If only my red strips of bacon were the red lace of her panties. If only instead of tearing this meat apart, I could shred the flimsy fabric with my teeth to reach her puckered bud, to taste juices surely warmer and far tastier than Orange Tropicana.
From across the room, she smiled at me. I swallowed, turned away, my eyes watering from the sight of her shapely hips swaying to the light Blues music Café Cascade, Taj, Goa was playing today. As she neared with her plateful of sausage and pancakes, I turned back - cool as a cucumber, my I'm-The-Perfect-Boss-With-No-Penis expression plastered onto my face. "Mr. Jaiswal," she began, "Sir, You should have really come for the jog this morning. The beach side is especially beautiful that early?"
"Yes?" I asked, feigning disinterest, as my eyes roved over empty pages of Business Insider seeing nothing but the curves of her body, as she must have jogged. The way her breasts, squashed against each other must have risen, and fallen as if keeping sensuous beat to the music she must have played. I thought of her in tight lycra shorts, and how I could have gone jogging, torn them off, and taken her on the beach - our combined bodies covered in nothing but sand.
She was still excitedly talking, I realized, as I looked up again - zeroing in on her lips which were biting a sausage daintily now. My mind did cartwheels as her little front teeth bit into the meat, and her full luscious lips descended after, closing in the bit of food. As if on cue, another sausage, somewhere lower down, jumped a little bit.
This wouldn’t work, I knew. Far from thinking about work, this innocent little chit had only distracted me from it.
"I researched everything you need on the Mittals, Sir," she was saying now, "I've put in everything into a file, and emailed it to you - what they've built, their contractors, their controversies, upcoming projects - anything you might need to complete the deal today.