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Visions of DeAnna

Easing back in a lounge chair propped on the deck of the outdoor bar at her hotel, DeAnna enjoyed a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and munched contentedly on a large prawn as she gazed out over Puget Sound. She had just finished checking back with her administrator, no fires to put out, no more calls to make.

The day had not begun on the smoothest of notes - there had been a power outage at her oceanfront home, the alarm failed to go off, and she had to scramble to get out of the house, dragging her wheeled overnight bag she had packed for her trip, laptop slung over her shoulder. She tossed her luggage into the passenger seat of her red Corvette convertible, and sped off to the San Jose airport, her short cut blond hair flying straight back in the wind, barely making it through the security line on time - she had been chosen as a screening passenger, and was taken to a private area where she was "asked" to strip down to her underwear. Under many circumstances, DeAnna would have taken great delight in doing so - and not stopping there. In her early 50's, she possessed a body that most women half her age would die for - a sensuous pair of breasts that fit her 5' 4" frame perfectly, hips that could sway her lovely ass forever, and a perfect tan from sunning on the nude beaches near her home. But here, trying to catch her flight to Seattle, she was seething as the female security guard, a short, squat woman in a TSA uniform eyeing her suspiciously as she waved her wand around DeAnna's ...

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