One

Hanna doesn't stick out in a crowd; she is not a siren calling each passerby to his doom.

She is the type of woman you interact with regularly but don't notice until it becomes embarrassing that you always forget her name.

She is petite but not small. She is in good shape but not athletic. She wears very little makeup but has nice skin.

Hanna is a nice young woman.

She favors nondescript blouses but leaves one more button than necessary unfastened. She chooses sensible shoes but likes more heel than her cube-dwelling bourgeois counterparts.  She stands close enough to you in conversation that you notice her fragrance, the curve of her breast, and the lacy outline of her bra pressing against thin fabric.

In fact she seems to know just how close to get so that your desire to pull her closer is bubbling but not boiling over.

Hanna is a merciless young woman.

It is no surprise then that over time the tension between us built to the point where I could practically feel the outline of her body under my eager hands and taste her skin on my lips.

And on an occasion when work required travel to some desolate bastion of capitalism, I dared to let the lust control me for a night. Too much red wine and too many fleeting glimpses of all the desirable places hidden around a woman's body.  It was more than this man could stand!

There is something magical about a lust that understands the need for privacy but takes full advantage of brief moments in elevators and the seconds lost around corners.  A lust that ends with a workaday suit in a pile on the floor and a fashionable skirt twisted around Hanna's tummy.

A lust that leaves you panting and yearning for more.