Greg was sitting in the corner of the reception area with his brief case across his knees when the sound of a door opening dragged his attention from his paperwork. His eyes lifted, shining expectantly as she stepped into the room.

She was nice. Not glamorous, but still, very nice and the sight of her renewed Greg’s interest in the job offering. She was of average height but the slim build and slender legs, which she boldly displayed in a mid-thigh, radical-red business skirt, gave her the illusion of tallness. She had ten, maybe fifteen years on him but that only served to peak his interest. He checked her left hand and his fanciful thoughts were encouraged when he saw an unadorned ring-finger.

He watched her stride across the room, her heels clicking smartly on the tile. She hadn’t noticed him hunched in the corner and walked straight to the pretty receptionist who stood from behind a metal desk. The older woman loosely held the receptionist about the forearms, kissed her on the cheek and exchanged morning pleasantries while fussing with the girl’s hair. The girl pointed with her chin.

The older woman turned and noticed Greg for the first time. She smiled and Greg thought his lungs were going to collapse. The receptionist came up on toes and whispered in the older woman’s ear, then laughed. Suddenly they were both laughing and Greg felt the heat rise in his neck. The women were sharing a joke and he was undeniably the source of their amusement.

He quickly returned to shuffling the papers in his brief case and didn’t look up again until he heard the click of an office door. The receptionist had slipped into her chair and was focused on her computer screen once again. She was closer to his own age, a pleasing short-haired blonde with small breasts that jigged beneath a silk blouse as she typed– and left Greg to wonder if her little tits would feel pricky in the curve of his hand.

She must have sensed his eyes because she looked up unexpectedly and caught him checking her out. But instead of shooting him a dirty scowl, she displayed a sense of maturity which was new to Greg. She held his gaze a moment, nodded, then smiled knowingly before returning to her keyboard. Greg again felt the thrill of opportunity. How could he complain about getting up in the mornings knowing he would share an office with these two exceptionally nice women. And he could only imagine what other female delights were prowling about the hallways in silky blouses and short skirts.

The desk phone rang and the receptionist picked up, then swiveled in her chair. “Go ahead on in, Greg. She’ll see you now.”

Greg snapped the brief case closed. “Thank you, Miss...” And he got to his feet.

She grinned mischievously. “It’s Missus, actually. But thanks for the thought.”

Greg felt a frown weave across his forehead but figured it was best not to comment. “Wish me luck,” he said.

She leaned back in her chair.

Those tits again. Unhaltered beneath the silk. But now proudly peaked with seemingly high-minded nipples the size of ripe strawberries. “You’ll do fine,” she said. “Just keep your eyes focused above her neck. Okay?”

Caught!

“Sorry...” Greg grumbled and pushed the office door open.

“Greg. Very pleased to meet you.” The woman stood and extended a hand across the desk. Her grip was cool and dry and with the opposite hand, she pointed to an upholstered guest chair.

With a start, he suddenly realized he didn’t know the woman’s name. He had sent out dozens of resumes addressed to various job titles, but not to specifically named prospects. He only knew this woman as the Director of Membership Services and he scanned her desktop for a name plate that would display the information he desperately needed. There wasn’t one.

The woman got settled behind her desk and picked up a copy of his resume. “I see you drove all the way down from Jacksonville. You live in the City?”

Greg nervously cleared his throat. “I have a studio apartment downtown, yes. I walk to work in the mornings.”

“I see...” She looked up and held his eyes. “Won’t you miss the city-life? We’re a rural community, Greg. Not much excitement for a sporty guy your age.”

“Sporty?”

“Okay. Socially active, if you prefer. But you know what I mean. They lock-up the girls at six around here. What makes you think you’d be happy working for our small library chain?”

Greg felt a burst of confidence. He had anticipated her question and was quick with his response. “Well first, I’m a book-nerd. I read at least two books a week, three if I can find the time. Working at a library is perfect for me. And as far as missing the action, I grew up south of here. My parents have a farm ten miles down the highway. I’m small-town country, through and through.” He grinned at her look of surprise. “Cut me and I bleed alfalfa.”

“Interesting...” Her eyes dropped to the sheet in her hand. She took out a fountain pen, slipped off the top and moving forward in her chair, she made a notation. “What were your duties at Media Networking?”

She wasn’t wearing a blouse under her suit jacket and when she leaned forward, the opening gaped. Greg looked for her bra strap but all he saw was the pale expanse of bare shoulder. The realization made his anus squeeze.

“Just keep your eyes focused above her neck. Okay?”

Greg grounded himself, pulled a raft of pages from his brief case and passed them across. “I wrote p-press releases and produced a monthly newsletter for two of our clients.”

She looked at samples of his work and jogged a few words down in turquoise ink.

“That’s quite the pen,” Greg commented.

“It was my father’s ... And you were employed by Billing’s Publishing?”

“Yes. I prepared the Pub Sheets– wrote the introductory letters and a synopsis for each new book we sent to reviewers. I have more samples if you like.” The sound of her pen nib scratching on the page gave him a queer feeling inside.

“No, no ... that’s fine...” Her words drifted. Then: “What do you read?”

Greg faltered. The personal question was like a fork in the road. “Ahh, mostly fiction. Thrillers, Police Procedurals and the like, though I enjoy a good Autobiographical from time to time.”

“And you read two books a week...”

“Yes ma’am. Sometimes three.”

“Impressive. You must have tried your hand at writing.”

Greg wasn’t sure where her questions were leading but he forged on. “Gosh, it’s hard, you know? Writing, I mean. I figured I could write a full length novel once, but only ended up with thirty thousand words. Not even enough for a good novella. At least that’s what the publisher told me.”

She placed her pen down and leaning forward, she knitted her fingers beneath her chin. “Yup, that’s a bit short for a novel. Sixty-five thousand words might get their attention, but an interested publisher would probably ask you to expand the work by an additional forty thousand words. They like longer books these days.”

Greg slumped. “I could never do it. Not in a million years.”

She laughed. “They might give you six months...”

“You seem to know something about writing. You ever give it a shot?”

The woman lowered her eyes. “I have sixteen published works,” she replied quietly and without bluster.

Greg came forward in his chair. “Sixteen? You mean sixteen full-length novels? Published?”

She wasn’t bragging when she replied: “All in excess of one-hundred thousand words, yes.”

“Geez, a hundred thousand...” He shook his head in disbelief. “Would I have read any of your books?”

“I don’t know. I don’t get many small town country-boy readers.” She grinned at him. “My books tend to be big-town racy.”

Greg studied her face a moment. “Damn. This is going to sound weird, but I think I recognize you. Do you write under an assumed name?”

“Nope: Jo-Anne Wiley ... I’m reluctant to ask, but does it ring any bells?”

He sat back. “Lord! Does it! I was twelve when I found one of your books in the chicken coop. It was SHORTS and now I remember– you were featured on the cover, in purple short-shorts. I thought you had the greatest set of legs.”

“I was eighteen when that photo was taken.”

Greg rekindled the vision of her striding through the reception area in high-heels. “My opinion hasn’t changed any.”

“I see...” Jo-Anne shifted nervously in her chair. She was aware of a warmth spreading, low down, below her tummy. “And the book?”

“Yeah. What an eye-opener. You sure spelled it out– what men like to do to young girls.”

“In a chicken coop?”

“Not young girls in the coop, but the book. My dad must have hidden the book so mom wouldn’t find it.”

“But you did. Found it and read it. I’m embarrassed to ask, but how was it?”

Greg smirked “For a twelve-year-old it was quite the education. When I got my PayPal account, I ordered a couple more of your books, online.”

“I see ... To complete your education...”

“You’ve got an amazing imagination, Miss Wiley. I mean, wow!” Greg noticed a bit of color rise about her collar and backtracked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugged, “I write naughty books. I should be used to the way people react to that.”

“Yeah. You don’t seem the type.”

“I hear that a lot. Young women aren’t suppose to fantasize. Certainly not about what happens between the bed-sheets.”

“But you do...” The conversation was taking a weird turn but Greg couldn’t help himself. He had to know more. “You fantasize about sex. Then write it all down for total strangers to read. Doesn’t it feel weird to allow people you don’t even know, to get inside your head?”

She smiled quietly. “It’s not my head I worry about.”

Color tinged his cheeks. “Oh...”

The warmth was radiating lower, along the inside of her thighs. Why him, she thought, and here of all places– in my office? She shook her head to clear her vision.

“But you’re right,” Jo-Anne continued. “Laying in bed at night and realizing a guy is out there, doing who knows what to himself while he delves into my darkest fantasies– well, it’s like being emotionally naked. I feel transparent– like I’m being opened-up for some interloper, just so he can pleasure himself.”

Her palms tingled and she pressed moisture from her brow with the back of a wrist.

Greg pushed for answers. “And you describe how sex feels and tastes, shamelessly. And you’re quite graphic at times– sex between men, women, sometimes same gender stuff, and in group settings. You write about how it feels to be sexually blackmailed, abused, forced. Where does it all come from?”

Jo-Anne suddenly felt constricted and had to stand to pace the room. “I have to confess ... some of it’s personal.” He’s cute enough, she thought, if you like baby owls. I could just toy with him a little...

Greg felt blindsided and swung in his chair. “Personal? You kidding me? You write about women doing it with each other.” He remembered her ring-finger... “You’re not, are you?”

Jo-Anne stopped mid-stride and turned to answer. “A lesbian? No Greg. I am not. But I have been there. Visited that forbidden vestibule on occasion.”

Greg couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “You’ve had sex? With a woman?”

“I have a good friend...”

“What about the sexual abuse?”

“I’ve been down that road as well. DARK ANGELS? The character, Mindy? She’s me...”

“Christ. I read it. That happened to you?”