My dinner evening is coming to an end as I excuse myself from the table, but it’s hardly even noticed. Passing by her table I break the ice by reminding her of our previous encounter, and enquire if she’d had success with emailing at the conference. Before I know it, she’s got me seated next to her, thanking me for saving her day and resolving their communications issues. We get into conversation about my line of work, with her confessing to having major difficulties in understanding the complexities of electronic communication. I suddenly feel her hand glide along my thigh beneath the table, and then in an instant she’s taken my hand, guiding me to her warm bare thigh. Leaning her head towards me, looking in my eyes she whispers, “You just don’t know how bad I need to be fucked.” I feel my cock begin to stir in my pants as I’m looking into her lustful eyes, thinking, I couldn’t possibly resist such an invitation. Things have so suddenly changed. My decision to come along to dinner. Well, for normal wear, anyway, for her. But she’d remembered seeing shows on television where the dancers wore much more extreme costumes than this, and besides, now she felt the need. To go with this, she had a pair of leopard-skin sandals that looked really, really good on her. She spent time on her makeup, wanting to be perfect, before finishing off with some lovely perfume she’d bought on a trip to Egypt. Anne looked at the clock. There were still a few minutes to go before Stan was due to pick her up. She found that she was nervous and poured herself a drink. She settled onto her sofa, switched the TV on and turned it to something mindless, as she waited. Suddenly she thought of something, picked up the phone, and dialled. – – – – – – – – – – Stan was wearing the same suit and shoes as he’d worn each time he’d gone to the studio. He’d put on the blue tie again, with his regulation white shirt. He was looking forward to the night. In the first place there was the prospect of.
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