#sinsworld

Tord’s pen scratches on the surface of the document, making fine lines as he signs off on another mission report. His unoccupied hand flexes at your waist, and you do your best to not utter a peep. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes closed with the strain of not moving as you sit on his lap. Tord moves slightly in his chair and you bite your lip as a whimper threatens to spill from your throat. His cock is hard and thick inside you, pulsing and kissing every inch of your walls which quiver around him with the effort not to move. How desperately you want to fuck yourself on him, bounce on his cock until your body is filled with only the sensation of him and his love.

Tord appears outwardly unaffected. You don’t dare turn around in case you break his firm ‘suggestion’ that you stay very still and be very good. “The reward will be great, skatten min,” he had murmured hotly in your ear when you arrived in his office that morning.

Easier said than done. Your thighs are burning, the position becoming uncomfortable and the sensation of being filled so deeply and not able to do anything about it driving you mad. His thighs twitch underneath you, just a small movement, but it’s enough to send fireworks up your spine.

Tord’s breathing changes, just so, little puffs of air in your ear although his pen never falters as he moves from paper to paper. You shift slightly, just to relieve some pressure, and the man grunts. Otherwise, he says nothing, and your eyes narrow in interest. You flex your pussy, squeezing his cock, and you hear his breath catch.

“Kjære,” his low voice warns, dark and almost breathless.

You return to your almost statue-like position, although you’re smiling, and you finally let out a little moan, soft and begging. Tord’s pen drops and his arms lock around your waist, a hand splayed on your stomach as he drags you with him, his back pressed hard into his chair as his hips dig into yours. He’s cumming, panting growls spilling from his lips as he fills you, and you keen, the feeling nearly overwhelming you. Tord holds onto you with a nearly vice-like grip, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm, little circling thrusts hitting you in all the right places and pushing his seed deeper inside as if to brand you with it.

Finally he stills, and you rest against his chest, both of you breathing heavily. You feel Tord drop a kiss to your neck before he adjusts you both. He hisses with overstimulation, yet doesn’t remove you from his lap, content to pick his pen back up and continue working. You sit a little stunned, feeling Tord’s cum slide down your thighs and onto his, although the man doesn’t make a move other than to grab another document.

You go to speak and he shushes you gently, pressing another kiss to your cheek. The thumb of the hand at your waist rubs at the skin of your lower belly. “Be my god soldat,” he says.