I met Sandy when she interviewed for a job with my company.
At the time, I owned a rapidly growing software company facing a changing market, and I desperately needed a new marketing director to guide our outreach efforts. I'd interviewed several people, all qualified but not "world-class." I'd long ago learned that you hire only the very best, even if you must interview an unbelievable number of applicants.
Sandy was yet another in the parade. She had an impressive resume: an excellent education, relevant experience, knowledge of the industry, and documented successful marketing campaigns. She was also local, not requiring relocation.
I went through my usual description of the company and the challenges, then asked if she had any questions. She did, and plenty of them, almost all of them requiring me to think. She came across as intelligent, cute, and sassy. More than appealing, extremely attractive, both in looks and personality.
I started through my usual interview questions, which she handled effortlessly, but something was bothering me, a twinge of warning that I couldn't grasp. I wanted to offer her the job, but something held me back. Something that annoyingly eluded me.
I opened the conversation about salary requirements and expectations, but I ended up saying, "I'd like to offer you this job, but that would cause me a problem. I'd rather ask you out on a date, and I couldn't do that if you were my employee."
It didn't help that she smirked and then asked, "What kind of a date did you have in mind?"
"I dunno. Dinner and a play? Dinner and dancing? A concert?"
Her reply didn't help my confusion. "Yes," she said.
"Yes, to what?"
"Dinner and a play. Dinner and dancing. A concert. All the above."
The first date was at a quiet, intimate French restaurant. So, I wasn't surprised when she conversed with the chef...in French. We had a lovely time, shared our past stories, and talked about our dreams. We'd arrived in separate cars. As we left the restaurant, she kissed me quickly and took off.
She invited me on the second date, a roadshow of a famous Broadway play. We had a light, late dinner. Afterward, we shared a long and romantic kiss and went home in our respective cars.
For the third date, I invited her, told her it was a surprise, and offered to pick her up at her apartment. She accepted. The surprise was an elaborate dinner in a private room at an exclusive French restaurant prepared personally by the chef and accompanied by some excellent wines. I wasn't surprised when she conversed with the chef in French. The chef asked her to name her favorite dessert, which turned out to be crème brûlée. He prepared it with great flair specifically for her and drank a toast to an "extraordinarily beautiful woman."
I drove her home, and she asked me up for a "nightcap."
She had a gorgeous, massive apartment with some beautiful antiques and a view of the city lights. I couldn't imagine what she did with all that space, and I said so; after that, she offered to show me her "hobby," leading me to a room just off the kitchen. It was an entire room filled with racks of collectible lingerie from past eras, some of it having been worn in memorable movies by well-known stars.
Most prominent were racks of elaborate nightgowns, but there were also display cases for more intimate undergarments, including an entire wall of brassieres. I couldn't help but laugh and offer my admiration for the extent of the collection. I also commented that I had no idea there were that many ways of supporting and displaying a woman's breasts.
She pulled one nightgown off its hanger, draped it in front of her body, and twirled to show it off. When she offered to model it, I couldn't say "no." Sandy opened a bottle of wine, poured each of us a glass, sat me in the living room, and promised to be "right back."
I noticed I was unusually nervous, which isn't like me, and sat stiffly on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand that I didn't even sip.
She came pirouetting into the room, an incredible site. There should have been fanfare and a spotlight. The gown was as beautiful as the woman inside it. It was gold, long and slinky, with a lace bodice accentuating her breasts; she wore gold high-heeled sandals.
She plopped herself in my lap, allowing me a view of her breasts, which were lightly encased in satin lace. She took the wine glass from my hand, sat it on the coffee table, put her hands behind my head, and kissed me long and hard, which I reciprocated. Then she slid off my lap, pulled me up so I stood before her, kissed me lightly, and commanded, "follow me," while grabbing my hand and pulling me behind her.
Her bedroom was as beautiful as the remainder of the apartment, with erotic Japanese prints on the walls, except the wall with a huge mirror that paralleled the king-size bed.
She kissed me even more passionately and began unbuttoning my shirt. I hastened to help, soon standing before her wearing only my boxer shorts.
This time I reached out, pulled her to me and kissed her energetically and with lots of tongue. Meanwhile, I couldn't resist, and my hands cupped her breasts through the material.
"Is this what you want to do?" I inquired, making it clear that she controlled what happened next.
"Yes. Very much," she whispered in my ear. "But be gentle. It's been a long time."
Then she dropped to her knees, pushed down my shorts, and took me deep into her mouth, deep enough that I could feel the back of her throat. I was too turned on to let that continue for long and said so, holding her head while I pulled away.
"You're very good at that," I commented, "and I'll enjoy it again. But let's do this together, slowly and romantically."
She sat on the side of the bed, opened a drawer in the nightstand, and removed a bottle of lube. "We may need this," she explained.
I asked, "Are you OK with us wrinkling this beautiful gown? Shouldn't we be careful because it's part of your collection?"
Sandy laughed, "What we're about to do is why I have this collection. If we can't enjoy them, then I shouldn't collect them. The dry cleaners can restore them."
