You've come over to my shared workspace, a cubical I rent in a large semi-open loft. I have a door with a window that looks out on a corridor of shared spaces but it's mostly private. You're here so I can help you with a mundane problem with your laptop which I set on my desk and being the tedious process of spyware removal.
"Someone's been surfing porn sites." I joke, though spyware can come from anywhere. While this is a purely business call, given our recent history you expect to pay me in pleasure and you've worn a skirt and a button down shirt. As I delete files and occasionally turn to my computer to search removal strategies and known spyware variants my hand drifts over to your knee, creeping up your stockings toward your hips. You sigh and open your legs for access. I press my finger into your panties where the top of your vagina would be. You push your hips back against the cloth. My hand is still as you subtly rock your hips back and forth.
Your cellphone rings and you're startled. You look at the number.
"It's my boyfriend," You're surprised and nervous as you answer the call. "Hello. Hey. Yeah I'm getting my computer fixed. No ... uh ... sure I can talk." I stand up and look down at you. You are curled around your phone and you look up at me confused. "Okay what's happening. Hey, that's no good ..." Your conversation continues one sided as you watch me.
