Blowing The Dress Code

I saunter into the office on Monday morning, my tight little black skirt hugging my hips like a second skin, riding high enough that every step threatens to flash my lace thong to the world. The company dress code is bullshit—skirts to the knee, blouses buttoned to the collar, no heels over three inches. Fuck that. I've got my blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the swell of my full tits straining against the sheer fabric, nipples already hard from the AC blasting my cleavage. My stilettos click like a challenge on the marble floor, drawing stares from the suits who pretend not to look. By noon, HR emails me: "Immediate meeting with Mr. Reynolds re: dress code violation." Perfect. I knock on his corner office door, heart pounding with that delicious mix of nerves and lust. He looks up from his desk, all silver fox with a stern jaw, his eyes widening as they drop to my legs, then up to the valley between my breasts. "Miss Harper, this is unacceptable," he growls, standing to tower over me. "You know the rules." I bite my lip, stepping closer, my perfume—vanilla and sin—wafting toward him. "Rules are made to be blown, Mr. Reynolds." Before he can protest, I drop to my knees on the plush carpet, my skirt hiking up to bare my ass cheeks. His zipper's down in seconds, and I fish out his thick cock, already throbbing and leaking pre-cum like he's been fantasizing about this all morning. God, it's massive, veined and hot in my hand as I stroke it slow, teasing the slit with my thumb. He groans, gripping the desk. "What the—fuck." I don't wait. My glossy lips part, tongue flicking out to lap at the head, salty and musky, before I swallow him deep. My throat relaxes like a pro, taking every inch until my nose buries in his trimmed pubes. I bob like a woman possessed, slurping wet and loud, spit dripping down my chin onto my tits. He grabs my hair, fucking my face now, grunting as my cheeks hollow out, sucking hard enough to make his balls tighten. "Jesus, your mouth... blowing the goddamn dress code right out the window," he rasps, hips bucking. I hum around his shaft, vibrations making him curse, my free hand slipping between my thighs to rub my soaked pussy through the thong. He swells impossibly bigger, then erupts—hot ropes of cum blasting down my throat, overflowing to smear my lips and drip onto my exposed cleavage. I pull off with a pop, licking him clean, smirking up at him with cum-glazed lips. "Violation handled, sir?" He just nods, dazed, as I stand, adjust my skirt like nothing happened, and strut out—knowing tomorrow's outfit will be even sluttier. Dress code? Consider it blown.