I was in trouble now, at full stretch. Might as well have been on the rack. Even exhausted, slumping back in the chair, bathed in sweat and rubbing my burning eyes, I realized that much. But it was just so flippin' frustrating. All day, at every critical juncture, every flippin' time I seemed about to get well, I'd come up one card short. One card! Bloody infuriating! And how long had this debacle been going on?
The on-line time read 04:28. With 30 or so minutes for lunch, and three, no, four hours earlier -- well, let's say 8 hours total. Thereabouts. No flippin wonder I was burnt out. And the money! Jesus. I reached out and switched off the computer, not wanting to look at the flashing message -- "Further Credit Denied", "Further Credit Denied"... Should've stopped myself, of course. Fool! Heaving myself out of the chair, I peeled off the outsized teeshirt.
I crossed to the full-length mirror and stood there, clad solely in my panties, conducting as objective a survey as possible. The legs were too short, of course -- always had been. And too heavy, both the calves and the bloody thighs. Too broad in the hips, to thick in the waist. I slapped the former and pinched the latter. To no avail. But the tits were good. Full, firm. Turning sideways I lifted my arms above my head. Nice little uptilt to the nipples. Always been my best asset, my tits. First girl in my class to need a bra, and the truth was I could still go without one, usually did in fact. Facing the mirror once more, I used the damp teeshirt as a towel, scissoring it first up and down, then back and forth across my back, before balling it up and mopping at my throat, between my breasts, over my stomach. Not that the flippin' thing was much use. It was probably doing more harm than good. So I tossed the sodden mass aside casually, realized that my panties were just a wet. Peeling those down and off revealed another trauma.
Hairy?! Apes have nothing on this girl. Not your lush silken curls, mind. Oh no. We're talking your tangled matted black mass here. Like a wool sweater accidentally added to the hot rinse cycle, then shoved in the dryer. In short, a flippin' mess. Utterly and completely out of control.
But there was nothing for it. I could delay all day, and it would still come down to what he had to say. Straightening up, I inhaled then exhaled -- then turned and started across the plush white carpet to the descending staircase. Prostrate yourself, kid...Offer to lick his feet, and about 30" up the inseam. Maybe you'll get off with another warning...
He was a dapper little guy in his 50s, and he was precisely where he'd been all day: settled comfortably in the black leather armchair, the only piece of furniture other than the sidetable in entirely white room. Classical music continued to play softly from the unseen speakers.
Just inside the archway, I struck a pose -- albeit a discreet one -- right hand on my hip, left hand combing slowly through my hair. Only to be ignored. Not a good sign that. So I brought my left hand down to my other hip and cleared my throat, still smiling. He glanced over, casually, for about a nanosecond, then returned to the papers he was reading. Definitely not good. Nor was the fact he kept me waiting for several minutes, which seemed like much much longer, before slipping the papers into the briefcase resting atop the sidetable, shot his cuffs -- and casually gestured for me to move across directly in front of him.
'I've...'
But he cut me off with a silent shake of the head, his face impassive. And proceeded to look me over -- I do mean over -- not to mention up, down and sideways: his steady grey eyes drying my mouth...Even as, I must admit, the intensity of his gaze moistened my pussy! And tightened my nipples. Which he noticed, a faint smile flitting across his face -- blink and you'd have missed it, mind -- then he raised one manicured finger, gesturing for me to turn around. I did, curling my toes into the plush white carpet, and tightening the muscles in my ass: that being one of my better features as well.
And decided to try again. 'I was wondering...'
'Be quiet, please,' he said, his soft voice cutting through the music -- and through me, to be honest.
