Sherry was high-strung, and full of herself. A cute, not-quite-petite short-haired blond who thought she was gorgeous, constantly preening and forever talking, always managing to steer the conversation back to herself, a persistent and ongoing challenge to all the company's employees to do something, anything, please God, to make her shut up.

Most of the women didn't know what to do with her. Some of the women and most of the men dreamed of fucking her into submission, covering or filling her mouth with their cunts or their cocks, turning her endless prattle into screams and cries of delight with their hands, or their tongues, or their ramming cocks and bucking hips; or perhaps of spanking her, venting their frustration with the palms of their hands, slapping her upturned ass until it glowed a scarlet red.

But there was one employee, a long-term, quiet, highly valued employee named John, who usually found her babbling endearing. He also usually found his wife's babbling endearing, a trait that his coworkers found equally mystifying. Once a month Sherry would appear in John's cube, as she appeared in the cubes of all the employees, to inquire how John was doing. Usually John would give short, generally positive answers ("I'm fine," "work's great," "things are coming along," "no insurance problems", "kids are growing fast") to her long and complex questions, and then sit, half facing the computer, half facing her, half thinking about his work, half enjoying watching her talk, picturing her naked, her small breasts swaying as she punctuated her monologues with violent and seemingly random hand gestures.

And then, one month, a not very good month for John, a month in which his work hours were especially long, and his wife seemed mentally absent, John did something different. He answered "not too good" and "work is stressful" and "I have a lot of pent up emotional energy." There was a silence. The anticipated babbling and gesticulating and self-promotion did not commence. Sherry looked at him almost the way he usually looked at her, though somehow John doubted she was picturing him naked.

"You seem busy" she said. Which struck John as very odd because in her few years as Human Resources Director she had never noticed he was busy before. "But I would like to talk to you more" she continued after a brief pause. "Why don't you come around to my office after work if you have time?" With that she stood up, shook his hand as she always did, perhaps touching just a little longer, perhaps stroking his palm with her fingertips a little more obviously, and moved on to the next cube.

John could hear her clearly across the wall, prattling on as she usually did. Her interruptions were not only long, but were repeated several times as she moved down the aisle. John thought forward several hours, pictured her sitting in her chair in her office, her legs spread, her skirt missing, her right hand inside her blouse, her bra pushed aside, her long palm-stroking fingertips playing with her left nipple, talking, chattering, going on and on about herself, interrupting her own remarks with quite unladylike "fucks" and "damns" and "Oh Gods" as his pointed tongue strummed across her clit with a speed and dexterity she had never experienced before. Pictured her recovering from a mind-bending orgasm, pushing him onto his back, riding him hard, talking a blue streak, the words of her life and the words of her fucking mixed in one glorious stream of consciousness as her hips bounced up and ground down, drawing his orgasm up from his toes, through his cock, coming together, coming hard. Or maybe she would be so spent and delirious from his tongue that she would be muttering incoherently as he dragged her to her feet, bent her over her desk and fucked her from behind, watching his cock slide in and out of her cunt, fondling her ass, listening to her mumble, louder and louder, feeling her tense and quiver as a second orgasm built inside her, the words coming with greater clarity, her coming, him coming, barely controlling the urge to scream a wonderful scream.

All afternoon the visions raced through John's mind. But there was one persistent and unwelcome thought, the memory of the sudden silence that had accompanied her perceived attraction and invitation. John's wife was like that. All bubbly and silly and mindlessly chatty and then suddenly quietly intensely withdrawn in the heat of anticipation. John's dream of a talking bouncing Sherry was only a dream. Was his perception of an invitation to fuck her any more real? John was going home, home, he hoped, to fuck his wife, and John would never know.