Author's Note: There's a prologue for this titled "Peaches" written from a third person perspective that is set several months in the future after Part 1. You can read "Peaches" first or save it for the end - your choice. Choice is good right?
Part 1
Heather is a clerk that does filing and errands here in our office. She'd worked with us all through high school. More importantly she is the kind of girl at work that the medium-smart and above guys quickly peg as "trouble." In her case, trouble comes in an absurdly hot little 18 year-old package. The male occupants of the entire office had breathed a collective sigh of relief two months ago when she finally turned 18. We got her a cake. She celebrated her birthday. We celebrated being promoted from perverts to slightly more respectable lechers.
Despite being a 28 year-old junior manager-type, I play-flirted with Heather even though I shouldn't have. It didn't help that she was a talented flirt. Blonde, blue-eyed, 5'2", and 110 pounds, she bragged once when we were alone one morning in the kitchen having coffee that she had been getting hit on since she was riding a bicycle. "It got worse," she smirked, gesturing at her chest, "when 'these' came in at age 13." "These" were her large, round, 32-D boobs that looked impossibly huge attached to her tiny frame. They jutted straight out in epic, gravity-defying beauty.
Just two days earlier, I had accidently learned that her boobs were also unbelievably firm when we collided one morning in the hallway. It was my fault. I had turned blindly after picking something up from the printer and Heather was right behind me.
Our unintended collision was a near perfect union. It started with one of my knees slipping under her short, pleated skirt Our first actual point of contact was her crotch jamming into the fleshy spot just above my knee. Her gasped, "Oh!" came as our mutual momentum began whipping our upper bodies together from there up. Her firm flat belly rolled into mine and then her gigantic boobs pressed into my chest. On sheer instinct, I darted my free arm around, behind, and up the middle of her back to keep her from falling backwards. It proved wise because her bright blue eyes widened as my 80 pound advantage sent her torso ricocheting back. I half-stepped forward to follow her, still trying to keep her from falling backwards, and pressed her harder to my chest. Her chin came to rest on my shoulder.
When the physics finished working themselves out, it actually ended up being kind of graceful. She was firmly pressed to me from crotch to neck and leaning back with most of her weight on my arm. Her fantastically firm mammaries were spread to form a perfect boob barrier between us. We were in a shallow dancer's dip. I could smell her sweet, peach shampoo.
"Wow," she breathed, "my hero." She leaned back a bit more, pulling her chin from my shoulder and gave me better bedroom eyes than a teenager should have been able to muster.
"Hardly. Jeez, if I'd been looking where I was going I wouldn't have plowed into you. I'm really sorry." I leaned myself back to upright, bringing her with me, and she frowned a tiny bit as I stepped away. I immediately got the impression that Heather was not used to men stepping
away
from her.
"Well, you've got hero instincts going for you anyway. I'm fine. So what was the best part of that for you?" She smiled with a cocked eyebrow and straightened her disheveled cashmere sweater so that it now spread more evenly across her glorious tits. To her credit, she had re-composed herself quickly and was well enough to flirt.
"Hmmm... I'd have to say your shampoo. I like peaches. A lot." I grinned. A rudimentary sense of workplace etiquette had sharpened my riposte.
Her short, bright laugh came quickly and easy. "I'll just bet you do. See you later... 'Hero'." she teased. She stepped past me with a twirl before turning to continue down the hall.
"Yeah, back to work 'Peaches'." I craned my neck to risk a quick glance at her exquisite little bubble butt that made her short skirt swing enticingly.
I caught whiffs of her shampoo on me for the rest of the day. That night, I mentally replayed the feel of her body against mine in one of the quickest masturbation sessions since I discovered myself at age 14.
The nicknames stuck the way they sometimes do. She liked "Peaches" and I kind of took to "Hero."
It really started on a random Tuesday. I had been pulling extra hours at work for the past three weeks. A client with a rushed merger had begged us to take on a project. The completion bonus they offered if we could pull it off was immense, but I was getting burned out.
Of all people, Heather had helped me the most. She couldn't do any of the analysis but she could rummage through the dozens of record boxes. She fetched me files I needed. She put files away after I finished looking them over. My work moved a lot quicker as a result. She worked late too. It was her summer before college and her high school friends had evaporated. They were off on the usual pre-college adventures - backpacking through Europe and drinking in Mexico. I felt bad for her; stuck at home and working tons of hours but, as she succinctly put it, "It's either hang out with you... or hang out with my parents. Plus, you let me drink."
We had worked out a ritual. Before lunch time we agreed on what we were having for dinner. Over lunch hour I ducked out for suitable booze. In the evening, she ordered take-out and ran out to pick it up. We usually broke for dinner together in the paper-clogged conference room around 8 o'clock. Another hour or two of work after dinner and we called it a night.
Tonight was Asian night. We couldn't decide on sushi or Chinese so we sprang for both. I had agreed to pick up a bottle of sake because she swore she could get her hands on a hot plate to warm it.
When she came back with the food it was clear she'd done something new tonight. She'd stopped at home to get changed before hitting the restaurant.
"In honor of Asian night!" she beamed. She wore a yellow silk, spaghetti strap camisole with a Chinese design in light blue thread. She paired it with dark designer jeans and little embroidered flats. Her light blue bra strap matched the blue thread in her cami. Her top showed her giant round boobs jammed together in tight cleavage. It also showed the perfectly tanned skin of her shoulders. Its yellow silk picked up highlights in her shoulder-length blonde hair. Its blue detail picked up her blue eyes. She'd never looked better.
I cleared off the end of the conference table. She sat in one of the big leather conference room chairs at the end of the table and I sat by her in an identical chair right around the large table's corner. We opened trays and boxes. I warmed and poured sake. We munched happily, making small talk about movies and books we liked. In an hour, we put a serious dent in the 2L bottle of sake I bought. I think that's what prompted her question.
"Hero, do you think I'm sexy?"
I counted to three in my head before answering. "Peaches, the eastern seaboard thinks you're sexy." I focused in on the sushi platter like deciding which piece of fish I ate next was a vital decision.
"Really?" I felt her eyes on me.
"Yes." I still didn't look up.
"But you didn't answer my question." She followed.
"Hmmm?" Still. Not. Looking. Up.
"You didn't say whether
you
think I'm sexy or not." She persisted.
"True." I couldn't possibly make sushi look more complicated.
" 'True' you think I'm sexy, or 'true' you admit you are dodging my question?" She pressed.
