I didn't realize being selected for jury duty would result in getting bent over a table and filled by Juror #7 [F27M30s] [Creampie] [Unprotected Sex] [Stranger]

It all started when I got that little piece of mail everyone dreads. Jury duty. Fucking fantastic. A whole week of lost wages from the bar and forced proximity to a bunch of randos in a stuffy government building. I was pissed.

The first day at the Multnomah County Courthouse was exactly the circle of hell I'd imagined. The air smelled like old paper and stale coffee. We all sat on uncomfortable wooden benches while a clerk droned on about our civic responsibilities. I was already mentally calculating how many tequila sodas it would take to erase the memory of this place when I saw him.

He was sitting across the jury box, Juror #7. And holy shit, he was a type. He looked like every condescending corporate prick I've ever had to flash a fake smile at while they order some absurdly complicated cocktail. His suit was dark grey, perfectly tailored, and probably cost more than my car. He had a fancy watch that glinted under the shitty fluorescent lights and a jawline you could sharpen a knife on. His expression was locked on 'serious business.' I pegged him for a lawyer, maybe some kind of finance bro. My first instinct was to hate him on principle. My second was an immediate, intrusive thought about what it would take to make that perfect, composed face transform into whatever his 'O' face was. Challenge accepted.

The trial was, predictably, a total snoozefest. Something about corporate embezzlement. The prosecution kept using the word "fiduciary," and each time, I felt a piece of my soul wither and die. By day two, I was desperate for a distraction. My eyes kept drifting back to Juror #7. He was paying rapt attention, occasionally jotting down a note on his legal pad with a pen that looked more expensive than my entire outfit. I watched his hands… strong, clean, long fingers. My brain, the slut that it is, went directly into the gutter.

On day three, I couldn't take it anymore. I tore a small corner off my court-issued notepad, scribbled on it, and waited for the bailiff to turn his back.

If I have to hear the word 'fiduciary' one more time, I'm going to set myself on fire.

I slid the note across the polished wood separating our rows. He glanced down, his expression not changing one bit. For a second, I thought he'd just crumple it up or, worse, hand it to the bailiff. But he picked it up, read it, and then placed it on his own notepad. A few minutes later, the note slid back. His handwriting was as sharp and precise as the crease in his pants.

They'd probably rule it justifiable.

A small smile played on my lips. Okay. Game on.

The notes became our little secret. We started with sarcastic comments about the lead prosecutor's terrible toupee and the defendant who looked like he was about to fall asleep. It was our own private channel, a silent rebellion against the crushing boredom. But because I'm me, I couldn't leave it at that. I had to push.

The next day, I went for it.

You have nice hands.

I watched him read that one. A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle twitched in his jaw. He didn't write back for almost an hour. When the note finally came back, my stomach did a little flip.

What do you think I do with them?

Oh, fuck yes. We were past the point of plausible deniability. I felt a familiar thrill, the one that comes with taking a risk and having it pay off. I wrote back immediately.

I bet you know how to use them to get exactly what you want.

The look he gave me after he read that was pure fire. It was a quick, searing glance that lasted maybe two seconds, but it was enough to make my nipples harden under my tank top. The air in that jury box, already thick with the weight of the law, was now crackling with something else entirely. Something much more interesting.

The rest of the week was a delicious kind of torture. The notes got dirtier. He wrote about pulling my hair. I wrote about getting on my knees for him right there in the jury box. He described wanting to bend me over the witness stand. I described the dragon tattoo on my thigh and told him if he was lucky, he'd get to see it up close. We were building a fantasy world on torn scraps of paper, all while maintaining dead-serious expressions for the judge. The constant threat of being caught, of some other juror or the bailiff seeing the words "cock" and "pussy" scrawled between us, made me wetter than any actual hookup had in months.

On the last day, the tension was unbearable. The lawyers were giving their closing arguments, and all I could think about was the man sitting ten feet away from me. I knew it was now or never. We were about to be sent off to deliberate, and then we'd be dismissed, strangers once again. As the judge announced a final fifteen-minute recess, a note landed in front of me. It was the last one.

Witness Room 4. End of the hall. Now.

My heart hammered against my ribs. There was no hesitation. I stood up, muttered something about the restroom, and walked out of the courtroom, my legs feeling a little unsteady.

The hallway was empty. I found Room 4 and slipped inside, the door clicking softly behind me. The room was small and sterile, just a table and a few chairs. A second later, the door opened and closed again, and the lock turned with a loud, definitive thunk.

He was there. We didn't say a word. All the talking had been done.

He pushed me back against the door, his body caging mine, and his mouth was on mine immediately. A pure release of a week's worth of forbidden tension. His hands were in my hair, tugging my head back, while my fingers dug into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket. I could taste coffee and something else, something that was just him.

I broke the kiss and pushed him back a step. I dropped to my knees on the cheap courthouse carpet without a word, my eyes locked on his. His composure was finally cracking, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. I fumbled with the zipper of his pants, my fingers clumsy with adrenaline. I got it down, reached inside his briefs, and freed his cock. It was thick and heavy in my hand, hot to the touch. A beauty, one of the finer ones I've seen. And I've seen many.

I took the head of his cock into my mouth, tasting the clean, salty precum. He tasted expensive, like his suit. He tangled his fingers in my hair again, not gently this time, holding my head in place as I took him deeper. I loved it. I sucked him with a desperate rhythm, my eyes looking up at him, watching his perfect mask crumble. But after a minute, something inside of me decided it wasn't enough. The feeling of his cock in my mouth was making me ache, my pussy throbbing. I didn't just want to get him off. I wanted him inside me. I needed to be filled, and I needed to be filled now.

I pulled off his cock with a wet pop. He let out a low noise of protest.

"I want you to fuck me," I said, my voice husky.

His eyes went dark. I stood up, hiked up my skirt, and quickly pulled my panties down and kicked them into a corner. I turned, put my hands flat on the witness table, and bent over, pushing my ass out for him.

"Right here," I demanded.

I heard the sound of his pants being shoved down, and then his hands were on my hips, pulling me back against him. The head of his cock nudged against my terribly wet lips, and I gasped, pushing back to meet him. He slid inside me with one long, slow push. I groaned into the tabletop, the feeling of being stretched, of being completely filled by him, was exactly what I'd been craving all week. Holy fuck, I needed this.

He started to move, his rhythm hard and fast, fucking me like he was trying to erase the last five days of forced decorum. The sound of our bodies slapping together echoed in the small room. My moans were muffled by the wooden table, my knuckles white as I gripped the edge. Each thrust was deeper than the last, hitting my cervix and sending jolts of electricity through my whole body.

I was close, so close. I could feel the orgasm building deep inside my body, that delicious coiling of incoming pleasure soon to be released. "Oh fuck," I choked out, my hips bucking back against him.

It hit me like a lightning strike. My whole body seized, my back arching off the table as I screamed into my balled-up fist to stifle the noise. My pussy clamped down on his cock, clenching and squeezing in tight, spastic waves.

My orgasm was what pushed him over the edge. I felt him stiffen behind me, his rhythm breaking. With a deep, rough grunt into my back, he started pumping his load deep inside me. I felt every pulse of hot cum filling my pussy, the feeling so intense it almost made me come again.

He collapsed against my back, both of us breathing hard, his now-softening cock still inside me. After a moment, he pulled out with a wet slick sound. I straightened up slowly, my legs shaking. I could feel his cum starting to drip down my inner thigh.

We were a mess. He was hastily pulling up his pants while I grabbed my panties from the corner and used them to wipe myself down as best I could. We looked at each other, both of us flushed, hair disheveled, and a silent, wild understanding passing between us.

"We need to go," he said, his voice raw.

He left first. I waited a minute, trying to get my breathing under control, then walked out and back to the courtroom. I sat down in my seat just as the bailiff was closing the door. Nathaniel was already there, looking straight ahead, the perfect juror once more. But I could feel the heat radiating off him, and I knew he could feel his cum still cooling inside me. It was our secret. A hot, sticky secret in the middle of a cold, sterile courthouse. And it was the best goddamn thing that had happened to me that week.