I entered the hotel lounge, and wandered over to the bar, looking over the room. It was somewhat dimly lit and about half-full of people at booths and tables. I took a seat on a stool, flipping my short skirt out behind me as I sat down, putting my bare rear on the leather of the seat. I hooked my heels into the rung of the stool, and let my knees fall open about a foot or so.
The bartender appeared in front of me, a cute blonde, and I asked for a glass of white wine. When it arrived, I took a sip, and looked into the mirror behind the bar, using it to scan the room. I noted that all of the current patrons seemed to be female, which surprised me a little.
I detected a movement out of the corner of my eye, and a low voice spoke into my ear. "So, who owns you?"
I looked to my left, my eyes widening slightly. A pretty brunette was pulling herself onto the stool beside me. "What did you say?"
She looked me directly in the eyes, and said, "I asked who owns you?" In a lower voice, she added, "Slut."
I gasped slightly at the last word, but met her gaze, and asked, "What makes you think that someone owns me? Or that I'm a slut?"
She laughed a little in a rich, low voice. "I'd say it's pretty obvious. Shall I list the reasons?"
She spun her stool to face me more directly, and placed a hand on my knee, using it turn my stool a little more toward her. She squeezed my knee slightly as she began, but left the hand where it was. "Okay, we'll start from the top and work down. First, your blouse is open quite low. I'd guess that the first button that's done up is at the level of your nipples. Second, you're not wearing a bra."
As she spoke, she extended the index finger of her other hand, and moved it into the opening of my blouse, tracing her fingernail lightly down my breastbone, and into the valley between my breasts. As it reached the limit of the opening, she moved it across my left breast until it touched the nipple. She flicked the nipple back and forth a few times, waking it into stiffened attention, then withdrew her finger.
"A little brazen, aren't we?"
"Just verifying my hypothesis."
"Well, being braless and showing a little cleavage proves nothing. Many women don't wear a bra, and many women like to show some cleavage."
"True, although I'd guess you're a good C-cup, and that's a little big to flash without a bra. Even if they're quite firm, they'll still move quite a bit and attract attention."
"It's my choice, and still proves nothing."
"Your choice? Really? In any event, moving on, ... your skirt is short, but loose, so it easily flares out, and you're not sitting on it. It's flipped out behind you, and your ass is on the seat."
"Which proves what? That I don't like tight skirts, and that sitting on your skirt on a stool exposes more thigh than I wanted to show. You're not doing very well here."
"Next, your legs are spread pretty wide. Most women keep their knees together when they're wearing a skirt."
"So, I have lousy posture. I was also facing the bar, so there was nothing for anyone to see."
"Yes, but now you're facing me, and you still haven't closed your legs."
I looked at her level gaze, and swallowed hard, knowing that she had just scored a point that I couldn't refute. I took refuge in a mouthful of wine from my glass and looked at her again. "Anything more?"