At 4:58 I locked his door and dropped to my knees on the carpet.
No panties. Skirt already rucked. Mouth open, hands behind my back, exactly as the last text had ordered. Nick was still on a call. He looked at me once, finished the sentence, and hung up. The chair rolled back. He freed his c**k—thick, already wet at the tip—and stood.
“Good. You remembered. Hands stay there. I’m using your throat first. Don’t swallow until I say. I want to watch it.”
He gripped my hair and pushed in. No slow feed. The head hit the back of my throat and stayed until I gagged and spit flooded. Then he started f*****g my mouth in hard, short strokes, hips snapping, the wet choke of it loud in the quiet office. Drool ran down my chin, my neck, onto the top of my breasts. Tears gathered. I kept my hands lock
