I'm at a gallery opening, a warm evening, an elegant crowd. I have only a slight acquaintance with the artist, but I promised her I'd be here. I don't see her anywhere, and I don't know any of the people milling around the large abstract paintings. But the wine is decent, and I had nothing better to do, so I'm not unhappy. I'm wearing a chic little dress, my makeup is fine, and I think I look good. Or at least interesting. People always tell me I look interesting. Am I pretty? Yes, I suppose I am, but sometimes I think I look too serious.
After awhile, I notice a woman staring at me. She's about forty, a tall and slender brunette in a knockout black dress. a gorgeous face, all of her just my type, and my heart is suddenly pounding.
Can she tell? Yes, I think so. From the way she looks at me, stares at me, it's obvious to me that she can read me like an open book. Some women can do that, they can read me easily, and she's evidently one of them. She knows what I am, and I want her, and my hunger is impossible to deny. Does she want me?
She's with a small group, and at intervals she turns to look at me, maybe to see if I'm still there. Finally, she leaves the group and she walks toward me. My heart is pounding again, and as our eyes meet, I feel myself trembling. She walks right up to me and she extends her hand. "Hello, I'm Margot. And you? She continues to hold my hand.
I'm still trembling. "Susan."
She smiles. "Hello, Susan. You're pretty."
"Thank you."
Her eyes are locked with mine, a fixed stare. Is she reading everything in my mind? I blush again and look away.
Finally, she says: "I'm going to the washroom. Why don't you come with me?"
It's not really a suggestion, it's more like a statement of fact. She's going to the washroom, and she wants me to come with her, and of course I'll do that. My doing that was already obvious to her the first time our eyes met.
She leads the way through the crowd, which gives me the opportunity to take her in from the back, her long legs, her narrow hips, her firm-looking ass so evident under her flimsy knockout dress. Now I'm more hungry than ever. And afraid. I know nothing about her, and I have no idea how cruel she might be.
The washroom is a small room designed for one person at a time, but no one is in the corridor, and we slip into the room together and she immediately locks the door.
She smiles at me, but she says nothing. She looks at herself in the mirror, pats her hair, then she walks to the commode and she puts the cover down. The commode is near the wall, and she leans against the wall and she carefully lifts the hem of her dress until her black lace panties are exposed, her panties and her sheer black thigh-highs, the stockings with wide lace tops. While holding the dress at her waist, she raises one leg and plants her high heeled shoe on the top of the commode as she leans against the wall to maintain her balance. "Hurry, I need to get back," she says.
