He stood framed in the doorway to his office watching her as she flounced down the hallway directly toward him. He had no idea who she was, only that she snagged his attention like fabric on a nail.

She walked on impractically high heels that she wore with surprising poise, matched with stockings that could have been pantyhose but he prayed were not. Her short pleated burgundy skirt and tight crimson sweater sparked with sexual fire, fed by the black choker curled around her neck like smoke. Above it all, a mass of firecracker red hair blazed with color and bright promise, curls bouncing with each step she took. She was so perfect she didn’t seem real.

Several seconds passed before he recognized her.

It was his wife.

Maybe.

Just as recognition dawned on him, she abruptly turned a corner and disappeared into another hallway.

It had to be her. Right?

She must have dyed her hair with one of those temporary dyes and dressed up after he left for work. He’d never seen the clothes, but she had a closet full of clothes he’d never seen before. Still, it wasn’t just the hair color and clothes that affected him. She looked fundamentally different, as if she were a different person.

Perhaps she was. Perhaps it wasn’t her.

He looked at the wall clock. 11:47.

A new client had called yesterday to make a lunch appointment for today. A client he had never met before. The name: Amber Glass.

The name contained his wife’s love of alliteration, the repeated “a” sound in both names. The name also doubled as a modified noun--Amber Glass--which he knew was an oddity of language his wife enjoyed. She liked names that doubled as parts of speech. Hunter. Patience. Faith. He found her eccentricity nerdish and sexy.

It had to be her.

Didn’t it?

Amber Glass?

He had only seen her for an instant.

His desk phone rang, and as he walked to his desk to answer it his cell phone vibrated, in receipt of a text. He pulled out his cell as he answered the desk phone.

“Hello?” he asked as he pulled up his texts.

“Someone here to see you about the secretary’s job. A Ms. Glass.”

“Thank you, Annette.”

“I wasn’t aware you were looking for a secretary.”

“I’m not, Annette.” He found only one new text on his phone, from an unknown number.

“I thought I was your secretary,” said Annette.

“You are, Annette. Don’t worry, you aren’t getting fired. You’ve been an excellent secretary.” He pulled up the text.

“Good. This young lady doesn’t appear to have many, um, skills.”

“That’s okay, Annette.”

“She’s in the ladies room, but I will show her to your office when she returns.”

Simultaneous with hearing his visitor was in the bathroom, he saw the text he received: no words, only an image. It showed an uplifted frill of skirt above the shapely, naked ass of a woman. His first instinct would have been to confirm it was his wife, but his judgment grew hazy with the sight of a slender neck of a butt plug, firmly inserted into the woman’s ass. His cock grew instantly hard.

The background of the photo clearly showed the interior of a bathroom stall.

It had to be her.

He heard a knock on his door.

Come in,” he said. The door opened.

There she stood.

It was his wife. It wasn’t his wife.

He took her in from the feet up. Those fuck-me-now high heels. The short skirt like something out of a wet dream, and pleated no less, a detail plucked straight from his teenage fantasies. The tight sweater and braless tits. The choker that, like the pleated skirt, implied an intimate working knowledge of the sexual mechanics of his libido.

The red hair, however, proved the masterstroke.

Her and not her.

His and not his.

He knew her face so well he could close his eyes and instantly recreate it from memory, but she wore her burning red hair and sexually charged dress like a mask, hiding her everyday self. Or maybe the everyday self she showed him was the mask, and this signaled her true persona.

Both possibilities aroused him.

“Who are you?” he asked her.

She put a finger to her lips and shushed him. In lieu of an audible answer, she closed the door and strolled to the side of his desk, putting more action into the movement of her legs and ass than was strictly necessary.

She pressed her hips against the desk and pressed her hands against the surface. She turned to him and threw him a dirty, lop-sided smile. She slowly lowered herself to the surface of the desk by sliding her hands out in front of her. Her short skirt rode up over the dangerous curve of her ass as she slid.

He circled behind her, caught the hem of her skirt and flipped it up. Her pussy glistened softly in the harsh fluorescent light. Above her pussy the butt plug sparkled, winking at him. He ran a fingertip along her pussy lips and up to the rim of her ass as she writhed under his touch.

Unlike the clothes she wore, which he had never seen before, he knew of the butt plug. He had bought it for her. It was made of glass, and tinted with a honey hue. He was color-blind; his wife had described it to him as amber colored.

Glass. Amber Glass. That was how she had chosen her name. He laughed aloud at her wordplay.

He dropped to his knees. His tongue found its way to the edge of his lips and paused as he marveled at this gift before him, a perfect stranger and his wife, one cradled inside the other like nesting dolls. Who else nested within her? He loosed his tongue and leaned into her fragrance, thirsty for the taste of more.