Monday
It's warm in this room. There are twenty students in all, taking an exam on some sort of mathematics which only seems to involve symbols I don't recognise. My job is to see that they all abide by the rules.
One or two appear to be in their thirties or possibly older, but most are in their early twenties. Some are obviously accustomed to even warmer weather -- there are several hoodies -- but not the young lady in Seat 1. Seat 1 is most definitely dressed for the warmth. I rather wish she was wearing a hoodie, because I need to concentrate on all twenty students. It's not easy.
When she arrived, Seat 1 was wearing a dark grey cardigan. Tall, slim, with long, dark hair, Seat 1 is not strikingly beautiful but she is undeniably pretty -- she has very kissable lips, I notice, though I am not supposed to notice such things -- and her long legs are encased in loose grey joggers. Seat 1 has dressed for comfort, which makes sense when you are condemned to a three-hour maths exam in a warm room, but she is dressed for her comfort, not mine. My problem arose when Seat 1 decided, for her comfort, to remove the cardigan.
Wow, just... wow.
Underneath the cardigan, Seat 1 is wearing a light grey crop top, made of a quite thin, very clingy material. She is really slim but has the most amazing bosom -- much larger than her slight frame ought to be able to support -- and that top does nothing to hide the fact. Every movement is accentuated. I must not be caught looking. I scan the room, for probably the two-hundredth time: everyone seems to be hard at work. No-one is looking at me. Thank heavens for that.
To make matters worse (for me), Seat 1 is not wearing a bra. Probably a good decision for her comfort, but the thin, Lycra-type material of the crop top, combined with its light shade of grey, means that I can see just about everything. If the darker shade of grey around the points of her nipples is anything to go by, she has large aureolae. I look away quickly and scan the room once more. It's time to move around a bit. I walk to the back of the room. I am on my own in here, as invigilator -- there is a back-up person in the corridor if I need assistance, a nice young woman called Janet. Perhaps I should call her in and ask for help -- I can just hear it now: "Janet, could you ask Seat 1 to put her cardigan back on, please?" Maybe not.
I stand at the back for a while and from this angle I can see just how slim she is. She appears to have nice, rounded hips, and that magnificent bust, but the rest of her is just so slim. I now find myself wondering about her bra size. I am no expert, but if I understand it correctly, she must be at least DD or E, maybe even EE. She can't be more than twenty-six inches round underneath her boobs -- is 26EE a real bra size? Except, of course, she isn't wearing a bra. I move quietly back to the front, gaze at her for a moment and tear my eyes away as she turns her head slightly to look at me.
It really is very warm in here and, although the window is cracked slightly open, there is no breeze. I am surprised therefore when I notice that Seat 1 suddenly has erect nipples. Again, I look away quickly. When I turn back she is definitely looking at me. Busted? I hope not -- I can do without the fuss of a complaint about inappropriate behaviour. I scan the room a few times before looking back -- she is hard at work again now and her nipples appear to have calmed down somewhat.
On we go. I notice that Seat 1 develops erect nipples about every twenty minutes or so. I wonder what she's thinking about, in between the incomprehensible maths? I think she's caught me looking once or twice but hey, I'm here to invigilate -- I am supposed to watch the students, right? I haven't seen any evidence of concern on her part. The worst moment is just after the two-hour mark when she suddenly raises both arms and stretches, arching her back and pushing those remarkable breasts out. I feel a swelling of my own developing and decide to retreat to my official desk at the front of the room, where I sit until things are back under control.
The exam ends and Seat 1 puts her cardigan back on. I collect the scripts and make the final announcements, and they all leave. I put the collected scripts in the official envelope, tidy and lock the room and head for the exams office. I will probably never see her again, so lets hope she isn't off somewhere complaining about that pervy old invigilator.
As I walk down to the office, my brain starts turning over fantasies about seeing her again. Snap out of it, I tell myself. She's less than half your age and you're a happily married man. Lovely to look at, yes, but that's all. A dream in one sense, but potentially a nightmare. Move on.
Wednesday
I am sitting in one of the university cafes, having just completed another invigilation. I have another one to do in an hour or so, and they are (usually) so boring, so I am just sitting here watching the world go by and trying to let my mind wander... and, suddenly, there she is: Seat 1. She's dressed much more demurely today -- jeans and a loose, buttoned blouse and this time she is wearing a bra. How disappointing, I think, before telling myself how inappropriate that is. I retreat into my decaf cappuccino and pick up my iPad.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" She's standing right in front of me, indicating the chair opposite mine. I look around: there are plenty of empty tables but it seems unnecessarily rude to refuse.
"Be my guest."
She sits opposite me and leans forward, rather than raise her voice.
"I recognised you from the exam on Monday. You were in charge." She gives a little half-smile.
"I was. You were in Seat 1."
"I thought you'd remember." That little half-smile again. "I saw you looking at me."
"Ah. Yes." I think for a moment. "I didn't mean to embarrass you." I pause to gauge her reaction, and then, "I'm sorry."
"I'm not," she says, quietly, "I enjoyed it. Nice to be appreciated." I decide not to say anything -- I could easily make a fool of myself here. Seat 1 is still talking. "I don't have any more exams now. All finished, so I'm glad I've seen you. I was afraid I wouldn't run into you again."
"And why would a lovely young person like you want to run into an overweight, old married man like me?" There, I've said it. This will come to nothing -- must come to nothing -- and I won't let myself be drawn into something that could cause a lot of trouble.
"I thought you must be married. Don't worry, I'm not a home-wrecker. I just wanted to spend a bit of time with you, since I obviously caught your attention."
"You certainly did that." She laughs at this; it is a joyous sound which could lighten the darkest mood.
"I know what caught your attention," she says, glancing down. "I've got them under wraps today, unfortunately for you." That half-smile again. "I normally keep them under wraps, to be honest -- they've been attracting attention from the wrong type of people since I was about thirteen. I didn't mind you looking though. It gave me a bit of a thrill."
"Happy to be of service," I said, drily, "...but I'm not sure my wife would be very happy to hear that."
"Did you tell her about me?"
"There was nothing to tell. If I told her about every pretty girl I see she'd think I was just a dirty old man."
"And are you?"
"I don't think I am. You are, how can I say this without sounding creepy, definitely more than just another pretty girl. No-one could be blamed for noticing you."
"Why thank-you, kind sir. That's just the sort of flattery that might charm me out of my frumpy blouse and into a crop top."
I can't help but laugh at this, but I have to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.
"Like I said, I don't think my wife would approve."
"But you would." I decide to say nothing. She is quiet for a few moments. "You probably didn't realise, but I was got really turned on during the exam the other day." Little does she know, but I keep quiet and look into her eyes, which are a vivid green. "Every time I caught you looking, I got aroused. That never happened before. I'm surprised you didn't notice -- my nipples kept going hard and poking out." I feel my cheeks redden. I've given myself away. "You did notice!"
"Once or twice, maybe." I tried to concentrate on her eyes instead of her bust. "But I shouldn't have been looking."
"You love your wife a lot, don't you."
"I do."
"I hope she knows how much you love her."
"She does."
"I'd like to meet her."
I don't know how to respond to this, but that turns out to be irrelevant because, across the café, heading my way, I see my wife. She looks a bit puzzled. I just smile.
"Hello," says my wife, turning the greeting into a question.
