I have made a new dress, especially for our date. It is in a shiny stiff fabric, moss green, one of my best colours, with a pencil skirt cut just above the knee. It is nipped in at the waist, and has gathers under the bust. It is too smart for the pub, really, but I wanted to impress you.

It is too tight to wear a bra underneath, and I have to breathe in to sit down. The heavy fabric mostly disguises my nipples, but not quite. The shape of my breasts is obvious. When I sit down, it rides up a little, and you can just see the lacy tops of my stockings. You catch a glimpse of underarm hair when I raise an arm. You know I feel much sexier unshaven.

Under the pub table, you slip your hand up inside the skirt, running your fingers up my thigh. You stroke up over the lace of the stockings to feel the smooth soft skin above. You reach hair - you realise I haven't bothered with knickers. I part my legs slightly and you slip a finger into wetness. I reach across and discretely undo your straining fly.

"You should wear dresses more often," you say.

I resolve to make another one.