It must be her energy. It isn't her body. She is too large for his taste. Large, and yet somehow not ungainly. He equates large women with sloppiness, but she is not quite sloppy. He equates largeness with stupidity too, but manages to move the definition to avoid defining himself that way. He has enough problems with self-esteem and most definitely does not need to be thinking of himself as fat. However he may look, she does not seem to care, seems to actually enjoy him, if her sly little smiles are any indication, if one can ever tell anything about a woman from the way she leans over you to point out details on your computer screen.

One thing you can tell about a woman when she leans over you is what her breasts would look like if she were naked, on all fours, or bent over a counter. And he can tell, can very much tell. that she would look wonderfully obscene.

He pictures the way they will swing as he fucks her, his cock sliding in and out of her warm wet cunt, her hard nipples tickling the sheets with each thrust.

He imagines his hands on her wide hips, controlling her, using her, giving her pleasure, reveling in his power and her ecstasy.

Even through his lust he manages to understand what she is saying to him, manages to follow her instructions as she watches, thanks her profusely when the previously inaccessible remotely mounted folder opens to him revealing the files he thought lost, their faces only inches apart as she is still leaning over him. There is, he suspects for a moment, a deeper connection than one might expect from such a technical encounter, a longer lingering on her part than normal.

She stands, and thanks him, and he wonders why, and for what, watches her wistfully as she steps out of his cube, looks both ways down the corridor and then turns back into the cube leans over, grabs his head and kisses him.

For the rest of the day he sits staring at his screen, the problem solved, but still unable to work, amused, bemused, confused, dazed, and above all hard. There is no blood left in his brain to think, only the pleasure point where his erection presses against his pants, and the slow minute by minute changing of the tiny clock on the status bar. He cannot begin to decide in this befuddled mental state whether the help desk has actually been any help at all.