Tiffany's Timidities Ch. 03

Author's Note: On Tiffany's second day as the clinic's new receptionist she begins to appreciate the number of fantasies being reified by her timidity.

Because fiction.

Because you're predisposed to read ribald prose and I'm inclined to write it. We each must own our itches.

Enjoy!

*

SCENE TEN

Doctor Ian Mitchell arrived at his clinic before sunrise.

He unloaded a canvas duffel bag and a heavy FedEx parcel from the back of his sport utility vehicle and carried them into his office. Before unpacking either he unlocked the laboratory adjacent to Exam Room 1 and flicked-on the lights.

Inside the small lab, he opened an upright freezer containing semen samples donated to his reproductive-health practice over the prior four years. Propping the cold door open, he carefully identified the drawer he sought and pulled it halfway out.

Orderly rows of glass vials, numbering well into the hundreds and each labeled with a frost-proof sticker, hung inside. On the right were samples from the four doctors, including his own.

After a moment's reflection he changed his mind and pushed that drawer back. Instead he pulled open another drawer, filled with sub-optimal semen from anonymous donors. From this one he removed forty-eight vials and placed them on a wooden cradle on the nearby countertop.

He then shut the freezer, extinguished the lights and returned to his office, leaving the semen to slowly thaw in the dark.

SCENE ELEVEN

Across town, Tiffany swung her legs off the side of her bed and sat up.

All night her fantasies about Doctor Adams and her recollections of being spanked had competed with mental reenactments of the porn scenes she'd watched. It was as if two halves of her subconscious had been trying to out-shock each other. She knew her resulting exhaustion, now temporarily masked by post-climactic wakefulness, would be a handicap at the clinic all day.

She stood and stretched, allowing her cotton sleep-shirt to drape to mid-thigh.

She could not believe she'd gotten so turned on by the events of her first workday, nor forgive herself for wanting to go back. The rational side of her brain had originally thought to call the police, or at least quit, but somewhere along the way another voice had prevailed upon her to stay. There was something compelling about being the object of so much male attention. It almost didn't matter that it was wrong. In fact the naughtiness of going back, of willingly risking further indignities, only made the whole thing more enticing rather than less.

And then there was Doctor Adams. The thought of seeing him again was positively corrupting.

She pulled on some stretchy half-leggings and shuffled to the kitchen.

Her lengthy pre-dawn orgasm had slackened, for a time, the parade of filthy thoughts traversing her mind; long enough for her to eat a quick breakfast with her Grandma, wash the dishes and then return to her guest room.

Once alone again she assured herself that she'd learned lessons her first day. She began to look for an outfit that would appease Doctor Mitchell.

Her new black choker necklace was the first thing she donned. Its sturdy metal D-ring shadowed the hollow at the base of her throat. She inserted a finger through it and played with its tiny crucifix, then traced the pink embroidery that spelled-out her name. She realized the cursive script looked like a logo; as if 'Tiffany' was her brand.

"Everyone will know my name," she whispered to her reflection in the mirror. That was frightening now that she thought about it.

Putting that concern aside she turned to her closet and flicked through the hangars, searching for inspiration.

The first outfit she tried on was a daring little black dress that she'd nearly left home in Boston. It was short and blatantly sexy. She decided there was no way it would ever pass for office-attire in front of the patients, so she put it back.

Next she considered a grey pencil skirt that was high-waisted and tight. Its lower hem reached her knees. It looked professional and the material, cut and color were conservative as well, but, holding it aloft, she decided it wasn't flirty enough for Doctor Mitchell.

After re-hanging the pencil skirt she opened her bureau's top drawer and selected a midnight blue g-string. It had an open triangle at the back that framed her tailbone. She stepped into it and raised it to her hips, neatly bisecting the twin globes of her young ass.

Still otherwise naked, she regarded herself in the long mirror and felt a sudden urge to moisturize. She pumped a large dollop of lotion into each hand and stroked them into her skin, up and down her legs and all over her torso.

Her nipples were still plump.

'God,' she thought. 'How am I ever going to concentrate today?'

Once all the moisturizer was absorbed, she walked back to her closet.

Eventually she settled on a suede wrap-around miniskirt as the centerpiece of her outfit. It was one of her summer wardrobe staples back in Boston because it coordinated easily and could be dressed up or down depending on what top and accessories she paired it with. Rather than stepping into it like a normal skirt, she merely unfastened its two closures, opened it into a flat panel and then wrapped it clockwise around her hips until it overlapped in front. The corner of underlying layer had a Velcro tab that attached anywhere along a facing strip on the silk lining of the outside layer, so that the skirt's circumference could be adjusted to a wide range of sizes. The remaining outer material tied via a pair of leather cords to the skirt's right hip. This created a miniskirt two layers thick in front and one layer thick in back, and since the front layers were only secured at their upper corners they tended to shift around a lot, allowing her freedom of movement but revealing nothing more than the underlying suede. All that movement was good at attracting eyeballs, though. It was flirtatious without being daring.

She carefully secured the skirt low enough on her hips that it concealed her upper thighs, but high enough that it did not appear too casual. Then she tied the side strings in a snug bow.

Still naked from the waist up, she returned to the mirror and sucked-in her narrow abdomen to evaluate her profile.

She clucked her tongue at the delicate crow's-feet where her armpits transitioned into the puffy verge of each boob. She traced her fingertips up from her stomach, invading her less-tanned triangles that swelled proudly forward. Her boobs' youthful loft made her smile; it showed no sign of slackening and felt remarkably elastic. Foremost stood her two ready nipples; starkly pink and worryingly excited.

Her fingers squeezed, enfolding themselves in softness.

"God... maybe I should skip wearing a bra today," she thought aloud, surprising her better angels. "I bet the Doctor Adams would love that."

As a test of sorts, she slipped on an undyed silk shell that was not long enough to tuck into the waist of her skirt. Its dainty spaghetti straps went far down her back and left her upper chest nude. The silk was so weightless that her nipples created draping highlights that hung well clear of her stomach.

Technically it covered her breasts, but in no way did it function like a bra. The slightest movements made the silk flutter and swing.

It felt ethereal against her.

Still in experimentation mode, she threaded her arms into a little V-neck cardigan sweater with buttons all down the front. Its cream color coordinated well with the underlying silk and she figured she could adjust the number of buttons depending on whether or not she was in front of patients.

"Hmm," she considered with a mischievous twinkle, "Maybe."

Needing to balance this slightly daring ensemble with something conservative, she stepped into a pair of tan closed-toe pumps that had a very modest heel. They were the only truly office-like shoes she owned.

She brushed her neck-length hair back from her face and secured it with a grey fabric headband. Last but not least, she put in some pendant earrings and did her makeup.

"There," she said, trying to rationalize her choices before the mirror. "That should give me enough options to keep everyone happy while still looking presentable."

She adjusted the thin sweater and spun leftward toward the window's morning light. The way her boobs moved freely was more obvious than she liked and the points of her nipples were just discernable through the knit.

"Shoot," she said aloud, wondering whether to ditch the shell, put on a bra and find some other middle layer instead. But all that would take time and degrade the adjustability of her outfit.

Turning one way and another, she dithered over the risk of going to work as she was.

Then her cell phone rang. With a frown she fetched it and studied the screen. The incoming number was unfamiliar.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Tiffany. It's Doctor Grisholm."

"Uh... Hi?"

"Good morning. I just discovered your bike still in the back of my truck. I guess we both forgot it last night."

"Oh... You're right! Sorry about that, sir."

"It's okay. I'm here to pick you up."

"You're... where?"

"Outside your Grandma's. Come on out and I'll give you a ride."

"Oh f—I mean shoot! No, I mean... thank you. It's just, um... I need to—"

"I'm getting into work a touch early today, and so should you. Show some initiative your first week."

"Uh... right, sir, of course you're right," she stalled for a second, wondering whether she dared keep him waiting while she found a bra and a different top. After a few seconds she caved, saying: "Okay. I'll be right there."

He disconnected. Then he honked for good measure.

The truck's horn shattered the early quiet. Tiffany sprinted through her grandmother's house and charged down the front steps, forgetting all about the wild, bouncy show this treated him to.

"Welcome aboard," he smiled as she climbed in beside him. "Nice sweater."

"Um... thanks, sir," she demurred.

The truck reversed roughly into the street, thudding across a storm gutter. She clutched her front buttons tightly, trying to stifle the oscillations of her chest. Of course they continued anyway, triggered by the Ford's abrupt handling.

Grisholm grinned at her, steering toward every pothole he could find.

SCENE TWELVE

Ian had purchased a bar-blender, some oblong freezer trays and box of popsicle sticks from an online kitchen-supply retailer and had them all shipped to his house over the weekend. Additionally, from Starbucks he'd purchased two bottles of flavoring syrup (one vanilla and one salted caramel), and from Wal-Mart a tub of protein powder and several quarts of almond milk.

All these ingredients were laid out on the lab's small countertop. For the second time that morning he was eyeballing careful proportions into the blender.

The pair of popsicle-making trays stood open: one already full and the other waiting. Their pre-formed cavities would shape popsicles that were round in cross-section and six inches tall.

As Grisholm and Tiffany bounced along the road to the clinic, Ian up-ended the remaining twenty-four vials of anonymous semen into the second blender-load.

Once capped, the machine whirred and spun, churning the ingredients into a watery, whitish cocktail. He let the foam settle for a few seconds, then poured the mixture into the empty tray's cavities, careful to leave a bit of room at the top as directed by the instructions.

Once the blender was empty he opened the box of sticks and inserted one halfway into each of the sixteen popsicles, then snapped the trays shut and placed them in the freezer to harden.

He smiled; thrilled by the knowledge that each pop would contain three ejaculation's worth of semen. Of this he was certain; it was simple arithmetic. What remained unknown was whether Tiffany's tongue could discern it.

Once the freezer closed he burst-out laughing. For several minutes he stooped, hands to knees, nearly overcome by the hilarity of his obscene joke.

SCENE THIRTEEN

Tiffany and Grisholm arrived at the clinic shortly after seven in the morning. He helped unload her bike in the parking lot and then disappeared into his office.

The first thing Tiffany did was wake the coffee maker. This was partly for her own benefit as she was tired, but also because she wanted to get-off on the best foot with Doctor Jacobsen. Greeting him at the door with a freshly-brewed mug to go with his morning paper seemed like a great idea.

'Men are simple,' she reassured herself while arranging her supplies for the day across the top of the lobby's credenza. 'You just have to know what they like; in his case that's milk and no sugar.'

"Ah, Tiffany!" Ian called out as he strode into the room from the office hallway. "Nice to see you're a bit early. Were you hoping to watch some more scenes today?"

"Hi!" she laughed, "No, Doctor Mitchell, I um... Good morning. I just wanted to get everything ready for the day... you know."

"Sure! Well, I'll take a cup of joe while you're at it. I just need to get something from my car. I'll be back."

"How do you take it, sir?"

"Two sugars and lots of cream," he chuckled.

"Okay."

Before the coffee was fully perked, Ian sauntered back through the lobby carrying a rectangular UPS box.

"Your coffee isn't quite ready yet, Doctor Mitchell. Should I bring it to your office?"

"That'd be fine. Then we can discuss your outfit."

"Oh?" she asked, genuinely surprised. Her heart sank as he left the room without further comment.

The other two doctors hadn't arrived by the time the coffee was done brewing, so she poured out two cups: one for herself and one for Doctor Jacobsen. She took a few sips of her own and retrieved the morning paper from the mail drop.

Imagining that Jacobsen might arrive while she was away from her desk, she carefully arranged his folded newspaper and milk-infused coffee beside one another on the corner of her dais where she felt sure he would see them. She wrote out his name on a sticky-note and placed it on the newspaper. As a final touch, she drew a smiley-face and signed the note with a little heart above the 'i' in her name.

An apprehension crossed her mind that this might be a little too informal for Jacobsen's taste, but she brushed that aside and got busy preparing Mitchell's coffee next.

All was quiet in the lobby when she left.

Ian's office door was wide open, which was helpful because she was carrying a hot mug in each hand.

He rose to greet her with a thin smile and accepted his mug.

"You..." she began innocently, "You wanted to talk to me about my outfit, sir?"

"Yes, yes," he answered. "Let's have a look." He made a twirling gesture with his free hand, adding: "Do you mind?"

"Of course not," she said, setting her coffee on his desk and turning once with her arms apart. "Do you like it?"

"Well the necklace is cute... but as for the rest, I think... well, the old ladies will like it. That sweater is very, uh... Nineteen-Fifties, don't you think?"

"Um... no sir, it's not THAT old-fashioned. Actually I... I intended the sweater to make the whole thing a bit more conservative than it really is; you know, so I can look professional in front of the patients."

"Uh-huh," he grunted. "And until then?"

She stumbled, conceptually, vis-à-vis her next move. She had envisaged undoing two or maybe three buttons for the doctors if they insisted, but Mitchell's face looked really severe; as if he had expected her to wear something dramatically more exciting. She realized that probably wouldn't suffice to invert his opinion.

"I, um..." she began, fiddling the sweater with beguiling hesitancy. "I was thinking..."

She undid one button and then two more, allowing the underlying silk to reveal itself. Her blue eyes latched onto his, watching for any sign of disapproval. She felt a growing uncertainty about this plan, but couldn't think what else to do.

When the middle button was all that remained she paused and exhaled slowly, trying to ease the pressure. Ian's expression was expectant and unimpressed.

She twisted the last button tentatively, mumbling: "Maybe just for you... during for the morning-hours I mean, sir... I could wear..."

It opened.

"...just this."

She shrugged off the small sweater and let it fall to her wrists behind her. Her scapulae tightened, pushing her chest out toward him.

Ian's jaw went slack. The delicate silk and faint spaghetti straps were like candy to his eyes. For all intents his newest employee had just stripped herself, inviting him to behold every feature of her natural tits. The fact that she wore no bra was obvious. The thin shell clung to her outer crescents and bridged the distance between her nipples. Below that shiny line, the silk hung away in a brief, loose curtain.

Nudity would have provoked him less.

"Oh Tiffany..." he whispered in a near trance. "That really is better."

Her face widened with a smile and her soft chest wobbled as she fought to free her wrists from the sweater's cuffs. Finally she got loose and dropped the knit garment over a nearby chair. Then she clasped her hands behind her and gently twisted side-to-side, basking in the praise of his gaze.

"Do you like it?" she asked unnecessarily.

Ian was so happy that he nearly answered honestly, which would have let her off the hook too easily. He stopped himself just in time and re-asserted a skeptical visage.

"Yes, um... it's a vast improvement. But your shoes and skirt are still a bit plain, don't you think?"

"Plain?"

"Yes. The whole outfit is colorless, in fact. I don't suppose you brought anything else?"

"No sir."

"Hm. Well, obviously there's nothing we can do about the shoes then, but perhaps the skirt? Is there any way you can make it less boring?"

"Um... well sir, I hadn't thought... I was hoping you would like it. It's pretty short."

Ian approached her and gently turned her to one side by the elbow. His eyes raked her profile, lasciviously ogling its beautiful proportions.

"Does this hold it together?" he asked, noticing the skirt's side-tie.

"Yeah, um... partly. It also attaches inside."

"Well... can you make it tighter? So it sits up at your waist properly?"

"Uh," she deflected, "maybe a little."

"Show me."

He pinched the loose ends of the bow and pulled.

"OH! Hang on sir!" she gasped, catching the suede as it fell open.

Ian backed-off and folded his arms to watch. She slid one hand under the skirt's waist to break the Velcro closure, then raised it an inch and began to reattach it.

"Higher," he instructed. "Right up around your waist."

"But, um..." she stammered, still clutching the skirt's two flaps.

"Let's just see how it looks."

"Too short, sir," she said softly, glancing at him. "It'll be too short if I do that."

He continued staring at her hips, waiting.

Eventually she looked down and began adjusting the Velcro to fit just under her narrowest point, pulling the interior lining snug against her skin.

"Even higher," he insisted.

She glanced up for less than a second. Ian noticed a shiver run through her but she studiously peeled apart the Velcro one more time and re-snugged at the smallest aspect of her waist, just below her navel. She smoothed it flat and re-tied the leather strings at her hip.

"There," Ian smiled. "Much better."

"Really?" she pleaded, running her fingers along the skirt's lower edge to discern its brevity. "But... I'm way too exposed."

"No, no. It's perfect on you; shows off your legs without being inappropriate."

Tiffany bit her lip and felt the back of the skirt. It now ended at the very top of her legs, barely an inch below her ass.

"Oh, sir..." she whimpered, looking at him feebly. Her eyebrows pulled high in the middle and down on the sides, silently begging for a reprieve from this.