Introducing Miss. Thing

Miss. Thing blasted into the office in the middle of the day wearing her see-through tennis outfit.  The Nike cap held her graying blond hair off her sweaty red face and neck.  Her nipples pierced the white wicking t-shirt, which accentuated her wine, chocolate and raw almond diet.  The spandex-blend purple tennis skirt must of shrunk during the course of the match because one quick move and all of her business was on display.  White tennis socks and scuffed tennis shoes completed the outfit.  She hurried through the contemporary office space refreshed and oblivious to her client waiting in the large conference room.

Bouncing around the office, as if her feet were remembering the three-set-match they just won, Miss. Thing called for a quick meeting with her staff.  Begrudgingly, we crowded into her office to hear tales of country club tennis greatness, our new ritual on Wednesday afternoons.  To our amusement and horror, the demonstrations were getting more elaborate each week; diving for the ball on the line (flash of white panties), lunges for the ball at the net (flash of white panties), and vertical leaps for spiked balls (flash of white panties).  

Shocked by the announcement that a new client was waiting in the conference room, Miss. Thing looked around the room for someone to blame for her refusal to reference the office calendar.  My colleagues quickly shuffled out of the office refusing to give eye contact. I stepped forward, handing her the new client file, taking the bullet for the team.   Skimming the file, she began to disrobe, undress, get naked in the middle of her office with the door wide open.  Averting my eyes, I gathered the necessary documents and pen off the desk while wondering - out loud - what she was doing

Professionalism was the word she used while shifting her breasts around in her sports bra.  Obviously a costume change is in order before meeting the new client.  Lifting a black blazer from the back of her office chair, she put it on over her see-through white wicking t-shirt and shrinking purple tennis skirt.  She took off the Nike cap and ran her fingers through her damp hair, shaking her head a few times to loosen the hair from her scalp.  Applying red lipstick to her pale pink lips, pinching her cheeks to bring the blood to the surface and taking a quick peek in the mirror behind the office door, she grabbed the file, pad of paper and pen and headed to the conference room to greet her new client.  

I quickly asked about the white socks and tennis shoes, which clearly did not match her new professional attire.  Miss. Thing looked down at her feet and then at mine.  Pointing at the black paten leather heels I was wearing, she took off her tennis shoes and sticky white socks and motioned for me to do the same.  She bent over (flash of white panties), squeezing her swollen red linty feet into my sleek paten leather heels and clomped down the hall towards the conference room.  I stood with my naked feet in the middle of the workroom vowing never to take the bullet for the team again.