Oiling Up The Secretary

Isabelle Deltore and Alex De La Flor huddle over paperwork at their desks in the office, flipping through stacks like it's just another grind. The phone shrieks, and Alex snags it. She repeats the caller's gripe loud enough for her boss to catch: some whiner's bitching that their shiny new gel feels too damn dry. Isabelle's face turns thunderous as she eavesdrops. Alex tries to soothe the boss while sweet-talking the caller, but Isabelle waves her over, yanks the receiver, and lays into the poor sap. 'How dare you question my gel?' she snaps. 'I cooked up this formula myself, ran it through a full R&D gauntlet, and kept quality control tighter than a drum. These bullshit accusations? Not on my watch!' She slams the phone down mid-sentence, then wheels on Alex. 'Did you really follow up on everything like you claimed?' Alex squirms, mumbling that yeah, she shipped the gel samples to the lab, but they ghosted her on results. So she fudged the approval to dodge deadlines. Called 'em twice a day, got endless 'soon' promises, but nada. Isabelle's eyes blaze. 'You risked the whole company for that? We're testing this gel right now, right here.' Alex blinks. 'How?' Isabelle shoves everything off Alex's desk in a clattering avalanche—pens, papers, the works—crashing to the floor as Alex's jaw hits the deck. 'I need to massage you, make sure it's firing on all cylinders.' Alex hesitates but nods, peeling off her clothes. She stretches out naked on the desk, and Isabelle slicks her hands with gel, diving in, kneading those curves. From the first rubs, the gel's gliding smooth as sin—no dryness in sight. But Isabelle's not sold yet. She strips down too, tossing her outfit aside. 'Can't ruin my clothes, and if it hits my skin direct, that's bonus proof it rocks.' Bare as the day, she grabs Alex's hand. 'C'mon, out to the other room—that inflatable mattress.' Isabelle flops onto it, all slippery confidence. 'Your turn to work me over. Gotta confirm it's slick where it counts.' Alex's hands roam, oiling up Isabelle's back, thighs, pausing at that round ass. 'This too?' Isabelle smirks. 'Every inch, kid. Butt's included for the full test—can't half-ass quality control.' Alex dives back in, spreading gel over those cheeks, and damn, it's working like a charm. 'No clue what these clients are yapping about,' Isabelle groans. 'This stuff's pure gold.' The slip 'n' slide amps the heat, turning gel fire into straight-up lust between boss and secretary. Isabelle flips the script, sliding her oiled body over Alex's, grinding slow and teasing—ultimate product trial. They crank it up with hardcore QC: fingers plunging deep, slick pussies rubbing fierce in tribbing bliss, scissoring till sweat mixes with gel. Isabelle's on a mission, pounding away at every angle, pride fueling the frenzy. She won't quit till the results scream perfection.