Tope works down the hall from me, and I'd started fantasising about her about five minutes after she joined our agency a few months ago. The sleeveless blouses and tailored slacks she wore to work were just the start of her appeal. Her bosoms looked full and heavy, and no other mother of three – including my wife – ever had a tighter looking ass. She had a tiny, barely noticeable scar at the corner of her lip that made her mouth look like it was begging to be kissed. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and sometimes a stray lock would fall across her forehead, and it was all you could do not to reach up and brush it back for her. Tope had to cross my door to get to that of Titilayo, her team leader on a crucial pitch we were about to make. After a while, I think she noticed that I always got up immediately, stood in my doorway and watched that lovely behind of hers as she moved briskly down the hall. In any event, even if she didn't consciously notice, I began to realize that she made a point of pausing to speaking to the intern just outside my door whenever she walked by. Alerted to Tope's presence, I would station myself just inside my own doorway to catch a glimpse. More and more often, she would look up and give me the tiniest of smiles before breezing along her way. Was I imagining things, or did she seem to move a little more languorously and sensually these days? Was there a little extra sway in those hips meant for me? This went on for several weeks, until one fateful office happy hour. It's amazing how a couple of drinks can loosen someone up and make them a little forgetful about certain obligations. Between us, Tope and I had 18 years of marriage under our belts. Well, 23 if you counted my first one to go with the five years I had this go 'round. I also had two stepchildren and a three-year-old daughter to complete the package. Tope was working on a lucky 13 years with an English professor in Lagos state university, and when you entered her office; pictures of her three girls adorned the wall behind her desk. Even so, with the subtle attention we'd been giving each other already, it was a short trip to outright flirting when bourbon fever kicked in. Of course, the chances of spontaneous Intimate combustion aren't real high on a Tuesday night when there are kids and homework waiting at home. The next morning, though, the flirting continued, and over the last few weeks, it's proceeded from there. From glances full of active curiosity, to standing a bit too close in the elevator, to letting our arms very, very carefully brush together while looking over a marketing plan draft, there's been a slow burn that's enjoyable just for its own sake. At the same time, our conversation has gone from polite hellos to leaning into each other's offices for a few minutes of casual conversation. When it was clear that neither of us was likely to file a sexual harassment suit against the other, a few double entendres found their way into our interactions. Two weeks ago, things escalated a little more. I'm notorious for my potty mouth. Other work settings are different, I know, but in the loose, creative atmosphere of an advertising agency, you can get away with a lot, and I admit to being downright vulgar at times. Several of my co-workers credit me with the invention of the term "bleeping fucker," but I'm pretty sure I actually heard it somewhere else first. That notwithstanding, I don't hesitate to let a "Jesus-bleeping-Christ, that's the stupidest motherfucking-asshole-dumbass-NaughtyPerson I've ever met," fly if the occasion warrants it. To my delight, I found out that Tope was something of an artist in profanity herself. A tirade like the above had exploded in conference room full of equally irate copywriters, art directors and producers when our latest pitch to a floundering client had been shot down. It continued with just Tope and I in my office as we went back to the brainstorming board. Since we were both still cussing up a storm, Tope closed the door behind us and flopped down in my guest chair. "Tope, I have to tell you, that kind of talk is frankly quite shocking," I said in mock indignation. "Stuff it, fucker, I know it turns you on," she retorted, we both broke out in giggles worthy of my thirteen-year-old stepdaughter and friends. "Turned on? I'm turned on, she says, and meanwhile I see her Tips poking through her shirt like a couple of walnuts," I snickered. "You don't want to go bringing up nuts of any sort, buster, with that bulge staring me in the face," she snorted, pointing at the very visible hard-on that was, in fact, at her eye level as I leaned back against my desk. We kept this up playfully for a few more minutes before actually getting back to work, but from that moment on, dirty talk between – in private, via text message, on the phone, even late at night at home through instant messaging – is not only tolerated, it's encouraged and one-upped and then pushed some more. All that being said, Tope's been rather adamant that flirting, talking dirty and sharing fantasies is as far as this is going. That's been fine by me – one divorce is enough to last me a lifetime. More than anything, we both admit, our little oral affair has added fuel to pretty damn fiery se*x lives at home. Most guys don't even count it as officially getting laid until you've told your buddy about it and the fact that my buddy was now a gorgeous 36-year- old wife and mother with a body like co-ed, an intellect like a physics professor and a a mouth like a sailor was just icing on the cake. I told Tope about how good my wife looked when she sucked my rooster in the shower the other morning; she told me riding her husband's face and licking her own juices off his chin and forehead; she picked out lingerie for my wife on Victoria's Secret online, and dictated more and more of the outrageous text messages she was sending to her husband while he worked. With that in mind, I picked up the phone just after lunch this afternoon and dialed Tope's extension. "What now," she answered huffily and then chuckled. "What's going through that dirty mind of yours, bad boy?" "Not nearly what I wish was going through my pants – namely your hands," I said. "That's a stretch even for you, darling. We're going to have work on your spontaneous s*xy** replies," she said. "Maybe so," I replied. "But the reason I really called is to find out what your plans are to shock He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named later?" "Lingerie." "Something new?" I asked, perking up. "Something he hasn't seen yet," said Tope. "And, much to my chagrin, neither have I," I sighed. This got another chuckle. "And you won't anytime soon," said my partner in witty repartee. "Soon? That implies that at some point, your panties will be mine!" "Dream on, lover," she replied. "So just what are you going to do with this lingerie for the lucky boy?" "Before he leaves for his conference tomorrow, I'm going to put my sexiest panties in his briefcase…" This elicited the usual intelligent reply from me: "Mmmmm." "…and when he lands in Abuja, his Blackberry will chirp right away with the message that says I'm not going to wear any until he gets back next week – but that I packed a few dirty ones in his suitcase for him to stroke his rooster with." "I like it, Tope." "Knew you would, bad boy, just like my husband will," Tope said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "I especially like the thought that after that he'll have to deal with a hard-on in a room full of other academias for the rest of the day." "I have a hard-on-in-the-office problem myself," I told her. "Why's that," she said, almost shyly. "Is there a particular workmate who causes it?" "Just some new bimbo," I laughed. "Bimbo! That's it, I'm hanging up." But she didn't and then laughed with me. "Send him a text now. Tell him you're rubbing yourself under your desk." "I like it. Then what?" "Imagine me there…under your desk…touching and licking." "You're so naughty," but I knew she'd be doing it soon. "I try to be," I said smarmily. "It's working." "Good. When you have the picture in your mind, reach down under your desk. Rub yourself through your clothes." I heard her suck in her breath sharply, and I knew she'd started. "I'm walking down," I said, and hung up before she could protest. By the time I got to her office, she'd zipped up and, though looking a bit flushed, was composed and professional. She grinned and told me to close the door. "Yes, madam." She suddenly looked a little serious. "Titilayo or someone is going to catch us if we keep this up," she said. "Caught at what?" I smiled and crossed to her desk. Resting on the edge, my crotch was just a couple of feet from her face as she remained seated. "What am I going to do with you," she grinned. "Whatever you can think of," I said, wiggling my eyebrows in my lousy cocky impression. "That sounds like it might be fun," she said. "Could be very fun," I said, and offered her my hand. She took it and stood, and with my knees parted slightly she had no choice but to position herself between them. She did, however, remain a good three feet away. "But no kissing," I chuckled, repeating the first law she laid down to me. "You like kisses." It was a statement, not a question, and I saw something in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "Yes, I do, Tope. Do you like kisses?" "Yes," she said, very quietly, dropping her gaze from mine. Taking a chance, I cupped her face and turned it upward, at the same time pulling her forward. "What are we up to, Tope?" "Well, I'm trying to get out of here to meet my kids before the school bus dumps them by the front door," she said, still not pulling away. I leaned in and whispered in her hear, knowing my breath was tickling her. "Ahhh, I see. How about a kiss before you go?" She hesitated for a second, and then thrilled me by saying it. "Okay – one kiss." I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her tight enough for her to feel how hard I was. "That feels nice," Tope whispered. "So will this," and I began to kiss her neck, her ears, her throat. I ran my hands up and down her back. Her lips parted slightly, but before she could speak, I pulled her even tighter and covered her mouth with mine. She shivered and began to rock slightly against my Attention. She broke the kiss, but only to nibble my neck and earlobe, and I squeezed and kneaded the delectable ass that had first caught my eye. Our mouths collided again in a hungry, open- mouth kiss. Our tongues were dueling, sliding in and out of each other's mouths, our breath ragged and coming in gasps. With one hand still caressing her ass, I tangled the other in her hair. It's a tired cliche, but I locked onto her mouth like a drowning man holds on to a life preserver. "I'm in trouble – I'm on fire," Tope whispered fiercely. "And you have to go," I said and again covered her mouth with mine to block her answer. The kiss lingered, but when it broke we were both smiling. "Go, Tope," I said. "Be good." "How?" She laughed and pushed me away. She pulled me close again, though, and I could see fire in her eyes as she stared up at me. "See you tomorrow, Tope." "I know – and that's the problem. I'll be stuck here playing teasing games with you, and I won't be getting any at home for the next seven days." But she was still smiling as she watched me back toward the door and out of her office. The real problem, though, was the call I got when I settled back in behind my desk. My wife's mobile came up on the caller ID. "Hey, babe, what's up," I answered. "Just wanted to remind you that I'm taking the kids to the beach for the weekend tomorrow." That's when it hit me. Tope's husband gone for a week. Me alone for the weekend – because Tope and I were working this weekend. With probably no one else in the office…

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