Author's Note: On Tiffany's second day as the clinic's new receptionist she begins to appreciate the number of fantasies being reified by her timidity.
Because fiction.
Because you're predisposed to read ribald prose and I'm inclined to write it. We each must own our itches.
Enjoy!
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SCENE TEN
Doctor Ian Mitchell arrived at his clinic before sunrise.
He unloaded a canvas duffel bag and a heavy FedEx parcel from the back of his sport utility vehicle and carried them into his office. Before unpacking either he unlocked the laboratory adjacent to Exam Room 1 and flicked-on the lights.
Inside the small lab, he opened an upright freezer containing semen samples donated to his reproductive-health practice over the prior four years. Propping the cold door open, he carefully identified the drawer he sought and pulled it halfway out.
Orderly rows of glass vials, numbering well into the hundreds and each labeled with a frost-proof sticker, hung inside. On the right were samples from the four doctors, including his own.
After a moment's reflection he changed his mind and pushed that drawer back. Instead he pulled open another drawer, filled with sub-optimal semen from anonymous donors. From this one he removed forty-eight vials and placed them on a wooden cradle on the nearby countertop.
He then shut the freezer, extinguished the lights and returned to his office, leaving the semen to slowly thaw in the dark.
SCENE ELEVEN
Across town, Tiffany swung her legs off the side of her bed and sat up.
All night her fantasies about Doctor Adams and her recollections of being spanked had competed with mental reenactments of the porn scenes she'd watched. It was as if two halves of her subconscious had been trying to out-shock each other. She knew her resulting exhaustion, now temporarily masked by post-climactic wakefulness, would be a handicap at the clinic all day.
She stood and stretched, allowing her cotton sleep-shirt to drape to mid-thigh.
She could not believe she'd gotten so turned on by the events of her first workday, nor forgive herself for wanting to go back. The rational side of her brain had originally thought to call the police, or at least quit, but somewhere along the way another voice had prevailed upon her to stay. There was something compelling about being the object of so much male attention. It almost didn't matter that it was wrong. In fact the naughtiness of going back, of willingly risking further indignities, only made the whole thing more enticing rather than less.
And then there was Doctor Adams. The thought of seeing him again was positively corrupting.
She pulled on some stretchy half-leggings and shuffled to the kitchen.
Her lengthy pre-dawn orgasm had slackened, for a time, the parade of filthy thoughts traversing her mind; long enough for her to eat a quick breakfast with her Grandma, wash the dishes and then return to her guest room.
Once alone again she assured herself that she'd learned lessons her first day. She began to look for an outfit that would appease Doctor Mitchell.
Her new black choker necklace was the first thing she donned. Its sturdy metal D-ring shadowed the hollow at the base of her throat. She inserted a finger through it and played with its tiny crucifix, then traced the pink embroidery that spelled-out her name. She realized the cursive script looked like a logo; as if 'Tiffany' was her brand.
"Everyone will know my name," she whispered to her reflection in the mirror. That was frightening now that she thought about it.
Putting that concern aside she turned to her closet and flicked through the hangars, searching for inspiration.
The first outfit she tried on was a daring little black dress that she'd nearly left home in Boston. It was short and blatantly sexy. She decided there was no way it would ever pass for office-attire in front of the patients, so she put it back.
Next she considered a grey pencil skirt that was high-waisted and tight. Its lower hem reached her knees. It looked professional and the material, cut and color were conservative as well, but, holding it aloft, she decided it wasn't flirty enough for Doctor Mitchell.
After re-hanging the pencil skirt she opened her bureau's top drawer and selected a midnight blue g-string. It had an open triangle at the back that framed her tailbone. She stepped into it and raised it to her hips, neatly bisecting the twin globes of her young ass.
Still otherwise naked, she regarded herself in the long mirror and felt a sudden urge to moisturize. She pumped a large dollop of lotion into each hand and stroked them into her skin, up and down her legs and all over her torso.
Her nipples were still plump.
'God,' she thought. 'How am I ever going to concentrate today?'
Once all the moisturizer was absorbed, she walked back to her closet.
Eventually she settled on a suede wrap-around miniskirt as the centerpiece of her outfit. It was one of her summer wardrobe staples back in Boston because it coordinated easily and could be dressed up or down depending on what top and accessories she paired it with. Rather than stepping into it like a normal skirt, she merely unfastened its two closures, opened it into a flat panel and then wrapped it clockwise around her hips until it overlapped in front. The corner of underlying layer had a Velcro tab that attached anywhere along a facing strip on the silk lining of the outside layer, so that the skirt's circumference could be adjusted to a wide range of sizes. The remaining outer material tied via a pair of leather cords to the skirt's right hip. This created a miniskirt two layers thick in front and one layer thick in back, and since the front layers were only secured at their upper corners they tended to shift around a lot, allowing her freedom of movement but revealing nothing more than the underlying suede. All that movement was good at attracting eyeballs, though. It was flirtatious without being daring.
She carefully secured the skirt low enough on her hips that it concealed her upper thighs, but high enough that it did not appear too casual. Then she tied the side strings in a snug bow.
Still naked from the waist up, she returned to the mirror and sucked-in her narrow abdomen to evaluate her profile.
She clucked her tongue at the delicate crow's-feet where her armpits transitioned into the puffy verge of each boob. She traced her fingertips up from her stomach, invading her less-tanned triangles that swelled proudly forward. Her boobs' youthful loft made her smile; it showed no sign of slackening and felt remarkably elastic. Foremost stood her two ready nipples; starkly pink and worryingly excited.
Her fingers squeezed, enfolding themselves in softness.
"God... maybe I should skip wearing a bra today," she thought aloud, surprising her better angels. "I bet the Doctor Adams would love that."
As a test of sorts, she slipped on an undyed silk shell that was not long enough to tuck into the waist of her skirt. Its dainty spaghetti straps went far down her back and left her upper chest nude. The silk was so weightless that her nipples created draping highlights that hung well clear of her stomach.
Technically it covered her breasts, but in no way did it function like a bra. The slightest movements made the silk flutter and swing.
It felt ethereal against her.
Still in experimentation mode, she threaded her arms into a little V-neck cardigan sweater with buttons all down the front. Its cream color coordinated well with the underlying silk and she figured she could adjust the number of buttons depending on whether or not she was in front of patients.
"Hmm," she considered with a mischievous twinkle, "Maybe."
Needing to balance this slightly daring ensemble with something conservative, she stepped into a pair of tan closed-toe pumps that had a very modest heel. They were the only truly office-like shoes she owned.
She brushed her neck-length hair back from her face and secured it with a grey fabric headband. Last but not least, she put in some pendant earrings and did her makeup.
"There," she said, trying to rationalize her choices before the mirror. "That should give me enough options to keep everyone happy while still looking presentable."
She adjusted the thin sweater and spun leftward toward the window's morning light. The way her boobs moved freely was more obvious than she liked and the points of her nipples were just discernable through the knit.
"Shoot," she said aloud, wondering whether to ditch the shell, put on a bra and find some other middle layer instead. But all that would take time and degrade the adjustability of her outfit.
