Anya looked at her phone, relieved to see that it was twenty minutes to five o'clock. It was too late for a walk-in, and with no appointments the university's Sports Rehabilitation and Conditioning Clinic would be closing so she could still get in a workout before buying some fresh ingredients and cooking dinner for Brian, her new fiancรฉ.
Fiancรฉ. She smiled because she liked the sound of that. Brian, her boyfriend since her first semester of college... for a year-and-a-half, now... had just proposed last weekend. Anya was totally in love with him and had said "yes" immediately. She couldn't believe this brilliant graduate student wanted her; she was only a nineteen-year-old sophomore.
She put her course work aside and stood up from the chair in her examination room. Her fellowship in sports medicine was paying for the first two years of her education, but she still had to put in twelve hours a week at the rehab clinic working with injured athletes and other patients.
Anya could hear her supervisor, Lorraine, typing across the hall. Their part of the clinic was only three small examination rooms, Lorraine's office, plus the lobby and shower area. Anya walked into the hall and turned into the shower and bathroom area where the lockers were.
Anya opened her locker and unbuttoned her white collared clinic shirt and hung it carefully on its hanger. Her full-armor bra, as she called it, secured her C cups. She arched her back to reach around and get the clasp, dropping her arms forward to slide off the padded bra. She reached into her locker for her sport top, her perfect breasts tracking the momentum of her movements.
She pulled on the white sport top, tight-fitting for support, stopping an inch below her breasts. She adjusted and pulled and gathered until her girls were ensconced front-and-center and her arms moved freely. She reached down to the zipper of the khaki shorts she had to wear for work. These knee-length pleated-fronts were professional and functional, but standing at only 5'4" Anya worried that they made her look short and frumpy, and she was always glad to get out of them.
She dropped the stiff fabric of the shorts to the floor, and stepped out, keeping her socks and clunky high-tops, but wearing only the sport top and her panties, a fancy pair of light mocha-colored lace with a satin band at the waist. Like her bra, the panties were just slightly overpowered by the roundness of the flesh they contained.
She looked in the mirror and smiled. She had raided the panties from a lingerie set this morning for lack of laundry. They were certainly made for seduction, she thought. She put her hands on her hips and turned, admiring the shadows across her taut, flat stomach. Her short blonde hair bobbed a bit as she turned. She was vain, but she could laugh about it... it was hard not to enjoy having a body like hers. The boys certainly seemed to enjoy watching her.
In the last year, she had become a beautifully proportioned woman, if in miniature. Because she was shorter, her breasts, even pushed down by the sport top, seemed large and noticeable, though they were quite matched by the shelf-like ledge at the top of her hips leading to her nineteen-year-old gravity-defying ass. Her yoga-trained legs were strong and defined, though still with just a hint of softness.
She snapped to, remembering that she needed to hurry. She rummaged around in her bag looking for her tights before remembering that she had found no clean tights that morning. Normally it was tights under boxing shorts, but the laundry crisis was requiring some innovation, and that morning she had grabbed a pair of running shorts, forgetting about the panties and no-tights situation.
She pulled on the baby-blue silk running shorts with the university's logo emblazoned on the seat. They slid freely over the satin and lace of her panties but barely covered the bottom of her ass. Oh well, she thought, that will have to do. Then she remembered that she also did not have a sweatshirt to go over her top.
The sport top covered her, but the natural movement of her firm breasts was still pretty obvious, and a breeze or just pumping a set of free weights meant that her nipples could be discerned through the fabric as well, so she always wore something on top. She grabbed her white clinic shirt off its hanger and threw it on, leaving the top unbuttoned and the tails loose. Problem solved.
By ten to five Anya was heading back down the hall with her gym bag and books, calling out her usual goodbye to Lorraine. She was across the lobby and almost out the front door when she heard Lorraine, call out, "Hold on, Anya, I need you."
Lorraine emerged from her office and walked out to the front desk in the lobby. She was wearing the same khaki shorts and white collared clinic shirt, with the Sports Rehab Department logo over the right breast, but her shirt also had "Lorraine" stitched above the other breast. She was 27 years old, a little taller, slender and less curvy than Anya. She was already a licensed physical therapist and a doctoral candidate. She managed the clinic for the big cheeses.
"Coach Weston just called," she said. "He's sending over a player who apparently fell-out during practice with cramps. He was probably dehydrated. He's fine now, but he's going to need a basic assessment, counseling, and some manipulation and massage."
"Shouldn't you do that?" asked Anya hopefully.
"I have my dissertation proposal review in twenty minutes, remember?" answered Lorraine. "I put it on the schedule, but I didn't know I would need you to cover until now, and everybody else is gone."
Well, there goes the workout, thought Anya, as she took her hand off the front door, and turned around. "That's OK," she said, smiling. "I can do it, but what about locking up? We're still closing, right?"
"I'll just lock you in when I leave, and then when you leave it will lock behind you," said Lorraine.
Just then, the front door swung open, and the two women looked up to see a tall young black man step into the room. He was at least 6'3" and had skin the color of strong coffee with milk. He was still wearing his big black silk soccer shorts and jersey and cleats. He had a school windbreaker in his hand, and little pieces of grass still stuck to the dark skin of his calf muscles above his socks. He moved smoothly, with confidence, a slight swing in his long and muscular arms.