Turn 17 of 228

Take photos in the new office and post them to OnlyFans. Then text Diane from the new office and tell her what its's like. Finally, walk out of the office naked to get food from the break room.

Lena reaches for her phone on the desk, her belly pressing against the edge, and opens the camera. The office is small and plain — gray walls, a metal desk, a window overlooking the parking lot — and her body fills it. She takes a photo sitting at the desk, naked, belly resting on her thighs, breasts hanging heavy and bare, the nameplate on the door visible behind her blurred in the background. She stands and takes another against the window, the afternoon light catching every curve and fold, the dark stubble on her legs visible even in the glare. She turns sideways and the profile is dramatic — belly pushing forward, breasts dropping heavy, the wide shelf of her hips. She takes a photo of the nameplate alone: L. PARK — LEAD ANALYST. Then she posts four photos to OnlyFans with the caption: *First day in my new office. They gave me a door that locks. This is what I look like at work now.*

She sits back down and opens her text thread with Diane. Her fingers leave orange dust on the screen. *It's perfect,* she types. *The office. The door. I'm in here doing exactly what I want and nobody can see me.* She pauses, then adds: *I locked the door and took my clothes off. I've been working naked all day.* She hits send and leans back in the chair, which creaks under the shift of her weight, and waits. The reply comes in under two minutes.

*I don't need to know that,* Diane writes. Then, after a longer pause: *Is the work getting done?* Lena types back: *Two client reports, a data architecture review, and I found a workflow gap that saves fourteen hours a week. So yes.* She attaches a screenshot of the workflow analysis and sends it. Diane's response is slow in coming: *That's genuinely impressive, Lena.* Lena reads it three times, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. She farts — long and loud, the sound bouncing off the gray walls — and types: *I know.*

The hunger hits her at 2 PM. She's eaten the chips she brought but her stomach is rumbling, a deep vibration she can feel through her whole belly, and the break room is down the hall. She stands, naked, and looks at the bikini on the floor and then at the door. The hallway is quiet — most of the third floor is empty, the other offices dark. She picks up her key card and nothing else. She unlocks her office door and steps into the hallway barefoot, completely naked, 245 pounds of unwashed, stubble-covered flesh, and walks toward the break room. The carpet is rough under her feet. The fluorescent lights hum above her. She turns the corner and the break room door is open and the light is on and she can see the vending machine and the refrigerator and the counter with the coffee maker. She walks in.

The refrigerator has someone's leftover sandwich and a container of pasta and a bag of chips and two cans of soda. She takes all of it. She opens the pasta container and eats it cold, standing naked in the break room, forkful after forkful, her belly pressing against the counter edge. She opens both cans of soda and drinks them one after the other and belches — a deep, resonant sound that echoes off the break room walls — and then she hears footsteps in the hallway. She freezes, mouth full of pasta, and listens. The footsteps get closer, then stop. Then they get quieter. Someone who turned around. She doesn't move. Her heart is pounding and her nipples are hard and the heat between her thighs is intense and she stands there, naked in the break room, covered in crumbs, and finishes the pasta before she walks back to her office.