The air hung like damp velvet fog that Friday evening in early June . . . it was too damn humid, and hardly any breeze . . . it felt like summer already. Thank God for the rotating fan clattering away in the small Arts Council office. "It's always hot for JuneFest!," I thought to myself. "They ought to move the thing to April, but then I guess we couldn't call it 'JuneFest!' anymore."

I was doing my civic duty for our community s Arts Council. "JuneFest!" is a weekend-long arts festival annually sponsored by the Council, and exhibitors come in from several states to show their latest pieces and to hawk their wares, as it were. I had signed up to work the last shift, 6 to 8 p.m., at the Arts Council office. My job was to sign in the exhibitors, accept their $50.00 registration fee, give them directions to the exhibition hall or their motel, and generally answer any questions they might have regarding the exhibition, which was to begin early Saturday morning and would run until late Sunday afternoon. I had learned from working in years past that most exhibitors would register between 1 and 5, so I was pretty sure there would not be a lot to do but sit in the office, read a magazine and maybe slip on a Coke for a couple of hours.

Sure enough, when I relieved the guys who had worked before me, I learned that 54 exhibitors had already registered and picked up their packets . . . since we were expecting at most only the 62 who had pre-registered, I figured my shift would be a snap.

I didn't know who was supposed to work the shift with me. Usually we have two people -- one to get the forms filled out and the other to put together the exhibitors' information packets in the manila envelopes. I had assumed maybe they also wanted two people there since money was involved, but this always seemed a little silly to me -- I mean, the people volunteering their time to help the Council weren't the sort to risk going to jail for a few hundred bucks, most of which was in checks anyway. Besides, with the light work-load I expected, I could handle things easily even if my unknown partner didn't show.

The Council office is located in the larger senior citizens building; in fact, an old school house. The office itself sits right off the lobby by the front door. It has a single desk facing the door, a chair, a stool, a rusty filing cabinet, an old typewriter which they don't even use anymore, and (thank God!) one old metal rotating fan. The office room itself is small and cramped (maybe 15 feet by 20), but then, the Council president does the real work out of her home. They use the office mainly to store records and brochures, to supervise the monthly craft shows for the senior citizens, and as a contact point for participants and volunteers, such as once a year for the JuneFest! exhibit. Beside the single door to the room, and to the left side of the desk which faces the door, there is a counter which is situated behind a large glass window -- you know, the kind with the little round circle cut out in the middle, and another space cut out at the bottom, kind of like a movie theater's ticket booth. The registration forms and the info packets were on the counter waiting for me; the money box was tucked safely underneath.

I had just settled in behind the desk when I looked up to see Karen coming in the door. She got my attention immediately. I stood up and smiled when she walked into the small office. "Hi, Greg," she said. "Guess we're partners tonight?" "I guess so," I replied, "although it looks like most of the work has been done already."

Karen and I were casually acquainted; we'd see each other at the monthly Arts Council meetings. I didn't know too much about her, other than she'd gotten divorced a couple of years ago from a doctor who apparently had turned out to be a creep. Karen is 30ish, but she carries herself like a college coed -- bright, active, vivacious. She's a knockout, and although we'd sometimes sit together at the Council meetings around a big table with 20 or so others, I had always tried hard not to gawk or otherwise be obvious with my attentions. Karen invariably was warm and friendly, especially to me (or at least, so I imagined), but she was always prim and proper, and I had never sensed any tease in her. Her sexuality, which was palpable, was innate, not overt. And, after all, she is a beautiful woman who automatically activates the testosterone of any man she's around; but who wants to get caught looking? Besides, I'm married, as she knew.

Karen walked to the counter and began flipping through the registration papers while I returned to my seat at the desk. Karen's back was to me, and since there was no one else around, I hungrily allowed my eyes to drink in her lovely form.

Karen is a rather petite lady, not more than 5'4" or so, but very well put together, if you get my meaning. She has gorgeous red hair and a pale complexion, with the hint of a few freckles which to me (as I adore redheads) only accentuate her sensuality. Her breasts are well-proportioned and firm (I remember fondly the forest green Christmas sweater she wore to the Council meeting last December . . . the one with the reindeers . . . now that little job really showed off her figure!) Although by no means fat, Karen is not particularly skinny; in fact, her tummy pooches ever so slightly at her waistline, but for some reason I think this is especially sexy. She has wonderfully long, delicate fingers, warm green eyes, luscious and inviting lips, a rather large mouth with gleaming white teeth, a slender (very white) neck with sexy collarbones, and a particularly attractive (and don't ask me how) chin. There is no doubt, however, that Karen s best physical features are her ass and her legs, which are world class. Her hips are just the right proportion, her soft buns are curvy in all the right places, with just a hint of the sweet love crevasse dividing her butt cheeks. Her legs are long and very well shaped -- her thighs are firm and muscular, and her calves and ankles (oh, what ankles!) are tremendous -- probably the best set of legs I ve ever seen. As you can imagine, I leaped at the opportunity to let my eyes graze over this incredible specimen of womanhood as Karen stood at the counter, facing the check-in window and away from me.

As I've said, the night was hot, and Karen was dressed accordingly, though certainly tastefully. She was wearing a light green jumper of some sort (at least, I THINK it was green -- I am a little color-blind); the kind that almost looks like denim, but is of a lighter weight. Her beautiful legs were bare below the mid-thigh hem of the jumper, but she wore short white socks, and white sneakers . . . a decidedly "cute" look which I think is very, very inviting. Underneath the jumper she wore a white collar-less blouse, or maybe a tee shirt. I couldn't see any hint of straps (and believe me, I looked hard), so I guessed (and hoped) that she was braless. Not that it really made any difference since with the jumper you couldn't see much anyway; I guess it was just the thought of her full tits hanging free that gave me that peculiar yet familiar twinge deep within my scrotum.

"Are these the only ones left?" Karen said as she suddenly turned around holding the eight or so manila envelopes in her hand. I flinched when she turned, having theretofore been totally absorbed in contemplating her ass and thighs, and I think she must have suspected what I had been up to, because her puzzled look was instantly replaced with what I took to be a knowing grin. Thank God I was sitting behind the desk . . . at least she couldn't see the bulge that had begun to grow in my crotch.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it," I recovered. "We may not get but a couple more in; there are always a few no-shows."

Just then the front door opened, and a middle-aged couple walked into the lobby. Sure enough, the man was a rustic sculptor who had exhibited at JuneFest! before; the lady, his wife, apparently was along for the ride. I immediately recognized the sculptor, and he seemed to remember me too. I chatted with him while Karen busied herself with the registration forms and the information packet. The whole thing took less than five minutes -- this guy was a "regular" who knew the drill; he didn't need any directions or any lengthy explanations of the rules. Pretty soon, Karen and I were alone again.

"That's fifty-five," Karen said matter-of-factly. "How many did we have last year?" "Forty-nine," I said, "but only thirty-seven the year before that. JuneFest! is growing every year."

I offered Karen the chair behind the desk, but she smiled and said the stool by the counter was just fine. This was good news for a couple of reasons -- first, my back always bothers me when I sit on a stool, and second, the desk would hide the erection that I was sure would return momentarily.

"Could I read that?" Karen asked, pointing to the evening newspaper that someone had left behind. "Sure, I read it at home before I came. I thought I'd look over this 'People' myself," I replied. I sat down and picked up the magazine, and pretended to begin reading. Actually I was hoping that Karen would turn around again. The fan was clattering away, but the temperature was definitely on the rise.

Karen sat on the stool about four feet away, directly facing me at the desk, and opened the newspaper in her hands. She held the paper in such a way that I could not see her face (nor her, mine) or her torso, but I had a great view of her body from the waist on down. As the stool was one of those high, school-house jobs, Karen sat with her knees slightly bent and her heels hooked over the bottom rung of the stool. The high stool placed her knees just a little lower than the level of my eyes. Obviously, she could not cross her legs, nor did she try. She just sat there reading the paper.

As you might suppose, my eyes immediately sought out the folds of her lap, as I hoped against hope that I might see something interesting. I was not to be disappointed.

Karen's knees were slightly parted, and I had a lovely view of the inner sides of her legs about three-quarters of the way or so up her thighs. The shadows underneath the jumper concealed everything above that, but I found myself staring anyway. Curiously, as she turned the pages of the paper, she fidgeted (involuntarily?) on the stool a little, and the result was that I was gradually afforded an improving view of her intimacies. Although I continued to pretend to read my 'People,' I couldn't take my eyes away. Sure enough, after the turn of a few more pages, I was rewarded with the sight of a couple of square inches of white cotton at that very special spot where her two gorgeous thighs joined together. Needless to say, I was by now rock hard beneath my khakis, and I was very grateful to be behind the desk.

"Poor girl," I thought to myself. "She doesn't realize she's giving me this nice shot up her skirt." I wasn't so filled with pity as to look away, however. To the contrary, I stared all the more, and soon began to feel that soft warm throb of rushing blood pressing the flesh of my manhood against my pants.

Just then the lobby door opened again and two attractive ladies in their early 40's walked in. I didn't know them, but they soon identified themselves as registrants 56 and 57 -- both were primitive landscape painters from the same town out-of-state. I reluctantly stood up, not looking at Karen, afraid that she couldn't help but notice my raging hard-on. These artists were new to JuneFest! and had all sorts of questions about how, when and where they were to set up, how to get to their motel, etc. As I was taking their money from behind the glassed-in counter, Karen dropped one of the packets right at my feet, and knelt down under the counter right in front of me to pick it up. I kept chattering away at the women and didn't acknowledge Karen at all -- she fumbled a little for the dropped papers, not rising right away, and unless she was blind, she'd couldn't miss the enormous bulge between my legs.

When the artist ladies finally left, I carefully avoided looking Karen in the eyes (I knew I'd blush if I did) and quickly sat down to pick up my magazine. Maybe she hadn't seen anything after all, because she just plopped back down on the stool and picked up her newspaper again.

I very soon became aware that there was a difference, though. Karen now sat easily on the stool, directly facing my chair, her knees bent and heels propped up as before, but her knees were now a good three inches apart! She continued to browse through the paper, but her more relaxed posture gave me a clear view of her entire crotch, the white panties shining like a beacon beneath the dimness of her jumper. Slowly, subtly, and over the course of several minutes, she turned page after page of the newspaper, never letting me see her face, and never looking at mine. With each page turn her legs parted further . . . ever so slightly. Within ten minutes, her heels were a good foot apart, and her knees were opened up to a corresponding width. There was no more shadow at all . . . the light from the florescent fixture over the desk shone all the way up her thighs -- I couldn't have seen much better had she hiked the thing over her waist! There was no mystery anymore, only a glorious exposure of her sex.

I realized that I was breathing heavily as I gazed at her barely covered love bush. Surely she knew what she was doing? I wanted to speak . . . but I didn't dare . . . I just kept staring. Karen's panties were of the very sheer, thin white satin kind . . . everything except the narrow cotton middle of the crotch was virtually transparent. The thin material did not hide the dark hairs (were they red?) covering her upper vulva . . . she was now spread so wide that I could even see most of her lower tummy, if I hadn't been so fixated on her pussy, that is.

As Karen sat there, literally spread wide enough now to take a cock had she been naked, she twitched slightly as she turned the pages of the newspaper that I was now quite sure she wasn't reading at all. Her hips rocked back and forth almost indiscernibly, as if she had an itch that she was demurely trying to scratch. Then I saw it: a dime-sized dark spot, right in the middle of the narrow opaque cotton covering, toward the bottom . . . exactly at the place where the material touched her cunt hole itself. Karen was wet, and she was showing it! As I stared in lustful wonder, the dark spot enlarged. What had first been a circular area the size of a dime quickly grew into an oval, pointing downward, getting larger and larger, until the damp area was about an inch across, and at least three inches long, covering the entire area from her vagina to her asshole. The delight of it was that the dampness made the cotton area almost transparent itself . . . as I strained to look, I could just make out the slicky inner folds of her cunt pooching out from the middle of her already visibly swollen outer pussy lips. Karen was soaked with her gushing love juice, and her little pelvic movements became more regular and more pronounced. As for myself, my dick felt as if it were about to explode . . . I longed to touch myself, or better yet, to reach out and caress the beautiful pussy not four feet from me.

What to do? My mind raced . . . although I couldn't see Karen's face, I could now hear that she was breathing hard too. I had to make a move, but how?

At that moment the front door opened, and in strode Mrs. Donovan, the Arts Council president. "Yoo hoo!" she called loudly. Karen immediately closed her legs, brought down the paper, and stood up off the stool. For just an instant our eyes met . . . I discerned an expression of frustrated lust in her cloudy green eyes, and a beautiful face that flushed a deep red, highlighting her sexy freckles . . . God knows what she saw in my eyes!

"What's the count?" Mrs. Donovan cheerily inquired? "Fifty-seven," I responded, in a dry, unfamiliar voice that seemed to come from someone other than me. "Fifty-seven! That's tremendous!" gushed Mrs. Donovan. "That's our all-time best!"

As Mrs. Donovan came into the Council office and started gathering up the registration papers, I realized that it was already 8:15. Our shift was over . . . no more registrants were expected. I picked up the money box and put it on the counter, and began trying to clear my head so that I could show Mrs. Donovan the final tallies. "You kids must be tired," said Mrs. Donovan. She was only sixty or so, but anyone younger than that was always "Kid" to her.) "We sure appreciate your hard work."

"It wasn't work, it was fun," Karen exclaimed as she moved out the door and down the hall toward the ladies room. "I had a great time!" "Yeah, me too," I managed to sputter, clever guy that I am.

Mrs. Donovan and I gathered up the papers and the money box and walked out to her car. As we were closing her trunk, Karen walked out of the building to join us. "I'd better lock up," Mrs. Donovan said, heading back toward the office. "Thanks again so much for your help. Remember, the exhibition booths open at 8 tomorrow morning."

As Mrs. Donovan strode toward the front door, Karen looked at me, her green eyes now shining and full of mischief, and handed me one of the unused manila registration envelopes. "This is something special just for you," she said quietly in the sweetest and sexiest tone of voice imaginable. "Call me." Before I could stammer out anything, Karen turned and quickly walked toward her car, and Mrs. Donovan was coming back out to the parking lot.

I took the envelope and sat down on the seat of my car. First Karen, then Mrs. Donovan, drove away, and I was alone in the parking lot. I looked at the envelope, and could see that there was something written on it: 774-0435; obviously Karen's telephone number. My fingers trembled as I opened the clasp of the manila envelope and reached inside. I knew at once what it contained, even before I removed Karen's soaked drawers from the envelope. The panties felt as if they had just come from the washer, they were so incredibly damp. As I held the moist material to my face, I was almost overcome by the seductive aroma of her love tunnel . . . my balls throbbed and my dick thumped convulsively as I savored the sweet cunt smell.