Office Mediation

Abigail Mac's grinding away at her desk when boss lady Sinn Sage struts up asking about the reports. Sinn slides in real close, eye-fucking Abigail's outfit, but the compliments feel loaded. Abigail tries keeping it cool till Sinn orders her to stand up for a better view. That's the line. Abigail shuts it down flat. Sinn pouts, calls her boring, and saunters off. Abigail yanks the phone and finally rings HR. Lindsey Cruz from HR listens without judgment. Abigail lays it out: Sinn's unsolicited compliments, the wandering hands, the way she keeps turning work into a tease. Lindsey pitches mediation, says both women need to sit down and talk it out. Abigail balks, but Lindsey is firm—rules are rules. Abigail gives a reluctant yes. Lindsey phones Sinn. Twenty minutes later they're locked in a tiny office, sparks practically buzzing. Sinn waves it off as petty bullshit, swearing compliments aren't harassment. Abigail fires back that compliments and crude innuendos aren't the same damn thing. Voices jump. Chests heave. Breasts press tighter against silky blouses. Then Sinn sneers and calls Abigail dressed like a damn stripper. Rage and heat bang together; Abigail shouts Sinn only wishes she could pay for private dances, because that's the real fantasy—getting the sexy employee naked and bent over the desk so she can tongue-fuck her silly. The air snaps. They launch at each other, mouths crashing, tongues swirling in wet, desperate kisses. Lindsey yelps, tries to slide away, but Abigail grabs her wrist with a wicked grin. 'Stay. Compliance purposes.' Lindsey's nipples tighten under her blouse; her thighs squeeze. Curiosity and lust win. She yanks her blazer off and dives into the mess. Sinn rips open Abigail's blouse and laps greedy circles around stiff nipples while Lindsey drops between Abigail's spread thighs, tongue hot and fast on soaked pussy. Fingers thrust, moans overlap, clothes hit the floor in damp clumps. Abigail pins Sinn's wrists and slams her face-first into soaked cunt, insisting payback tastes sweet. All three ride the wave of stolen glances turned sweat-slicked surrender, guilty groans bouncing off thin office walls.