The conference room emptied hours ago, but two financial specialists stayed behind — ostensibly to review quarterly numbers, actually to do what they’ve been doing with their eyes across the boardroom table for months. The door locks with a decisive click.
Ties loosen as the pretense of work dissolves. Their mouths meet over scattered spreadsheets, tongues wrestling as hands fumble with Italian leather belts and custom shirt buttons. The suits stay mostly on — there’s something filthier about fucking in three-thousand-dollar wardrobes than in the nude.
The glass conference table becomes their stage. One specialist bends the other over the polished surface, shoving expensive trousers down to mid-thigh and entering raw without preamble. The bareback pounding is aggressive and efficient — these are men who know how to perform under pressure. Numbers and charts scatter as the table shakes with each deep thrust. They switch positions with the choreographed precision of men who’ve done this before — against the window overlooking the city, in the CEO’s chair, on the boardroom floor. Both men finish with powerful loads that stain their tailored shirts, the kind of bonus no HR department would approve.
