She stripped out of her scrubs in the hospital locker room, tossed them into the soiled laundry bin, and stepped into one of the twenty identical shower stalls, pulling the plastic curtain shut behind her. The hot, just shy of scalding water hit her surprised skin and began washing away the disinfectant smell of work, to replace it with the rose scent of her perfumed body wash. She loved this wash, the way it lathered up thick and white with her body pouf sponge, the way it made her feel human again. This was her favourite moment of her day, feeling as if all the stresses of work were swirling down the drain along with the soap bubbles. With counterclockwise circular motions she massaged and scrubbed herself, lifting each heavy breast in turn to scrub beneath, then sliding the shower pouf lower to scrub her belly, buttocks and inner thighs, working her way down her legs to her feet and betwixt each pedicured toe before rinsing the shower pouf and hanging it on its hook.
Rubbing some of the body wash between her hands, she washed her pussy and ass, feeling her own hard clit, closing her eyes and spreading her legs a little bit. , She started circling her straining, engorged clit with her left hand, her right holding her naked outer labia open, water cascading over her breasts and belly and cunt. She leaned against the cool tile of the shower wall and closed her eyes, forgetting everything that needed to be forgotten, feeling just the water and the swollen needfulness of her sex. Pushing two fingers up inside herself, thumb still teasing her clit, fucking herself faster and faster, until finally she came, a giant wave of comfort and release sweeping over her body and mind. She was flushed to her fingertips as she stepped out of the shower, partly from the heat of the water, but mostly from her orgasm.
Walking towards her locker, she tossed the towelling into the soiled linen bag, striding naked and confident across the room. Her body was no great marvel, not after three children, but it was nonetheless beautiful, and in her walk one could see the echoes of someone used to turning the heads of strangers. She was possessed of a classical hourglass figure, with heavy breasts crowned with dark rose pink areolae, a relatively narrow waist and wide, childbearing hips. Her mid-back length dark brown hair was currently piled up and held in place with a black claw clip, awaiting further attention.
Standing at her locker, she thought about what she planned to do this evening. Short red dress with flyaway skirt, or black silk sheath dress. She chose the latter, both because she knew the dress made her look like a goddess fallen into a world of mere mortals, and because it could be both conservative and stupidly sexy in turn, depending on what, exactly, was required in any particular situation. It flattered her curves, falling to just above her knees, offering the viewer a tantalizing view of her upper thighs when she sat down. Perfect, she thought.
She applied her deodorant and perfume, enveloping herself in a soft floral haze of scent, then pulled on a pair of black lace with red and purple embroidery accented tanga cut panties. Fuck, I am hot, she thought, as she reached behind herself to fasten the bra. And she was hot, the pale swell of her heavy breasts above the black lace of the bra a beckoning temptation to sin.
Now her attention turned to the dress. Removing it from its hanger, unzipping the back, slipping the slippery, sexy fabric on over her head in a rustle of silk, pulling it down over her breasts, shimmying it over her hips, finally smoothing out the fabric and zipping up the back. In this dress she felt invincible, and fabulous--fabulous and eminently fuckable. And ‘eminently fuckable’ was the look she was going for, tonight. It had been too long, and she needed desperately to feel the wonderful feeling of a cock filling her cunt.
Taking a pair of black, Cuban heel, seamed stockings from her locker and sitting down on the wooden bench behind her, she carefully unrolled each stocking over each pedicured foot and up the length of each leg. She loved Cuban heel stockings, loved how they accented her long legs and loved the looks she received whilst wearing them. Dressed, she reached for the pair of black heels at the bottom of her locker, slipping them on and standing up.
She picked up her purse, phone, and keys and closed and locked her locker. Her dark hair now pinned into a low chignon, she stopped once more to appraise herself in one of the full-length mirrors in the locker room. Plain gold hoop earrings, plain gold omega link necklace, simple stainless steel Citizen Eco-Drive watch gracing her thin right wrist. She was still aglow in the aftermath of her self-induced orgasm, and required just a light sweep of lipgloss before she decided that she was done, and, smoothing her dress once more, she walked out into the bowels of the hospital, towards the parking garage and her car.
She knew where she was going tonight. Lot 3, a local high-end bar that made no pretenses about being anything but a bar, offering both a six a.m. and six p.m. Happy Hour. It catered to both the wealthy hipster kid crowd as well as the chronic alcoholic crowd without bias. Lot 3 served strong drinks to men seeking temporary refuge from the stresses of their ordinary lives and fruity frothy drinks to lightweights seeking only to start their night of partying off with alcohol before moving on to other, more interesting mind-altering drugs.
Her eyes adjusting to the intentionally dim interior, she scanned the room for her prey. There. There at the end of the bar, staring blankly at the polished wood and brass, sat a middle-aged man, unremarkable on first glance but more than remarkable on second. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit, clearly of the tailored variety, that hung perfectly on his frame, and his white French cuffs were held together with 14kt gold signet cufflinks. Small details, yes, but details that gave away his position in the world, nonetheless. His dark brown hair, cut quite short but obviously by someone other than the barber at the corner shop, was greying at the temples, lending him an air of wearied worldliness. She watched carefully as he ordered a Glenlivet double, neat.
“Glenlivet, eh?” she said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “Twelve or eighteen?”
He looked up, surprised by this sudden apparition of a woman next to him. “Eighteen, may I buy you a round?”
The words fell from his mouth almost of their own accord, surprising him and pleasing her. She nodded, and indicated to the barman that she would, indeed, have what the gentleman was having.
The drink arrived quickly, and she nodded her thanks to the barman before turning to her new companion.