By Bill Noble

He's asked Marie to bring an egg to work today -- and to keep it warm inside her blouse. Puzzled but excited, she does.

He calls late in the afternoon. It's Friday, so people have been straggling out of the office for several hours, bound for their weekends. It's quiet when her phone lights up. A shivery warmth runs over her skin at the sound of his voice.

"Put the egg in your panties," he says.

Despite being alone in the office, she feels herself blush. "I can’t." she protests.

"Yes, you can," he says. "Put it right against your puss and press your legs together.

"Noooo..." she pleads in her little girl voice. That usually works on him.

"Go ahead." His voice is kind and teasing, but he knows she’ll do it. This isn’t just his game.

She nestles the egg snug against her lips, warm and smooth. It makes her feel open, and yet full, all at the same time. She smiles just a little.

"Now press your legs together hard, and then relax them."

She does, and the egg forces her open even more. It rides up over her clit; when she relaxes, it moves down again and she feels a delicious slipperiness follow it. She makes her small sound that means surprise and pleasure.

"Do it again."

She does, and the sensations intensify.

"Again.’ She begins to take over the rhythm herself -- clench, relax, clench, relax, clench. It gets hard to breathe.

"Breathe," he says, and she fills her lungs.

He urges her along in his quiet voice. Her eyes dart around the office.
"Again," he says, "again . . ."

She grips the corners of her desk, knuckles white.

"Again," he says.

She begins to come. It's utterly out of her control. It starts, not in her puss or belly, but in her toes. Her feet are half out of her shoes, toes curled tight. A wave of contraction rises, bunches her calves, sweeps over the satiny skin of her thighs and seizes the big muscles in her legs. Her belly clenches and pulls her forward, pressing her cheek against the cool desktop. She gulps air. Pleasure floods her whole body, rushes upward, fills her skull with fragments of rainbow.

Somehow, she discovers, she hasn't broken the egg.

His voice is rough with passion; she knows he's touching himself, there on the other end of the phone, and that sends another flare of pleasure whooshing up her. "Thank you," he says. She can hear him trying to steady his arousal. He asks, "Can we get together this weekend?"

She licks her lips, gradually bringing her trembling under control. "Charles. I’d love to, and the kids are going to be with their dad. Oh, but one thing . . ."

"What?" He's heard the shift in her voice, and she hears his sudden alertness.

"Do you know what a daikon is?" The strength that comes to a woman after orgasm brims over in her. She knows -- knows -- he just got harder.

"Uh. . . no."

"Well, you need to find out. And then you need to get one. Bring it with you. And Charles?"

His alertness is nudging up toward alarm now. He’ll come seconds after she hangs up. "Yes?"

She can’t keep the smile out of her voice. "The lube, Charles. Don’t forget the lube."

She turns out the lights, keys the security system, grabs her briefcase, and strides into the parking lot. As she climbs into her car, she’s singing snatches of Sondheim and Gershwin.

The egg’s in her blouse again.