Margaret stared intently at her visitor. Joan shifted her weight, uncertain as to how to answer. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m perspiring, if that’s any indication.” “Where are you perspiring?” Margaret asked with a wry smile. Joan shifted her weight again. “Under my arms, along the insides of my thighs.” Margaret licked her lips in that way she had, falling somewhere between amusement and invitation. There was a long pause. “Well, why did you invite me here?” Joan asked. While the two of them had been making coffee that morning and agreeing that men-at-meetings were the most tedious things in creation, Margaret had asked Joan to dinner at her apartment. Not sure of what was being offered besides food, Joan had felt a tingle of anticipation that something exciting might happen, and after three hours of the conference, she was ready to take anything that offered an antidote to the deadly boredom of business. In her Chelsea apartment, a single huge room painted Mandarin red with all black furniture and furnishings, except for the bone-white curtains on the windows, Margaret had greeted her, dressed in a transparent canary-yellow dressing gown through which could be seen her legs, the vermilion gash of the panties she wore, and the white fullness of bare breasts tipped with tantalizing glimpses of brown nipples.
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