As I sat in the office waiting room, I could feel the receptionist's eyes on me. I absentmindedly reached down and straightened the hem of my short black skirt, making sure that the tops of my hose were covered. Picking up a magazine, I whiled away the minutes reading until the woman called my name. I casually strolled to his office, entered, and took the chair to the side of his desk. He looked up and smiled, such a lovely smile. The way his hair looked at that moment, the knot of his tie against his white shirt, his sport coat, so well tailored, took my breath.
I felt his eyes on my chest, noting how my breasts pressed against the fabric of the white blouse I was wearing. I pulled my jacket close, trying to cover my now quivering bosom. I knew he could see my black bra through the white fabric. The mere thought made me squishy between my thighs. I shifted, crossing my legs. The hem of my skirt rose, I knew that the frilly top of my stocking was exposed to his view. But the way he looked, the calm, friendly manner in which he spoke my name, kept me from covering it. Instead, I caught his eye, returned his intense stare, and smiled. My tongue slowly moved across my lower lip.