Craving His Married Colleague's Hairy Pussy

Errol had wanted Sonia since the week he joined the regional team at twenty-five, and three years later the wanting had only gotten worse. He was twenty-eight now, sharp in a navy shirt that still looked pressed after a full day of sessions, and she was fifty-two, married, and entirely unaware of how often he watched the way she moved. A little overweight in the soft, generous way that made her blouses strain across her chest and her skirts sit high on a full, rounded ass, she carried herself like a woman who had stopped expecting to be looked at and somehow looked better for it. Her smile was cute and a little crooked. Her laugh was bubbly, sudden, the kind that made people turn and then stay turned.

The overnight conference had parked them all in the same downtown hotel, name badges and lukewarm coffee and too many slides. By late afternoon the ballroom had thinned, and Errol found her at the edge of the room gathering her notes, tired in the eyes and still glowing from the way she had run her breakout. He stepped in close enough to catch her perfume, warm and floral, nothing young about it.

"You had that room," he said, and he meant it. "Half of them were on their phones. You made them listen. And when you laughed at that botched forecast, the whole table lit up. I couldn't stop watching you."

Color rose in her cheeks. "Errol. That's very sweet. I thought I was rambling."

"You weren't." He held her gaze, charming without performing it. "You look incredible in that color, too. I've been noticing all day. The way you fill that skirt. That smile. You have no idea what it does."

Her laugh escaped before she could swallow it, bright and disbelieving. "A much younger man telling a middle-aged woman she looks incredible. I don't know what to do with that."

"Enjoy it," he said. "You've earned every bit of attention I'm giving you. More, if you want it."

She looked at him like the carpet had shifted under her sensible heels, surprised and plainly delighted, the smile staying. The tension that had hummed between them through the sessions finally had a pulse. He offered his arm toward the lobby bar, and she took it.

They took a small table away from the other badges. Sonia ordered a glass of red and sipped it slowly. Errol had a whiskey and left most of it, clear-headed on purpose, wanting every second of this with his wits intact. She was the same, warm and bright, nowhere near drunk, her wedding ring catching the low light whenever she lifted her glass.

He leaned in, voice low and easy. "You know what I keep thinking? A younger guy would treat you better than he does. Not polite. Better. He'd notice when you walk into a room. He'd tell you your laugh is the best sound in the building. He'd put his hands on you like he meant it, not like you were furniture he already paid for."

She laughed again, happy and a little shocked, the sound bubbling out of her. "Errol. I'm married. I'm fifty-two. You're—what—twenty-eight? You cannot be serious."

"I'm completely serious." He teased her with a grin that didn't take the heat out of it. "Your husband gets to come home to that smile and that body and he probably asks what's for dinner. I'd spend the whole night reminding you you're wanted. I'd make you laugh and then I'd make you forget your own name. A younger guy doesn't get bored of a woman like you. He gets obsessed."

Her eyes shone. She was surprised, yes, and she was glowing under it, shoulders loose, mouth soft, clearly enjoying every word. "You are trouble," she said, but she didn't move her chair back. "Dangerous trouble. I haven't been flirted with like this in years."

"Then he's an idiot." Errol let his hand settle on her thigh under the table, warm through the fabric of her skirt, not grabbing, just there, asking. She drew a small breath and didn't push him off. Her leg shifted a fraction closer. "I've wanted this for a long time, Sonia. Not a joke. Not a conference dare. I would love to put my face between your legs. I'd love to get under that skirt and stay there until you can't sit still. Say the word and I'll take you upstairs and do exactly that."

Her bubbly laugh came out shaky this time, delighted and hungry at once. She covered his hand with hers, wedding ring cool against his knuckles, and squeezed. "God. Yes. I want that. I want you. Before I talk myself out of how good this feels."

Mutual want took the rest of the decision out of their hands. She signed the tab with steady fingers. He walked her to the elevator with his palm at the small of her back, both of them sober, both of them choosing it, her cute smile turned private and bright as the doors closed.

Her room was dim, the city a scatter of light beyond the curtains. The door had barely shut before she turned into him, and Errol kissed her like he had been saving it. She tasted of wine and lipstick and surprise, her mouth opening under his with a soft, eager sound. Her hands found his shoulders. His found the generous curve of her waist, then lower, filling his palms with her ass through the skirt, squeezing until she pressed closer and laughed into the kiss, bubbly and breathless.

"Still sure?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Very sure," she said. "Don't you dare get polite now."

He walked her backward to the bed, kissing her the whole way, tongue slow and deep, one hand in her hair, the other already gathering her skirt. She sat on the edge and he knelt, looking up at her flushed face, that cute crooked smile gone wrecked and happy. His fingers found the waistband of her panties under the hiked fabric. They were plain cotton, warm from her body, a little damp already at the center. He hooked them and drew them down her thighs, over her knees, off her ankles, and set them aside like something he intended to remember.

"Lie back," he said.

She did, settling onto the mattress with her skirt rucked up around her waist, blouse still buttoned, legs parted for him because she wanted him to see. Errol stayed on his knees between them and just looked, and the look on his face made her shift, shy and pleased at once.

Her pussy was thick and lush, framed by a full, dark thatch of hair that had never been waxed into some younger woman's idea of tidy. The lips were plump, a little swollen, the kind of well-used married cunt that had taken a husband for years and still looked hungry. A sheen of arousal already slicked the hair at the edges. The scent of her rose warm and salty and real, and Errol groaned like a man who had finally been handed the thing he craved.

"Fuck, Sonia. Look at you." He stroked the hair with his thumbs, reverent and filthy. "Hairy and used and perfect. This pussy has been fucked and it still wants more. I love it. I love how soft you are. I love that you didn't shave it down to nothing for anybody. This is mine tonight."

"Then take it," she whispered, voice shaking with how badly she wanted his mouth.

He buried his face between her thighs.

The first lick was long and flat, from the hairy crease beneath her up through her slit, gathering her taste, and he made a helpless sound against her. She was rich and tangy, a little musky, the flavor of a woman who had lived in her body and not apologized for it. He licked her again, slower, parting those plump lips with his tongue, nosing into the thick hair until it tickled his mouth. Her clit was already stiff under its hood. He sucked it gently, then harder, and Sonia's bubbly laugh broke into a moan that filled the room.

"Oh—Errol—God, your mouth—"

He ate her like he had promised, hungry and unhurried and thorough. Long licks up the length of her. Short, focused flicks over her clit. His tongue pushed inside her, fucking her with it, feeling how soft and slick and used she was, how easily she opened, how her walls fluttered when he curled. He sucked her inner lips into his mouth one at a time, hairy and swollen, and groaned at the taste. One hand spread her thigh wider. The other slid under her ass and lifted her into his face so he could get deeper, nose buried in that dark thatch, chin wet, nothing polite left in him.

She grabbed his hair. Her hips rolled. "Right there. Don't stop. Please don't stop. Nobody—oh—nobody does it like that."

He didn't stop. He sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked in steady pulses, tongue working underneath, two fingers sliding into her soaked cunt and curling until he found the spot that made her thighs jump. She was dripping down his wrist, hairy lips clutching at his knuckles, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. He loved every second of it. Loved the weight of her. Loved that this married pussy, thick and well-used and fragrant, was clenching around his fingers because a younger man had his face between her legs and refused to come up for air.

"Come on my mouth," he said against her, voice rough. "I want it. Give it to me, Sonia. Let me feel this hairy cunt come."

She broke with a cry that started as a laugh and ended as a sob of pleasure. Her whole body went tight, belly soft and shaking, thighs clamping around his head, pussy pulsing hard around his fingers while she ground against his tongue. He licked her through it, greedy, drinking her down, not easing off until the spasms slowed and she pushed weakly at his forehead, oversensitive and glowing, chest heaving.

"Jesus," she panted. "You—you really did that. I came so hard I saw white."

He kissed the inside of her thigh, beard and mouth slick with her, smiling like a man who had gotten exactly what he craved. "Not done with you."

He stood, stripped his shirt and pants and boxers without ceremony, cock thick and flushed and already leaking. Sonia's eyes went wide and happy at the sight of him. He climbed onto the bed, kissed her so she could taste herself, then turned her gently onto her stomach and drew her up onto all fours. Her skirt was still bunched at her waist. Her plump ass rose toward him, full and soft, the hairy pussy beneath it glistening, swollen from his mouth, lips parted and ready.

"Yes," she said, looking back over her shoulder, cute smile wrecked, consent clear in every line of her. "Fuck me. I want you inside me. Hard."

He lined up and pushed in.

She was hot and slick and wonderfully snug despite how well-used she felt, gripping him in soft, rippling pulls as he sank to the hilt. Errol cursed, hands spreading her ass, watching his cock disappear into that dark-haired cunt. He drew back and thrust again, deeper, the wet slap of his hips against her plump cheeks filling the room. She moaned and pushed back to meet him, blouse twisted, knees planted, taking every inch like she had been waiting years for someone to fuck her like this.

He set a vigorous pace, not cruel, just hungry—long strokes that made her gasp, then shorter, harder ones that rocked her whole soft body forward on the mattress. Her ass rippled with each impact. Her hairy lips clung to his shaft on every withdrawal, shiny with her come and his precum. He reached under her and found her clit again, rubbing in messy circles while he pounded her from behind, and she sobbed his name into the pillow, laughing once in pure disbelief at how good it was.

"You feel incredible," he gritted out. "This pussy. Fuck, Sonia, you're gripping me. Married and hairy and so fucking wet for a younger guy. I'm not going to last."

"Don't," she gasped. "Use me. I want to feel you lose it. Just—not inside. On me. I want it on me."

That nearly undid him. He fucked her harder for another dozen strokes, watching her ass bounce, feeling her start to flutter around him again like she might come a second time just from being taken. Then he pulled out, cock slick and angry-red, and fisted himself over the plump curve of her ass.

"Stay right there," he said. "Let me see it."

She arched, presenting herself, looking back with that delighted, ruined smile. Errol stroked twice, three times, and came with a rough groan, thick ropes of cum striping across her ass—one over the left cheek, another crossing the cleft, a third landing hot on the soft upper curve and slowly sliding toward the hairy pussy he had just been buried in. He kept stroking through it, painting her, watching his come shine on her skin, the sight of his married colleague on all fours with her skirt up and his load on her ass hitting him harder than the orgasm itself.

He sagged forward, one hand gentle on her hip, both of them breathing hard in the dim room.

Sonia lowered herself onto her stomach with a shaky, satisfied laugh, the bubbly one, softer now, glowing in her cheeks and in the slack happiness of her mouth. "I cannot believe we just did that," she said, and she sounded thrilled, not sorry.

Errol fetched a warm washcloth from the bathroom and cleaned her with careful hands, wiping his cum from her ass, then gently between her thighs, respectful of how sensitive she was, kissing the small of her back when she shivered. She rolled over, skirt still a mess, and pulled him down for a lingering kiss, slow and affectionate, her fingers in his hair.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For seeing me. For meaning it."

"I meant every word." He kissed her once more, sweet after all the filth, then dressed while she watched him with that cute smile, drowsy and bright. At the door he looked back. "Sleep well, Sonia."

"You too, trouble."

In the hallway, walking toward his own room with her taste still on his tongue, Errol was already scheming. Tomorrow's morning session sat right before lunch. He would catch her by the coffee, casual as anything, and suggest they skip the afternoon networking hour—her room again, door locked, her skirt up, his face between those hairy thighs until she came twice, then slower this time, on her back, so he could watch her smile while he fucked her. One night had not touched the bottom of what he craved. He intended to spend the rest of the conference proving it.