, she lifted off. “Not yet. I want another.”

On her back, legs spread wide, she guided me back inside her soaked heat. I fucked her hard - deep, pounding strokes that made her tits jiggle and her voice crack. “Harder, Greg! Fuck me ragged, you horny bastard!”

Sweat-slick, I hammered her, watching her rub her clit furiously. Her second orgasm hit like a storm - body arching, cunt spasming around my cock, loud moans filling the room.

She pushed me back and wanked my glistening cock furiously. “Cum for me. All over me.”

I erupted with a roar, thick ropes of hot cum splattering her belly and heaving tits. She milked every drop, eyes locked on mine.

Then the switch flipped. “Get dressed. Go back to your room,” she ordered coldly.

I dressed in silence, stung. At the door she snapped, “This never happens again.”

Next morning we were pure professionals. But as I drove home, her text came through: Sorry about last night. You didn’t deserve that. Have a good week.

I never replied. The memory of her dripping cunt, those stockings, and her commanding moans stayed burned into me. All men are bastards. But fuck, sometimes it feels so good.