Concentration is an act of will power, an act of mind over matter, an act of focusing on something to the exclusion of all else. Deep in her subconscious Eve knows this, but all the concentration in the world is not helping her. Line after line, page after page, she scans the computer script before her until it is just a blur. Her concentration is gone and the job seems insurmountable.
The problem seemed simple enough on the surface. Someone had lost a decimal point in the program, just a simple little dot, a period. Common sense would lead any simpleton to believe it should not be too hard to find.
The problem is simple, easy to detect, and potentially disastrous. It moves the decimal point one place to the right in all calculations that the program makes. So ten times ten reads one thousand and so on. A clear, concise problem, one that could increase a dormant savings account with $100.00 in it to $100,000,000, In just a few months of monthly interest calculations.
Clear and concise it may be, but easy to find it is not.
"Jesus", you muse to yourself, "This is not complicated. This is not Albert Einstein math. This is a simple glitch in a program. Any competent moron should be able to find it". Competent you are, there is no doubt about that. You are the highest priced independent software consultant in the area and are good enough to command $250.00 an hour for your services, and get it fairly regularly but the success has not been without a price in your personal life.
Frustrated, eyes sore from staring uncomprehendingly for hours on end at endless sheets of code, you raise your head once again to examine your temporary surroundings.
Cyber Solutions, your current temporary employer, occupies 5 floors of this Seattle high rise, and is expanding monthly, or rather will continue to expand, if you find this glitch. Seated in your glass enclosed office, in the center of the floor you have the facility to look in all directions through the Thermopane, sound deadening glass at dozens and dozens of small work cubicles each filled with computers, monitors, printers and dozens of little worker bees doing their assigned tasks.
"God, if I could only do my job like they are doing theirs maybe they could look forward to having a pay packet beyond the next one." The fact is if they were paying you $.25 per hour you would be over charging them.
Your temporary office is sound proof and the hustle and bustle of the main office should be visible but you should not be able to hear the whirling of the computers and the clicking of the printers. However, you can. The sound is penetrating the room as a result of the efforts of a maintenance man who is replacing the sound proof glass, sheet by sheet, with a thicker, tinted variation to add to the visual privacy of the exposed office. It would also appear that the glass is of the one way variety.
The installer, intent on his task, totally ignores you as he diligently works away at the job, sheet by sheet. Subconsciously, you would like to lash out at him, blaming him for your inability to concentrate, but deep down you know that would be unfair, yes, untrue. Just an ordinary man doing his job.
The problem with the lack of concentration has nothing to do with this task or the workman. Deep down you can admit this only to yourself. The problem is totally personal and one that cannot be discussed with anyone not even your best friend if you were lucky enough to have one, which you are not. Another byproduct of the career you have chosen another personal sacrifice to the hours you have to keep.
Your marriage, after years of decline due to your neglect, has ended in a nasty, vindictive divorce. Publicly, you blamed your husband, but, secretly, you know it is your fault. The lawyers have finally finished picking the bones and you, and your ex-partner are finally free of each other to build a new, separate life. However, it is not as easy as it once was.
Years of mental turmoil at home and the demands of an uncertain job market in the field of software consultancy have taken their toll. You smoke far too much, you are seriously overweight, bite your nails, and have a quick furtive manner about you much like a timid hunted animal caught in the mesmerizing lights of a car.
Physically and mentally you are not ready for the singles life. Deep down in your heart of hearts you know why you cannot concentrate. Like the computer problem the symptoms are abundantly clear, at least to you. As like the computer problem the solution is far more elusive, if not unattainable.
Your concentration is being spoiled by frustration, pure and simple, sexual frustration. You miss getting regularly fucked by that asshole to which you were married. Useless for everything else, he sure knew how to press your buttons.
Just the thought of some of the things, the private things you did to each other and the places you did them makes you start to moisten. Nothing can replace that big, warm, thick cock pounding up your channel, probing, prodding, inching its way up until you thought it was going to worm its way past your tonsils and out your mouth.
God, you miss that, but only that!
You mentally blush at such lewd thoughts.
You shake your head in an effort to return to reality and regain your concentration.
The fact remains that the fucking you were getting was not worth the fucking you were taking from that asshole.
So, here you are, at 49 so sexually frustrated that you cannot even concentrate on your job and no possibly solution on the horizon. Your hormones, if nothing else, tell you exactly what you need to regain your power of concentration.
To put it in simple, basic terms you need to get fucked. You need some moronic stud to lay nine inches of All-American muscle into you. You need to lay on your back with your knees splayed apart and your cunt totally exposed while some nameless, faceless walking dick drives it into you so hard, so fast and so deep you walk around for two days, bowlegged, with a silly crossed eyed grin on your face. You need him to dump a lot of his seed into you that is so massive that you need to wear Tampons for two days just to keep it from running down your legs. This, and only this, is going to return your powers of concentration. What you need is clear. How you're going to get it is another matter entirely.
Sexually frustrated, your low self-esteem prevents you from being aggressive on the singles scene.
The lousy bastard knew all the hurtful things to say. The constant cracks about your weight, your mammoth breasts all hit home. Every hateful word was like being pounded by a baseball bat but it didn't stop with the utterance. The hurt still lingers long after he has passed from the scene.
Your opinion of yourself has sunk so low that you are incapable of making a pass at a man or reacting to one, if by some miracle, some fool made one.
You would even be grateful for a mercy fuck at this stage of the game. Anything, even a rape, would be preferable to returning home again tonight to an empty apartment and your cyber sex pals on the net.
"God, what I wouldn't give for 6 inches of real meat between my legs rather than twelve inches of fantasy", you think.
Reluctantly, you drop your eyes back down and try, once again, to concentrate in finding that elusive mistake in the program which makes the half million dollars invested in writing it a total waste of money.
You will yourself to work, to concentrate.
It's mind over matter, brains over hormones, intellect over emotions.
You bear down on the task at hand as your pussy continues to itch and you constantly squirm in your seat.
Line by line you plod on with the code. Page by page with no guarantee that you will recognize it when you see it, or for that matter, you have not already unknowingly passed over it.
Approaching 10:00 A.M. and coffee break time you receive yet another visit from Richard Rogers, the head of the department responsible for the useless program.
Richard has visited six times a day since you started this assignment. You understand his concern, his anxiety about the program but the pressure is not helping. After all, they would not have brought you in unless they had been totally stumped.
Richard enters your temporary workspace with a superficial smile on his face, which unsuccessfully masks his inner concerns.
The $2000.00 per day fee is eating into his contingency fund very quickly.
"How's it going, Phyllis? Anything I can do to help?"
You smile wanly at him.
"Name it and you got it". He answers eagerly.
"Give me the brain of Albert Einstein and the concentration of an IBM mainframe", you quip.
"If I could give you those I wouldn't need you, would I?"
"Finding it difficult to concentrate? Anything I can do to help? Is Randy disturbing you?"
For the first time in an hour you glance at Randy quietly working on the window frames on the far side of the office and, involuntarily, do a double take.
The hair is cut differently and he has a salt and pepper moustache, but Richard and Randy look enough alike to be brothers, even twins.
You look again even more closely.
Yes, they are twins.
You look askingly at Richard.
He smiles at you.
"Yes, my younger brother, my younger "twin" brother. He was born five minutes after me and I never let him forget it."
Turning away from you, he catches Randy's eye, and, raising his hands, he begins to talk to Randy using sign language.
They talk for several minutes and, finally, Richard turns his attention back to you.
.... There is more of this story ...