Camille was standing in front of a set of massive mahogany doors surrounded by the stark white of a barren antique hallway.
She could feel the cool air pushing through the marble and steel of the stairway behind her.
The doors had ball bearing hinges with square and circular portals of double beveled glass. They were large enough to make even her look somewhat dwarfed by its size.
Though they appeared from a distance to be clear and transparent, at closer inspection, she noticed, at eye-level no less, the mid section of circular portals, were anything but transparent. In fact, one could barely even make out the most obscure shapes coming through from the other side.
It felt as though she had suddenly boarded an old cruise ship.
An antique clock with iron hands struck midnight with a loud clank of its gears above the elevator on the opposing wall. She thought of the clock. ‘Time isn’t made of metal parts anymore,’ she concluded, looking ponderously back at the clock as if it had been someone she was discussing the matter with.
It was precisely the time she’d been told to meet her.
She wore a black sleeveless romper belted with a white strap and silver hoop buckle. Her hair was cut much shorter and was almost as dark as her outfit. It was now a deep crimson with curls on the ends of where it met her chin.
She had no bra on and liked the feeling of her breasts making suggestive teardrop shapes through the fabric. It felt like someone could just reach in and hold one for a moment, that feeling of utter accessibility. The material clung to her hardening nipples with a mildly stimulating grip. Her breasts felt weighty
and she liked the feeling they gave her, perhaps it was a strange mixture of fertility and arousal, she couldn’t be sure which.
The romper cut off in an exacting line right where her torso ended, extending her smooth long white feminine legs connected to checkered wedge shoes.
She never wore pantyhose and didn’t have the money for NeauSmoothing, so she always just went bare legged, and felt more raw that way anyhow.
This was all in spite of a rather small but deep patch of blemishes on her lower left calf, rattling around the back of her mind.
I should have tried to cover it up. No time.
She was also slightly concerned that her waist was Thyn enough, but was comforted to see in the reflective surface of the glass in front of her, that her small gut was covered up by the wide belt and buckle which met each other a tiny bit above where her little pouch began. Her hips were a little more padded than she might have liked, but the romper was loose enough to obscure them.
To boot, the SM software of her LSwitch had a password problem, so she’d actually gone with conventional facial makeup, looking somewhat hurriedly applied.
Her shoulders, bare, appeared to be more like pale straight edges cutting out the stark color of her figure from the hazy, dull, muted red of the door. As if she were making the attempt at conforming to its shape, yet all in spite of its lackluster.
Then the door opened without a knock, and a heavyset middle aged lady with grey hair she’d never seen before, greeted her.
“Are you the friend of Beatriz?”