Pleasant compensation

I called her "Madame" to myself. Probably because she was always emphatically polite when dealing with clients.

We were often left alone — I was a contractor programmer and sysadmin twice a week, Madame was the secretary and manager for all sorts of matters from Monday to Friday. Our small firm occupied the first floor of a private house. The foreigners who founded the company paid the rent on time and also sent us our salaries. Something didn't go quite right for the company's founders, and we had practically no clients. The two of us somehow managed advertising and company development without much visible effect. Sometimes it was a bit boring at

the firm. And when people are bored, especially if they are under stress, angry, or conversely, very happy, all sorts of things happen. Boredom is a harbinger of change.

There were no particularly warm relations between us, and sometimes this cunning and shrewd woman made not the most pleasant impressions (who, in principle, likes cunning people?), but she couldn't help but be respected. Madame had lived in Italy for about ten years, gave birth to a boy, and then troubles began: her husband died, she was pushed out of her job, and she had to return to her homeland with a little boy. Now she has an adult son with his own family in another city and a sick mother who needs constant care. Cunning Madame arranged everything quite cleverly — she was the intermediary for renting the premises for our foreign bosses, and by an amazing coincidence, her house was not far from our firm. So she takes care of her mother and, in a way, works at the firm.

In her early fifties, Madame did not possess the freshness and firmness of a twenty-year-old (the opposite would have been surprising), but her clothes always looked neat, there was always some scarf, brooch, or just a bow — as if the woman spent 20 minutes every day in front of the mirror trying on different trinkets. A nice, round butt, which she wasn't shy about "showing" in tight jeans and skirts. Quite short, blonde hair, and a pleasant smile.

Madame was not a hacker... Not at all. She was more of a "Hatsker" who makes others suffer on the computer instead of her. She aimed the mouse for so long that I couldn't stand it, put my hand on top of hers, and guided the mouse cursor to the right place. Madame's hand was very warm and pleasant to the touch. The woman noticeably flinched but said nothing.

— I'm sorry, I just couldn't take it.

— I'm not young anymore, this computer business is hard for me.

— It's not difficult here, you just need to click more boldly. You're unlikely to break anything... — Madame just snorted skeptically in response, then smiled and said:

— I'm not a computer scientist, I don't need to know such complicated things.

It's not that I was angry, but it had long since become annoying. "How do I do this?", "Why isn't this working for me?", "Can you help me with this?", "Can you do this for me...?". And I had seen that her resume said "Experienced PC user"... Sometimes you want to hit such people with something heavy...

— Maybe we should take a break? I'll go put the kettle on. — In our small kitchen, there was an electric kettle and a few mugs for the workers. I decided to make myself some tea too. I took out my mug, threw in a tea bag, and stood nearby. Madame was wearing a tight turtleneck and a long, warm skirt (it was cold). At that moment, the woman was looking for milk for her tea in the refrigerator, which stood on the floor. I somehow got lost in pleasant thoughts, looking at her appetizing behind. At that moment, something just clicked inside me. Maybe it was the devil on my shoulder, or just a simple obsession. erotic stories Or maybe it was a Freudian attraction... but I put down my mug, quickly approached the woman closely, and with my hands pulled Madame by the waist towards me. The woman straightened up sharply, holding a bag of milk in her hand.

— What are you...

In one of our firm's rooms, there was a suitable high table. I dragged my victim there. Along the way, Madame cried out louder and more desperately through my hand. It became very irritating. I shook her hard and hissed viciously into her ear:

— Listen, prude, stop screaming, or I'll knock your teeth out. — as proof, I squeezed her mouth hard. People are different, some only get angrier from injuries, and others... Maybe Madame was tired of fighting all her life?

The woman suddenly went limp and stopped screaming. Although I noticed tears streaming down her cheeks. I sharply turned Madame to face me, yanked her skirt off, her beautiful lace panties (I didn't miss the chance to twirl them on my finger before throwing them away). Madame just sobbed silently. I sat the woman down on the table in front of me, pulled down my pants and underwear to my knees. My cock was already ready and sprang up, dangling before the coveted vagina. Madame's pussy was well-groomed, with a small strip of shaved hair, which couldn't help but please. Moving Madame to the very edge, I guided my cock with my hand towards her pussy. Such a dry, and seemingly too tight for my friend, kitty didn't want to give in. Grabbing the woman more comfortably, I stubbornly and with pressure began rhythmically pushing my cock into the coveted hole. From my efforts, the massive table began to noticeably shake, and Madame sobbed louder. The sensation was like trying to insert into wood, from which you only get pain and splinters. Maybe the woman's age wasn't right, but soon my diligence began to bear fruit.

The cock penetrated deeper and deeper into Madame. Sobs gradually gave way to moans. Her pussy transformed from sandpaper into wet paper with sharp edges, and then altogether — into a soft, juicy sponge. I drove my cock into the hated and so hotly desired Madame all the way to the end. The woman tried not to look at me, as if staring in the other direction and covering her face with her hand all the time. I don't know how long I pounded her like that, but her already juicy vagina began to squelch in time with my thrusts. It turned me on even more.

I, slipping my hands under Madame's thighs, lifted the woman and, already in the air, to the full length of my cock, with a loud slapping of her worked-out pussy against my balls, I fucked the still firm, albeit not young, body. However, I wasn't a hero either, and soon, finding the nearest chair, I sat down on it, still holding Madame on my "hook."

I powerfully wrapped my arms around the woman's waist and began fiercely impaling the moaning Madame onto my cock. The not-so-young butterfly Madame on my needle seemed to try to cling to me more, put her head on my shoulder, and hugged me with her arms. Not for long did the slapping of the vagina against the cock echo through the half-empty office. For the last time, impaling my victim deeper, I began to cum abundantly and powerfully. Maybe feeling it or just from her own bad thoughts, but Madame let out a strange moan.

— I came... — I muttered stupidly and thoughtlessly...

— Me too — came the reply...

Strangely, I didn't feel any guilt at all. The compensation was simply satisfactory.