Elaborate D?colletage

She bursts into the room
full of spreadsheets,
laptop computers,
suits and ties.

Everyone falls silent
pulses race, jaws drop.

She is that good.

A sparkle in her step
a flutter in her eye
a blush on her cheeks
spreading all the way
along her neck
and blossoming
further
down skin
to the still
slightly breathless
heaving chest,

straining breasts
framed, embraced
by that deliciuos,
a little bit too visible
angelic white lace
against a deep
v-shape where the
baby blue
of her blouse
meet and part,
clinging in union
to a brave button,
threatening
to snap loose
at any second.

It could had been
an ordinary blouse,
a business prude attire,

but not his time,
not on her.

Top buttons ripped,
threads still hanging,
collar folded
the wrong way
Wrinkled soft fabric,
wandering strap
underneath.

Panting sighs,
between sultry,
parted lips,
a bead of sweat
travelling from hairline,
to neck, to chest,
dowm, down, down,
disappearing...

That's all it takes

to make them play
that x-rated clip,
that flickering fantasy
of what she did,
what she must
have been doing,
how she must
have been done
just then...

just before entering,
in that cloud
of freshly sexed up
with a flimsy, apologetic
"Sorry I'm late."

as if nothing had happened.

But it must have,
just watch her,
look at her glow!

How? Where?

A fast, feverish encounter
in the temporary privacy
of the laidies' room,
hands gripping, ripping,
stripping down
for a dirty, gritty grind
against a clean, white
restroom sink?

A passionate, furious fuck,
in the minutes that
a flip on the right switch
in the elevator can provide,
panties dangling
from an ankle,
legs wrapped around,
ass and back slammed
again and again
into the door,
stuck between basement
and first floor?

Or maybe an off-the-record
evaluation meeting
in an upper management
closed door office?

Oh, she is good all right.

She took her time
perfecting that
carefully careless
deliberate mess

to make them stare,
imagining, almost seeing
the filthy, prying
predating fingers
reaching up, grabbing
caressing, squeezing
her full, luscious,
milky white mounds
on her exposed body,
blouse torn open,
yanked down,
bra undone,
thrown aside,
a massaging hand
and a teasing tougne
on a pink, erect nipple.

That's how good she is.

When she leans
over the table
to collect
a focus report,
hypnotized eyes focus
on her swelling,
pushed up tits
offered up for
gererous display.

And there,
so deep down
that white lace barely covers
the taboo sight of nipple,

the ultimate confirmaiton...

What is that,
a hickey?
No...a bite mark.
Holy shit.

She is that good,
and she knows exactly how

to make them wish
that they were him,
the one,
that anonymous,
amorous man
who just managed
to mess her up
so beautifully.

So there they sit,
thirty minutes
of polite, tense torture,

an elaborate décolletage
and six painful,
poking erections.

When the deal is done,
far more generous
than they had been
prepared to accept,

she stands and leaves.

They remain.
Can't stand.
Dare not.

In the corridor
she smiles,
straightens collar,
strap, blouse, hair
and wipes away a faux
eyeliner bite mark.

Oh yes,
that's how good she is.