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“Hello there!”
Bob Redding whirled around at the sound of the throaty voice, and gasped as he saw the beautiful girl coming down the steps. At first glance she appeared to be only about fifteen, but as she came nearer, and the molded firmness of her breasts, pushing against the soft pink silk of her blouse, became evident, Bob judged that she must be about eighteen. Her long cornsilk blond hair swept around her golden-tanned face, and she walked over to him, her hips jiggling in a jaunty coltish walk. She was wearing tight white shorts, which revealed the enticing line of her upper thigh, and Bob thought he could see a faint darkening at the vee of her legs through the almost diaphanous shorts.
“Hello,” he gulped, unable to take his eyes off her swerving pelvis.
“You must be Mr. Redding,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Leslie Lansing.”
Bob could hardly believe that this was the same woman who had answered his phone call. He expected someone different … the Miss Lansing of his imagination was nearer forty than under twenty! He clasped her well-manicured hand in his rough one, and was amazed at its coolness. It felt like a piece of soft, finely sculpted ivory and he was loathe to release it.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.