I, on the other hand, was becoming adept at it.

"Afternoon Fred, how are you?" I nuzzled my head round the door and smiled warmly. Fred was seated at his desk. There was nothing on it. He had long since ceased to pretend he did any work: the days of having strategically placed pieces of paper, which he could pick up and pore over at the first sign of being observed, were gone - retirement was too close for such concerns.

Fred looked up, surprised. I was not in the habit of speaking to him, and certainly not on a casual basis: only when work dictated did I enter the lair of Fred Thirlwell. "Hello," he replied. "I'm fine thanks. You?"

"Yes, great." I paused, looking at the carpet and gulping. "Well, no, not really." I raised my eyes and stared at him, fabricating what I hoped was an enigmatic expression. A gentle flutter of eyelashes, indicative of someone finally deciding to unburden themselves. "D'you mind?" Without waiting for his acquiescence, I perched myself on the chair opposite his mighty desk.

"You okay?"

"Yes, I guess so." Pause, build-up of tension. I was doing this rather well, I thought. I stared at the polished surface of his desk, following the lines of the wood, then suddenly looked up and stared into his eyes once more. Tilting my head suppliantly, I continued. "Problems, Fred." Look away, a sigh, a pout, emphasising the lips, look up again. Lick lips.

"Can I help? Wanna talk about them?"

Oh yes, Fred, I want to talk about them. Welcome to my web, walk right in, dear man, your fate awaits. Take your first, unknowing steps towards the horror of the cock-cage and total subjugation.

"Would you mind? I know you're busy, but you've got so much experience Fred: there's no-one else I can talk to, no-one whose experience and knowledge I respect enough."

Fred looked like he had a frog trying to escape from his mouth; he was gulping continuously, his eyes bulging and cheeks puffing. He was clearly a man unused to flattery. I suspected this might be very, very easy.

I invented my tale of woe for Fred - I decided on a staffing issue because men always think they are good at dealing with those, God knows why - and listened patiently to his drivelling concoction of hard love, empathetic firmness and the overriding need for a sound knowledge of employment legislation. It took an hour, but it was worth it: the seeds were sown.

Over the next week or so I called in on Fred four more times, gradually steering the conversation from work to social, formal to informal. It wasn't difficult. He was flattered by my attention, quickly demonstrating a level of indiscretion which would have got him into serious trouble if he'd said such things to the wrong person: but dear, oh dear, I am the wrong person, aren't I? Poor Fred, storing up problems without realising it. His little cock was as good as encased already.

Once I had inveigled myself into his confidences I felt we were ready for stage two: it was time for the introduction of Maria. Over the days, my appearances in Fred's office had started progressively later and lasted longer, until by the fourth visit I was still there after finishing time. Fred was either too polite, or too taken by my attention, to make any comment, and so at six o'clock that Wednesday evening we were discussing the finer details of West Ham United's attacking technique. Frankly, I wouldn't know West Ham United from a cheese and ham sandwich, but it didn't seem to matter: Fred talked for both of us. I was trying to keep my eyes from closing when Maria made her entrance.

"Oh sorry," she said.

"No problem," I replied quickly, before Fred had a chance to interject and send her packing. "Carry on, you can work around us." Maria nodded and smiled sweetly, giving no indication that she knew me. "Trevor Brooks, you were saying?" I continued.

"Trevor Brooking," Fred corrected, and launched once more into his monologue. Maria hoovered around us busily. She was wearing an extremely short skirt and tight fitting blouse. As she bent over her hoover, the skirt rode up leaving an uninterrupted view of her legs almost to the mound of her arse, which wiggled magnificently, its superb shape fixed and emphasised by the tightness of the fabric around it. I didn't know about Fred, but her performance was turning me on: Maria would receive the reward of my tongue on her sweet pussy later that night, I was certain of that. I watched Fred carefully, nodding all the while at his inane chatter, contentedly catching the way his eye wavered to and from the dancing figure of Maria.

She approached the desk, scuttling her hoover in front of her. "Would you mind?" she said, thrusting it towards him. I loved the phallic irony of the moment. He hurtled back in his chair to allow her to clean along the edge of the desk. Delicately, nonchalantly, she draped her hand over his knee as she did, pretending to steady herself as she manoeuvred the hoover into the foot well in the desk. I almost laughed aloud at the expression of tortured surprise which overtook his face at the contact with the nubile cleaner. "Thank you," trilled Maria when she had finished, leaving her hand on his knee a second or two longer than necessary.

She turned to the table surface, polishing it vigorously with a yellow duster, ensuring her breasts and backside were wriggling enticingly, and placing herself where Fred had a clear view of events. The poor man was struggling to conceal his emotions and looked mightily relieved when Maria pronounced herself finished, gathered her tools and left.

"Quite a performance," I laughed once she had gone.

"Hmm," replied Fred, his cheeks reddening and his gaze lowering to the table in embarrassment. We had become friends over the last couple of weeks, but he wasn't prepared - yet - to discuss matters such as sexual attraction with a young woman half his age. Never mind, I thought, he would.

Maria and I repeated our joint assault on Fred's sensibilities over the next week. Every night, in fact. Fred never complained about me keeping him talking after hours, despite having been an assiduous nine-to-fiver up until then. Heaven knows what his wife thought he was up to, but I suspect she was just glad of the relief. Maria's performances became ever more daring. She began to talk to us as she worked, engaging us in increasingly more bawdy banter, and while at first Fred didn't respond, finally he began to crack, returning some of her comments flirtatiously. She wore more and more revealing clothing and became more flagrant in her touching of Fred, standing next to him as she polished the desk and wiggling her butt in his face, then standing opposite him and dangling across the desk, allowing her blouse to fall open and her breasts to be revealed. Each time she finished and left I joked with Fred about how much she seemed to enjoy cleaning his office.

Finally, she delivered the coup de grâce, turning up on the sixth evening with a loose-fitting, sparsely buttoned blouse and no bra. Even when she walked into the room she looked obscene, her nipples hard and evident, the shape of her breasts clear through the light fabric of the blouse. Throughout her cleaning routine, she bent exaggeratedly over either her hoover or the desk and ensured that her breasts were on view at all times, swaying, living totems of temptation. She caught and held his gaze at every opportunity, smiling and licking her lips, pouting provocatively. It was staggeringly unsubtle but exceedingly sexy. Fred was red-faced by the time she left, a mixture of relief and disappointment flickering across his face.

I smiled as she closed the door, promising myself that Maria would enjoy her reward for that performance. "You do realise, don't you?"

"What?"

"That she fancies you?"

"Who? Maria? Don't be daft."

"Of course she does. Are you blind man? Can't you see? It's patently bloody obvious."

He blustered and chuntered, denying it, pointing out he was twice, nearly three times her age. "What would she see in me?" he bleated, but I could see that he was being taken in. We were almost there: stage two was complete. The next night I didn't stay behind after work.