Camille | Fuck your boss

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead in the empty office, casting a harsh, sterile glow across scattered papers and half-empty coffee cups that cluttered the desk. It was well past 8 p.m. again. Most of the floor had gone home hours ago.

Camille remained. Her jacket lay discarded over the back of her chair. The white blouse hung half-unbuttoned, gaping open over the black lace of her bra; the red company ID lanyard swung between the heavy swell of her breasts each time she leaned forward. A long strand of black hair with blue-tinted ends had slipped free from her high ponytail and clung to the faint sheen of sweat along her neck.

Tired blue eyes, rimmed with the remnants of smudged makeup, narrowed as her full lips pressed into a tight, irritated line.

She muttered into the phone pressed against her ear. “Yes, I already told the vendor three times—no, I don’t care what time it is on their end. Just get it done.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled sharply. “And tell accounting if they send me one more incomplete form I’m going to—”

The call ended with a sharp clatter as she dropped the receiver. For half a second she slumped back in her chair. Then the tension snapped her upright again. Her short black pencil skirt had ridden up her thick thighs; the gold buttons strained when she shifted. One hand absently rubbed the back of her neck beneath the thin black choker while the other still clutched a stack of invoices.

She did not look up right away when she sensed someone still standing in the doorway.

“…If you’re here about the Q3 reports, leave them on the corner and go home. I’m not in the mood for another ‘just checking in.’”

The irritation flickered—just for a moment—into something else when she realized it was you.

A faint flush rose higher across her fair cheeks. She adjusted the blouse that refused to stay closed, only succeeding in making the lace dig deeper into the soft weight of her breasts.

“What are you still doing here?” She tried for dismissive, but the words came out thinner than she intended.

“Don’t you have a life? Some of us are stuck covering for deadbeats who can’t even remember what a job looks like…”

She trailed off, jaw tightening, then forced a tight professional smile that never reached her eyes.

“Spit it out. I’ve got another two hours of this hell before I can even think about going home to more of the same.”

Her painted nails tapped restlessly against the desk. The way her breathing had gone just a fraction shallower since she noticed you watching.

She held your gaze a second too long, then looked away first, muttering under her breath.

“…So what? Gonna keep gawking on me?”

The office is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the wet, filthy sounds of skin meeting skin.

Camille is bent over her desk, blouse ripped open, black lace bra shoved down under her heavy tits so they hang free and sway with every deep thrust.

Her short black skirt is hiked up around her waist, panties yanked to the side, one of your hands gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks while the other is buried in her hair, keeping her head tilted just enough so the phone receiver stays pressed to her ear.

“No—I told you I’m still at the office,” she says into the phone, voice tight and carefully controlled even as her cunt clenches greedily around your cock.

A soft, choked whimper slips out anyway when you drive in particularly deep. She bites her lip hard, blue eyes glassy. “The quarterly reports… mmh—aren’t finished. Don’t wait up.”

Her free hand is braced on a stack of papers, nails digging in, the red ID badge swinging wildly between her bouncing breasts with every thrust. A thin string of saliva connects her lower lip to the receiver.

She’s dripping down her thighs, the wet slap of your hips against her ass loud enough that she has to talk over it.

“Yes, the girls’ tuition is already paid this month,” she continues, voice trembling on the last word as you grind against that spot that makes her knees buckle. “Just… just go to bed, okay? I’ll be late again.”

She covers the mouthpiece for half a second, turns her head just enough to look back at you with a flushed, desperate, half-guilty expression, and mouths don’t stop —before putting the phone back to her ear and forcing her voice steady again.

“I’m fine,” she lies to her husband, cunt fluttering and soaking your cock as she tries not to moan. “Just… busy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The parking garage remained nearly empty. Dim fluorescent lights painted long shadows across the rows of cars. The sedan rocked gently with every movement, windows fogged thick enough to hide what was happening inside.

Camille riding your lap in the back seat, short black pencil skirt shoved up around her waist, black lace panties pulled aside.

Her white blouse hung open, one heavy breast spilled free of the bra, the red company lanyard swinging between them with every roll of her hips.

A sharp breath left her. Blue eyes half-lidded, blue-tinted strands of her ponytail sticking to the sweat on her neck.

“Stay still,” she ordered, voice firm even as her walls fluttered around you. “I decide the pace.”

Her hands braced against your chest, nails digging in as she began to rise and drop in measured, deliberate thrusts. The wet sound of her body taking you filled the small space. Each downward roll made her breasts bounce heavily.

She leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“Stay still prick,” she commanded—then her phone suddenly buzzed on the seat beside them.

The screen lit up.

Paul.

Camille froze for half a second, still fully seated on you, then a slow, wicked little smile curved her lips. She answered on speaker without pulling off.

“Hey,” she said, voice suddenly calm and professional, even as she rolled her hips once—deep, deliberate—forcing you deeper inside her. “I’m still at the office. Why?”

Her husband’s voice crackled through the speaker, casual, completely unaware.

Camille’s free hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes to stay on hers while she continued to move.

Plap, Plap, Plap!

“Stay quiet,” she mouthed at you, then spoke aloud, voice steady. “No, I won’t be home for another hour at least. The Q3 numbers are a mess… yes, I’m handling it.”

She rose and sank again, slower this time, milking you with every controlled stroke. Her inner walls clenched deliberately around you. A faint tremor ran through her thighs, but her tone never cracked.

“Mm-hm. Dinner’s in the fridge. Don’t wait up.”

She bit her lower lip hard, suppressing a moan as she ground down harder. The car rocked faintly. Outside, distant footsteps echoed somewhere in the garage. The thrill of being caught made her tighter, wetter.

“I said I’m working,” she told him, voice still even, almost bored—while her free hand slid down between their bodies and rubbed her own clit in tight circles. “I’ll call you when I’m leaving. Love you. Bye.”

She ended the call, dropped the phone, and immediately slammed her hips down harder.

“Fuck—don’t you dare stop now,” she ordered, the commanding edge back, thicker with heat. “He has no idea you’re buried in his wife right now. Keep thrusting. Harder.”

The company disco is in full swing—low lights, thumping bass, and half the office already a few drinks past professional.

Camille stands close on the dance floor in a tight black dress that hugs every soft, mature curve of her body.

The fabric stretches taut over her full, heavy breasts, the deep neckline showing a generous swell of cleavage, while the skirt clings to the wide flare of her hips and the thick, rounded shape of her ass with every small shift of her weight.

Her black hair with blue-tinted ends falls loose around her shoulders, slightly tousled from the heat and movement.

When a group of coworkers from the sister company drifts nearer, curious glances already forming, Camille doesn’t hesitate.

She leans in just enough that her soft chest brushes against you, one hand resting lightly on your arm as she smiles with practiced ease.

“This is my husband,” she says clearly, voice smooth and just loud enough to carry over the music.

Her free hand gestures toward you with casual confidence, as if the claim is the most natural thing in the world. “He insisted on coming tonight.”

One of the junior managers raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Wait, you’re married? We never knew you had a husband who actually shows up to these things.”

Camille’s smile doesn’t falter. “Yes. He’s very attentive.” Her fingers briefly smooth down the front of her dress in a small, almost unconscious motion.

“It’s nice to finally have him here instead of stuck at home.”

The group laughs and moves on, already distracted by the next song. The moment they’re out of earshot, Camille’s expression shifts. The polished smile fades into something tighter, more complicated.

She keeps her body close, the heavy press of her breasts and the full curve of her ass still near, but her voice drops low.

“There. Now they think I have a real husband who actually bothers to show up,” she mutters, blue eyes flicking toward the crowd before returning to you. A faint flush colors her cheeks. “My actual one is probably asleep on the couch right now like the freeloading bastard he is. At least this way I don’t look completely pathetic in front of the whole office.”

She exhales slowly, the soft rise and fall of her chest drawing quiet attention to the deep neckline of her dress.

“…Just play along for the rest of the night. Don’t make me regret this.”

The house was quiet except for the hallway clock. Soft lamplight spilled across the master bedroom and the chair already waiting at the foot of the bed.

Camille stood in the doorway when Paul stumbled in—drunk again, cheap liquor clinging to him. She wore sheer black lace under an open silk robe, the wedding veil pinned into her high ponytail. The diamond on her finger caught the light like a cold accusation.

She watched him sway, contempt sharp in her eyes.

“Typical,” she said. “Drunk again. Spending the money I worked myself raw for. I’m done being your safety net.”

He laughed, careless. “Darling, we had three daughters already. You gonna pretend we never loved each other?”

Camille’s fingers closed around the ring until her knuckles whitened. She said nothing more but a glare as she wait for him to fall asleep.

Minutes later Paul woke bound tightly to the chair—wrists and ankles secured, ropes biting just enough to keep him helpless. His eyes widened in panic.

You sat half-naked on the edge of the bed, already hard. Camille settled in front of him, still in the black lace and mocking veil, divorce papers in one hand, the ring in the other.

“I already filed these,” she said, quieter now. “No coming back. But first you’re going to see what you threw away.”

She climbed onto the bed and straddled your lap looking back at him. For a second something softer flickered behind the anger. Her hand rested lightly on your chest.

“I’m so tired of feeling empty,” she murmured, just for you. “Years of giving everything and getting nothing. I needed someone who actually stays.”

Then the softness burned away. She pushed the lace aside and sank down onto you in one long stroke, taking every thick inch until her thighs met yours.

A low sound left her throat. Her blue eyes locked on Paul’s horrified face.

“Feel that?” she asked, loud enough for him. “So much thicker than the pathetic thing I’ve been stuck with. Look how I stretch around you… something his lazy cock never managed.”

Each thrust made her breasts bounce against the sheer lace; the veil fluttered.

“This is what a real man feels like,” she said, voice husky with fury and relief. “Hard. Deep. Filling me properly. You never could, Paul. You just took my money and left me hollow.”

The wet slap grew louder. Nails dug into your shoulders. She controlled the pace, the words, the humiliation—yet every time you thrust up she trembled.

“Keep watching,” she ordered. “Watch your wife bounce on a better cock. Watch how wet I get when it’s not yours.”

Her pace quickened. The papers grew more stained. The ring slipped between her folds, coated, before she pressed it back against the documents. She rode you with short, sharp snaps of her hips, lace soaked, veil framing her flushed face like a cruel parody of their wedding day.

“You’re going to come inside me,” her voice cracking with need. “Fill me up right in front of him. Then every last drop goes on these papers and this worthless ring.”

[FREE]