My Father's Second Wife Ch. 02

"I'll decide shortly," was Margo's response, as she marched me to the back of the store.

A large set of louvered double-doors was set in the middle of the store's back wall, with a few smaller doors to either side. Margo swept through the two doors into the "big" dressing room. I felt pulled into the room, as if I was riding her wake.

The room was large—for a dressing room. At one end was a low table between two well-stuffed chairs. Along the back was a dress rack (empty), two bar stools, a beautician's chair, and one of those little seats used by shoe salesmen. Mirrors covered three walls.

Margo closed the doors behind me and dropped into one of the chairs, flinging her purse into the other. She looked at me and said, "Well, get those off, we don't have all day."

With a huff of exasperation, I muttered under my breath "Fuck, am I going to strip naked every time I come to work?"

Margo was gifted with good hearing. She answered my query, saying, "That will depend on what you're good at." She was now looking at me through slit eyes, and held a piercing, wicked, smile.

I sat down on one stool, removed my shoes, the sweater, and the pants, depositing them all on the other stool. I reached behind me to unclasp my bra. Almost the moment it was free, Margo rose from her chair and came towards me, as if in a trance.

"Oh, my," was her comment. She was staring at my breasts. Without asking, she reached out and took one in each hand. She ran her hands over them, squeezed them, pushed them up, and then let them drop. She did this again. She pressed on their sides, pushing in and up to create more cleavage, then pressed her hands against them to flatten them out.

"I really thought they looked lovely falling out of your dress last week, but they are better than I imagined," she said, punctuating the sentence by pinching my nipples, giving them a little tug, and then letting go.

"So you like my tits?" I asked, with as much sarcasm as I dared.

Margo ignored me. At that moment, the only thing that existed in the room were my boobs.

Having toyed with my breasts to her satisfaction, Margo stepped back and, finally looking up at my face again, saying, "Your tits are impossibly firm. I bet people ask you if they're real."

"A few, mostly girls," I replied.

"Boy's wouldn't care, they'd just be thankful to be in the same room," she said. With a wink, she added, "The girls are just jealous."

"Don't stop on my account," she said, darting her eyes towards my thong.

I sighed and resumed stripping, adding my thong to the collection of clothing. The moment I'd straightened up again, Margo's hand went to my pussy, gently stroking it with the back of her fingers.

"A little stubble," was her remark.

I said, "I was going to shave it again, but," before she cut me off.

"Don't," she said, "we need to get you waxed."

With that decision made for me, Margo turned her attention to my pile of clothes, picked up my thong and bra, and tossed them into a small waste can.

"You won't be needing those," she declared.

Before I had a chance to protest, she picked up my sweater and pants and dangled them in front of me, like they were soiled, "These, I don't ever want to see again. You can take them home, but I suggest burning them."

She tossed my clothes into the corner, opened one door, and called for May. May appeared with a cloth measuring tape. Margo grabbed my wrists and pulled my arms straight out to the side, indicating that I was to leave them there.

I stood like a scarecrow while May measured my neck, shoulders, arms, bust, underbust, waist, hips, and thighs. She spent an inordinate amount of time measuring my inseam, her hand pressed against my bare pussy the whole time. Why not let the dress girl cop a feel too? Everyone else has.

Margo and May then left, without closing the door behind them. A split second later, Margo popped her head around the corner and said, "Don't go anywhere." Grinning at her own joke, she vanishing again.

Hearing what sounded like customers entering the store, I closed the door. I sat my bare ass on the stool and waited for Margo to return. I looked down and admired my breasts, jutting proudly from my chest. "I really do have sweet tits," I said, pleased with myself. "At least she recognizes quality."

After 10 minutes I was beginning to wonder where they were, when May burst through the doors with a rack of clothes in tow. It startled me, and I instinctively tried to cover myself with my hands, but no one was paying attention to my nakedness. In fact, they weren't even paying attention to me. I had to jump off the stool and step back to keep from being run over by the rack, as May maneuvered it into the room. Margo was right behind.

Margo then began to take dresses from the rack. Some she would hold up to my body, consider it, and then hand it back to May with either a "No," which would move it on the other rack, or specific instructions, such as "Take in the waist," or "A narrower belt," which May wrote down.

About every third one I was told to put on. I tried on tight dresses—which looked hot, in my opinion. I tried on lose dresses, soft dresses, straight dresses, knit skirts, a-line skirts, tulip skirts, and pleated skirts. Some had high necklines, some low. All were bold, stylish, and exquisitely tailored.

Margo would adjust or test the fit of each one. She's push my boobs up to see how much cleavage would emerge or grab a handful fabric to make it tighter. On a couple, she had me bend over at the waist and slowly lifted the hem of the dress to see how high it could go before I was mooning May.

About half way through, she spontaneously turned to me and remarked, giddily, "Isn't shopping for clothes fun?" as if I was an active participant in this process.

The very last outfit was a two-piece one. She handed me a sheer, practically transparent, long sleeved, blouse that had a solid, horizontal, band of black fabric, maybe three inches high, across the middle. When I put it on, the top of the band just covered my nipples, and you could see the bottoms of my breasts peeking out below it. I looked like a nudist being interviewed on the evening news, superimposed with a black "censor bar" to hide my naughty bits.

She then handed me a tight, bright yellow, skirt and matching jacket. I tucked the blouse into the skirt. The skirt was tight enough that it was difficult to zip up. When I put on the jacket, the lapels created a wide neckline that closed just above the bottom of the black band. A good portion of my bust was visible through the gauzy material, and was nicely framed on three sides. It would have been outrageous wearing just the jacket, my tits falling out with any movement. Wearing the blouse, on its own, was equally as scandalous. But when put together, it became a perfectly tasteful ensemble.

"Excellent," was Margo's comment.

She turned and began reordering the dresses on the "keeper" rack, separating them into two groups. There were about ten remaining, down from the original two dozen or so. When she was finished, she turned to May and pointed to one group, saying, "two inches shorter," and then to the other group, saying, "three inches shorter."

She turned to me, explaining, "You'll be the youngest member of the staff. I think it's OK if you dress a little sexier then the rest."

I wasn't sure if I liked Margo yet. So far, she'd treated me with all the respect a butcher shows a piece of veal. She did have style, however, and I liked that.

I started to say something. She reached up and literally closed my lips with her fingers, saying, "Question and answer period is later."

Margo hooked her finger at me, indicating I should follow her, and headed for the front of the store. I put on my shoes, took one last look at my panties and bra in the trash, and followed her out.

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We drove to a bistro and found a table in the outdoor patio. Margo ordered an ice tea and salad. I opted for the French dip and coke. When our food arrived, she picked up her fork and said to me, "OK, go."

I didn't know what she meant.

"You've got questions," she said. "Fire away!"

I did have questions, but I hadn't prepared a list. I started with the first thing I could think of.

"Is my dad screwing everyone in the office?"

"No. Next."

"Do you have sex with my dad?"

"Oh, yes!" Margo said, raising her eyebrows to indicate just how much sex she has. "Next."

"Do you like working for my dad?"

That question seemed to surprise Margo. "Yes, very much," she replied. It seemed like an honest answer. "Next," she said.

"What's my job?" I asked.

"Good question," Margo said, finally engaged. "As an intern, you're here to observe, learn, and do what you can. With any luck, you'll find out—by trail and error—what you're good at. Honestly, most people don't know what they're good at, and this is an exceptional way to find out."

That, surprisingly, didn't sound too bad.

"Is there really a company dress code that says we can't wear panties to the office?" I asked.

Margo almost choked on her bite of salad. Stifling a laugh, she dismissed the question with her hand, adding, "No, that was just a joke. Next."

"So I can wear panties?" I said.

"Absolutely not!" was Margo's emphatic reply.

My head was starting to hurt. "What are the rules, then?" I pleaded.

"Ah, finally, the right question," Margo said, beaming with delight.

"Let me start by saying that you're getting the V.I.P. treatment," she said, putting down her fork and folding her hands in front of her. "I'm Mr. Grant's executive assistant. Our office has a very flat organization, but if there was a formal hierarchy, I'd be second in command. At the bottom of that chart would be people like Tina, who are essentially gofers."

She looked me straight in the eye before adding, "Interns are below that. You're the rugs the gofers walk on."

That explains the warm welcome I got from the receptionist.

She took up her fork again. "Interns are normally indoctrinated by the junior staff, and they are most certainly not treated to new wardrobes. So ask yourself, why is the most senior member of the office overseeing the most junior?" She took another bite while waiting for me to answer.

"Because it's your job?" I asked, hesitantly.

She made a game show buzzer noise between her teeth. "Try again."

I was considering the question, when I realized the answer was so obvious: because I'm the boss' daughter.

"Because my dad asked you to?" I said, this time sure of the answer.

"Ding, ding, ding," Margo chimed, "we have a winner. And as part of your V.I.P. package, I'm going to hand you the golden ticket, so to speak. You're about to learn the secret of this organization and everything you need to know to be successful here. How's that for a leg up?"

Well, that sounded great! I just hoped she was on the level and this wasn't some kind of hazing ritual.

She took a deep breath, pausing for dramatic effect, before saying, solemnly, "You do what Mr. Grant wants."

She let the words hang in the air. I was unimpressed, but I tried not to show it.

She sat back in her chair and brightly said, "That's it. That's the entire company manual, policy, and rulebook, rolled into one. Always do what Mr. Grant wants and you'll go far."

Unsure, I said, "So, that means, ..." and I let the sentence trail off.

"So that means you show up on time, because Mr. Grant likes punctuality. It means you wear stylish dresses or skirts, because that's what Mr. Grant likes. It means you work hard and are competent at your job, because that's what Mr. Grant expects. It means that you and I both leave our panties at home, and enjoy the morning breeze drifting over our flawlessly bare pussies, for the simple reason that Mr. Grant is not fond of undergarments or pubic hair."

She picked up her tea glass and added, as an aside, "Well, one flawlessly bare pussy." She took a drink of her tea. "Yours needs some work."

As my mouth opened, she cut me off—again. I was getting a little pissed off at the one-sided nature of this conversation.

"Oh, I know what you're going to say next," she said. "One rule doesn't help if just means you have to learn bunch of other rules." She took another bite of salad.

"The beauty here is that Mr. Grant's rules are easy," she said. "He's an open book. He will tell you, honestly and directly, exactly what he wants. If he doesn't, just ask him. There are no secrets. The formula for success is drop dead simple, you just have to do it."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a credit card, holding it aloft as a signal to the waitress that we were done. I quickly tried to finish my sandwich.

Between bites, I said, "That wasn't what I was going to ask." (I omitted the "bitch" at the end.)

"I was going to ask, how does he make you do that? You know, follow his rules, not wear any panties and shit" I said, a little acidly.

The expression on Margo's face was like I'd asked her why water flows down a hill.

She gave her head a little shake, as if to clear the nonsense out of her head, and said, "No one makes me do anything, silly girl." I could tell I touched a nerve, and now kind of regretted the question.

In a slightly condescending tone, she said, "People who work with Mr. Grant go places. People who don't tend to fade into obscurity. Consequently, there are many people who want to work for Mr. Grant. If I placed an ad for just one," she held up one finger so there was no question how many she meant, "opening in our office, tomorrow morning there would be a line of applicants out the building, three blocks long."

"Now pretend your dad was into some crazy cult that shaved their heads and wore purple saris. Most of the people who work for him would have shaved heads. Most of the people in that line of applicants would be dressed in purple saris. He wouldn't make them shave their heads, or tell them what to wear, he'd simply attract and hire like-minded people, and with so many people who want to work for him, it would be easy."

I couldn't, immediately, find any flaw in her argument.

"Thankfully, your dad prefers shaved beavers over scalps, and running around commando over swishing around in a sari. Which is fine with me, because this," Margo said, gesturing to herself, "is way more fun than Sinéad O'Connor in a bed sheet."

I continued to eat, trying to absorb both my sandwich and what Margo was saying.

Taking a final swallow, I said, more humbly this time, "Does that including having sex with my dad?"

Margo laughed. Margo seemed to find my questions amusing. "Ah, the sex thing," she said wistfully. The waitress appeared with our check, Margo signed it, and handed it back.

She placed her hands on the table and scooted back her chair, saying, "That will be an excellent topic for another discussion. Now let's get back to the office and see if Tina has set anything on fire."

Neither of us knew how prescient that comment was.

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Margo swept into the office to find Tina sitting at her desk, looking as proud as a peacock. Her chest would be puffed out, if she had any chest to puff.

I expected Margo to be all smiles, but she was immediately suspicious.

"Tina," Margo said slowly, "how were things while we were gone?"

"There was a problem, but I handled it," Tina said with a satisfied air. Margo's eyes narrowed. She did not like what she was hearing.

Tina explained, "The plane with the Kyrgyzstan group flying in for the meeting this afternoon had mechanical problems, and the plane had to turn back."

Margo was very still, listened patiently.

"I called Linda in HR, and she helped me call our travel bureau and got them on an alternate flight. They have a layover in Denver, but should still arrive by seven this evening."

Margo was massaging her temples, like she had a terrible headache.

"Tina, darling, I love you to pieces, but I told you to call me—not Linda—if there was a problem," Margo said.

Tina was crushed. I thought she was going to start crying. "Did I do something wrong?" she pleaded, her voice going up an octave.

Margo, trying not to yell at the fragile creature, said, "The problem, Tina, is that the corporate jet is sitting on the tarmac in Chicago. We could have flown it over, picked them up, and had them here in four hours. Now, they're on another commercial flight, with a layover, and won't be here until late this evening."

Tina's lips were now quivering.

"The drooling idiot named Linda in HR wouldn't know that, of course, which why I wanted you to call me," Margo said. She managed to state it as fact, and not a scolding accusation. It didn't help.

The damn broke. Tina started bawling uncontrollably. She was blubbering something, but it was unintelligible. Margo took Tina's hands and stood her up, and then wrapped her arms around her tiny body, and gave her a motherly hug, one hand patting the back of her head.

"There, there," Margo cooed. "It's OK, everything is going to be all right. It's not that bad," she lied.

After Tina calmed down to the point she was merely sniffling, she stood her on her own again. Holding her by her shoulders she said, "Do you want to help me fix this?" Tina nodded her head. "Good. Go freshen your face, get back here, and we'll get to work."

Tina turned to go and Margo affectionately swatted Tina on the ass. With Tina walking away from us, Margo turned to me and silently mouthed "It's bad."

Margo sat down and stared at the schedule on her computer screen, contemplating a battle plan. I had nothing to do except watch Margo think.

The moment Tina stepped back into the room—not looking terribly refreshed, but at least presentable—Margo began speaking again. "The two o'clock meeting is still on. That gives us 45 minutes."

She said to Tina, "Call the hotel and ask if the conference room and serving staff can be rescheduled for tonight. Also call the caterers and tell them there's going to be a delay." Tina started to go, when Margo yelled, "No, call the caterers first." Tina practically ran from the room.

Margo then attacked her phone, calling various departments, asking to see if this or that project could be ready to present this afternoon, who was away, and who wasn't. After fifteen minutes of this, she was still not any happier.

I sensed she decided on another approach. Margo called a gym and was asking about personal trainers, but luck was still not on her side. "You said he's in the foothills training some movie star today?" obviously repeating something the caller said. And then later, "No, that won't help either." She persisted, "Is your portable rock climbing rig available this afternoon?" There was an answer I couldn't hear, followed by a disappointed "No, but thanks for trying." She hung up.

Tina reappeared looking much improved. Margo turned to face her.

Tina said, "I couldn't rebook the conference room at their hotel."

That was the bad news, and Tina desperately wanted to get to the good news.

"But," she said with a big pause for effect, "the conference facilities at the Four Seasons, right across the street, are available and the caterers can set up in the room next door," she finished in a rush.

Margo was genuinely impressed, and told Tina so.

"That's excellent. You did good."

Tina beamed. In Tina's world, all was roses and sunshine again.

"Now," Margo said a less enthusiastically, we just have to figure out something for Mr. Grant to do this afternoon. I couldn't schedule any other meetings, and it wouldn't help anyway; he'd just be tired this evening, and in no mood to deal with those Russians." The way she said "those Russians" did not make me think she was fond of them.

"He was supposed to meet with his trainer tonight after the meeting, but there's not enough lead time to reschedule either. Which is really unfortunate, because if Mr. Grant got good and sweaty, he'd want to take a nap, and would then be refreshed for the meeting that's now tonight. I guess he'll just have nothing to do until dinner, and he's not going to be happy about it."