The first word I think when I see Jessica Hartwell is “receptionist”, and I'd be thinking that even if she weren't sitting at a desk with her job title written on a placard, and answering a phone call as well. From the tight bun her hair's in, to her spectacles with the pointy corners, to her black pinstriped jacket over a white undershirt—everything about her screams receptionist, like she's trying to be a parody of herself. At a tech startup like this, where casual clothes are apparently allowed and expected, it's pretty weird.

 The second, third, and fourth words I think of were “damn”, “she's”, and “hot” in that order. Neither her jacket nor her shirt quite cover all of her cleavage, leaving me with an enticing peek beneath her neckline. And when she stands up to make some particularly forceful point on the phone, and shows off her tight skirt and sheer leggings—

 I smack myself on the leg. Focus, you useless lesbian brain! This is a job interview, not Ladies' Night at the bar.

 Finally, Ms. Hartwell finishes her call. She replaces the phone in its cradle, adjusts her spectacles (a device such as that could never just be called glasses), and gives me a stare that makes me feel like I'm not supposed to be here. “Do you have an appointment?”

 It takes an effort of will to remind myself that I am, in fact, supposed to be here. “Yeah, I'm, uh... Tina? Tina Williams? We talked over the phone, I sent in my resume through your website, I'm here for the... interview?” Why am I asking questions, as if these aren't true facts? I hastily reach into my backpack and pull out my resume to shove at her.

 Ms. Hartwell takes the resume and peers at it, like a bank teller trying to spot a counterfeit bill. “Mm. It says here your name is Augus—”

 “Augustina, yes, Tina is technically a nickname.” Though I haven't let anyone call me Augustina in, like, four years. Come on, Mom and Dad, were you being serious with that name?

 “I see.” She passes it back to me and fixes me with that glare and Jesus, that is the intersection of intimidation and sex right there.

 I wish these thoughts would stop.

 Ms. Hartwell looks over her shoulder at the door that says Simone Beauregard, and says, “Your eleven o'clock is here, Ms. Beauregard.”

 A voice calls back through the door, and it's a lot less stern than Ms. Hartwell's. If anything, it's a little out of breath. “Send her in, Jess—I mean, Ms. Hartwell! I'm just changing.”

 Ms. Hartwell's lip curls a little at Jess. Nonetheless, she stands up and opens the door for me, and I walk into the boss's office.

 I notice a few things in sequence. The desk has a computer and a phone and various bits of paper and stuff on it, but it doesn't have a person behind it. There's a big complicated piece of exercise equipment in the corner, with the adjustable weights set to a pretty high number and the seat slick with recent sweat. On the wall is a locked closet. And in another corner, much closer to the door, is a little screened-off alcove, with a silhouette behind it. “I'll be right out, sit down,” says the silhouette.

 I do, and within a second a woman emerges from behind the screen. Tanned, buff under her thin tanktop, and gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Her hair is a little messy, which makes sense if she just changed clothes. “Sorry about Jess—I mean Ms. Hartwell,” she says, smiling apologetically as she sits behind the desk. “Great receptionist, but she's always been, well, like that.” She offers her hand. “You can call me Simone.”

 I offer my hand back. Her grip is firm, but I get the sense she could grip way harder if she wanted.

 “So,” she says, “what makes you want to work at QuickChange Enterprises?”

 The interview passes quickly—maybe fifteen minutes? There's only so much you can say about why you want to work at a run-of-the-mill “we make websites for you” company. Whatever: Simone's nice, and when she offers a few example coding problems for me to work through, her followup questions make it clear she knows her stuff.

 “All right,” she says, and sticks out her hand once more. “I've made up my mind. Welcome aboard, Tina! You can start right away!”

 “Erm....”

 “I'm kidding, you start on Monday. But seriously, though.” She walks around the desk as I stand up, and takes me by the shoulders, and for whatever reason I don't mind the personal space intrusion because she's just that friendly. “Have a look around the office, meet people. Your room is gonna be... 113, second from the left. Put your stuff in there if you're bringing anything.”

 She guides me toward the door. “And welcome to QuickChange Enterprises,” she says, ushering me on through. “Congrats!”

 The door closes behind me. I walk out, and then frown and turn around—and there's Ms. Hartwell, typing away at her computer, not sparing me a glance.

 Huh. For a moment it seemed like no one was in there.

–

 Everyone's pretty friendly as I introduce myself. Not too friendly—they're all busy coding and don't really have time for someone who doesn't work here yet—but no one's nasty either.

 Within about twenty minutes I've worked my way around to the last two rooms, 113 and 114. The office as a whole is organized in two parallel corridors, and if I'm remembering my sense of direction correctly, I've ended up pretty close to Simone and Ms. Hartwell's rooms. 113, my room, is one away from the end of the corridor: 114 is the one at the end. A post it note under the number says “July Jones”.

 I knock twice. Within seconds, the door is yanked open, and a voice says, “Hi there!”

 The person doing the yanking is in a loose t-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals—she's the poster child for casual dress codes everywhere. Her face is sort of slight and pale, contrasted by her flaming red hair. “You must be Tina!” she says, and gives a little wave. “Hi!”

 “Hi... how'd you know that?”

 “Oh!” She suddenly looks embarrassed. “My office is right next to the boss's. And her weird secretary's, too. The walls aren't that thick. Sorry, should I have waited for you to introduce yourself, or....”

 “Don't worry about it.” I laugh, relieving the tension, and give a little wave back. “Tina Williams. And you must be July.”

 I pronounce it like the month. She winces. “Yeah, it's spelled that way, but please pronounce it like Julie. You know, like an actual name a human person would have. Dumb parents,” she mutters.

 I giggle a little, though this one isn't just to relieve tension. “Wanna know a secret?” A spark of curiosity lights up her eyes, and she nods, so I lean in and whisper, “Tina's actually short for Augustina.”

 She blinks a few times. “No way.”

 “I know, right?”

 “We're month buddies!” She hops up and down. “And we're even next to each other! Oh my gosh, we—hang on,” she says, and rushes to grab her phone from where it's charging on her desk. “We should totally exchange contact info....” She peters off. “I mean, if that's all right with you?”

 I hold up my phone, and I see her face light up.

 I leave QuickChange that afternoon with a new friend's phone number, and a promise to meet up over drinks later. I've got a job, I've met someone new, and life is good.

 –

 Life is... still good, but strange.

 I've been working at QuickChange for a few weeks. Development's going fine. We're getting customers, getting contracts, yadda yadda yadda. Simone's always approachable if I have questions—at least, as approachable as a person can be when she's being guarded by a dominatrix like Ms. Hartwell. (I mean, I don't know that she's a dominatrix, but I definitely don't know that she isn't.)

 And July is great! She's been helping me get the hang of the couple of internal tools at the company, and does a great job reviewing my code, and I try to do as good a job reviewing hers. And we've been out for drinks a couple times, so we're pretty good buds.

 But some things are strange, and by some things, I mostly mean Ms. Hartwell. She hasn't warmed up at all, she's the only one who feels the need to dress up at the office, and.... Well, maybe this is just me going crazy. But sometimes it seems like she vanishes, or appears out of thin air. Like, I'll go in to talk to Simone, and Ms. Hartwell will be there when I enter but not when I leave. Even if I'm only in there for, like, a few seconds.

 It doesn't really matter right now, though, because I've got something bigger on my mind. It's the end of the day on a Friday, and I'm busy psyching myself up. Frankly, I've been psyching myself all week. I take one last deep breath, then step outside my office, and in front of July's.

 I've been meaning to do this for a while. July and I have been getting along really well, and she laughs at all my jokes, and we like a lot of the same things, and... I've been wanting to ask her out. And not as friends. Even if office romances are supposed to be a terrible idea, I don't wanna just ignore how I feel. So I sigh deeply, mutter, “Here goes nothing,” and knock.

 No reply.

 I tentatively push open the door, and her office is empty. She must have taken an early bus home or something. Those agitated flickerings inside me, the proverbial butterflies in the stomach, slowly die away.

 I sigh again, and it's a lot deeper this time. I barely managed to convince myself to do this the first time, so how am I supposed to pull it off a second time? I turn away, intending to go grab my stuff and leave as well—

 I hear fingers tapping on a keyboard.

 When I look again, July is there, typing away like she'd been there the whole time. She glances up. “Oh, hey, month buddy. What's up?”

 My jaw is slack. “But... what's going on?” She looks confused, but not nearly as confused as I feel. I gesture at the corridor around me, the one she'd have had to walk through—past me—to get back into her office. “Where were—how'd you get back in here?”

 She frowns. “Been here the whole time. Look, I was gonna head out, unless you need something?”

 “Uh, but....” I'm only partially leaning through her doorway, which means I can punch myself in the thigh without her seeing. Focus, idiot: you came here for a reason! “Actually,” I say, walking all the way into her room. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight.”

 “Oh, for drinks again? Hmmm.” She purses her lips, and god she looks cute when she does that. “I guess I've got time for a friendly round—”

 “Not as friends.”

 She stops talking.

 “I... I'm asking you out. Like, not just as friends who are girls, but... y'know... girlfriends.” My voice trails off at the end.

 She blushes. “How do you know—what makes you think I'm into girls?”

 My heart does a backflip to hear her say that—the first part, specifically. “Just a feeling.”

 “Well....” She glances around, as if looking for approval. Then she jumps up. “Oh, screw it. Only got one life to live—might as well give it a shot, right?”

 We leave the office together, and it feels like I'm walking on the moon.

 –

 “It's so bad!” July is laughing her head off.

 We're at the bar, and a couple different channels are playing, including—for some reason—that old movie The Master of Disguise, on the screen closest to us. And yes, it is really bad, and we're both laughing along as we order drinks. July's looking a little rosy cheeked from how much she's had.

 “I mean,” she says, “you can't expect to fool people with just some prosthetics!” She slumps on the counter, still shaking with mirth.

 “Hey, be nice,” I say, jostling her a little. “I loved this movie when I was a kid.”

 “Why?” she manages.

 “I guess....” I dunno if I've ever told this to anyone, but hey—I'm buzzed, and my lips are loose. “I've got a bit of a... thing. For disguises.” She pushes herself up off the counter to listen, looking at me, and I continue. “Like... the idea of becoming someone else, being in another skin. I guess you could say it excites me....” I rub my thighs to together. “Like, in that way.”

 “This is just because you don't wanna be called Augustina, isn't it.” July giggles and boops my nose.

 I flinch back. “It is not! Mostly.”

 “No, really though, I get it.”

 I stop talking.

 “I dunno if you've noticed this about me, but....” July looks down tiredly at the bar. “I'm kind of not that confident. Like, I've kind of thought you were cute for a while, but I don't think I was ever gonna do anything about that. Sometimes I wish I was, y'know, someone else. Someone more... daring?”

 She looks up into my eyes. “But you know something? Being with you... I'm pretty happy with being me.”

 And then she leans in and kisses me. Her mouth tastes like the cheap beer she's been drinking, and at this moment I can't imagine a taste more delicious, so I kiss her right back.

 –

 It's time for my weekly meeting with Simone, but when I try to walk through Ms. Hartwell's office, she tells me that Ms. Beauregard is on a call and isn't available yet, and directs me to wait here until she is. In theory, Ms. Hartwell doesn't outrank me or anything, so there's nothing stopping me from going back to my office and waiting there instead, maybe getting some work done.

 In practice, I sit down like my ass has been magnetized to the chair.

 The clock ticks along, and Ms. Hartwell keeps typing. I look around the office because the alternative is staring right at her. There's a fair amount of stuff in here: little potted plants, tiny sculptures on shelves, photographs of landscapes... no family pictures, though. Evidently, Ms. Hartwell prefers to keep her work like and her private life separate.

 I'm laughing quietly to myself, thinking about how that doesn't apply to me at all, when she clears her throat. “Yes?” I say, immediately stopping with the laughing.

 She doesn't look up from her work, but she does start talking. “Ms. Beauregard is committed to the ideal of a relaxed workplace environment. To a fault, even. So she won't say what needs to be said, and thus, that responsibility falls upon me.” She sniffs. “I suppose this is what it means to delegate.”

 A silence fell, if you could call it a silence with her continued typing. In any case, the longer she didn't talk, the more I felt I needed to, until the words were drawn out of me as if by suction: “Uh, what do you—”

 Which is, of course, exactly when she cuts me off and looks me in the eye. “Ms. Williams, inter-office romances are a poor idea.”

 My words catch in my throat.

 “I can see why you might take a liking to Ms. Jones,” she says, and it takes me a moment to remember that that's July's last name, “and why she might take an interest in you as well. You have a certain... physical charm.” The words hang in the air long enough for me to realize she's just, technically, called me pretty. “But I must warn you. These things always lead to complications far beyond what you could anticipate.”

 I find my voice at last. “I checked the employee handbook and there's nothing in there that says we can't—”

 “Have I not made myself plain, Augustina?” She walks around the desk, and I hear the sound of her high heels against the floor, t-tack t-tack t-tack. She leans down in front of me and her breath is hot on my cheek, and I wish I could say that I'm uncomfortable, but that's not quite the right word. “If you intend to go through with this, you must be prepared to accept the consequences.”

 The last word is a whisper into my ear.

 “Ms. Hartwell! Send her in!”

 Oh, thank god. Simone's voice gives me the start I need to jump to my feet and rush past Ms. Hartwell, right into Simone's office. I don't glance back.

 Simone's behind her screen as usual, but emerges a few seconds later. “Sorry this keeps happening. I exercise when I'm feeling stressed out.”

 “You're always exercising,” I say.

 She grins. “Bingo. What's up?”

 We talk about projects, she gives me some advice and feedback, and it goes well. And then, at the end, as I'm getting ready to leave, she asks the big question: “Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

 “Um.” I take a deep breath. “Yeah, uh... your secretary is really weird.”

 She chuckles. “Tell me something I don't know.”

 “She... has issues with personal space. Like, my personal space.”

 Simone's eyes narrow. Apparently this counts as something she doesn't know.

 “And... that's not the only thing. Sometimes she's not there when she should be. And I don't mean, like, she takes really long bathroom breaks or ducks out early, I mean, like—” I find myself rambling, stumbling over my words. “Like she vanishes and reappears, like a ghost or something....”

 A few seconds after saying that, I realize there's no way to say it without sounding like a crazy person. Simone's look confirms my fears. “Uh-huh,” she says, slowly. “Well, I dunno about that, but I'll definitely talk to her about the personal space thing. Thanks for reaching out.”

 Shamefacedly, I leave her office and return to mine—and something occurs to me on the way. So instead of going back into my room, I knock on July's door. “Come in!” she says.

 “Hey,” I say, opening the door, “can I ask you something?”

 “Sure, what's up?”

 “You know how....” I drop my voice so that no one else can hear. “How we're dating now?”

 She smiles up at me. “I'd have to say I do, yeah. And I really like it.”

 “Um... did you tell anyone?”

 “Uh... guess not. Do you want me to tell my parents, or—”

 “I mean anyone here, at the company.”

 “Oh!” She shakes her head. “Nope. Why?”

 “Just... nevermind. Talk to you later.”

 So how did Ms. Hartwell know?

 –

 She comes by my office later that afternoon. Ms. Hartwell, I mean.

 I'm typing away at my computer, trying to debug something with this stupid CSS, and I hear a t-tack t-tack t-tack and look up to see her holding a sheaf of papers, walking through the door I leave open. “Ms. Beauregard has a new assignment for you,” she says, and places the papers on my desk. “Please deliver some estimates for this at your earliest convenience.”

 She's never come to my office before, and I don't think I've seen her come to anyone else's. “Uh-huh.” I carefully avoid eye contact. Hopefully her first visit will be as brief as it is unusual—but then I hear the door closing and glance up to see her still in my room, her hand on the handle. I try not to gulp.

 “I have something else to talk to you about.” And then another first, and this one's much more shocking: her expression softens a little. “Ms. Beauregard informed me that you feel I've behaved... unprofessionally toward you. I'd like to offer my apologies.”

 “Oh. Um... thank you?” I blink, and rephrase it as a statement with some effort. “Thank you.”

 But it's weird, because she's walking closer. “I want to reassure you, Augustina, I did not intend to do anything that would make you... unhappy. So I hope we can take the time to establish some clear boundaries.”

 Before I can ask what she means, she puts a hand on my swivel chair and spins me away from my computer to face her. Then, without further preamble, she drapes herself across my lap, back against the armrest, arm around my back. Her head right next to mine. “Does this make you feel unhappy?” she whispers.

 “Igubuh,” I say.

 “No need to be coy.” She traces a finger along my face, and it feels like electric current is passing through my skin. “I've seen the way you look at me. The way you try not to look at me.” She uncrosses, then crosses her pantyhosed legs. I'm distinctly aware of how her taut rear is shifting against my lap.

 “Uhhhthth.”

 “And I confess feeling similarly toward you. You have an undeniable, shall we say, girl next door charm.” Her hand cups my chin, forcing me to look right at her, and I see her face is red—not nearly as red as mine feels, though. “I am so fond of girls like you and July.”

 Bringing up July is what gives me the ability to use words again, instead of incoherent mumbles. “You know July and I are already together—”

 “Oh, I wouldn't worry about her.” Ms. Hartwell smiles sweetly, like a poisoned apple. “I've known July for some time. Known her intimately, even. She won't voice any complaints.” She leans closer, her voice breathy. “Which means that right now, I have you all to myself.”

 She leans right in, pulls my head closer, and makes me kiss her. I can taste her lipstick, and feel her tongue, and for all that this is so wrong it feels so right as she makes little noises of satisfaction, and my eyes roll back beneath their lids.

 And then she's off of me. I open my eyes to see her with the same dour expression as always, standing in my office like nothing just happened. “Be sure to devote your attention to that project. I'll see you later, Miss Williams.”

 “Wha—” I have to force myself to stand as she walks away, leaving behind only those little t-tack t-tack t-tack sounds from her heels. I rush out my office after her. “No hang on, you can't just—”

 “Tina? What's up?”

 Ms. Hartwell isn't there. Even though I heard her only seconds ago, she's not there. The only one in the corridor is July, and she looks confused, even concerned. “Are you okay? You look kind of... mussed up.”

 “Did you—what did—Miss Hartwell!” I point wildly. “She must have gone right past you!”

 “I... didn't see anyone?” She frowns. “Tina, it's okay if you need to go home early or something—”

 “She was in my office not ten seconds ago. She—she said—” I remember one thing she said, and grab July by the shoulders. “July,” I hiss, “she said she knew you intimately. Has Ms. Hartwell been... harassing you?”

 July looks off to the side. She doesn't say no.

 “That does it.” I take her hand and drag her along behind me, marching down the corridor. “We are going to get that crazy bitch fired. You're going to tell them what she's been doing to you, and—”

 But July slips her hand from mine. When I turn around in surprise, she looks more uncomfortable than I've ever seen her. “I... I just realized, I've got something I need to do at home. I forgot. Sorry, I've gotta go.” She rushes past me, aiming not for the turn that would lead her toward Ms. Hartwell's office, but for the stairs.

 I stare and watch her go. What the hell is going on?

 Why is Ms. Hartwell hitting on me? Why isn't July concerned? Why are they sometimes vanishing for no reason?

 I blink several times.

 Why have I never seen them in the same place at the same time?

 –

 The idea was crazy. Totally crazy. But then again, so was everything else.

 I really hadn't seen them in the same place ever. Not even at the company's rare all-hands-on-deck meetings, also known as the exact kind of place I'd expect to see them both. Both of them were roughly the same height and build, though it wasn't exact. Both had engaged in certain, er, displays of affection with me. I'd seen both of them vanish at unexpected times—and most recently, July had appeared in Ms. Hartwell's place.

 And July had mentioned wanting to be someone more confident. I could hardly imagine someone more confident than Ms. Hartwell. It all made sense!

 Except for the slight issue of it being impossible. As ridiculous as the idea of Ms. Hartwell vanishing was, it was probably more ludicrous to imagine her shapeshifting into July within a second. I was probably just letting my, ahem, interests get the better of my logical brain.

 But you know what? Fuck it. I'm going crazy anyway: might as well give in and see where crazy leads me. Over the weekend, I spend a little time online and purchase a certain device.

 On Monday I arrive early—crazy early. I've heard Ms. Hartwell is an early riser, so I'm at the office by dawn to preempt her. No one's home, not in any of the rooms and certainly not in Ms. Hartwell's. So I enter her office, snoop around, and find the perfect hiding spot....

 Bingo.

 Smiling to myself, I stuff the original in my backpack, bring out the replacement—

 “Ms. Williams. You're certainly displaying quite the work ethic today.”

 My blood is frozen in my veins. I'm right next to the door—there's no way she got in past me—but I turn around and see her sitting at her desk, staring at me. “Is there some way I can assist you?”

 “No, I was just, just... I was wondering if Simone was here yet.”

 “She arrives somewhat later in the morning than I do. As I assumed you knew.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Is there some other reason you're manhandling my picture?”

 “Oh, this!” I hold out the picture frame, which holds a picture of the aurora borealis. “It's just really pretty is all, and I was looking at it.” I hurriedly place it back on its shelf, making sure the angle is right, and then make to leave. “All right, I've put it back, and now I'll be out of your hair—”

 “So soon? And here I thought we were enjoying one another's company, Augustina.....”

 I can hear the seductive, taunting smile, and my glance back only confirms it. She's rising from her desk, crossing the room toward me, and I swear she's shaking her hips more than usual. “Come now, you can admit it. Don't feel embarrassed.” She slams her hand on the wall, her arm between me and the door, but her voice is soft. “You came early to be with me, didn't you?”

 For a moment I imagine July in her stead. Her lips so close to mine, her hand trapping me in here, her breasts hanging down—

 No. No no no no. There is too much going on right now in my head. I put my hand on her chest—her collarbone, not her boobs, thank you very much—and shove her back. “I really need to work on that project,” I say, and duck out of the room before she can reply.

 The rest of the day is spent burying myself in work, trying to pretend the only thing I'm concerned about is making some website look correct. When July arrives later that morning, I don't say a word to her.

 And before I leave that night, I do a final covert check in Ms. Hartwell's office, and she's not there to accost me.

 The hidden camera is just where I left it, safely concealed in a replacement picture frame.

 –

 The camera is a fantastic little gizmo for its size. It's been uploading its video feed over the internet to my computer all day. On the other hand, being so tiny and having to stream its video means that the picture quality is not great, the framerate's worse, and there's no sound.

 But I don't need much. I can still see Ms. Hartwell's face in the video, even if it is in black and white. I grin and click play, ready to get to the bottom of this.

 Several hours later... I'm not as ready as I was when I started. It turns out, watching a receptionist do work, take calls, and occasionally walk in and out of her boss's office is about as exciting as it sounds, and twice as mundane. Sure, Ms. Hartwell is definitely a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, but these first several hours haven't shown me any evidence that she's part of some wacko double life.

 It's late at night, nearing midnight. I'm in my PJs, yawning frequently. I've increased the playback speed multiple times now, and I think it's at something like three times its usual speed. Four times? Who knows. The timestamp in the video says I'm nearly at the end of the day.

 I slump forward in my desk chair, and perspective washes over me like a cold shower. What the hell am I doing? Spying on a woman in her own office, just because I watched too many dumb movies in my formative years? Spending hours watching her fill out forms, do interviews, occasionally lean back and stretch her shoulders and idly stick her finger down in her—

 Hold on.

 I stop the video, and I rewind about a minute. She's sitting with her arms up, pulling on one elbow with her other hand, relieving tension in her shoulders. This goes on for about twenty seconds, and then she drops one of her arms to the desk. The other goes down further than the desk, and starts relieving another kind of tension entirely.

 Ms. Hartwell's desk is the kind that forms a box around her legs: I can't actually see her going at herself directly. But the rhythmic way I see her shoulder and upper arm move, and the little silent pants she's making with her mouth, don't leave room for any other conclusion. She's masturbating in her office.

 It takes me a few moments to realize that I'm copying her.

 Her free arm rises above her head, and her expression curls up with what looks like anguish but must be ecstasy. And then, to my surprise, she kicks off the desk and rolls her chair out to the side, apparently without meaning to. And now I have direct confirmation.

 Her hand is a blur at this framerate, at this video quality, but it's clearly nestled in under her leggings and right into her womanhood. She's moaning, twisting this way and that, and it is so arousing—not just because it's Ms. Hartwell, but from the obscene voyeuristic aspect of it. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was putting on a show, just for me. Maybe in my more private moments, I'll imagine it that way.

 We're both getting close. My hand is slick with my own juices, and I imagine hers must be as well. Her moans are getting bigger, and I imagine I can hear them through the screen, and she's turning this way and that on her swivel chair—

 She pauses for a moment, facing the camera, and it's almost like she winks—but I can't be sure on the camera. She spins around all the way, a full rotation. As her back faces me, I see a little flurry of movement, barely noticeable.

 When the chair rotates back around, July is sitting in it.

 My heart stops, but it's the only thing that does. Instead of leggings, July's hand is rubbing vigorously within her sweatpants, and another hand is inside her shirt, clutching at her breast—and for my part, I've only sped up. My hand is shoving itself in and out of me with furious intent.

 It's everything I ever imagined—in my best dreams and my worst ones.

 I explode, just as she does. Our hips buck together. I gasp and cry, and I see her do the same.

 And then it's over. She coos, takes a deep breath, stands, and readjusts her clothes. I'm still sitting down, feeling utterly drenched in moisture, and too dumbfounded to move. It's real. I'm not crazy. It's real.

 I keep watching long enough to see her press on a certain patch of wall, one which I know must be next to July's office. The patch of wall swivels open, letting her go through to July's office. Then I stop the video and slam my laptop shut, panting like I've just run a marathon.

 This is evidence. This is proof. I've seen all I need to see, and I definitely don't need to watch any more before sleeping.

 I watch it six more times, and cum during three of them.