She tugged me into the dark meeting room, skirt rising like a silk curtain. Under the projector’s glow, her black curls glistened (ink on snow). I knelt, tongue parting the soft thicket, tasting warm matcha-honey. Scarlet nails guided me her hushed gasps fogged the glass. She quaked, thighs clamping my ears, flooding my mouth with Tokyo nectar. We fixed our clothes, shared a wicked grin, and returned to spreadsheets (nothing happened, nothing at all).