Belt-bound office tease before the pitch

The friction hit first, a raw drag along the underside of my cock, the head throbbing against stiff cotton with nowhere to go.

Then the rest of it registered in order: her belt, only half-unbuckled, cinched low across her hips like she’d forgotten to finish removing it, the leather edge biting into the base of me while my own locked trousers rubbed the swollen head raw with every short thrust.

Brianna’s skirt was bunched high on her waist, the dark fabric twisted and pinned between our bodies as I held her flat on the conference table, her thighs spread wide under the overhead lights.

I wanted to see if she’d break the eye line first. She didn’t. That was worth noting.

The wet sound of her breathing filled the room, sharp and uneven, her mouth open and empty exactly as I had ordered.

“Keep that mouth ready,” I said, voice low and even while I ground harder, the belt buckle scraping visible red lines across her hip. “Don’t close it. Show me how desperate it looks.”

Her lips stayed parted, saliva glistening at the corner, eyes fixed on the ceiling while her hands gripped the table edge, knuckles gone bloodless. Good. Let them stay that color. The half-unbuckled belt created a vise that forced every movement into short, brutal slides, fabric stretching and pulling tight with each roll of my hips.

Her eyes cut sideways, once, toward the blazer draped over the chair, toward the folder sticking half out of the pocket, the one with tomorrow’s pitch deck inside it. Then back to the ceiling. I filed that away too.

I watched the muscle in her jaw jump, clenching and releasing under the skin, the pale flesh of her thigh flushing darker where the leather bit in. The sound of my belt buckle catching against the metal of hers repeated with every thrust, a steady click mixed with the wet drag of cotton against skin.

“Tomorrow you stand in that pitch meeting and everyone will see it on your face,” I told her, pushing down harder so the belt pressed deeper. “They’ll know exactly what that mouth did to earn it. Open wider. Let me see the tongue.”

Brianna’s tongue stayed flat and visible, the tip trembling as her breathing hitched. I kept my suit jacket on, the sleeves brushing her bare arms while I used one hand to pin her wrist above her head. The other stayed at her hip, adjusting the skirt higher so the visual of her exposed thighs stayed clear under the lights.

Her belt held everything locked against me — no slack, no give, just the constant rub and scrape that made the head swell darker inside my trousers, the fabric straining at the seam where my thigh pressed hers apart.

“Look at how you’re shaking already,” I said. “You haven’t even been touched and you’re dripping on the table. That client tomorrow will watch you cross your legs and know why. They’ll smell it on you.”

Instead of pulling back, she planted her heel wider against the table edge, opening herself further under me. She hadn’t been told to do that. I noted it, filed it next to the eye line and the glance at the folder — she was building the case for tomorrow right now, feeding it, not just surviving it.

The bunched skirt rode up another inch with each of my short thrusts. Her half-unbuckled belt shifted, the metal tongue catching on her skin and leaving another faint line lower than the last. I kept the motion slow and deliberate, watching the fabric at my own crotch darken where I strained against it, the wet spot spreading visibly with every grind.

“Suck air through your teeth like you’re tasting it,” I commanded. “Make the sound. Let me hear how empty that mouth feels.”

The sharp inhale she made was wet and hollow. I watched her throat work, the tendons standing out along one side, the way her lips stayed stretched around nothing while her belt forced my cock to stay pressed and straining in one fixed line.

Her free hand, the one not pinned, uncurled from the table edge and reached — not to push me off, not to stop anything, but toward her own hip, like she meant to hold the skirt higher herself. She caught herself halfway and let it drop back to the table. I clocked the aborted motion and said nothing, let her feel me watching her decide that for herself.

The climax hit under that brutal restriction, her belt cutting deep, my trousers locked tight, every pulse forced out in thick, visible jerks against the fabric. The wet heat spread inside my clothes, soaking through in a dark patch that pressed hot against her bare stomach where the skirt had left her uncovered. I stayed locked there for three long beats, hips pinned, watching the mess form exactly where the belt held everything trapped.

Then I straightened, stepping back from the table, and smoothed the suit jacket flat, checking the line of my own untouched trousers with one hand before letting the fabric fall.

Brianna didn’t move. She stayed exactly where I’d left her, skirt still twisted high, thighs parted and glistening, mouth open and untouched, the red lines from the leather standing out clear under the lights. Her hand twitched once toward the hem of her skirt, then stopped an inch short, hovering, like she wasn’t sure if permission to cover herself was hers to take.

“Leave it,” I said, not looking back at first, then turning enough to watch her hand freeze mid-air and lower without touching the fabric at all. “I like it better exactly like that.”

“The pitch starts at nine,” I said, already moving toward the door. “Make sure that mouth still looks that empty when they ask you to present.”