The young blonde stood on the narrow porch, holding her torn dress to her chest, breathing hard, her face tear stained. She looked up at me. "Thank yo...," she said softly. She was a first-class beauty, fair skinned and well developed, lean and tall, the kind that men dream about and moon over, the kind they picture when they use their hands to relieve themselves, desirable was the best word for her. She was prettier than the girl in Philadelphia, and much healthier, clearer eyed, fresher, more. Her name was Lynn. Her uniform consisted of an off-white, knee-length dress, coffee-colored hose, and 2′ heels. As Lynn walked down the aisle checking to see whether everyone was seated properly, I couldn’t take my eyes off her dress that showed a hint of what she wore underneath. She must have not been wearing a slip because her white garter straps and dark stocking tops, as well as her panty lines showed through. The bumps of her garter tabs were quite visible against the smooth surface of. More

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