Abbie is called to the director's office

Abigail Harris eased her curvy posterior into the grey cushioned seat of her office chair the following work day after the Halloween Masquerade Ball. The tight linen cylinder of her business suit's skirt slid up her thighs, revealing more of her charcoal-colored stockings. The brunette used her clunky black high-heeled shoes to push her closer to her desk and the well-used PC she had been begrudgingly given by her boss, Miss Barnard, when she moved to her position as Activities Director.

The violet eyes of the eighteen-year-old peered over her dark-framed glasses at the monitor, as Abbie absently began tapping a pencil against the exposed cleavage of her chest with her right hand as she moved the plastic mouse with her left. She found an intraoffice memo was waiting for her and decided to open it, fearing the wrath of Miss Barnard after what happened at the ball the other evening.

The pretty dark-haired girl was surprised to merely find a memo asking for her attendance at a meeting in the Director's Office at ten o'clock this morning. She looked at the hands on the clock on the plain wall. It was nearly time already. Abbie finished the work on her screen and cleared it. Pushing away from the desk on her wheeled chair, she fidgeted absently with the top buttons of her white blouse. The rest home worker wondered what kind of mood the woman would be in. Should she button herself up more, hiding the last trace of delicate lace that peeked through the halves of her crisp blouse? Or would another peek of her soft girlish attributes keep the woman from launching into a tirade?

Abbie smiled a little, deciding to leave her decolletage as is. She grabbed a pen and notepad, straightening her skirt and matching jacket before she stepped into the halls of the Bellevue Home for Retired Gentlefolk.

The raven-haired brunette grinned widely as she heard catcalls from a couple of her dear male friends. Even though the skirt neared her knees when she walked, Abbie knew her ass wiggled a little extra, hobbled by the tight sheath of designer material. A flash of thigh was visible, though, through the slit that ran up the middle of the skirt's back.

Abigail steeled herself for what might come when she got to the closed blinds at the office of the home's director. Trepidaciously, she grasped the steel doorknob, twisting it, and pushing forward.

As Abbie entered the all-too-familiar office of the nursing home director, she was surprised to see no one else waiting. Her little jaw dropped when the backwards-turned chair twirled so it's occupant faced her.