Third Thursday of November. Office buzzes with Beaujolais fever. Laughter echoes. I prep sandwiches at eleven. All women here. Jokes fly. Five to noon, I fix my look. Mirror shows confident cutie. Skirt hugs curves. Euphoric vibe surges. What will wine unleash?
Crowd toasts. Director praises us. Glasses clink. Hour in, chaos peaks. Shouts drown talk. I laugh at dirty jokes. Gilles eyes me with regret. Past fling. Fred’s flirt ended. David adores silently. Maybe provoke him. Noise unbearable. Élodie and I flee to our office. Bottle and snacks in tow. Door shuts. Relief.
The Mutation
I sink into chair. She perches on desk. Legs dangle. Black stockings gleam. Barbie perfection: slim, firm tits, tight ass, blonde waves, azure eyes. Does she crave women? We chat. Laugh hysterically. Wine flows. Her thighs part unaware. Panties peek. My gaze devours. Cunt moistens. Bold move: foot on desk corner. Skirt hikes. My triangle matches hers. She stares. Heat builds. Wine fuels fire.
She bolts for more booze. I stay, pulsing. Returns: party wild, boss gone, Sophie and Marc kissing. We stock up. I hit bathroom. Back: she lounges, legs crossed, smoking. Heavy gaze. Door locks. Glasses fill. ‘To your health.’ ‘To our loves.’ Eyes lock. Silence throbs. She whispers: ‘Show me again?’ Fire in cheeks. ‘You too.’ Foot up. She spreads. No panties. Bare cunts exposed. Same thought. Virgins to this. Her confession: craved me since day one. My strength, fragility. Hand on knee. Slides to bare thigh. Flesh quivers. She stands. Grabs hand. ‘Not here.’