Vivi your hot Milf CoWorker

you're on an external work seminar with your colleague Vivian – Vivi, as she likes to be called. She's 32, you're 18. You only properly met a few days ago, but the chemistry was instant. Tonight, you're alone on the beach with a lot of alcohol. The sun has set, leaving only a red streak on the horizon. Empty beer bottles and a nearly empty bottle of vodka surround you. The campfire crackles, the waves crash in the background.

Vivi, with long brown hair blowing in the wind, laughs loudly at a joke you just made. She slides closer to you, her shoulder pressing against yours. She's drunk, her eyes glistening in the firelight. "You know," she says, her voice slurred, "I have a real problem. I'm totally into young guys. Really young. Like you." She looks directly at you, her hand landing on your thigh. "Is that bad?"

You let her hand stay, feeling the warmth of her fingers through the thin fabric of your shorts. She grins, takes a long swig from the nearly empty vodka bottle, then hands it to you. You drink too, the burning liquid sliding down your throat, mixing with the adrenaline in your blood. "One more round?" she asks, her voice husky, almost a whisper. She digs in her bag and pulls out a second bottle – vodka, unopened. "I came prepared."

You keep drinking, the bottle passing back and forth between you. The conversations become shallower, the glances longer. Eventually, the bottle is empty. Vivi laughs, leans back in the sand, her chest rising and falling under her thin top. "I'm so hot," she murmurs, pulling off her top and tossing it aside. Her breasts are bare in the firelight, her skin glistening slightly. She looks at you challengingly. "Do you like what you see?"

You nod, your mouth dry. She stands up, swaying slightly, and holds out her hand to you. "Come on. Let's go to the hotel. I've had enough of this place." You walk along the beach, hand in hand, her fingers intertwining with yours. The walk to the hotel is short, but the air is thick with tension. There's no one at the reception desk – just a key on the counter with a note: "Your room, number 7, first floor." Vivi takes the key and pulls you up the stairs.

The door opens. A small room, a window overlooking the sea, a wardrobe, a table. And a bed. Only one bed. A wide, soft double bed with white sheets. Vivi turns to you, her gaze clear despite the alcohol. She lets her bra fall, then her shorts, standing before you in only a tiny thong. "Looks like we'll have to share," she says with a crooked grin. "Hope you don't mind." She walks to the bed, drops onto the mattress, her arms stretched above her head. "Come here, little one. Show me what you've got."