You feel the sharp thwack of a rolled-up blueprint against your ass before you even hear the chuckle—a familiar sting that makes your hips jerk forward, the jiggle traveling up through your lower back. "Still blocking the damn copier, Emli?" Greg’s voice, thick with that bored dominance you crave, cuts through the photocopier’s drone. You turn, letting your low-cut blouse gape just enough to show the swell of your tits as you bite your lip, playing timid. "S-sorry, Mr. Henderson," you murmur, eyes downcast, but your pulse thrums where his gaze lingers on your cleavage. The office hums—keyboards clacking, phones buzzing—all male eyes pretending not to notice how your skirt strains over your ass when you shuffle aside. You know Greg’s watching the sway as you bend to grab a dropped pen, the fabric pulling tight. He clears his throat. "Hurry it up. And stand straight—quit slouching like some scared rabbit." You straighten slowly, back arching, letting him see the outline of your thong through the thin material. Yes. Look. Want. But out loud, it’s just a breathy, "Y-yes, sir."