"Who should I make this out to?" He said in that distinctive gravelly voice. It was Spock without the pointy ears, the baby blue tunic, the high sheen bowl cut, or the winged eyebrows. Instead, he wore a tweed sport coat with wide lapels, flared slacks that skirted the ground and enveloped his shoes, and a burnt orange turtleneck. His black hair was in a stylishly mussed mop rather than Spock's perfectly ordered coiffure.
He hadn't even looked up when you stepped up to the table. He was nearing the bottom of a stack of glossy 8X10 color photos of himself made up and costumed as the stoic Mr. Spock, and it had been a long day. That show had been off the air for almost two years, but it seemed like Leonard Nimoy was, inexplicably, increasingly being known as Spock.
As you faltered in your response, he did look up. His initial thinly disguised irritation evaporated when he saw that it was not a gawking pimply-faced boy, but rather you standing before him self-consciously and voluptuously in a plaid jumper skirt and long-sleeve white top. The skirt felt, at that instant, like it displayed too much of your creamy thick thighs, and the top seemed to cling to every curve. Your nervousness was not eased by the fact that, as Nimoy slowly returned his gaze toward the stack of photos on the table in front of him, his eyes seemed to take in every inch of you and then to linger interminably on the hem at the front of your skirt. In a subconscious act of vulnerable modesty you put one of your hands on your opposite shoulder cupping the base of your neck and allowing the arm drape across your chest as a kind of shield. There was a kind of raw eroticism about the act that caught Nimoy's eye as he returned his gaze to your doe eyes and handed you a portrait on which he had scrawled his signature on the front, flipped it, and wrote something else on the white paper backing.
You took the photograph with a muted "Thanks" and began to walk off.
On the back of the photo he had written: "Hamilton Arms, Rm. 614; Be there at 8:00pm tonight." You experienced a jumble of emotion. Nervousness and exhilaration were intermingled indistinguishably. He saw you, looked upon you, and demanded to see you again. That was flattering and thrilling. Yet the thrill was intertwined with an omnipresent nagging unease at the back of your mind that he couldn't possibly want you, and that you must be misreading his intentions. Nonetheless, there was no doubt in your mind about whether or not you would go. It had not been a request, but a command. And you loved that it was a command. There was not the slightest hint of ambiguity. Oh, in some theoretical sense you were completely free to ignore those words by shear force of free will, but, in reality, your own desire sealed your fate, more so than summons from the lanky man to whom you were more than willing to relinquish yourself.
At the appointed hour you were at that door trying to compose yourself before knocking. Your hair was still slightly damp and gave off a subtle fruity shampoo smell. After the signing, you had gone to your hotel and ritually primped in preparation for your evening rendezvous with Mr. Spock. This involved a long hot shower and shaving your legs and nether region with meticulous care, despite the fact that they were already quite smooth. The shaving process was slow as your hand occasionally trembled ever so slightly and your mind raced with the evening's possibilities. You had resisted the urge to pleasure yourself in the shower beyond a few furtive touches and a brief period of reveling in the pulse of the showerhead. If you were going to be deflowered this evening, you would not be lacking for eagerness.
Just as you had summoned the nerve to knock, the door opened. It was not Nimoy, but a younger blond man in a gray suit. He was clean-cut and professional in appearance. "I'm..." You started to introduce yourself, noticeably perplexed.
"Please come in. Mr. Nimoy is expecting you. He has a few administrative matters to attend to, and then he'll be right with you." The man said. You presumed he was a personal assistant or something of that sort.
Oddly, despite the fact that the hotel suite had an armchair and loveseat in it, the young blond man ushered you to a spot in the middle of the room at which he left you standing. You only noticed the sound of the lavatory sink running as it abruptly stopped. Shortly after that, Leonard Nimoy strode into the bedroom from the bathroom. He was wearing a white terry robe embroidered with the hotel's crest logo. Over his tall lean frame, the robe came only to mid-thigh. He made a beeline toward you. You looked down at floor shyly, unsure what to do.
"Glad you could make it. I'll be with you in a moment. I swear my life is coming down to signing things 90% of the time. When I'm not signing autographs, I'm signing contracts so I can get paid." As he was saying this, he put his hand under your chin and lightly raised it until your neck was sufficiently craned to be looking him in the eye. With the other hand, he cleared a shock of brunette hair out of your face that had fallen across your cheek while you were looking down. "I think you will do just fine, but I'll need to have a look at you." Nimoy said before walking over to and sitting down at the small round table next to which the blond man was standing, and which contained three small stacks of papers arrayed orderly.
You stood glued in your spot. You were not sure what he meant.
When he saw no movement, Nimoy looked over and clarified the command. "Dear, that means I need you to disrobe." He said to you, and then to his assistant: "She may need help with that zipper."
You were wearing a simple floral print dress that zipped down the back. The assistant strode over. "Allow me." He said as he reached around and, matter-of-factly, tugged the zipper down as far as it would go to a point directly above the cleft of your backside, which his knuckles inadvertently brushed in the process. The assistant turned and walked back to the table and the feel of cold air on your back was palpable where the fabric had fallen open.
As the two men were occupied with business matters, the younger pointing out where to sign and the elder scribbling his name or initials, you were slowly, and with the most intense feeling of being exposed, slipping the dress off your shoulders and then stepping out of it. You laid the dress over the back of the armchair, and stood there in only underwear. Should you remove the little cover that the bra and panties offered? That was what you believed the instruction to be, and so, hesitantly, you complied. You fidgeted. Your knees were together with one knee turned inward, and you instinctively moved your arms about looking for an illusive pose that would be both natural and provided some measure of cover of your tummy in particular.
Soon the two men were done and the assistant began collecting the papers up into an orderly sheaf, which he put into a leather portfolio that he then zippered shut and tucked under his arm. The assistant smiled and nodded politely as he passed you crossing the room toward the door. The nonchalant nature of the blond man's gestures seemed odd in that it betrayed no acknowledgement of the fact that you were completely naked. It was the same way you would greet an acquaintance on the street. Your eyes followed him unconsciously because you had an irrational fear that when he threw open the door there would be a dozen paparazzi with flash bulbs popping standing in the hallway to capture your exposed form.
