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Oh my!Dad was sitting, but I'm almost sure that he had a Heather-inducedhardon.Moments later, so did I.Heather was just short of six-feet tall. In her four-inch heels, shewas a good six-three.Her legs, enclosed in amazingly sheer, black stockings, werespectacular.As was her ass.And her perfectly made-up face.Not to mention her DD-cup titties. Or her bimbo-length blonde hair.But Heather was no bimbo.She greeted me with a gleaming smile and said, "Wonderful to meet you,Jennifer. Tiffany and her Daddy have been telling me great thingsabout you. Seeing you in person, I can see that they didn'texaggerate."I blushed.Then I remembered that I was in Greg clothes. How did Heather know Iwas a babe as Jennifer?"I know what you're thinking, Jennifer," Heather said accurately."You're wondering how I know what a knockout you are en femme. Tworeasons. First, meeting with pre-trained Pink Siders is my job. I canalmost smell femininity. Second, Tiffany sent me lots of pics andvideos she took of. Ben got the message. Erika was ready to undress.So, Ben stood up. Without bothering the buttons, he pulled Erika’s business blouse up over her head and threw it aside. Drawing the zip of her trousers, he stripped them slowly down her legs. Erika chuckled as she stepped out of her pants.Except for her stockings, she was naked. Erika had taken off the bra and panties underneath her business attire before she came. Ben sat down in surprise. She giggled in delight as she silenced his incoherent mumbling by guiding one of her tits onto his lips.Erika blushed, more about her words than being naked in Ben’s arms, as she confessed, “Today, I came ready. I wanted to be ready for you. A striptease would take too long. I’ll leave it for a hot video, for our sexting. Today you want me naked, Ben, don’t you? Ready for anything?”Erika was already busily at work, undressing him. Ben’s shirt had joined her trousers and blouse on the floor. Having unbuckled and unzipped his pants, she sank to her.
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She lifted the foam cup in a g’morning salutation and gave a megawatt smile that might as well have been nails on a chalkboard for its impact on Denise’s mood. Even at eight forty-five on a Monday, the woman looked like a taller version of Heather Locklear in a power suit. Prettier, too, with all the beauty and none of the harder edges. The glass walls allowed Denise to follow her progress down the hall. Denise hated the fact that she spent so much time trying to find fault with Mademoiselle Manceaux, some chink in the ‘charmor’ that would enable her to legitimately despise the bitch. Maybe she abused small animals or kicked homeless people as they slept on the street. One could only hope. Shaking herself from the vortex of her thoughts, Denise returned her attention to the day’s schedule. Few people wanted to look at real estate during the morning hours on weekdays, so Denise used the time at her desk to return phone calls, schedule building inspections, challenge property tax.

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