He said "what a pear!"

And she said "Nobody's ever said that to me before!"

She had been talking to me, standing in the aisle between our cubes, taking big juicy bites for such a little person. But he just jumped right in there, and she answered. He's like that, my former pod-mate. Self-confident, self-assured, and even worse, most women seem to like his tall trim shaggy bad-boy look.

The next day she was standing in the same spot, right between our cubes, holding another pear in her hand, waiting for him to look up. And when he looked, she saluted him with the fruit and then took a big bite, letting the juice run down her face.

God I wish I'd had the nerve to use that line. Because a) it was so true, her breasts were like the rest of her, small and exquisite, firm and alert, subtlely curved. I would almost say subtlely carved, like one of those flowing wooden African sculptures, only much much lighter and b) because I would do anything to have her look at me the way she was looking at him as she bit into that pear.

She looked at me that way once, long ago, working late, in the computer room, loading reel to reel tapes. Reel to reel tapes? Was it really that long ago? I was standing there, watching the tape when I looked up and our eyes met, locked, and held. We were nothing but eyes, eyes suspended in space, though I was vaguely aware of the rest of her face and her curly light brown hair. The tape finished loading and the spell was broken. We left the computer room and she called her boyfriend (now her husband) and asked him to bring pizza. I've been trying ever since to recreate that moment. There were times when she smiled at me or stood near me, or leaned over so that I could see her breasts, when I came close, but never like he got with the pear that afternoon. And certainly not like what he got that night.

Something told me. Something told me she was out of control. Something told me to call my wife and tell her I would be working late. No surprise that. I work in the computer industry. Something told me to make a big show of leaving late, but not very late, when there were only the three of us in the office. Something told me to close the doors noisily and turn out most of the lights. Something told me to sneak back, very quietly. I can do that. I can move like the fog on little cat feet. Something told me to stand in the shadows when he came out to look around, and to wait while she, not believing he'd checked well enough, came out to look around too. She looked a little mussed, a little flustered, a little less precise than usual, and only one button was fastened on her blouse.

I counted to ten and then looked down the aisle. She was standing, facing into my cube. Her jeans had disappeared. Her blouse was open. He was sitting in my chair, facing out into the aisle, looking deep into her eyes, looking up into her eyes, one exquisite breast on the end of his tongue, and the other in his right hand. His left hand was working between her legs. Her breasts in his hand. Her breasts in his mouth! I couldn't help it. I was hard as a rock.

He stood. I could see them both now, standing in the middle of the aisle, oblivious to me at the other end in the shadows with my hand rubbing my cock through my jeans, their eyes locked only on each other as she unbuttoned his shirt, staring up at him, as her hands unfastened his pants, as my hands unfastened my pants, as her hands ran over his chest, and down again to the pants, tugging them with her as she knelt.

Her eyes never left his, even as she kissed the end of his cock, licked the tip, and the shaft, took the end into her mouth and teased it with her lips as he played with her hair and I played with my cock.

He knelt before her. They were both kneeling, still staring, still gazing deep as she pushed him back onto the floor and mounted him. His head was in my cube and his feet were in her cube and she was framed in the center of the aisle, rising slowly up and down, leaning forward, sitting up, still in her blouse, never losing eye contact. He whispered something I couldn't quit hear, and without breaking stride she shrugged off the blouse. There she was, small and perfect and completely naked, the breasts I longed to suck teased by his fingers as she rose and fell, her curly brown hair bouncing, her ass, her tight gorgeous little ass revealing his cock as she rose and fell, still lost in his eyes. On and on. It seemed forever. I could not believe his stamina. I lost count of her cries and her shudders. And then finally his hips were bucking wildly and he was coming and she was coming even louder and harder than before and I was coming, spurting into my jeans.

She leaned forward, their heads both hidden in my cube, but I could hear them kissing, could see her ass in his hands, squeezing her, her hips moving almost imperceptibly, his cock still buried in her cunt, and obviously still hard.

I had seen enough. I made my fog-like exit, slipping quietly out the door and into the night in cum-soaked jeans. What I had felt for her before was nothing to the feverish hallucination I felt at that moment. For all the images of her that I had seen - checking the hall looking beautifully disheveled, on her knees licking cock, removing the blouse, bouncing wildly with her hair flying - it was the continuous unbroken eye contact that was burned into my brain.