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As I near you, you bring forward the garment bag dangling from one manicured finger. Reaching for it, I slide my other hand around your body to pull you close for a kiss. Your arms eagerly encircle me and you lean into me. I raise my eyebrow when my hand encounters nothing but the bare skin of your back. Hooking the garment bag over the door, I turn you around let out a low wolf-whistle. It is quite obvious that the jeweled collar IS the only thing holding the dress up. There is no back at all! The dress meets low on the curve of your bottom, and a quick stroke of my finger assures you that there is no room for pesky underwear underneath.The men of my office move closer, obviously angling for an introduction, but you ignore them. I am the object of your adoration! I pull you into my office, lowering the blinds and shutting the door behind us. I allow my curious hands to slide up your stocking-clad thighs and cup your naked ass through the slits on the sides of the gown."Oh baby!" I. Carrie's long-term goal was more extreme. Wheels in top shape could beat almost any runner -- in fact, good wheels both male and female routinely beat the men's world record for the marathon. She wasn't that good -- "Not YET!" As always the wheels would get a five minute head start -- five minutes being an easy mile for a wheel, that much lead-time would spread the chairs out enough so they wouldn't interfere with the professional speed-demon runners at the head of the foot-pack, the folks who would run the entire distance at a sub-five-minute pace. But undoubtedly several wheels would beat the foot-winner's time by many minutes. There was some sort of cosmic justice in that, wasn't there? Most wheels in this raced were male, but there were a dozen or more women, almost all acquaintances from previous races - but none had risen to the level of 'friend' -- in fact, none approached A & B in that regard. Carrie wheeled into place at the back of the 211:-- no point in being in anyone's.
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