The fluorescent hum of the office bathroom was our only witness. I’d followed Carla in, heart hammering against my ribs, drunk on the scent of her perfume and the stale coffee on her breath. She leaned against the sink, a sly grin on her lips, and raised her arms above her head like she was surrendering to something filthy.

“You’ve been staring at me all week, Marcos,” she purred. “Is it my tits? Or the fact I skip deodorant?”

Her armpits were a thatch of dark, damp curls, glistening with sweat. I couldn’t help it. I dove in. My nose buried in the hollow, inhaling the musky, salty tang of her body. It was like a primal drug. I dragged my tongue across the skin, lapping up the sweat, savoring the bitter earthiness that made my dick stiffen instantly. She moaned, the sound silky and hot, and I nipped gently at the hair, feeling goosebumps erupt across her skin.

“Now,” she whispered, unbuttoning the fly of my jeans, slipping her hand in to grab my rigid cock, “drop to your knees.”

I didn't need asking twice. I fell before her reverently, pushing up her skirt. Her panties were a simple black cotton, already soaked. I peeled them down and the smell hit me – not just musk, but a ripe, sweet scent, like crushed strawberries and creamy wetness. Her bush was a wild, untamed mess of dark hair, dew-kissed and inviting.

My tongue parted her hairy folds, diving straight for her pink clit. It was a juicy