She drifted close to his ear until he could smell her perfume and feel the heat of her body. Her hair fell on his back and her breast touched his shoulder as he sat at his desk in his cubicle.

“Mine are made of stretch lace,” she whispered. “But not just any lace. The expensive kind that lays flat on my tummy and then curves gently over my hip and hugs the top of my ass until it arrives at the little dimple in the small of my back. Then another piece of lace disappears between my round ass cheeks.

“So…” she paused. “Think about it. There is nothing between your hand and my ass but the thin fabric of my dress pants.”

She blew in his ear lightly to make sure she had his attention. “With that in mind, you might look at my ass differently when I walk down the hall, don’t you think?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, only turned and walked away, a swing in her lace-framed hips.


Just so you know: Whispers is the only category where I might embellish the truth…but it’s always based on my real life.

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