Oiling Up The Secretary

Isabelle Deltore and Alex De La Flor are in the office, bent over paperwork at their separate stations. The phone rings and Alex answers. She repeats the call out loud for Isabelle's benefit—someone says the newest gel feels too dry. Isabelle's face tightens. When Alex tries to soothe the caller, Isabelle snaps her fingers for the receiver. She tells the customer she invented the formula herself, oversaw every stage of testing, and personally checked every batch. Then she hangs up. She wheels on Alex. "Tell me you actually waited for those lab results." Alex winces. She explains she called every day, but the answers never arrived, so she approved the product to meet the deadline. Isabelle's voice is ice. They're testing the gel now. She knocks Alex's desk clear, scattering pens and papers. Alex hesitates until Isabelle orders her naked on the surface. Oil pours over Isabelle's palms. She starts at Alex's shoulders, fingers gliding, muscles easing, the slickness feeling exactly right. She keeps going. No doubt yet. Satisfied for the moment, she strips off her own clothes and leads Alex to an inflatable mattress in the side room. She lies face-down and tells Alex to work every inch, including her ass. Alex's hands pause, then continue, spreading oil across smooth skin. Sliding, skin against skin, the heat builds. Soon Isabelle takes control. She drags her body over Alex's, pressing their breasts, bellies, thighs together in slow, deliberate strokes. The gel turns their contact liquid and hot. Fingers slip inside. Hips grind in tight, wet circles. They trib until Isabelle feels certain—no dryness anywhere—and only then lets her own release claim her.