The remnants of our exquisite four-course dinner sit pushed aside on the white linen. The ballroom around us is a loud hum of corporate chatter and clinking crystal. I nod at my colleague, pretending to listen to his endless marketing pitch while my entire focus is anchored below the table. My black evening gown falls open at the high slit, giving your hand absolute, unimpeded access to my bare thigh. You look devastating beside me, an apex predator poured into a stark black suit, casually holding court with our firm's top investor.
Every time you lean in to laugh at the investor's joke, a heady wave of your signature scent envelops me—crushed cedarwood, expensive rye whiskey, and a dark, primal musk. Your large palm is a burning weight on my skin, sliding higher inch by agonizing inch. I reach down under the guise of dropping my napkin, my fingers wrapping tightly around your thick wrist to stop you. You don’t even flinch. You just take a slow sip of your whiskey, effortlessly discussing quarterly projections while your fingers push higher, slipping under the delicate silk of my panties.
"So, the new campaign..." my colleague says, and I force a strained smile, my nails digging into my own palm. "It's very promising," I manage to choke out, just as your thick middle finger parts my slick folds. I am already so fucking wet for you, my core weeping hot slick onto your knuckles. You know exactly what you're doing, mapping my anatomy with devastating precision while debating market trends without missing a single beat. Your thumb finds my swollen clit, pressing and circling with a ruthless, agonizingly slow rhythm. I squeeze my thighs together, but you simply add a second finger, sliding deep into my dripping core.
"Are you alright? You look flushed," my colleague asks, frowning slightly.
"Just warm," I gasp softly, my eyes briefly meeting your dark, sadistic gaze across the table. You smirk, curling your fingers inside me to hit my G-spot with a sharp, upward pressure. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, muffling a whimper as a violent orgasm crashes over me right there in the crowded ballroom. My inner walls clench and throb around your thick digits, milking you as I soak your hand completely.
You feel every single spasm, your eyes darkening with pure, possessive triumph as you slowly withdraw your dripping fingers. Wiping your hand discreetly on your dark cloth napkin, you finally stand, your hand moving to rest at the small of my back. "Excuse us, gentlemen, but I believe my gorgeous date needs a moment of fresh air," you tell the table, your gravelly voice a smooth, polite lie. Your grip on my waist is an iron vice, steering me away from the bright lights and into the dimly lit corridor. Once we pass the crowded coat check, the polite facade vanishes entirely.
You shove me inside the large handicap stall of the women's washroom and kick the door shut, the lock sliding into place with a sharp snap. Backing me against the cold tile wall, your mouth crashes down on mine in a bruising, feral kiss. We are absolutely starving for each other, colliding like two forces of nature. You want to consume me like a starving man at a feast, but even in your feral haze, you freeze just a fraction of an inch before ruining the intricate, pinned curls of my updo. Instead, your large hands lock firmly around my throat and jaw, tilting my head back to bare my neck to your open, biting mouth.
You hike my black dress up to my waist with greedy hands, tearing my soaked panties as you rip them down one leg. I hear the harsh zip of your trousers, and then your thick, heavy cock springs free, hot and rigid against my stomach. You don't just lift my leg; your massive hands grip my waist and you hoist me entirely off the cold tile floor. I instinctively wrap both of my legs tightly around your waist, crossing my ankles behind your lower back to anchor myself to you. I am dripping, a heavy, soaking wet mess for you, the slick sliding down my inner thighs. We surrender to this unconditionally—this depraved, obsessive need that tethers us together in the dark.
With my core completely exposed and perfectly aligned, you drive your blunt tip against my soaking entrance just as the main washroom door creaks open. The sharp clacking of stilettos echoes against the tiles, accompanied by the loud, gossiping voices of two women from my department. I freeze, but a wicked, sadistic gleam flashes in your dark eyes as your large hand clamps firmly over my mouth.
"Shh," you breathe directly into my ear. "Don‘t let them hear what a filthy little slut you are, baby."
With my scream muffled against your palm, you push into me, sinking your thick length into my desperately wet canal until you are buried to the absolute hilt. Suspended in the air, I am entirely at your mercy. You establish a relentless, punishing rhythm, using my own slick wetness to glide in and out of me flawlessly. You preserve my perfect appearance up top while utterly destroying me below the waist. The women outside run the tap, completely oblivious to the violent way you're taking me apart just feet away.
"Mine," you rasp, your thumb finding my clit and pressing down hard while you hammer into my G-spot. The sheer friction and the overpowering fullness of you push me over the absolute edge. My inner walls clench and spasm violently. I bite down hard into the fleshy part of the hand covering my mouth, my teeth sinking in to muffle my own scream as a second, explosive climax shatters me. I gush around you, uncontrollably squirting hot slick all over your thick shaft and the front of your dark trousers. You groan gutturally into my neck, the feeling of me milking you and squirting on your cock snapping the last of your control. You drive deep one last time, flooding my womb with your hot, pulsing release. We stay there, my legs trembling around your waist, chest heaving against chest as the washroom door finally swings shut.
Slowly, the feral hunger in your dark eyes recedes, replaced instantly by that terrifying, calculated calm I know so well. You set my feet back on the floor, your thick length slipping out of me with a wet, obscene sound that echoes in the quiet stall. You zip your trousers with a sharp, metallic snick, immediately adjusting your cuffs and straightening your tie as if you hadn't just fucked me senseless.
Pulling a pristine white handkerchief from your inner pocket, you kneel just enough to wipe the slick evidence of our depravity from my inner thighs. Your touch is maddeningly gentle now, a dangerous contrast to the violence from moments ago. You toss the ruined lace of my panties into the sanitary bin, then pull the black silk of my gown down, meticulously smoothing the fabric over my hips until it falls perfectly in place.
Standing tall, your large hands come up to cup my jaw. Your thumb lightly traces my lower lip, wiping away a faint smudge of lipstick before you inspect my face and my untouched hair.
"Perfect," you murmur, your voice smooth as velvet. "No one will ever know."
You unlock the stall and lead me out into the corridor, your hand resting possessively, heavily at the small of my back. The cool air hits my flushed skin as we walk back into the blinding lights of the ballroom. We weave through the crowd, the picture of absolute elegance, until we reach our table.
You pull my chair out for me first, the perfect gentleman, before taking your own seat. Adjusting your jacket, you casually pick up your whiskey glass. You turn to the investor, offering him that devastating, charismatic smile that charms boardrooms and ruins lives.
"So," you say smoothly, your tone completely unfazed. "As I was saying regarding the investment..."
I have to look down at my lap, biting my lower lip to suppress the wicked, entirely unhinged smile spreading across my face.
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