It was Friday night, and the party was in full swing. A sea of smart suits and designer dresses swelled around me, toasts rising and falling in waves. My company had gathered us at Richmond’s swankiest hotel to celebrate fifty years of success. The board of directors took such occasions seriously. They had one rule that we all had to follow – work your ass off or land on it in the gutter. The second anyone tripped on dead wood they were expected to take it out back and throw it in the chipper. To show appreciation we were treated to divine food, great music, and a bar as open as the Grand Canyon whenever we had to come together in our free time.
After the formal reception and standard speeches – two of which included a shout-out to Yours Truly – we were told to get on with having fun. The dance floor was filling up, and some of the younger, drunker males had already shrugged off their jackets. A couple of the females had freed themselves of their shoes.
I looked great – we all did. I had on a black empire-line dress that was satin above the cut and lined chiffon below. It hugged my curves without being tight. My breasts were held up by a tailored halter neck. The chiffon skirt fell to my knee but the layers swept up a little between them to show just the right amount of thigh as I walked or sat back in a chair. My feet were clad in black Chanel slingbacks – a footwear staple of mine since my Mom gave me a pair on my eighteenth birthday. I made that pair of shoes last me through college and my internship. When I got my first proper pay check I replaced them and made a promise to myself that for as long as I lived I would be able afford a new pair every year.
Supurblychaoticdragon 