Fecund

Now I have a secretary who sits outside my office door in her tight red blouse and short black skirt. ******* must be in her early 20's with a gravelly posh Newcastle accent, stylishly messy black hair held up by a limited number of invisible devices and topped with a pair of fuck-me-I'm-an-intellectual glasses. She is tall and slim, tall enough to wear flat shoes and slim enough for the red blouse and tight black skirt. She has a good tan (not orange ) and a throaty laugh that wakes the entire office on the odd occasion that it's put to use. She is clearly bored, a temp away from University for the summer, and the work is not exactly testing but she turns up cheerful everyday.

But can you understand what is driving me insane. A pot belly. Small, neat, perfectly formed, hanging, lounging, gently undulating, accidentally spotted in the flesh as blouse and skirt shift through the long hot day. It knows I want it, torments and teases me, rolls apeasingly, pleading for kneading, smiling, larking about, happilly self aware, grinning. I want to grab it, caress it, lift it, stroke it and ultimately kiss it, hold it, rub it, nurture it, feed it, tattoo it, pierce it, possess it, stick my tongue in its button, bite it, lick it and yes rest my head on it.

Setting aside all other things there is but one word to describe the way it is. Fecund.