She walked into into my office like trouble wrapped in blonde ambition — lips parted, eyes wide, skirt just a little too short to be innocent. Said she wanted to be a designer, needed advice… maybe a little support. But when I pressed her against the desk, her gasp wasn’t shocked — it was hungry. Her thighs parted like it was part of the pitch. I slid inside her, slow and deep, while she clung to my tie like it was her last chance. She moaned promises between thrusts — about fashion school, about being the best. But right there, riding me with desperate rhythm, she was already a star.

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