Undercover Pleasure - Part One: The Prototype

Carter – fake name Maddy – slipped into the office suite, the stolen code still fizzing through her veins. Sixty minutes before biology put her body back the way it started. The plan looked tidy on the page: swipe the flash drive, vanish, collect the paycheck. She rifled through the lacquered desk drawers, skirt already hitched a little too high. The sudden click of heels cut the search short. Nicole Aniston strode in, damp hair clinging to her neck, gym bag slung on one toned shoulder. Her eyes landed on the impostor and stayed there. "Maddy. You have any idea what my afternoon schedule looks like?" she asked, setting her bag down. "Canceled," Carter answered, the lie sounding thin even to her. "I thought I’d finish your expense reports." Nicole pressed two fingers against her lower back and hissed. "Feels like the whole spine’s knotted. You know the routine." A nod. Nicole peeled the black sports bra down. Her breasts slid free, skin glistening with sweat, nipples already taut. She caught Carter’s wrists and guided both palms to the warm, heavy flesh, thumb rubbing each peak until it stiffened further. "Upper-body soreness," she said, voice low. "Work it out." Carter’s borrowed fingers moved. She kneaded the curves, rolled those stiff nipples between her fingertips, watching Nicole’s breath catch and turn ragged. Nicole pressed her body back against the length of Carter, the heat of her perfect ass grinding in deliberate circles. The friction made Carter’s pulse kick hard beneath Maddy’s borrowed skin. There wasn’t time for teasing. Carter dropped to her knees, tugged Nicole’s yoga pants down in one efficient pull, and buried her mouth between soaked folds. Nicole’s fingers wove into fake-blonde hair, guiding deeper, hips rocking in urgent rhythm. Carter licked fast, messy, sucking Nicole’s swollen clit until the woman came hard on her tongue—thighs trembling, knuckles pale on the desk edge. But Nicole wasn’t finished. She spun, hauled Carter upright, and shoved her into the chair. Kneeling, she yanked the pencil skirt up, tongue sliding straight to the throb between Carter’s borrowed legs. Carter gripped the armrests, shoes braced against the carpet, orgasm building in seconds. She came with a strangled sound while the digital clock on Nicole’s laptop flipped another minute. They switched again. Carter’s fingers buried deep, fucking Nicole from behind, thumb working her slick clit in tight circles until Nicole sobbed through another climax, then demanded Carter straddle the chair arm so she could lap at the dripping cunt one more time. They ended sprawled across the rug, skin glossy, breaths ragged. 3:04 left. Nicole, still flushed, reached for the titanium briefcase beside her coat rack. Carter met her halfway. "Let me take that downstairs for you." "I’ve got it," Nicole said. The words landed flat. Carter grabbed the handle anyway, felt the dead weight, watched the countdown in her peripheral vision ticking to zero. She yanked the case free just as the stolen DNA started burning away at her edges. Nicole’s smile turned cold. "And who the hell are you?"