He Leads Her While the Client Paces

Sebastian’s hand was already up Johanna’s skirt when the client’s shoes scraped the tile just outside the locked service alcove, and she bit his shoulder hard enough to taste salt and wool so she wouldn’t make a sound. His fingers shoved past her panties and sank into her cunt, two thick knuckles deep, and she was soaked, hot, and furious, gripping his wrist while her hips jerked onto his fingers anyway, fucking herself on them in short, stupid little lurches she couldn’t stop. The door handle rattled once. Neither of them moved away.

Johanna hated him. She hated the smirk he was still wearing, right now, in the dark, with his hand buried in her, like he’d already won this too. She hated that her clit was throbbing against the heel of his palm while some executive paced three feet from the lock, hated that she was so wet his fingers made a sound going in. He curled them and dragged them out slow, the slick pull obscene in the tight dark, then drove them back in to the knuckle. Her breath broke against his neck. She wanted to knee him. She ground down on his hand instead, harder, her thighs clamping his wrist, her cunt pulling at his fingers like it wanted the rest of him.

He was hard enough that it hurt, cock straining against his trousers, the head already leaking a wet patch through his boxers. Her cunt sucked at his fingers, slick and greedy, and every time she clenched he felt it all the way up his forearm, a hot, rippling grip that made his balls ache. Outside, the client muttered into a phone. Sebastian pulled his fingers free, shiny to the second knuckle, strings of her slick stretching between them, and smeared that wet over the front of her panties before he yanked the crotch aside. Then he took half a step back, just enough to put a hand’s width of dark between their bodies, and got his cock out. The zipper was loud. He didn’t care. He wanted her to look at it.

She looked. Thick, flushed dark at the head, the slit wet and shining, a drop of pre-come already sliding down the underside. Johanna’s mouth went dry. She wanted his cock. There was no cleaner way to put it and no point trying: she wanted that fat, ugly, beautiful thing shoved into her until she couldn’t think about bids or numbers or his goddamn face. She wanted to make him lose it. She grabbed his lapels and hauled.

They slammed back together standing, and there was nothing to hold them up but each other. No wall at her back. No shelf, no counter, nothing but his hands dragging her left thigh up over his hip and his cock shoving between her legs. The head caught her lips and slid, not in, just along the soaked split of her, bumping her clit on the way up, and she hissed through her teeth. Her right leg took all of it, her whole weight on one heel, calf burning, the muscle in her thigh already jumping. He did it again, harder, the fat shaft grinding her open without pushing inside, wet skin dragging on wet skin, her juices coating him from root to tip, and the force of it rocked her back on that one heel so far she felt the sway in her stomach. The door was right there. One lean too far and she’d go into it, and it would bang, and the client would hear everything.

Sebastian felt her tip and caught her, one arm locked around her waist, the other hand digging into the back of her raised thigh, and the only thing stopping both of them from going over was the brace of his own legs spread wide and the counterweight of her body hauled into his. It wasn’t stable. Every thrust along her cunt shifted the balance, his hips driving forward, her weight rocking back, the two of them swaying a few inches toward the door and then clawing back. He could feel her standing leg shaking against the inside of his thigh. He could feel her slick running down his shaft and dripping off his balls. He ground up into her anyway, the underside of his cock mashing her clit, and she clamped her fingers in his hair and dragged his head down and bit his jaw.

Johanna rocked, chasing the drag of his cockhead over her clit, and the sound was a soft, sticky slap every time their bodies met. His breath came rough against her ear, hot and uneven, no words. She reached down between them and wrapped her fist around him, stroking the slick length against herself, aiming the head at her clit and working him over it. Pre-come and her own wet made his cock glide through her fingers, obscene, slippery, the shaft so hard the skin barely moved over it. She squeezed. He thrust into her grip and into the mess between her thighs and the standing grind turned mean, hips snapping, her skirt bunched at her waist, his trousers open and sagging down his hips, both of them panting, swaying, her heel skidding half an inch on the tile every time he drove forward. Her standing thigh was screaming. She didn’t stop.

Then her knee went. He felt the lurch before she did, her whole weight dropping out of his arm, her raised leg sliding off his hip, and he didn’t think. Both hands went under her ass and caught her mid-fall, fingers sinking into the meat of her, and he went down with her, knees folding, because the alternative was her back slamming the door. His cock slid out of position as they sank, dragging sideways across her thigh, slapping wet against the front of his shirt. Their knees hit the tile together, hard, a double jolt that he felt in his teeth, and for a second they were just a tangle, her skirt around her waist, his trousers dropped to mid-thigh, his shirt tails pulled loose and hanging, his cock bobbing stupidly between them. Sebastian got a hand on himself and shoved it back where it belonged, pressed flat up against her cunt, her lips spread hot and wet along the underside of his shaft, and the grind picked up again like it had never stopped.

The tile was cold under Johanna’s shins and she didn’t care. She was straddling his thighs as much as the cramped floor allowed, face to face, his cock trapped between them, the shaft wedged against her cunt and the head smearing a wet streak up the front of her blouse, and she rode it. Every roll of her hips dragged her clit over the thick vein running up the underside, and the wet noise got louder, squelch, slap, the ragged pull of breath. She was dripping. She could feel it, a hot thread of her own slick sliding down over his balls. The smell of her cunt filled the alcove, sharp and sweet under the stale cleaner, and she wanted to shove his face in it. She wanted his cock in her. She wanted him to beg for it, but she wanted it more than she wanted that.

Sebastian’s hands clamped her ass and hauled her tighter, making her ride the full length of him without taking him inside yet, the head of his cock poking up past the hem of her bunched skirt, smeared and shining with her. Her ass was soft and full in his grip and he dug his fingers in and spread her, feeling the wet heat of her open against him. Then he rocked back, dropping his weight onto his heels so his thighs made a lap for her, and the shift tilted his cock up hard against her, the head nudging her hole. Outside, the client’s voice rose, then faded as the pacing carried him a few steps down the hall. She used the second. She lifted on her knees, reached down, lined him up, and sank.

The stretch punched a broken sound out of her throat. He was big, and she was swollen and wet enough that he still had to push, the head forcing her hole open, then the thick shaft following in one relentless slide until her ass met his thighs and he was buried to the root. Her cunt was full. Stuffed, packed, no room left, the pressure of him shoving up against the front wall of her where it made her clit throb in time with her pulse. She stayed there a second, trembling, forehead against his, shaking on her knees, her walls fluttering around him in tight, helpless pulses she couldn’t control.

Sebastian’s jaw locked. His breath stopped. Her cunt gripped him scalding and tight, clenching and letting go in little rippling squeezes that ran the whole length of his cock, and his balls pulled up so hard he had to go still or come right there. He dug his nails into her ass and held her down on him, not moving, not breathing, until the surge backed off. Then he let the air out through his teeth. She was looking at him. Mean, flushed, mouth open. He wanted her under him. He wanted to watch her face when she lost.

Then she moved. Short, vicious rocks, lifting just enough that his cock dragged her inner walls and dropping back down so her clit smashed against his pubic bone. Skin struck skin. The slap of her ass on his thighs was muffled and still too loud, wet with the mess leaking out around his cock. He met her, thrusting up off his heels, and the angle drove him deep, the head punching the spot behind her clit, and her nails dug into his shoulders through the wool of his jacket. Panting. The slick, rhythmic sound of her cunt taking him. A low, helpless noise from her chest she couldn’t kill, and she bit it off into his collar and kept fucking him.

Sebastian needed more. The tile was killing his knees and the angle was wrong, he couldn’t get the drive he wanted, couldn’t get her flat. Bench. Back wall. Pad. Three steps. He got a hand down and yanked his trousers up over his ass, open, hanging off his hips, just enough to free his knees, then got an arm under her ass and the other around her back and rose, still buried in her, and she clung, legs locking around his hips, her full weight dropping onto his forearms and onto his cock. The first step shifted him inside her, a slow sliding drag against her front wall, and she clenched so hard to keep him in that he almost stumbled. Second step, her ass bounced in his grip, his cock jostled deeper, and a wet, sucking sound came from where they were joined. Third step, the edge of the bench bumped the back of her thighs and the knuckles of the hand cupping her ass, and he stopped there, leaned her down and forward over the pad, and let her go.

Johanna felt the pad touch her shoulder blades first, then her ass, and then it gave. Thin padding over a frame, but it sank under her, swallowed her, and the sink pulled her body down and away from him just enough that his cock dragged halfway out before her weight settled and he followed, getting one knee up onto the pad between her spread thighs, then the other, and shoving back in to the hilt with a grunt he muffled in her hair. The frame knocked against the wall. Once. They both froze, him kneeling on the bench, buried, her legs locked around his waist, listening past the door. Footsteps. Not close. He started moving.

The pad gave under every thrust. That was the thing about it, the thing that made Johanna’s jaw go slack: he drove in and her whole body sank into the cushion, ass pressed down into the give, and then the pad pushed her back up onto his cock on the withdrawal, like the bench was fucking her onto him from underneath. Heavier. Deeper. He pulled almost out, the ridge of his cockhead catching at her hole, and slammed back in, and she sank, and the frame knocked, and the pad thudded under her ass, dull and muffled, a sound that could maybe pass for nothing if the client wasn’t listening for it. He was pacing again. She could hear the shoes. Every slap of skin landed somewhere between those footsteps and she counted them with her cunt.

Sebastian got a hand in the front of her blouse and yanked. Buttons went. Two, three, skittering somewhere under the bench, and her tits spilled out of the cups when he shoved the bra up, pale, heavy, nipples hard and dark, bouncing with every thrust. He grabbed his own shirtfront and ripped it open the same way, buttons popping down the placket, and shoved the halves aside under his open jacket before he came down on her, and the first slide of bare sweat-slick skin on skin, his belly on hers, her tits flattening under his chest, was almost worse than her cunt. She was burning. Her stomach was wet with sweat and so was his and they slid against each other with every stroke, sticky, hot, her nipples dragging through the hair on his chest. He fucked her harder for it. The frame knocked. Her cunt made a greedy, wet suck every time he withdrew, and when he bottomed out the impact jolted a gasp out of her that she bit down into her own lip until it bled.

He braced over her on one forearm, knees dug into the pad, sweat running down his back under the jacket he hadn’t shed, the ruined shirt hanging open off his ribs, and watched her face while he fucked her. Flushed, mouth open, eyes half-shut and mean with it. She hated how good it was. He could see it, the fury and the pleasure fighting on her face and the pleasure winning, and it made his cock throb so hard inside her he felt his own pulse in the tight, soaked clutch of her. Her walls fluttered. His balls drew up. The client’s footsteps came back, closer, paused right outside the door. They stopped dead, him buried to the root, her thighs clamped around his waist, both of them dragging air through their noses with their mouths shut, chests heaving against each other, her cunt squeezing him involuntarily every few seconds and making it worse. A phone buzzed outside. The steps moved off again.

Johanna grabbed his hair and yanked his mouth to hers, not a kiss, teeth and breath and spit, and he started fucking her harder, the bench creaking, the frame knocking the wall on a steady beat, skin slapping skin in a brutal rhythm that she couldn’t stop and didn’t want to. Wet. So wet she could hear it over their panting, the obscene slide of his cock in and out of her cunt, her juices smeared all over his shaft and his balls and dripping off onto the pad under her ass, soaking through. Her hips lifted to meet every thrust. Her clit was swollen fat and catching on him with each stroke, her thighs locking tighter and tighter around his waist, her walls starting to clamp down in a rhythm she couldn’t control. She was going to come. She was going to come under him, on his cock, and he was going to see it.

Sebastian caught both her wrists. She fought it for a second, pride, twisting, and then he dragged them up and pinned them flat above her head on the cushion, one of his hands spanning both, pressing them down into the pad so she couldn’t touch herself or him or anything. Exposed. Helpless. Her back arched off the bench, tits lifting, and the position opened her cunt even further, and the next thrust went so deep her whole body jolted up the pad and a raw sound tore out of her before she could stop it.

“Quiet,” he rasped, barely a word, more breath than voice, and kept her wrists nailed to the pad while he fucked her through it.

Johanna couldn’t move her arms. The pin pulled her shoulders up and back, stretched the muscles in her forearms tight against the cushion, his fingers grinding the small bones of her wrists together every time he thrust, and the strain in her shoulders ran straight down into her cunt and made it worse. She was spread, stuffed, held down, and she could feel everything. His cock pounding the spot behind her clit. His pubic bone grinding her clit flat on every downstroke. The pad sinking under her ass. Her thighs started to shake, then lock, clamping around his waist so hard her hips lifted off the bench, and her cunt seized around him, one long, hard clench that didn’t let go.

Then it broke. She came pinned and stuffed, her cunt clamping down in hard, rhythmic spasms that milked his cock, and on the third spasm she gushed, a hot wet rush pouring out of her around his shaft, flooding over his balls, running down the crack of her ass and soaking straight into the pad until the cushion under her was sodden and squelching with every thrust he drove into her. Her whole body locked. A choked moan vibrated in her throat with her mouth clamped shut. Her clit was pulsing so hard it hurt, every contraction dragging another throb out of it, every thrust slamming into her front wall and setting off another one, and she couldn’t get her hands free. She didn’t want to. She came and came, wrists pinned, shoulders straining, cunt spasming in wet, greedy pulls, her belly slick and sliding against his, her mouth open, ruined.

Sebastian felt every spasm and the gush and lost it. His hips stuttered, slammed in one last time, and he came buried to the hilt, cock jerking hard inside her, thick spurts of come flooding her cunt while her walls were still clamping around him and wringing more out. Coming tore a low, broken groan out of his chest that he muffled against her neck. His grip on her wrists tightened, then shook. He kept pulsing, emptying, the hot mess of his come mixing with hers and squeezing out around his shaft in slow, obscene drips, and his thighs trembled against the pad, and sweat dripped from his jaw onto her collarbone, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

Outside, the client’s voice called a name that wasn’t either of theirs and moved away down the corridor, footsteps fading. Sebastian stayed inside her, softening slowly, her wrists still pinned above her head because he hadn’t let go and she hadn’t asked him to. Her breath sawed in and out under his. Her cunt gave a last weak clench around him and more of their mess slid out, warm, onto her ass and the ruined cushion. She looked at his face. He looked at hers. Neither of them moved to pull out. His thumb stroked once, stupid and reckless, over the inside of her pinned wrist, and she didn’t pull away, and she didn’t spit at him either.

“You’re still in me,” Johanna said, hoarse, barely a whisper, and it should have been an accusation. It wasn’t. He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. Her blouse hung open and her tits were sweat-slick against his bare chest and her wrists ached under his hand and his come was leaking out of her onto a bench she’d have to stand up from eventually, and neither of them was going to be the first to say what the hell they were supposed to do now.