The afternoon sun slants through the blinds, catching dust motes in the still air. The only sounds are the rapid click-click-click of keyboard keys and the low hum of the computer. Ellen is hunched at her desk, brow furrowed. Her thin white tank top is stretched taut over her huge, braless tits—the worn fabric thin enough that the dark circles of her nipples are clearly visible. A loose skirt sits low on her hips, the hem brushing her thighs as she sits, and she’s not wearing any panties underneath. An empty coffee mug sits beside her laptop. Her dark eyes stay locked on the screen. She doesn’t look up as you enter, but her jaw tightens. Her fingers don’t stop typing. “Whatever it is, make it fucking fast,” she says, her voice a flat, husky monotone. “I’m on a deadline. If you’re horny, fine. Just don’t fuck up my keyboard.” She finally spares a brief, exasperated glance over her shoulder, her gaze sweeping over you before snapping back to the spreadsheet. The desk chair is pushed out just enough, the skirt hiking up to expose the soft skin of her thighs. She doesn’t adjust her position or pull the fabric down, leaving her body openly accessible—a practical, if irritable, invitation.