Chapter 01 - The Perfect Woman?
I met Danielle a little over a year ago, and quite by chance. We both happened to be the sole occupants of an ophthalmologist's waiting room where, on that particular day, we had both been waiting for an unconscionable amount of time for our respective eye appointments. Apparently, the office's clerical personnel had completely over-booked the doctor's appointments for that morning.
I usually have a very low threshold of tolerance for that kind of incompetence and normally I would have just voted with my feet and walked out--rescheduling my appointment for another day. But, on that particular day, the other impatiently waiting person in the room with me happened to be a stunningly beautiful woman.
She sat directly across the room from me, thumbing through the plethora of outdated fashion magazine issues available for patients--all the while, glancing from her watch to the reception counter. She was dressed impeccably in a cream-colored silk blouse and a navy skirt with her legs crossed--the raised foot constantly moving impatiently.
From my vantage point, I was afforded a particularly revealing view of her legs. But they weren't just nice legs, they were the loveliest, shapeliest legs I had ever seen in my life. As a card-carrying member of the male persuasion, I took particular notice of her legs, watching as she sat, crossed them demurely, or stood to approach the counter to speak with the receptionist. As a result, I couldn't help but feel somewhat disinclined to walk out. Her rather sensual presence in the room at least made the interminable wait one hell of a lot more tolerable.
I had been sitting in the waiting room alone for about twenty minutes when she had first entered, and I was immediately captivated by her beauty. I estimated her to be in her mid-to-late 30s and of medium height, probably no more than five foot five or six, but appeared taller in what had to have been at least four-inch stiletto heels. I watched her surreptitiously as she made her way to the receptionist window, completely mesmerized by her astonishing full figure.
Her fitted skirt and business-like cream-colored blouse did very little to hide a figure that, quite literally, personified the word voluptuous. My eyes were drawn to her wonderfully broad hips as she passed in front of me, her skirt conforming to the delightful curve of her buttocks and plush thighs--and showing off her beautiful shapely legs from a hem that was modestly just above her knees.
I smiled knowingly as she received the same news I had been given about the rather long wait. "An hour?" she protested, her voice rising slightly in indignation. She spoke a little longer to the receptionist her voice lowered. I could only hear an occasional word whenever her voice rose, such as: incompetent, and ridiculous.
I barely kept my eyes on my magazine as she turned and made her way to the seating area, pausing at the table that carried a large selection of well-thumbed magazines and selecting one that--judging by her expression--only marginally interested her.
I watched as she moved through the room, her large breasts shifting beneath her blouse, announcing their presence silently with a profoundly sensual sway. She was remarkably full-figured--in a word, Rubenesque--with a delightfully full bosom and broad hips.
As I was, quite literally, the only other person in the room, there was a veritable plethora of chairs available for her to select. I bit my lip to keep from smiling as she took a seat facing me directly across the narrow room and sat down, crossing her gorgeous legs.
There IS a God, I thought, trying not to grin maniacally as I glanced up to see I was being treated to a rather astonishing view of her thighs beneath her skirt. That she wore no hosiery was wonderfully obvious as the creamy pale skin tone of her legs matched the tone of her arms and her face.
Once I finally managed to tear my eyes from her legs, I looked up to notice how truly beautiful this woman was. Her hair was a soft light blonde hue, falling in soft curls to her shoulders in a style I thought was somewhat reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. Her skin tone was very pale, almost milky, with light blue/green eyes. Her makeup was done tastefully, with only a hint of eye shadow and mascara. Her lips were full, and she wore a shade of lipstick that, to me, appeared only slightly darker than her lips might normally be. She was either very good at her morning make-up or--I surmised--had been possibly professionally done.
She held her magazine in her left hand, and I couldn't help but notice that she wore no wedding ring. Interesting, I thought. A woman this beautiful without being some rich businessman's trophy wife?
I fantasized absently about possibly attempting to strike up some kind of conversation with her, but in life, I had learned some hard lessons when it came to overly beautiful women.
I had been shot down in flames too many times in my lifetime and knew it was far better to just admit defeat and admire them from afar. To my mind, there has always seemed to be something a little off about very beautiful women.
From the time they are very young girls, they have consistently been told how beautiful they are by family and friends--so many times--they come to believe it themselves. They grow into mature women who, knowing they are very often considered more beautiful than others, tend to wear their beauty like body armor--often with a haughty attitude toward us lesser mortals who might dare to enter their sphere of influence. Jaded and cynical, am I, you say? Sad to say, but true, and I freely admit it.
Over the next thirty minutes or so, she would occasionally stand to return whatever magazine she had been browsing to select another. I watched her surreptitiously as she moved about, and marveled at her voluptuous figure.
Moments later, she tossed her magazine onto the chair beside her with an exasperated sigh. She stood and made her way across the waiting room to the receptionist's counter.
"Is it going to be much longer?" she asked, keeping her voice hushed. "I've been waiting for well over half an hour, and I specifically made an appointment."
"It shouldn't be too much longer, Danielle," responded the receptionist with an air of annoyance on her face. "The doctor will get to you as soon as he can."
Danielle. Discovering her name made me smile. Somehow, that name just seemed to suit her perfectly. She returned to her seat and crossed her legs. I looked up, and we briefly made eye contact. I gave her a half-smile and shrugged my shoulders as if to say, 'Doctors...What can you do?'
"You were already here when I arrived," she said, startling me. "How long have YOU been waiting?"
I looked up and shrugged once more. "I was here about ten minutes before you arrived," I said, trying not to stammer self-consciously as she looked directly into my eyes.
She nodded thoughtfully and leaned forward toward me, "Personally," she began, keeping her voice low and giving the receptionist area a sidelong glance, "I find it completely reprehensible when a doctor's office overbooks and WE, the patients with appointments, are forced to pay the penalty for their incompetence."
"Oh, I couldn't agree more," I returned with a smile, quite literally thrilled with the prospect of striking up a conversation with her.
She looked up into my eyes and smiled. When she did so, her entire face seemed to light up and radiate a warmth that managed to enhance her beauty even more. God, she was beautiful.
Then, to my complete astonishment, she got up and moved to the chair beside mine. As she sat, I was immediately captivated by her lightly perfumed scent--more of a clean, fresh fragrance than many perfumes.
