"... must remember that teaching highly intellectual children is not only a science, it is also art; it is not only educational level, but it is also educational experience. For example..."
Melissa groans inwardly. She looks at her wrist watch, and realises the oh so well-known speaker has only been busy for a mere ten minutes, and already she is bored. She shuffles in her seat, crossing her left leg over her right. Her eyes dwell over the full auditorium. All of them are dressed in what can only be described as the norm of expectation and professionalism in style. Black suits with a light grey stripe; neutral ties; polished shoes. Sometimes a shiny grey suit, or dark blue. The women all took out their designer slim straight dark coloured skirts, a few of them daring to wear one with a brighter blouse. After all, this is a seminar for those about to embark on the mental challenge of teaching the highly gifted. Drumroll and a whoopi please, since apparently you cannot teach them when you wear what you prefer to wear. You have to look like a teacher who just stepped off the assembly line in the Fabric of Regular Professional Style.
She stands out in the crowd of grey, black and blue with her flashy orange skirt, just above her knee. Her smooth well-formed legs are covered in a thin shiny stocking. Her silver-grey blouse is a tight fit without seeming provocative, and her cleavage just barely hidden in the fold.
She looks to her left, and about two chairs away from her she sees the man who apparently just like her is utterly bored. He also decided to escape from the assembly line and showed up in designer jeans and a shirt that ... well ... could only be fit for the beaches of Hawaii. At least he has the tan, and the physique, to match it. He looks at her with a lopsided grin, then scribbles something on his notepad, holding it up for her to read.
"Coffee?"
A laugh is just stopped in time and is turned into a small nod. When he stands up and turns away to quietly slip into the isle, she can't help but admire the firm butt. A tingle starts deep inside her as her mind makes comments that certainly are not fit for a teaching seminar. She slips out after him, her eyes fixed on the lovely view in front of her.
When they are out and the doors closed, they both lean against them, laughing.
"I thought I was about to fall asleep. How on earth can a guy who is supposed to be a specialist in teaching have such a monotone voice and be successful? Then I thought I did fall asleep and was dreaming of flashy orange angels."
His voice reminds her of a schoolboy, just on the verge of breaking, yet he is no boy. Oh no, not at all.
"Well, Mister Hawaii, first get me that damn coffee before you start flirting with angels." She walks out in front of him, gently swaying her hips. He is watching. She knows. Idly she tucks her shirt a little deeper into her skirt, letting the top of her cleavage peek out, at the same time lifting her skirt just one centimetre higher.
At the coffeebar they indulge themselves in cuppacino and apple crumble with extra cream. All the time she can feel his eyes on her, burning through her clothes. Her hands want to reach out and touch his leg, feel the muscle through the tight jeans. During their lighthearted conversation they move closer to each other, a hand on her shoulder, a soft slap on his leg, a leaning against a broad chest, a hand on her leg.
"How the hell can they make stockings that are this thin and shiny? It is like you are wearing just an extra layer of shiny skin. It looks like it would tear to pieces just as you put it on." He traces his finger nonchalantly over her lowerleg and knee, up and stopping where her skirt starts.
"Hmm ... it does rip easily. I have twenty-two more pairs at home. Every beginning of the month I buy enough for the whole month, and every day I have to wear a new one. See this little spot here? Tonight when I take it off, it will tear." She pulls her skirt a little up to reveal a non-existing weak part in the stocking, laughing.
"I bet I could rip it with one finger."
"I would like to see you try. But my apple crumble isn't finished yet, and I am out of cream."
He grins, "You may bring it with you. I have a bottle of cream in the minibar ..." and with those words he gets up from his chair, walking towards the elevators of the hotel. She raises an eyebrow, then wraps the remains of the apple crumble in a serviette, following him.
In the elevator, the pie crumbles to the ground as their hands grab at each other. His hand travels up her inner leg, under her skirt and closes over her vagina. She is glad she decided to wear thin lacies. She pulls his shirt out of his pants and slips her hands inside, fingers feeling the movement of muscle under them.
Diiinnnggg!
The doors open and he practically pushes her out, his lips against her chest, tongue tracing down her cleavage. She digs her hands into his jeans pocket, feeling his key-card. As she grabs it, she closes tightly around his ass, squeezing. He pushes her against a door while he expertly pops the buttons of her shirt open. Her hand feels the place to insert the key-card, and the door opens while she pulls his shirt over his head.
