Keira's Clyde A Glasgow Escort

The Office

The week after the party the office had become a prison. In the hush that fell whenever she entered the photocopier room there was a sudden absence of keyboards, the soft clatter of a teaspoon laid deliberately against a saucer. Marjorie's gaze slid over her like coldly, lingering on the faint bruise just visible above the collar of her high-necked blouse. Lesley's nostrils flared, an almost imperceptible flare, when Amanda passed too close, as though she could smell sex and desperation rising off her skin.

She caught fragments in the ladies' mirrors while hiding in a cubicle: "...didn't even wait till the six-month probation..." "...poor Alan, still changing nappies while she's..." The words dissolved into the flush of a toilet, but the sting stayed, hot and wet, behind her eyes.

The corridor outside Malcolm's office smelled of floor polish. She knocked with the ethics forms, his low "Come" invited her in. Inside, the blinds were half-drawn, the winter sun striped the rug and the leather desk. The air was thicker and warmer than the corridor and the faint smell of papery breath of old books and an even older style of aftershave.

Malcolm did not stand. He simply leaned back, jacket open, burgundy tie loosened exactly two inches, the knot resting against the hollow of his throat. His eyes tracked her across the room the way a heron watches a fish it has already decided to swallow.

"Close the door, pet." The click of the latch sounded enormous, he let the silence stretch then he crooked a finger.

She moved around the desk on legs that did not feel entirely hers, the ethics forms trembling slightly in her grip. He took them from her without looking, set them aside, and caught her wrist instead. His thumb settled over wrist, pressing just enough to remind her he could count every terrified beat.

"You've been listening to gossip," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that it vibrated in her sternum more than her ears. "People are small, Amanda. They hate anything that reminds them what they've settled for."

His free hand rose, slow and brushed a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. The gesture was tender; the look in his eyes was not. She felt the warmth of his palm travel the side of her neck, settle at her nape, and guide her forward until she stood between his spread knees. The chair creaked once, leather sighing like it knew what was coming.

The first kiss tasted of peppermint. His tongue slid along hers with the lazy confidence of a man who had never once been told no. She swayed, knees softening, and he caught her weight easily, drawing her down until she was half-straddling his thigh, the wool of his trousers rough against the bare porcelain skin above her stocking tops.

Buttons opened with deliberate care--pop... pop... pop--each pearl slipping free loud as gunshots in the hush. Cool air kissed the damp lace of her nursing bra; her nipples tightened instantly, aching, milk beading in perfect coin-sized circles that darkened the lace. A low, appreciative hum rumbled in his chest.

"Shhh," he warned again, forefinger settling across her full berry lips as the bra clasp surrendered with a soft metallic click. "We mustn't disturb the peasants."

He turned her slow, inevitable until her hips met the edge of the desk. The leather was cold against her palms; papers rustled like dry leaves. Her cheek pressed to the surface, the scent of ink and cedar overwhelming. Skirt rucked upward in one smooth motion, the silk lining whispering against her soft thighs. Knickers--pale grey lace, already soaked--eased down just far enough. The sudden exposure to cool air made her clench; a bead of wetness traced the inside of one thigh.

Condom first, the foil torn with teeth, the latex rolled down with unhurried grace while his gaze stayed locked on hers in the reflection of the darkened window. Then the blunt, deliberate press of him at her entrance--no rush, no mercy--just the slow, stretching breach that forced a muffled whimper from her throat. His palm clamped gently but firmly over her mouth the instant the sound escaped. Two fingers sealed her lips; his thumb rested beneath her chin, tilting her head back so she could feel every inch of the invasion.

He held there, seated to the hilt, letting her pulse flutter wildly around him, letting the humiliation sink in: she was bent over her boss's desk, mouth gagged by his hand, while outside colleagues chatted about biscuits. Only then did he begin to move, long, measured strokes that dragged over every nerve ending with surgical patience. Each withdrawal left her aching and empty; each return filled her with the blunt reality of what she had become. The desk creaked with his slow rhythm. Somewhere beyond the door a printer whirred, a phone rang twice and stopped, footsteps passed and faded. His rhythm never altered, controlled, academic, cruel.

She felt the moment approach in the subtle tightening of his fingers against her cheek, the almost imperceptible swell inside the latex. Then nothing theatrical: just a sudden, perfect stillness, the faintest rhythmic pulse against her walls, and the softest exhale against her ear, warm and satisfied. He had finished. Again, she had not even felt the crest.

He stayed buried a few seconds longer, letting the quiet throb echo, letting the shame bloom fully before withdrawing with a slow, slick drag that left her gaping and dripping onto the leather blotter. The condom came off with a soft snap, was knotted with neat efficiency, and dropped into the waste-paper basket where it landed among crumpled drafts with a muted, wet plop, no mess, no evidence, nothing for the cleaners to find except the faint, unmistakable scent of sex that would linger until the window was opened tomorrow.

His hand left her mouth only after he was tucked away, tie straightened, chair rolled back into place. He pressed a chaste, almost paternal kiss to the corner of her swollen lips and slid three crisp hundreds into the cup of her bra like a restaurant tip.

"£300," he said conversationally, already reaching for the ethics forms. "For whatever you need, pet."

She straightened on trembling legs that felt borrowed, blouse buttons fumbling through holes, skirt tugged down over thighs that trembled with aftershocks she had not been allowed to share. The taste of his skin, salt, faint cologne. Between her legs she was swollen, aching, utterly empty, and the knowledge that he had come inside a condom she had not even felt him finish made the shame sink deeper.

Outside, Lesley's laugh sliced down the corridor like glass. Amanda stepped into it carrying the weight of knowing her boss had fucked her again and that the staff were right about her.

The Car

The envelope of cash disappeared quickly, school shoes for Freya, petrol in the car, a food shop without subtraction, each purchase laced with a quiet gratitude. Alan noticed the ease in her shoulders, the way she hummed over dinner, she hated herself for letting him believe it was because of him. At night she lay beside him, listening to his steady breathing, replaying the slick professionalism with which Malcolm had wiped his hands, straightened his tie, dismissed her. He hadn't texted, hadn't even looked at her differently across the office, and somehow that was worse, his silence a reminder that this was routine for him, a practiced arrangement, something he assumed she'd accept again. And she feared, with a hot, shameful certainty, that she would.

Amanda's phone had buzzed unexpectedly mid-morning, the vibration against her thigh making her jump as she filed papers in the staff room. The text from Malcolm, 'Come to the car park at 4. We need to talk', was unsigned, but she knew the number. Her stomach knotted. She descended the stairs, the echo of her 4-inch heels sharp against the cold steps, her tight pencil skirt hugging the swell of her hips and the plush curve of her arse.

The underground car park beneath the university sprawled like a concrete cave, air chill and heavy with the scent of oil stains and exhaust fumes that clung to the low ceiling, lights buzzing overhead in harsh fluorescent strips that cast long shadows between the rows of cars. Malcolm's Audi sat in the far corner, sleek black paint gleaming under the glare, the kind of vehicle that whispered wealth without shouting it, its tinted windows reflecting distorted versions of the pillars and fire exits.

He was waiting in the driver's seat, engine idling softly, the low purr vibrating through the air as she approached. The door unlocked with a click when she reached for the handle, and she slipped into the back seat, the leather cool against the soft backs of her thighs through her skirt, the interior smelling and his old cologne, the space that felt intimate and trapping at once.

The driver's door opened. Malcolm slid into the back seat beside her, his thigh brushing hers as he settled, the wool of his trousers rough against her stocking. He turned, grey eyes locking on hers with that calm intensity, a smile curving his lips slowly.

"You came, pet. Good girl."

She shifted slightly, the leather creaking under the weight of her hourglass curves, the confined space making her pulse quicken, her porcelain skin already beginning to flush rose at the tops of her full breasts.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked, voice steady but her fingers twisting the hem of her skirt, the fabric soft under her pads.

His hand moved first, resting light on her knee, thumb stroking a slow circle that sent warmth spreading up her thigh. "Not talk, exactly," he murmured, breath carrying the faint mint of gum, his cologne stronger now in the closed space. "I've been thinking about you all week."

She swallowed, the air in the car growing thicker, the tinted windows already starting to fog at the edges from their breaths. "Malcolm, here? It's... risky." Her mind flickered to Alan at home with Freya, but the thought felt distant, the excitement of his touch pulling her in.

He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against hers, the heat of him seeping through his shirt. "That's the thrill, pet. No one knows we're here." His fingers slid higher, inching under her skirt, the calluses on his tips grazing the pale, freckled skin of her inner thigh like a promise. "Tell me you haven't thought about it too."

She bit her full lower lip, the taste of berry lipstick bitter, her body responding with a flush that made her cheeks burn and her hazel eyes darken. "I have," she admitted, voice soft, anticipating what he wanted, the way his eyes darkened when she gave in. "But what if someone sees?"

His chuckle rumbled low, vibrating through the seat between them. "Then we give them a show." His hand reached the edge of her knickers, fingers hooking the lace, tugging gently. "No knickers today? You knew, didn't you?"

She nodded, breath catching as his fingers brushed her bare folds, the touch electric, sending a spark straight to her core. "I guessed," she whispered, her hand moving to his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under her palm. "You always want me ready."

"Good pet," he praised, voice dropping lower, his free hand unbuckling his belt with a soft clink of metal. The zipper rasped down, the sound sharp in the quiet car, his trousers parting to reveal the bulge in his boxers.

He leaned back, spreading his knees wider, the leather sighing under him. "Show me how ready you are."

She hesitated, the cool air from the vent brushing her face, making a loose strand of chestnut hair flutter against her flushed cheek. Internal thoughts raced: This is wrong, Alan's at home, but the office is one thing, this is bolder, riskier--yet the thrill made her wetter, the compartmentalisation easier.

"Here? Now?" she asked, voice breathy, but her hand already moving, fingers tracing the outline of him through the fabric.

"Touch," he said.

She wrapped her fingers around him--hot silk over steel--and felt him throb once, hard, against her palm. He let her stroke him for a long while, eyes half-lidded, breath deepening, until a bead of moisture pearled and slid over her knuckles.

"Use your mouth, pet. Slowly. Make it last."

She bent to him, chestnut hair spilling forward like a curtain over her shoulders. The first taste was salt and faint soap; the second, pure him. She took her time, tongue flattening along the underside, tracing every vein, circling the head until his thighs tensed beneath her forearms. When she finally sank down, inch by careful inch, he groaned from somewhere low in his chest, the sound vibrating through his cock into her tongue. His hand settled on her nape--not pushing, simply resting, claiming.

"That's it... all the way... good girl."

She held him deep, throat fluttering around him, then drew back with deliberate slowness, lips sealed tight, cheeks hollowed. Spit gathered, spilled, made the slide of her mouth obscene and perfect. Each time she reached the head she paused to swirl, to lick, to suckle gently until his hips gave the tiniest involuntary jerk.

Minutes stretched, elastic and golden. The windows fogged until the world outside ceased to exist. Only the wet sounds of her worship, his low murmured praise, the occasional clench of his fingers in her thick chestnut hair.

At some point his voice roughened. "Christ, Amanda... enough." He drew her up gently, eyes black with restraint. From his pocket came the condom; the foil tore with a soft rip that sounded like surrender. He rolled it down with steady fingers while she watched, breathless, her own arousal slicking the insides of her soft, freckled thighs.

"Come here."

She climbed astride him, knees sinking into leather on either side of his hips. The car was not built for this; her back brushed the roof, her skirt bunched like a belt around her narrow waist. He held himself steady while she sank down, slowly, slowly, feeling every millimetre stretch her open, fill her, until she was seated fully and they both stilled, adjusting to the exquisite pressure. For a long moment neither moved. She could feel him pulsing inside her, could feel her own heartbeat around him. His hands slid up her back, under her blouse, tracing her spine as though memorising it.

Then she began to move, a languid roll of her hips, a grinding circle that dragged her clit against the base of him again and again. Each motion drew a low sound from him, half curse, half prayer. She varied the rhythm deliberately, long, slow glides that lifted her almost off him before sinking back down; tiny, wicked circles that kept him buried deep while she tormented them both. His hands found her heavy breasts, cupping through silk, thumbs teasing her nipples to aching points. When he finally tugged her blouse open and bent to take one into his mouth, she cried out softly, the sound swallowed by the padded ceiling.

"Like that," he growled against her skin. "Just like that... don't you dare rush."

The car rocked gently. Sweat gathered between her full breasts, at the small of her back. She rode him through one cresting wave of pleasure that left her trembling but not spent, then another, higher, until her soft thighs shook and she had to brace both hands on his shoulders to keep the rhythm.

Only when she was on the edge of a third did he grip her hips hard and take control, short, sharp upward thrusts that met her downward rolls, driving deeper than she thought possible in the cramped space. The slap of skin on skin echoed, wet and urgent.

"Come for me now, pet," he ordered, voice frayed. "Let me feel it."

She shattered, soundless at first, then a broken moan against his neck as her body clenched hard around him, pulsing in long, luxurious waves. He followed moments later, hips bucking, a guttural sound torn from his throat as he spilled into the latex, each throb distinct inside her.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard, the windows now opaque with their heat. His hand stroked her back in slow, soothing passes, as if gentling a spooked horse. Eventually she lifted off him, thighs trembling, the sudden emptiness almost painful. He tied off the condom with steady fingers, tucked himself away. The car smelled of sex and leather and something indefinably them.

He brushed a kiss to her temple, surprisingly tender. "Good girl," he whispered again, and this time it sounded like praise and warning both.

She straightened her skirt with shaking hands, smoothed her loosened chestnut waves. When the door opened, the underground air felt arctic against her damp, flushed skin. Malcolm slid back into the driver's seat, started the engine, and met her eyes in the rear-view mirror for one long second, grey, sated, already planning the next time. The Audi purred away, taillights disappearing around the ramp.

Amanda stood alone among the concrete pillars, the ache between her legs a secret pulse, the taste of him still on her tongue, the echo of his voice, good girl, ringing softly in the hollows of her bones.