It's a really hot day. Not a cloud in the sky. Sun beating down. June. Monday.
You are in the office alone. Lunch. And everyone is out. But not you. Way behind schedule.
It's sweltering and you've just been to the restroom and removed your bra and black lace panties to keep cool. But it's futile. Your face feels flushed with the heat and beads of perspiration keep running down your cheeks.
You unbutton your white corporate short-sleeved shirt as far down as possible without your F-cup size breasts tumbling out.
You feel the backs of your bare thighs sticking against the plastic of the chair, and you wonder if you might have been better wearing trousers rather than the short, shiny black skirt that shows off your strong, runners' legs. But you can't help yourself -- you're a flirt, a little bit of an exhibitionist, and at times with the right one, a slut, a discerning slut. Young men are your weakness. Always have been.
You're late forties now but you can still pull them because you keep yourself in shape and have good genes. Good teeth. High cheekbones. Nice blue eyes. Long curly auburn hair. Tanned. Shaved vagina.
You know you're good in bed, know how to please a guy, give him what he wants.
And what do you want?
A confident good-looking uninhibited young guy in great shape with plenty of stamina and an enormous rock-hard, groin-splitting, spunk-spitting cock that renders your clitoris surplus to requirements.
And that image, that fantasy, keeps morphing into Dan. Twenty-four-year-old Dan. Blonde Dan. Sparkling blue-eyed Dan. Easy-on-the-eye Dan who kept himself to himself, who never talked about any female except his mother and was rumoured to be gay. Dan who worked in IT just down the corridor. Dan who you told 'could pop in the office anytime for a chat and a coffee'. Dan who swam a hundred lengths yesterday to raise money for Autism Awareness. Dan who asked you to sponsor him before adding: 'Feel free to come and support us on Sunday'. And you did come along to support him and cheer him on as he ploughed powerfully though the clear water of the swimming pool. And then you watched him lift himself out of the water with his glistening and sleek muscular six-foot body before straightening himself up on the pool side and running his right hand through his short hair now temporarily dark blonde with the wetness as though he was a model in a stylish men's product commercial but all the time your eyes zoning in on the more than ample bulge barely restrained under his aqua-blue tight-fitting Speedos...
There's a gentle knocking on the office door.
"Come in," you say, a little irritated that you have been disturbed.
