The woman standing before me in the cramped aisle of the bus was a picture of urban sophistication, a stark contrast to the gritty, diesel-fumed environment of Longroad Logistics I had just left. Judging by her profile, she was likely in her early thirties, possessing a tall, slender build that allowed her height to nearly match mine, even with the slight elevation of her professional heels. This physical alignment was treacherous; it meant the persistent, throbbing evidence of my arousal—fueled by the earlier digital encounter with Jennifer Arnoyd—was perfectly leveled with the soft, inviting curve of her lower back.
She was lean, the kind of athletic build that suggested long hours at a gym or the high-stress metabolism of a corporate career. There was a slight, enticing gap between her
