She stands in the conference room, defiant in spite of it all. The long list of her misdemeanours. The growing heat of the space crammed with bodies. The blinds are open and the room is filled with beautiful sunlight. She is naked, dimpled and freckled. Blushing, embarrassed. Damp between the thighs and watched by a dozen men, each one old enough to be her father.
Comeuppance, I supposed you’d call it. A year of teasing, teasing, teasing had finally caught up with her. A year of thigh skimming skirts paired with hold-ups. A month of shirts and blouses with the top three, four, five buttons undone. One day of ‘accidentally’ changing into her gym kit with the office door open, and here she is.
She turns from the wide expanse of glass and faces her audience. A dozen men, tending to their cocks. A dozen slabs and slivers of meat that thicken under her gaze. Or not.
Franks has been touching himself through his trousers all afternoon. He used to do it a lot during company meetings, cup his balls and massage the length of his cock and she would watch intently, her eyes occasionally flickering to his face. He never even tried to hide how he was enjoying his actions. No one else seemed to notice. She’d undo a couple of buttons on her blouse and let him spot the flash of white or red lace, the dark of her areola, and enjoy the widening of his eyes and audible catch in his breath.
Now he stands, stroking himself, and advances on her, leering.