The Reception

I take my time getting ready for the event this evening. I know you will be there and I want to look good for you. I want you to see me. I want you to want me. From the other side of the room.

After a leisurely soak in the tub, scrubbing, shaving, smoothing, I wrap the towel around me and look for something to wear. Perhaps the red satin dress: low-cut, skimming my curves, resting classily just above my knee? No. I don't want the whole room to notice me, only you.

The black chiffon: ultra short with the high neck at the front and no back? Better, but everyone wears black to cocktail receptions. I don't want to be lost in the crowd.

Ah! Yes! The pearl-grey raw silk: different but subdued, long and straight with the high slits up each thigh, so that when I stand chatting, resting with my weight on one leg, the other will peak tantalisingly out. Fitted to show off my curves, the square neckline hinting at my cleavage. Perfect. I will wear the long lattice necklace that points like an arrow to between my breasts.

I pull open my underwear drawer and survey the neatly folded ensembles arranged according to colour. The pearl grey to match the dress? Or the darker grey in slight contrast? Perhaps the purple; I love the two-tone lace of this set. I pick them out of the drawer and unfold the panties, holding them up in front of me. Yes, these are high cut and will sit at the top of my hips, just right for the dress. I love the little bow in the front, and at the top of the thong in the back.

I place them on the top of the dresser and open the second drawer to find some stockings. Flesh-coloured would be best. These ones with the wide lacy tops, perhaps? A hint of lace would show below the slits of my skirt. Yes, I think these will be fine. Picking up my bra and panties, I go back to the bathroom.

I rub lotion into my body, beginning with my thighs, over my knees, down my calves to my feet. The white cream spurts onto my chest as I press down on the plunger of the bottle, and I smooth it across my sternum and over my breasts, using both hands, lifting them up, not missing a spot. A little more and my hands caress my stomach firmly. Still more for my shoulders, back and ass, reaching round, twisting my hands, covering every inch of my body. Finally, my upper arms, my elbows, my lower arms and my hands. My skin must be silky smooth, should you happen to graze it as you pass by.

I step into my panties, pulling them up, inching them over my hips, adjusting them. I turn and look over my shoulder in the mirror, pulling on the thong so it sits just right between my cheeks. I survey the effect in the mirror. Yes, I love these. I caress my underarms, my spine and between my breasts with deodorant, before opening my makeup drawer. Not too much, just a little dusting of powder here and there, a sweep of colour to my eyes and cheeks, a stroke of black defining my gaze. But a little more for my lips: a deep wine that hints at their taste.

I attach my bra, turn it and slide my arms into the straps, adjusting the fit till I am happy with the roundness of my silhouette and the plunge of my chest. My skin has absorbed the lotion now and I roll my stockings up each leg in turn. Now it is time for the dress. I step into it and pull it up. It hugs my body, defining it, as only something that was made for me could do. Contorting my arms, I fasten the zipper at the back. Yes, I was right. The choice is perfect. Jewellery now: the necklace, the drop earrings -- sophisticated and eye-catching, but not flashy. I brush my hair and arrange it around my face. All I need now are my shoes.

I find the ones I want, that I bought to go with the dress. They are a dark grey satin, with three-inch stilettos and very pointy toes. They are fuck-me shoes, and I hope you will notice them.

It is time.

*****

My position in a group on the far side of the room, opposite the door, allows me to see you arrive. I am standing slightly to the side though, not obviously watching. You are, of course, not alone. You are not looking my way. I have time to notice how elegantly proper you look, as usual, how conservative and discreet. I smile to myself and return my attention to the conversation beside me.

Later I am weaving through the crowd towards the buffet table. But I am not alone. I see you off to one side, listening to an older, influential-looking man expound upon some theory or other. You smile politely and nod occasionally. You still do not see me.

Later still, I realise that you are standing just the other side of the plant that is tickling my upper arm. I can hear your voice. Over two hours have passed since you arrived and you have not noticed me yet. I want you to see me. I want you to want me. My stomach is fluttering. My pussy is swelling. You are so close; I could reach behind me and touch you. But I cannot. You are not alone. I am not alone.

And then suddenly I am. Some kind benefactor has stolen my husband away, apologising profusely. Of course, I smiled graciously at the gentleman and reassuringly at my spouse. But my thoughts are that I now have the opportunity to make you notice me. I turn my head slightly and realise that the charitable art exhibition begins only feet away, and that you are facing the first canvases. I round the potted plants, walking surely but seductively slowly towards the first painting.

I can still hear your voice, but this time I can feel your eyes on me. I shift my weight to my left leg, my right one extending, revealing my thigh and the lace at the top, the point of my shoe indicating you, as I sip my wine and pretend to contemplate the work before me. I try to suppress a smile as I hear your wife excuse herself because she has just spied a friend on the other side of the room. My insides jump when you ask your conversation partners if they have viewed the exhibition. We are in luck, they already have. You extricate yourself with aplomb, I find, and soon you are standing behind me.

Now is my chance. I cock my head to one side and take a step or two backwards. I can feel you close now. One step further and your hand is on the small of my back. I turn my head -- so sorry! Now I can see the lust in your eyes.

Your hand does not linger. We have to be careful. We comment on the painting and move on to the next one. Your acquaintances have departed and there are now few people in this relatively secluded area of the room. I turn my head to look at you once more and you tell me that you have been hard since you saw me at the buffet table, that you have been trying to get near me all evening.

You know the power of your words. You know that your desire always intensifies mine. You know that if you give me a sign I will do whatever you want. The backs of your fingers lightly and subtly brush my hand, and electricity ripples through my body. I am like a fly caught in the spider's web. You bend your head and whisper to me to meet you on the floor above, then turn on your heel and exit the room by the nearby door.

Draining my glass, I glance around. The coast seems clear. Our spouses seem occupied. No friends or acquaintances are in the vicinity. I place my glass on a passing tray and follow you as if on an extendable leash that you are reeling in.

Thankfully, there is no one in this corridor. I quickly mount the stairs, hurrying to ascend the first short flight and round the landing out of sight. You are waiting at the top of the second set, in the dark. You take my hand as I reach you, pulling me into the corridor, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the window at the far end. Your hands pull me into you, pressing me against your erection, letting me know how much you crave me. Your mouth is on mine, my tongue against yours. I have waited for this all evening, since before I stepped into the bathtub.

You pull away and lead me down the corridor towards that window. There is a small open room at the end, occupied by a large copy machine and some office supply cupboards. Inside, you push me back against the photocopier, pressing into me, bending me backwards, your tongue and lips on my neck. One hand is on my ass, the other on my thigh, stroking firmly upwards, gripping the back at the top. We are breathing hard. My hands squeeze your buttocks beneath the flap of your jacket. I have to have you. I need to feel you inside me now.

We separate without speaking. We both know what to do and we don't have much time. I turn away from you, hitching my skirt up over my hips so that the slits reach my waist, then place my elbows on the top of the machine. You have taken off your jacket, unbuckled your belt and unfastened your pants. I wait patiently, anticipating your touch.

Suddenly I feel your hand on the back of my thigh, pulling up the flap of my skirt, pushing it up further as your other hand caresses my ass and slips between my legs. I moan softly as I feel your fingers slide along the strap of my thong, wet now from my desire. They slip beneath the lace and stroke my lips teasingly. We are both moaning now. One finger finds its way inside me, causing my vagina to contract and pull it in further. I groan and beg you to fuck me.

Your finger leaves me and I hear you suck it noisily, and then you are pressing against me, pulling my panties aside, your knee pushing my legs further apart and the head of your cock rubbing against my labia. Your breath is hot in my ear, whispering to me of how sexy I am, how hard I make you, how you have had such difficulty containing yourself all night. I feel you back slightly away, your hands on my hips pulling my pelvis backwards, and then you are entering me hard, causing my back to arch and low moans to escape both our mouths.

You move inside me long and steady. Our pelvises rock in rhythm. Our breathing synchronised. I feel the lace of my panties rubbing my inner thigh and I know you feel it against your shaft as you slide in and out. I know it excites you more, and now you thrust faster and harder and I adjust my own movements to match yours. I am swelling already, forcing you to push even harder. Soon.

My breathing is ragged now, my muscles tensed. My mouth is starting to form an ever more perfect "O", and I can hear you grunting. I whisper loudly to you to go faster and harder, and as you do, I begin the forceful sighing that signals my orgasm, my pussy spasming around your cock and my cum running down our thighs. You are close but not quite there yet. Faster, harder, you drive into me, and I am swelling again immediately, squeezing you. "Yes!" I hiss, and your voice echoes mine, repeating as if I had hurled my words into a canyon: "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" You explode inside me, sighing strongly with every spurt, panting in between, and triggering a second orgasm in me, marked by a stifled scream.

Your hands rest on my breasts as your body covers my back, your head against mine, my head on my arms on top of the copy machine. We cannot rest long. You pull away and out, and I hear you tear off a length from the roll of industrial towels beside the copier. I smile as you gently wipe the traces from between my thighs, placing a kiss on my bare buttock, before cleaning up yourself. Recovered now, I straighten my clothing, kiss you tenderly and leave you to dress as I walk back down the corridor, descend the stairs and turn towards the ladies' room to freshen up before rejoining the reception.