At 22nd and Main, Bill Harper almost ran the light. He was on his way to work, enjoying the parade of tight, lissome bodies glistening with morning sweat—joggers in low-cut, open-back, spaghetti-strap sports bras that struggled to contain the pillowy mounds threatening to spill free with each vigorous stride. A self-professed master at rubbernecking, Bill deftly navigated traffic while snatching eyeful after eyeful, until his lecherous gaze snapped to the come-hither cleft of a perfectly pert ass. She was a twenty-something blonde in neon pink scrunch-butt yoga capris, the kind that cup, part, and offer up ample, taut gloves like slabs of salmon on a cocktail platter.

The 7:15 alarm on his phone went off and a smiling Bill glanced at the oncoming red.

He did a double take.

"JESUS!"

He slammed the brakes, screeching to a halt. The car lurched and settled, halfway out on the white lines of the crosswalk. In another 10 feet, he'd be hood deep in the broadside of Brinks truck. Or worse.

The alarm went on, a soothing arpeggio.

Bill sighed with relief and looked over at the blonde. She hadn't noticed his brush with vehicular disaster. Or him, for that matter. She stood at the corner, bouncing on her heels, swinging her arms as she waited for the signal to change for the adjacent crosswalk. There wasn't a single sweat-sheened curve on her indecent body that he wouldn't gladly drag his tongue across.

He silenced the alarm on his phone. He had set alarms at 5 minute intervals to keep his morning on track. If he was late one more time, he'd be fired for sure. And yet, if he didn't make a pass on an ass like that, it'd haunt him for weeks.

Bill rolled down his window. "Excuse me! Miss!"

She swayed to a phantom beat.

"Miss!" Bill honked once.

She turned with a curious, praire-dog pop of the head. Tendrils of damp hair curled like cursive script on her flawless fair skin, a wreath around her vivid azure eyes.

He cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted, as politely as possible: "Can I grab your ass?"

She wandered over, removing her headphones. "Huh?"

He smiled. "Sorry, don't mean to be a bother. I just couldn't help but notice."

She canted her head. "Notice what?"

"You have an ass that won't stop and I had to stop for it." He stuck out his hand. "Could I get a squeeze?"

"Oh!" She smiled. "Of course!" She spun around and jut a perky cheek into his open palm. "My name's Brittany, by the way."

"A pleasure to meet you, Brittany." He wrapped his fingers around the meat and gave it a good old-fashioned fondling. "I'm Bill."

Through the thin veneer of spandex and nylon, her flesh dimpled and bloomed beneath his thick fingers—just the right mix of supple and firm.

"Marvelous," he said, licking his lips. "You must work out a lot."

"Every day!" She bragged. "I'm doing Rocky Ryder's 7-days-a-week Unbustable Brazilian Butt routine!" She clenched her cheeks to show off.

"Well, look at that." Bill poked and prodded. "Iron hams."

"It's really tiring!" She went on. "And dangerous!"

"Dangerous?" He asked, continuing to grope the glute.

She nodded. "Uh huh. When I was at the gym last night, I was doing my squat thrusts."

"I'd love to see that." He grinned.

"You'd think, but there was a guy on the bench press watching me last night! I was on my last set, grunting and struggling reeeeeaal hard..." She looked back, mimicking a labored expression. Coincidentally, Bill no longer had to imagine how she'd look like taking his dick.

"Uh huh," he said, enamored.

"...and just as I pushed through the last rep with a teeeeerrible groan..." She scrunched her face, straining.

"Uh huh." Bill leaned forward.

Her eyes popped open. "He dropped the bar on his neck!"

Bill blinked, freezing mid-squeeze. "Jesus."

"An ambulance had to come and put him on a stretcher. But he was alright." She put a finger to her lips. "I think."

"Well, I can't blame him. This is an ass worth dying for!" Setting aside the ill-fortunes of other men, Bill grasped both cheeks, so he could spread and knead properly.

She giggled. "You think?"

His 7:20 alarm went off. Forty minutes to work. He sighed and let go.

"That's all?" She asked, her voice tinged with surprise and disappointment.

"If it were up to me, honey, I'd let you shatter my nose between those iron hams." He shrugged. "But I really gotta get going."

"Aw," she pouted. "Are you sure?"

"Work," he offered lamely. "If I'm late again, my boss will fire me."

She sighed. "Okay. You boys have it so hard." Like most women, Brittany didn't have a job. As long as she fulfilled her civic duties, the government took care of everything. "If you see me again, don't forget to say hello!"

"I won't!" He smiled and rolled up the window. He checked the phone again and sighed.

Work. Who needs work? Fuck work. He fumed in blue-balled frustration. Was there any greater injustice in this world than the Faustian curse that was work? Was not a man entitled to the cum of his cock?

Before he could mentally launch into a full-blown anti-capitalist screed, there was a knock at the window. It was Brittany.

He rolled the window down. "Yes?"

"Hi. I don't mean to be a bother."

"Not at all," Bill said.

She giggled, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. He thought about pushing his tongue into her mouth. "It's just, uh, when you were squeezing my butt..."

"Uh huh."

"...that really turned me on..."

"Ah."

"...and now I'm wet." She pouted.

"I see," Bill said, pressing his lips together.

"Really wet," she said, an earnest note of apology in her tone. "You know how it is."

Bill did know how it was. The government presented every woman of breeding age with an enticing opportunity: a chance to enroll in the national Fertility First initiative, a decade old program designed to solve the plummeting Total Fertility Rates of the early 2000s.

The program benefits included comprehensive healthcare and welfare, housing and necessities fully covered, and a generous yearly stipend for all the little treats a girl deserves. There were only three obligations to maintain membership in the program: conceive every three years, maintain a diverse weekly partner quota, and receive monthly injections of LibidiMax. Those who had 7 children by the time they were 35 secured their post-menopause benefits into perpetuity.

Most women enrolled at 18 without hesitation.

"Yeah." Bill nodded dumbly. The thought of Brittany's bare glistening lips flashed through his mind—her willing, ripe womb rife with aphrodisiac-induced cum-craving desire.

"So I know you have to go to work, I really do, but maybe if you help me out really, really fast?" She crossed her fingers. "I'll be quick, I promise."

"Well, I..." Another alarm went off. Bill glanced at his phone. 7:25. 35 minutes.

She followed his gaze. "Usually I wouldn't burden a stranger like this but I'm just really, really-" Her voice got squeakier and needier with every word. "really, really...."

"...wet," he muttered.

She bit her lip and nodded.

"Right." Bill tugged at his collar.

"And to be fair, it is kinda your fault." She leaned her arm along the top of the door, allowing her plush double DD breast to hang like pendulums, a hint of areola peeking out at the edges. Her poor sports bra clung for dear life.

Bill gulped. His was a Biblical struggle. He was Job, and this woman was a demon sent by God or Satan to test him. Every cell in his body screamed in rebellion, demanding he toss her on the hood of the car and ream her vapid blonde brains out.

As if possessed by some other worldly force, he motioned numbly to the phone. "I really want to but-"

"I get it." She briskly stood up, taking her marvelous mammaries with her. "It's fine."

A voice roared in Bill's head, insisting he'd be better off homeless anyway. Lose the job. Nail the girl. What's the worst that could happen?

"Thanks. You understand," he mumbled, his own tongue an alien slug in his mouth. Did she understand? Did he understand? Could anyone understand?

"I do." She sighed, gazing forlorn into the distance. "I'll just have to find another man to pump his hot cum into this needy, inconsiderate pussy."

Bill's hand flung out the open window and seized her wrist. She gasped.

"Ah, sorry." He let go. "Sorry."

She rubbed her wrist, surprised.

"I just-I'll help out."

A smile curled her lips. "Are you sure?" She bent over again, offering another view into the unseemly heaven that was her cleavage. "I don't want to cause any trouble."

"It's no problem." Fumbling with the phone, Bill opened his Clock app and flicked off the other alarms. "We've got a flexible attendance policy anyway. I practically work from home."

"That's good," she giggled, caressing his arm with her nimble fingers. "I've got a flexible policy too." She leaned in, her lips brushing the lobe of his ear. "Very flexible."

Bill clenched his eyes and tossed up a prayer. "Oh, Jesus."