You turn your camera off and roll your eyes. I flash a brief smile, droning on about requirements elicitation.
It doesn't help that we have a solid five more hours of this meeting, or that we both have to be logged in. But at least we're in this hell together. And lucky you, you don't have to talk through most of it.
You sigh, attempting vacantly to balance a pen on your desk. It's not that you don't care about the meeting, which you really don't, it's more that you've heard this shtick before. We've been sharing this office for four years now, staring at each other across this desk, and working on this project for six months. You know how I talk about this stuff.
You toss the pen up, attempting to catch it in your mouth. You have no idea where the thought came from, but suddenly it's the most important acheivement in your life. You must succeed.
Or not.
You try a few times, one time nearly stabbing your own eye out, before success! You jump up, victorious, arms raised, and mock cheer yourself, pen cocked out one side of your mouth.
I smirk up at you, chuckling. "No, sorry, just some ambient noise on this side, please, continue..."
You grin.
You grab another pen, and turn your back to me, stuffing it indelicately into the opposite side of your mouth. You wait until I'm saying something, then spin, hands claws, erupting in a low growl, tusks raised.
I snort at just how stupid you are, cough, give you a "oh my god stop" smile, apologize to the meeting at large, and continue.
You grin again.
You try a few more gags to see if you can get me to break. The classic pantomime elevator does nothing. You almost startle me by jumping up from crouching below your desk, but not quite. The growling tusks don't play as well the second time.
You pout, defeated. Back to balancing your pen again.
After a moment, you get an awful idea. A wonderful, awful idea.
You look at me. What harm could it do? I mean, it would work.
You'd win, for sure.
And it'd be fucking hilarious, you think.
You glance at the door. Closed for the meeting. No one will bother us. They're probably all sitting in their stupid offices in front of their stupid computers at this same stupid meeting, anyway.
You stand, and I glance up. You stare seriously at me, and I look past the screen at you, puzzled. You just stand there, biting a lip, staring.
"Oh, ya, so, we actually ran into that early on..." I start and you seize the target of opportunity, springing into action.
You tug your blouse out of your skirt, pulling it free around your waist. I flash a quizzical look your way, continuing, as you grasp the bottom of your top.
Victory time, you think.
You pull up quickly, momentarily baring your sleek, skin-tone, push-up bra, tripping me mid-word. I blink, mind fumbling, trying not to stare past the screen and process what I just saw.
You positively beam. Crushed. You crushed me.
Someone online says my name, dragging me back to reality. I stare at the meeting for a second, glancing back at your now-covered chest, swallow and continue, apologizing for inexplicably losing my train of thought.
You grin.
You give it a minute or two. Until I'm buried in another question. Then you bolt upright, yanking your shirt up, your bra staring me suddenly in the face once again.
I stumble again, severely, but don't fall flat this time.
A minor victory, you concede.
After a few minutes, you get up, like you're heading out of the office, then suddenly spin and flash your bra again. After a momentary "Um, I mean, so" I finish my thought, mute my mic, lean out of the camera, and scowl.
"Oh my fucking god you have to stop." I try to look very serious and not at all like I actually don't want you to stop even a little bit.
"Okay." Your contrition seems... shallow.
Because it is.
You already have another plan. An escalation.
You go back to tossing the pen in the air, catching in your lips it more often than not now, and I get back into the meeting. Shortly, you toss it, and it bounces off your forehead and onto the floor behind you.
I glance your way, in the middle of a rather drawn out discussion of system architectural choice, as you cross over to where the pen lays on the floor, and bend down.
That's when I notice you'd done something with your skirt. Pulled it up high? Folded it over? I don't know skirts. It was shorter than it should be. And then you bent down.
"... and that-" Your pink thong slips into view. Like, fully into view. Like, your skirt slips right up over the curve of your ass and I can definitely confirm you are, in fact, wearing a thong. That is to say, the part that I can mostly see is the shapely curve peeking out from between your thighs.
