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It's Friday night, a hot muggy summer one on the eve of the three-day-long holiday weekend. It's late; you and I are the last two people working in the office. My cuff links are stacked up on my desk, next to my keys and my cell phone, the battery long since run out. My tie, long since discarded when my peers and subordinates tapped out and left me alone to surmount the project's last hurdles, drapes over these belongings. After what seems like forever, and with a long of relief, I finish the project and lean back, happy to finally be headed home.

I hear a noise. I swivel my office chair and see you in the cubicle outside my door, hunched over your computer, typing away furiously. You had been so quiet I did not know you were there. It's late, but I can't help pause my packing to take a moment to admire the view. You are fit but not without flattering, womanly curves. Your hair is in a pony tail that curls around your shoulder and rests at the top of your large breasts. They're always visible as you make sure to only button your blouse where your bra starts, and your bra's cups are cut low enough so that people walking past can see nearly the full shape and heft of your flattering bosom. Your demure and professional demeanor aside, I know you enjoy the sight of everyone trying not to notice and admire your assets.

I head out of my office and turn off the light, but instead of leaving I ask you what you're doing; after all, the support staff is rarely here this late, and especially not before a day off. You smile at me with ...

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