Peach Powell was a large woman. She stood 5'6" and weighed 300 pounds. She was 26 years old and was quite shy. She had been teased a lot about her weight as she grew up. She also hated her name. Coupled with her size was the fact that she started developing enormous boobs at an early age, which led to her being dubbed "Beach Ball" or "Beach Balls". Her face was extremely pretty though, with big, pouty lips, sparkling blue eyes with long lashes, cute, chubby cheeks, and a tiny, upturned nose. Her hair was blond and slightly wavy, and she kept it a little longer than shoulder length.
She was only just now beginning to think that men might find her attractive, and that her mammoth 46HH jugs might be an asset, rather than just an expensive and extremely inconvenient shopping catalyst.
Peach had just started working at an important engineering firm as an executive secretary two weeks ago. Her father, a successful business man, had gotten her the job as one of the ways to try to make up for abandoning her and her mother when she was eight years old.
She had a good business relationship with her new boss, but was not on friendly terms. Today she was dressed in a dark blue blazer and skirt, with a white blouse, black stockings and black high heels. She had make-up heavily and carefully applied. Her nails were manicured, she sported a pair of classy gold earrings and her hair was done up in a neat bun.
She was at her desk attending some paperwork when she was interrupted by the intercom. "Miss Powell," her director's voice said.
"Yes, Sir?" she replied.
"Miss Powell, come in to my office at once please."
"Yes, Sir," she responded, and rose from her desk. She then walked down the hall and entered his office.
He was seated at his desk, wearing a dark grey pressed suit with a black tie and a bright shine on his shoes. His hair was slicked back in a conservative style; he was clean-shaven and imposing. He rose from his desk and gestured towards her with a casual look on his face, saying, "Come in, Miss Powell. Close the door behind you and take a seat please."
"Yes, Sir," was her reply again, shutting the door and seating herself in one of the leather chairs in his office.
"Take a letter, Miss Powell," he began, sitting down on the edge of his desk. "To whom it may concern: regarding the remittance for..." he trailed on about some sort of legal issue, while she sat with her legs crossed taking dictation on his letter. After some time, he stopped speaking, and after several seconds, she looked up to see him fixing her with a quizzical look.
She paused for a moment, then asked, "Is something wrong Sir?"
Another moment passed, and then he said, "I think so, Miss Powell. I have a serious problem."
"What would that be, Sir?" she asked.
"Well, Miss Powell, I've been looking at you just now, and I've noticed your cleavage showing at the top of your blouse."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir," she said, and began to button up the top buttons on her blouse, worried that a reprimand might be coming about her mode of dress.
"No, no, Miss Powell. That's not the problem. You're going the wrong way."
