My top was a strapless shirt with a built-in bra, bright red, tight around the boobs, enough flesh showing on top as one of the clues to identify me a... female. The other clue was the fact that the bra did nothing to disguise my protruding nipples. The bottoms consisted of a flared flag-blue skirt, coming down barely as far as the crotch of my panties. Virginal – Hah! - white was used for the trim of the top and skirt, and also for the body of the panties. The panties flashed without any effort. Who am I among other intimacy craved beings, but that doesn't matter. I'm here to share my story. I was a waitress at a diner a couple years back, and we mostly saw the regulars, older couples and teenagers who had nothing else to do but loiter and eat. I was switched to the late shift, which didn't really matter because I had no husband or c***dren, and I commanded my own hours. One night, I was the only waitress working the late shift, and our cook, Chet, was out sleeping in his car, telling. More

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