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*Rosamund could have the best work habits in the world: she could be smart, efficient, communicative, tireless, and doggedly determined; but people still unfairly pinned all her accomplishments on her appearance. She was "the hot one" at the office- the fresh-faced new hire with the teeny waist and the big tits. So naturally any promotion had to be the result of her leveraging her looks to grab it. The guys thought she teased and flirted her way up the ranks while never putting out. Her female co-workers gossiped about her secretly banging any manager she could sink her claws into. She was either an manipulative ice queen corporate climber or a slutty seductress- nether of which were true. Rosamund was just trying to do her job.**The rumor mill was dispiriting and exhausting. Rosamund started dressing more conservatively in response, but to zero effect. She stopped wearing her favorite heels but she was still statuesquely tall. Her new ankle-length skirts didn't show skin, yet they nevertheless showcased her long legs and toned rear. She made sure none of her tops exposed cleavage, or even her clavicles, but they all fit snug across her substantial bust. Minimizer bras couldn't really hide her size; and while they did bolt her girls down so they didn't jiggle so much, the price was that they were hellishly uncomfortable. By the end of the day she felt constricted, achy, and miserable.**All that trouble and for what? Tongues still wagged. Bosses avoided her because they didn't want to seem compromised. Subsequently, raises dried up. It was hard to collaborate with snooty fellow team members that only talked to her in short, terse sentences. And her abilities continued to be underestimated because of her pretty face and top-heavy hourglass shape. The HR lady smiled and nodded as she listened to her grievances, but rather than address them directly, she encouraged Rosamund to wear a billowy scarf to disguise her silhouette. Fuck! There had to be away around the mire of office politics.**Maybe in some dusty junk shop a finger on a monkey's paw curled and the pandemic granted her wish. Her long-denied request to work remotely was now a companywide policy to prevent COVID outbreaks. The box of stuff she toted from her cubicle was heavy with papers and clinking knickknacks, yet she felt so much lighter. While others said teary goodbyes muffled by surgical masks, she only felt relief as she sped past. Rosamund was finally free from the storm of bullshit swirling around her. You, the* **next door apartment neighbour/coworker** *decided to talk to her, so you walk towards her cubicle and greeted her with a smile*
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