Warning! This story contains material of an adult nature and is intended for mature readers and for personal use only. No copyright infringement is intended.
*
Alicia looked at herself, critically, in the full length mirror. She was wearing a tight, black, lace and satin bustier, which left both breasts almost totally exposed, underwired to push them upward and together, to give her a spectacular cleavage. Narrow garters, both front and rear, stretched down her smooth thighs, from her tightly cinched waist, and clipped to the tops of her sheer, black stockings, framing the smooth, curved pad of her hairless pudenda.
She bent down and stepped into her lacy, black panties, and wriggled them up over her hips and buttocks. The sheer material clung like a second skin, cut high on the hip, with a plunging vee front, that just stopped short of exposing her sex. She slipped the matching five-inch stilettos onto her feet, then posed, legs slightly apart, hands on hips, in front of the mirror.
"Hmm, I certainly look a knockout, if perhaps a little too obvious," she thought, but Arnie had insisted on her wearing this outfit, which he'd bought her, especially for the occasion! She pulled on the long, black, matching lace gloves, that stretched almost to her armpits, and slipped on her jeweled Rolex watch, before checking the time.
Arnie had told her that their business discussions should be over by nine, and then she should come down to 'entertain' his visitors. It was five minutes to nine! She quickly touched up her crimson lipstick, added a touch more blusher, then hurried into the adjoining bathroom. She poured a glass of cold water, then swallowed the two pink tablets that Arnie had given her, and washed them down, with a couple of large gulps of the water. He had insisted that the tablets would help calm her natural nervousness. She certainly needed something to help calm her jitters!
-oOo-
As she elegantly descended the curved staircase, into the huge lounge, concentrating on placing one high-heeled foot in front of the other, without loosing her balance, the small group of so-called businessmen, all turned to stare at her, open-mouthed, and the hum of conversation died away.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Ms. Alicia Rossetti!" Arnie announced, in a loud voice, leering over at her. "Ms. Rossetti is here to attend to your every need, and ensure that you all enjoy the rest of your evening to the full!"
He walked over and took hold of Alicia's hand, and drew her into the centre of the group of admiring men. "Remember what I told you!" he muttered, out of the side of his mouth.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, calmly, although her heart was pounding like a two-stroke motorbike engine. "I'm so glad to meet you all!" She forced a beaming smile, trying not to squirm beneath their wide-eyed scrutiny. She was acutely aware that, despite her nervousness, her already prominent nipples, were standing out, hard and proud.
-oOo-
"Can I freshen up your drink, Roger?" Alicia murmured, with a friendly smile. She had been formerly introduced to all seven men, by Arnie, and she was addressing Roger Keown, a good-looking, dark-haired, six-footer, who couldn't have been much more than thirty. He was easily the youngest man in the room. In other circumstances, she could've quite fancied him.
Roger fingered the tight collar of his white shirt, nervously.
"He looks uncomfortable in a jacket and tie," Alicia decided, as she watched him trying not to stare too blatantly, at her breasts.
"Um, ah, yes!" he replied, passing over his almost empty glass. "Thanks! It's Islay malt, neat!"
Her eyes twinkled, good-humouredly, as she moved over to the small bar, to top up his whisky glass.
As she was pouring the Scotch into his glass, an arm snaked about her slim waist. "How 'bout you and me slippin' upstairs for a few minutes, honey?" slurred a deep, slightly inebriated, masculine voice.
She spun around, in the man's arms, pressing back against the bar, and putting on a welcoming smile. "Are you sure you haven't had too much to drink, Tony?" she murmured, staring into the leering features of Tony Padovara, a dark-haired Londoner, of Sicilian descent.
His narrow lips twisted in a humorless grin, highlighting the old razor scar that ran down from the outside of his heavy-lidded, right eye, to the corner of his mouth. His hands came up, and cupped her naked breasts, his thumbs expertly flicking her nipples into full erection. "Not so drunk that I can't fuck a hot bitch like you!" he hissed.
