Introduction

MORNING ROUTINE

You know the exact moment when you decided to start wearing low-cut blouses to work. It was midnight on a Friday. After half a bottle of Riesling, you slipped on a matching red satin lingerie set from Vicky's and asked your husband, your hips cocked to one side, if he wanted to join you in the bedroom. He was too busy playing his video game to even look up. You were so mad you finished the wine and spent the next half hour with your trusty vibrator, imagining every boyfriend you've ever had, excluding your husband.

That next morning your breasts were overflowing an old c-cup bra, piled into a scoop-necked blouse that put them on display for everyone at the office. Ever since you have been showing off your goods at work. You tell yourself the short skirts and high heels are just for the attention you're not getting at home and every day you push the limit a little more.

You climb out of bed feeling more than a little sore from your lunges at the gym the night before. The workouts are paying off, you think, as you admire yourself in the bathroom mirror. You pull up the gray tank top and inspect your firm tummy. You're in the best shape you've been in since high school. Your college and post-college (and post-post-college) weight has been shed over the past few months of hard work at the gym.

You undress, taking in your large, bikini-lined breasts, just starting to sag the tiniest bit with age. You wonder if you would look better with Implants. Not yet. Not unless you're with a man who deserves them. Your nipples are small and dark brown against the pale swell of your breasts. Your hips are wide and your butt, well, okay, it can still use a little work. You bend over and study yourself in the mirror across the curve of your back.

Nah, anything but a spotlight and your ass is perfect. Ha! You deliver a stinging smack to your derriere. The red hand print lingers as warmth on your soft flesh. You step inside the shower, luxuriating in the soap and warm water, taking the extra time to shave your clipped pubic hair into a neat rectangle above your mons. Not that your husband has been down there to see your gardening since he got HALO 17, or whatever it is he's always yelling about in the basement.

You return to the bedroom wrapped in a towel. It's a Friday, which normally would have you in a good mood, but your boss, Mr. Perry, has been ratcheting up the pressure on you to finish a stack of spreadsheets. You're very far behind and unless you double your efforts today you'll never finish before the deadline: the end of the week.

With your job hanging in the balance, you decide to notch up your cheesecake. You smoosh your breasts into the tiniest c-cup you have and go with a white, v-neck sweater top cut so low you can see the lacy fringe of the pink bra. A favorite white thong snuggles between your cheeks and you put on your garters and nylons. It feels good rolling the sheer fabric up your slender legs. You apply your makeup - just the right amount, as your mom used to say - along with a pair of gold curlicue earrings. You add a gray mini-skirt so tight you feel like you're shuffling when you walk, a Versace belt and your highest pair of strappy heels. You give your lustrous, auburn hair a quick blow-drying.

"Yeah, that will turn some heads," you spin, modeling for the mirror.

You complete the look with a tiny gold crucifix necklace. You're not very religious, but the way the tiny cross nestles atop your breasts is positively sinful. You giggle, imagining the boys at the office drooling over your cleavage. You're barely decent, which is just what you need to charm every man in range. Time to go.

"Oh, almost forgot!" you stop yourself at the door.

You wiggle back to the bedroom and snag your company ID from the dresser. You clip the laminated badge to the neckline of the sweater. The badge reads REBECCA CHANCE. The photo is from four years ago, when you were fresh out of college and just starting out at Perry Packaging. Ah, so much has changed since then. Your commute to work slows you down enough that you arrive late. You shuffle as quickly as your skirt will allow and sneak in through the doors undetected. The lobby is decorated in a slightly dated style and includes a bubbling fountain and a large portrait of Wayne Perry, the boss. The portrait depicts him as dark haired and handsome, with a square jaw and a large beak of a nose.

You hope he doesn't see you coming in late today of all days. You luck out. Mr. Perry, whose office is right next to the lobby, is in a loud conference call. Even the ditzy receptionist, Wendy, is preoccupied with something on her computer. Once you're past those checkpoints you smooth your skirt and walk in a dignified manner down the corridor, past the cubicles, feeling every man's gaze on you whether it's on you or not. You arrive at your tiny office. It's one of the few perks you enjoy as a senior accountant.

Without further delay you dive into the spreadsheets. It's grueling work and soon your mind wanders as you absently roll the crucifix back and forth in your fingers. Maybe a coffee would be a good way to focus on the task. And while you're over there you can flirt with some of the cute guys in the office. An email pop-up appears on your computer and you see it's your boss nagging you to finish the spreadsheets. You sigh. There's one of those little energy drinks in your desk. Maybe better to just down that and focus on the work. What's it going to be?