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clawing
hands, his trim body working her from behind, Lane fixed on the
image of his grey eyes, reflected in the glass, staring at her as
his cock slid along the clenching walls of her pussy. The image
made her clench her legs shut.
    Even as she stared at spreadsheets and tried her best
to think about accounting, Lane’s mind churned with imagined
scenarios; Kyle on her couch as she straddled him, feeding him her
nipples as her hips gyrated in grinding circles; Kyle in her car’s
back seat, parked at the lowest level of the building’s garage, his
hand stroking her hair as she sucked him into a steel hardness;
Kyle kneeling before Lane’s desk, pressing his mouth to her wet
mound, licking her up and down, enclosing her clit between his
lips.
    Lane sat there electrified and deeply afraid. She
wasn’t a young girl anymore. At 34, Lane was able to pick out her
destructive behaviors when they arose. Usually she was able to hold
them at bay. But not always. Not when they felt like this.
    As a generation of men had learned in the last 30
years, a quick way to unemployment was a hard romp with an intern.
The days of chasing secretaries around desks were lost to the
distant past.
    Even the best-case scenario for getting caught, even
without losing a job, would be a guaranteed distraction from a
promising career. While women weren’t hit as hard from sexual
harassment suits, the cost of getting a reputation could be so much
worse. No matter her talent, once word spread she was fucking in
the office, the whispers would spread and no amount of talent would
wash a way the scarlet letters ‘Office Slut.’
    Entertaining even these thoughts was an absurdity. No
one ever got to the top fucking by an intern. But good Lord did she
want it. Lane wanted it so much she felt like she needed it.
    The devil on her shoulder was sketching out a hundred
schemes, all ending with Lane bent over her desk with Kyle’s
perfect cock hammering her from behind. Yesterday, the devil had
taken the form of her best friend from down the block on Garland
Street, Eva Ravenwood.
    The road to temptation began with the best of
intentions, a cup of tea between friends, a chat for one woman to
get help and advice from another.
     
    - [ - - - ] -
     
    For months, Lane had been in the eye of a horrible
depression.
    Waiting for Eva in the booth on the edge of the
Sicilian Forest Café’s dining room, Lane was a desperate woman.
Desperate for a break, desperate for a change, desperate for a wisp
of hope in the whiteout of a Chicago winter.
    Lane idled, waiting for Eva, stirring her tea with
slow strokes, hoping for her mind to rest. Here she was, looking
forward to a pleasant lunch, taking a moment to allow the tasks and
worries of work and a ruptured home life to settle. Of course, she
could not. A sullenness and doubt consumed her, everything inside
an unpleasant, curdled emotion. She needed help.
    It was her curse of late. Any open moment, where in
earlier years she could daydream or simply watch the world go by,
Lane’s mind would turn in on itself, worrying over the same
depressing landscape, wondering where her life had cart-wheeled off
the tracks. Wondering how she had found herself at this stage
locked in a colorless job in the field she once loved. Wondering
why Charles had decided to cheat on her and set a fire of their
marriage.
    By the time she came to sit in this café, Lane wanted
to shake off the crust of sorrow accrued from a year dealing with
lawyers, divorce papers and the shock of being single again at the
lip of middle age. Eva had promised her a divorce party when the
final papers came through, but that was still months away. Still
Lane wanted hope and suspected Eva could provide it.
    A year ago, it seemed Lane and Eva were both on the
same horrible glide path to heartbreak. Their home lives were
filled with tension when they were not ringing with sour shouting.
Their husbands were both consumed by work. Every week Lane and Eva
would come to