Hospitality at a hospital

Poor Missy’s ass is parked right where I want it—strapped tight to a big rolling office chair. That sundress she never buttoned after lunch is bunched at her waist, and she can’t tug it down with her wrists taped behind the backrest. Tits look cold, nipples sticking through. Feet aren’t touching the floor; they dangle in ugly white nurse shoes. I finish rolling the chair into the little supply room, close the door behind us with a firm click. She gives me that tight little “please-stop” head shake and says she’ll get fired if anyone finds out. Sucks to be her. Zippers slid down. I lean over the back of the chair, grope both handfuls, then unclip her bra with one finger so her tits bounce free. While she whimpers through the order form we gag her with—folded double around her tongue—I spread the fancy waiting-room lube across both her brown pokers and dive two fingers inside. Her rectal grip clenches once, twice, then gives, nice and filthy. After some scissoring—one smirk from me each time she chokes on a moan—I line my rigid meat up to that slick starfish and shove in, pushing the chair against the steel door so every hop rocks her back onto the pole by the doorway knob. She tries squirming side to side; chair squeals. I wrap her ponytail around one wrist and yank it like a handle so I slam balls-deep on every deeper stroke. Her feet bounce like a wind-up doll whenever my hips grind. That tattled slip of unused paper she threw away is a knuckle tickling my own sac, but not nearly as fun as Missy cramming back on my cock like she knows what she deserves. Outcome’ll be flushed cheeks and a chair seat dark with our swipes.