I'd be lying if I said I hadn't fantasized about her. I was single and hadn't really had any action for an embarrassingly long time. When she came ove... in a tight shirt, with her nipples poking out, I found it hard not to stare. When she wore yoga pants and bent over to pick something up, I looked at her panty lines (or lack of) and imagined what she was wearing under. And of course, I thought about fucking her when I lay in my bed listening to her shrill cries and moans as they had sex. I'm. “No,” she thought, “this is one I'm going to have to do myself.” Then another thought presented itself, fueled by impatience, frustration, caffeine, and… well… mostly frustration. “I have a private carrel, it's 0200, and it's a long cold walk home. Why not?” Sara put her laptop bag down again, pushed the chair away from the desk as far as it would go (not far), and half-sat, half-leaned against the desk. Her right hand rose to her breast, and she cupped it through the thick sweater. No, that. More

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