“Hello boys” she said, they both lean toward her and somehow, at the same time (maybe they had planned it), they both whispered in her ear “, fa...cy getting spit roasted Susan?”. ‘whoosh’ her panties were getting damp! “DO I !” she relied. “It has to be in the two-way mirror room though” she demanded. Again, in stereo came the reply, “where else!”. ‘whoosh’ damper still, along with a rush of adrenaline causing her to tremble with anticipation. She put her hands between their legs and squeezed. No one, not even Mother Teresa, deserved to be that close to perfection. Jacquí strolled past her office carrying her typical bagel and coffee. She lifted the foam cup in a g'morning salutation and gave a megawatt smile that might as well have been nails on a chalkboard for its impact on Denise's mood. Even at eight forty-five on a Monday, the woman looked like a taller version of Heather Locklear in a power suit. Prettier, too, with all the beauty and none of the harder edges. The glass walls. More

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