It would be the perfect seduction I thought to myself; he wouldn't know what had hit him. He certainly wouldn't be able to resist.
I lay in my bath and started to plot the details. As I did so I could already feel my body respond to my desire. I watched as my nipples hardened, the firm pink centre slowly rising out of the water, pushing the last of the bubbles aside. My hand moved slowly to rest between my legs.
I had first met James many years ago as newly qualified grads, fresh and shiny just out of University. We had joined the graduate program of Wetherstock Bros, the new cannon fodder to be sent off to conquer investment-banking consultancy.
I remember that first day; I sat in reception wearing a black suit and crisp white linen blouse. It had been in the late eighties when women still wore skirts as routine in the city. I had chosen carefully, and I remember watching the hem rising higher above my knee as I sat down. James had sat down next to me, nervous but smiling. I had liked him then, but I saw no recognition then. He had barely glanced at me, or my carefully exposed legs.
The first weeks had been manic, we had been sent to work on a big new back office settlements job Wetherstock had recently won.
Perhaps it could have been different had we landed cushy roles on a nice project but this wasn't like that. We were all desperate to prove ourselves and the project was a tough assignment. We got in early, worked late, slept in the gaps.
I remember one evening a year later, sitting in the office late, it was the first time I had considered James a possible partner. I had made team leader weeks before, James hadn't and I knew it hurt him to watch me going into meetings with the other team leaders while he toiled on.
I was still pretty good looking then, reasonably slim, short hair though to save time. It was summer and the building was hot, the air con never worked well at the best of times. Against my normal rules I had taken off my jacket. I never do that if possible, I feel that it is a suit of armour against the sexist gits that inhabit the world of banking and consultancy.
James and I were kicking some ideas around, about a new data feed we had to build when, much to my surprise, I saw him glance down at my breasts. As always I was wearing a light ironed linen white blouse buttoned up pretty high. I was surprised because he had never given me a second look before. I had finished my chat with him but had kept a close eye on his body language. Sure enough, as I turned back and forward to my screen, he had twice or more checked out my chest.
I went into the loo, just to see how I looked and was amused to realize that I had put on a pretty white lace bra that morning and that the combination of linen and lace on my hot sweaty top was a sensual combination. The pattern of the lace, the small bow in the middle of the cups and the thin straps going over my shoulders were all pretty clear. Standing close to the mirror I even wondered if I could just make out the slightly darker rings of my nipples, visible in parts through the lace. I smiled at myself, laughing that this was the first time I had considered myself a sexual animal since I had moved to the city.
I undid another button of my blouse so it was open to just above the line of the top of the cup of my bra and returned to my desk. I picked up some papers and went over to see if he would continue his attentions. I put the plans on his desk and leaning forward I pointed at a few key dates, chucking in some questions about progress. My blouse had fallen forward and there was no doubt that from where he was sitting he would have a clear view down onto my lace covered tits. I glanced backwards and forwards from the plan to him and was amused to see as he struggled to focus on the paper. Again however I saw his eyes flash back from gazing at my lace lingerie when he thought he could get away with it.
I suddenly felt a flush of power, control and arousal at his attentions. I realised that for a year I had been monk-like in my devotions to work. I had neither slept with a man, nor even kissed one since my last fling at university.
'James lets get some dinner.' I proposed.
'Yeah, I'm starving'. He concurred, picking the local takeaway menu out of his stacked in-tray.
'No. I mean real dinner, you know, how about that French place near the tube?'.
'What you mean, you and me, a restaurant?'
'Sure, why not?'
There was a look of confusion on his face as though he had never considered eating in a restaurant before.
'OK'. He looked quizzically back at me, his eyes momentarily drifting down to my blouse. He was obviously trying to understand if I was asking him out, or what.
The meal had been a pleasant affair although in the end we found ourselves talking through the technicalities of a sub-system design. He became accustomed to the fact I was actually a woman, stopped checking me out. I got tired, and as we left, when he asked 'Shall we share a cab?' I just coped out with a weary 'No, I'll just get the Northern Line thanks.' And that was that.
The next week, a big new project came up in Basle, he went, and I stayed.
How many times did I wonder where that cab could have led, coffee, bed, an awkward breakfast, dates, a shared flat, marriage.... Well who knows I traded it all for a trip on the tube and a stellar career in consultancy.
So that's how I found myself lying in the bath, a slightly overweight, exhausted thirty-two year old fingering my clit and dreaming of a seduction ten years too late.
Well in the meantime we had both done well, James had done Basle, New York, Tokyo, a golden boy of consultancy. If you wanted a high profile banker shmoosed, then James was the guy, and the money flowed in. I had proved myself a safe pair of hands, over and over across the city of London. Delivering projects, getting stuff done, generally being a hard bitch when people needed it. Loyal to my team, good at details, quiet, efficient.
We had kept in touch, sort of, occasional emails, a few snatched words at conferences. I sent him a jeroboam when he made partner, he sent flowers the next year when I did.
So one morning I got the email announcement. 'James Somerton is to become co-head of the London Banking Coordination team'. Not a bad job, a similar level to mine, we would work together often. But more critically, this time I decided would be different, I was going to do more than flash a little lace-covered nipple and he would be mine.
First however there was a plan to put in place, I had two months and by the time he arrived on the scene I would be a different woman.
Out went the toasted ciabatta sandwiches and in came salads, lovingly crafted at home every evening. I resolved finally to give in and join a heath spa and gym.
My first trip to the Oasis Spa for Women was a tough one; I waited nervously in the beautiful white stone entrance lobby as they took my credit card. The women that passed me all seemed typical size eight types with flat stomachs and firm limbs. I hated to think how I looked to them. The receptionist even seemed to look at me with doubt as I paid up my two thousand pound fees.
I was surprised too when I was shown through the dark hardwood doors into the changing room. It was a large open plan room lined with more beautiful wooden lockers, but no changing cubicles.
I stood there in my work suit, feeling hugely out of place. There was no one there when I arrived, but the thought of undressing there when anyone could walk in on me filled me with terror.
I slid off my jacket and hung it in an empty locker, there was no going back. I undid the buttons on my blouse, slid it from my shoulders and hung it next to my jacket, I felt naked even just in my bra, and it was a nice sheer white mesh and hardly covered me at all. I slipped my trousers off and stood in my white cotton knickers. I always bought the same ones, light white cotton, a little see through, a thin triangle at the front and rear, with string links going over my hips. Sexy, not that anyone ever saw them.
Just then three women came in from the pool area, one shockingly naked, the others safely cosseted in thick white dressing gowns. One of them glanced over at me as I looked up at them too. I wasn't sure but I thought I felt a judgemental wince as she surveyed my out of shape form. Within seconds they were all three nude and in the showers, which were also open. They were discussing the relative merits of their partners or ex's and each of their personality flaws.
I reached behind my back unclipped my bra, and shrugged the straps off my shoulders, laying it in my locker, I felt exposed as one of the others, now covered in soft bubbles looked over at my breasts. I slid my thumbs into the side straps of my knickers and slid them down over my knees. I was standing now fully exposed to their critical view.
They all had beautiful firm breasts and waists, lithe arms and legs. I felt a little shamed by my somewhat flabby appearance in comparison.
They also had all shaved the lips of their pussies, and trimmed the region above into a neat triangle. It was a sexy look I had to say, and I could imagine a bloke liking it more. I thought that I might try it too.
I slipped on my black Speedo and put my supplied dressing gown on, luxuriating in the soft warm fluffy material. I then walked into the pool area.
It was a fabulously opulent environment they had created, an azure blue pool in a teardrop shape, surrounded by palms, a glass dome above. The walls were lined with multicoloured mosaic tiles, in a roman style. What surprised me however was that many of the fifteen or so women in or by the pool were nude. It was a women only spa but I was still surprised by the open nudity. Many of them were in great shape too and were showing off to my eyes. I was uneasy about my Victorian black Speedo, standing out like a whale at a dolphin park.
