I was standing at the opening of her cube, half in, half out. I looked down the hallway, and though I didn’t see anyone, I thought it would be safer if I moved into her cube a bit. I could still see over the wall, in order to spot someone approaching, but I thought I better to keep the bottom half of my body completely out of view. As I stepped in, I inadvertently pressed against her hand such that her whole hand spread itself over my zipper, palm squarely over the ridge in my jeans.
She gave me a firm squeeze, saying, “You are SO hard! We always wondered what you would be packing (the distinctly American phrase rolling off her Russian accent in a starkly erotic way) but never thought one of us would find out.”
She giggled, then let go, leaning back, she glanced at her screen. “Those reports still are not done! I wonder if you could slow them down even more?” And began tracing her finger tips along the bulge, toward my hip. Arriving at the knob, she began playing with the ridge, “I can see – and feel – a lot of detail! Are you not wearing underwear?”