One day, I touched her. I swear it was innocent, a move of practiced empathy with men and women I'd performed umpteen times over the years. It was because she was so hot that I'd avoided it up until that point. That day though, it was electric.
It was a baking hot afternoon and she returned from her lunch break and threw her gym bag down angrily. There was such power in the toss that I was drawn to her desk like a moth to a flame. Every muscle on her body appeared pumped and her bare arms were bloated with blood. "So, how was your workout?" I asked innocently as I came up behind her.
Her lips slowly curled up in disappointment. "Honestly," she said, "not the best. I was having trouble filling out the billing on the Thompson account and I think I carried my frustration into my workout. And it's hot enough to roast a pig outside."
I watched a single bead of sweat descend beneath her top and ride down the ridges of her pectorals. She was oblivious to my lechery, studying a piece of paper she held in her hands as she spoke. The simple maneuver caused her biceps to flare. As always, I took in every twitch in her body. I noticed that her normally tight post-workout clothes had been replaced by a loose tank. Her garb afforded me the opportunity to study her physique in finer detail as it moved and fetched on her muscles. A spider web of deep striations streaked across her pecs. The last remains of her female breasts had been worked away over years of heavy lifting. In its place were twin mounds of meaty pecs with a clear chasm in between that had to be, despite the lack of fat, a D-cup. A deep ravine between the muscles that must have been 3 inches deep descended the length of her chest. Stinging the material were two, proud cherry-red nipples. I tried to look away but was hypnotized by her beauty. God her pecs are huge. How much can she bench?
