Tracy Jones is a woman in her forties who knows just what she likes. She likes men, and she adores what they do to and with her body. Mr. Browne loves women, but an accident has left him confined to a wheelchair. When Tracy applies for the position of his cook and housekeeper, she experiences the most unusual job interview she's ever had. But a promising boss/employee relationship is hampered by a small problem. Luckily James, the butler, is on hand to provide assistance.
She loved wearing stockings.
She loved the feel of fresh air on the skin of her thighs as she walked down the city street in the middle of the day.
She loved their silky texture against her freshly waxed legs.
She loved the knowledge that she had a secret. Dressed in a conservative, charcoal grey suit with a pale pink blouse and black patent leather heels, she looked like any other woman in the City of London. She knew she was a little shorter than the average woman, but that didn’t worry her. Men liked her shapely legs and neatly rounded rear, her small waist and generous boobs. She enjoyed their glances and comments as she walked past.
She could have been a bookkeeper or a PA on her lunch break.
She had even more fun when she was on the Tube. She always sat facing inwards. Then, if there was an interesting man sitting opposite her, she'd part her legs a little and let her skirt ride up so a bit of stocking top showed.
A lot of the time she wasn't wearing any knickers.
Today, on the opposite side of the carriage, a man had started looking, wondering, when he'd seen that telltale band of darker color. The crowd between them parted and shifted as other passengers got on and off the train, and he tried to catch a glimpse farther up.
She was in a good mood, so she crossed an ankle over her knee to give him a clear view, just for a couple of minutes. She watched as the bulge in his trousers grew.
Then she got off at the next station. No pun intended.
The house she arrived at could have been in any of the many inner suburbs of London. It had a basement, three floors, and an attic. It was well maintained, prosperous, substantial, and set back a little from the tree-lined road. Bay windows overlooked the street and narrow stairs ran down to a lower entrance. She walked slowly up a grand flight of tiled steps, taking in the neighborhood. The place was worth a couple of million pounds, at least.
She rang the old, brass doorbell in the center of the large oak door. A chime reverberated deep within the house. She waited, picturing an ancient butler laboriously ascending from the depths of the house.
The door opened. Today was indeed a good day.
He was in his early thirties, or possibly even younger. He clearly worked out often. Slim grey trousers fitted snugly around lean hips. A soft, white cotton shirt emphasized those broad shoulders and the well-defined muscles in his upper arms. His brown hair was neatly cut in a short style. His eyes were grey or blue and had a speculative look in them. If not for her reason for being there, she’d have thought he was checking her out. Naughty boy.