"Hello, Mrs. Norman, what can I do for you?" 

I studied the man greeting me and immediately thought, 'Sleazeball.' From slicked-back hair to charcoal grey pinstripe suit, Mr Fuchs exuded the lazy confidence of a Great White Shark coming across a group of floundering baby seals.

The obligatory handshake was professional, but what I saw reflected in his eyes — the way he mentally undressed me — certainly wasn't. 

Not that I objected. With a fresh outlook on life, I'd changed my hairstyle and was dressed to kill. To encourage Mr Fuchs, I thrust out my chest until the jacket button maintaining my decency, was severely tested. As I watched him ogling me, I knew the sexy lace bra and the curve of my full breasts was visible. I let him gawk a little longer before answering his opening question.

"My husband is threatening to divorce me," I said, "and I'm looking for some advice."

"What grounds does he have?"

"Evidence of my infidelity. And, according to him, that voids our prenuptial, and I won't get a penny. Is he right?"

Mr. Fuchs led me to a couch. "I don't think we should worry too much about that," he said, confidence oozing from every pore. I sat, and my short skirt ascended my thighs, his eyebrows also rising at the display of my stocking tops. Despite his gold wedding ring, a wolfish grin took time to subside. 

"What proof does he have of your infidelity?"

"Photos." 

He again raised his eyebrows. "What sort of photos?"

"Selfies," I said, crossing my legs. My skirt rose even higher, and for a moment, Mr Fuchs remained silent.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Norman," he said, eyes flickering from my thighs to my face, "What do you mean by selfies?" 

"After finding out he'd slept with my sister, I decided two can play that game. So I fucked the young boy who delivers our groceries. He wanted something to show his mates, well, one thing led to another." 

"And your husband found out?"

I nodded. "Yes, the sneaky bastard had obviously gone through my phone, and last week he confronted me with printed copies of the photos. Then he said I wouldn't get a single penny from him."

"Have you erased the images from your phone?" 

Smiling, I reached into my handbag and handed him my device. The moist heat between my legs increased as the lawyers' finger slid over the screen, one debauched scene following another. What had started as harmless fun, had rapidly developed into some kinky hardcore action. 

"Jesus, you let him fuck you in the ass." 

Our eyes met, and I nodded, grinning at the memory. Seeing the growing bulge in Mr Fuchs trousers, I had to exercise extreme patience. Then he cleared his throat. 

"Surely you must have known your husband would find these?"

I nodded, tilting my head to one side. 

"Then I must ask, and maybe I should have started with this... Why did you take the photos?"

"I've always enjoyed sex, Mr. Fuchs," I replied, staring into his eyes. "I have a good body, and I'm not ashamed of it." 

Emphasising my point, I undid my jacket and shrugged it off my shoulders. The lawyer's eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he saw my full breasts straining my expensive but scanty lingerie. The stifled groan was gratifying to hear.

"My God, they're gorgeous," he muttered.

I slid effortlessly off the couch, pushed his knees apart and knelt between them. Before he could react, I huskily said, "And they're yours," and unzipped his fly. 

Seconds later, after a couple of sharp tugs, Mr. Fuchs's trousers relinquished his raging erection. Leaning to put his cock in my mouth, I told him to take photos. 

I heard many pictures being taken: some when I encompassed his swollen prick's head and more when I swallowed it completely. Despite protesting that, "We shouldn't be doing this," his entwined fingers in my hair made sure I didn't stop. To preserve the moment, I grabbed the phone and snapped another selfie. 

Then I removed my bra and held my breasts in a way that couldn't be misconstrued. Again, photos were taken of Mr. Fuchs fucking my breasts, his swollen glans disappearing enthusiastically into my mouth with each thrust. Suddenly, he was grunting. 

"I'm gonna cum all over your fucking tits, you slut," he gasped. 

I quickly handed him the phone. "Don't forget to take a photo," and squeezed my boobs around his rigid shaft, inspiring the first string of thick, creamy sperm to erupt from his pulsating cock. After he'd finished cumming, spunk decorated my chest, neck and face. Impressive display.

Before I left Mr. Fuchs's office, I'd photographed us in various positions. There was me sitting on his face while climaxing, others with my legs spread and his cock slamming into my pussy, but the best pictures were of him cuming over my bum after savagely exorcising his carnal demons on my asshole.

When he asked if I wanted him to do anything about my husband, I nodded. Putting on but not fastening my jacket, I draped my arms around his neck and pressed my tits against his chest. 

Then I brushed my lips against his ear. "Yes, I want your help. But first, I must tell you that my real name is Mrs. Detroit. Unless you want your wife to see the photos we've taken this afternoon when you see my soon-to-be ex-husband, you can remind him of his affair with my sister and how this divorce could turn messy."

The lawyer's jaw dropped, and I patted his cheek. "Then you must persuade him to give me the house, a car, and enough alimony for me to continue living in the luxury to which I'm accustomed. Don't worry; he can afford it. You, my dear fellow, can't."

After picking up my handbag, I walked toward the door, unable to contain my triumphant smile.