My Father's Second Wife Ch. 03

Richard, Kyle, and my father all looked at me. My father was judging my performance. Richard was clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation. Kyle was probably adding me to his mental list of centerfolds. The other three avoided eye contact, and pretended to read whatever was in front of them.

I drew myself, approached the table, and addressed Richard.

I said, "Mr. Middleton, let me apologize for ... so many things. I apologize for not being more careful with my coffee, and I apologize for swearing. That was one of my favorite skirts," I said, already getting off track. I recovered by adding, "but I know that's no excuse to use bad language. And I apologize for my inappropriate attire. I didn't want to be late for work this morning, and I hadn't done my laundry, and I didn't think ..."

Richard cut me off with a raised hand, which was good because I would have babbled on this way for another minute.

He smiled, benevolently, and said, "Think nothing of it, young lady. Your heartfelt apology is accepted. I have a niece, not much older than you, also had some difficulty adjusting to corporate life. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it too."

I felt like a huge weight had been lifted. I managed to get out a "Thank you" to Richard, before my dad intervened.

"Charlotte, why don't you assist Margo this morning," my dad said. It was hard to read my dad sometimes, but he didn't look angry.

I made an awkward attempt at a curtsey and quickly vacated the room. Once in the hall, I sucked in air, blessed oxygen filling my lungs. I stood until my breathing and heart rate slowed down to the point where it wouldn't scare a medical professional.

When I rounded the corner, Brooke and Margo where chatting away, like two women that bumped into each other at the supermarket. Except, of course, that Brooke was starkers.

"How did it go?" Margo asked. Both were eager to hear the answer.

"OK," I said. "Better than I expected."

They were genuinely relieved. Unexpectedly, Brooke stepped forward and gave me a big hug, wrapping her arms around me. I returned the gesture, my hands pressing against her bare back.

"You'll be fine," Brooke said into my ear. "This kind of thing has happened to most of us at one time or another." I wondered if she meant spilling coffee or standing naked in the hall?

Brooke and I separated. I stood there, not knowing what to do next. Margo said, "Brooke needs her dress back."

"Of course," I said, reaching behind my neck, feeling for the zipper. To Brooke, I said, "Thank you so much for lending it to me."

Brooke dismissed my gratitude with a flip of her hand.

I easily slipped out of the dress and helped zip Brooke back into it. She gave me a friendly wink and said, "See you around," as she left.

Margo said, "Well, let's find something for you to put on," and she took off down the hall carrying my wet clothes. I had little choice but to follow, butt naked, my pendent jostling between my breasts, as I hurried to keep up with her.

We passed a few people along the way, but no one said anything. They were either used to seeing nude girls strolling about the office, were being polite, or were afraid of saying anything in front of Margo. I didn't care what the reason was.

Back in Margo's office, she went to the passageway in the back and pressed a section of wall, which swung open, revealing itself to be a small closet. Inside was a rain coat, umbrella, and a brief selection of evening wear. She pushed the dresses aside and retrieved a red, wool, double-breasted pea coat. It was sporty, with wide collars and a flared hem.

Offering the coat to me, she said, "Try this."

I would have preferred sweat pants or even an afghan. One of Margo's scrumptious evening gowns would have been nice. Ultimately, what I most preferred was to not have to drive home naked, and the phrase, "beggars can't be choosers," suddenly took on new meaning. I slipped my arms into the sleeves and started working on the buttons. Margo returned to her desk.

The coat was not long which, as I'm almost two inches taller than Margo, made it dangerously short on me. It seemed decent enough from the front. Judging from the breeze wafting over my bottom, however, I was pretty sure my ass cheeks were peeking out behind.

I couldn't even pretend I had something on underneath the coat. If it had been another four inches longer, I would have had the benefit of the doubt. I finished with the buttons and presented myself to Margo.

"How do I look?" I asked.

Margo looked up from her computer and said, dead pan, "You look like you're heading off to give your boyfriend a big surprise." She paused and then added, "Or you're a call girl."

"Gee, thanks," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It will get you home," Margo retorted, and she was right. I only needed to get to my car and not get arrested on the drive home.

Changing the subject, Margo said, "Your access chip is ready. You don't want to leave without your phone."

I'd completely forgotten about my phone!

At that moment, my father returned from the meeting. He looked pleased to see me. That was a good sign.

Father, eyeing me up and down, teased, "I like this new look on you." He walked over, held my chin, and kissed me lightly. He then reached around behind me, underneath the coat, and swatted my bare ass. I let out a sharp yelp.

Father said, "That's for not being more careful." He turned and started to go into his office.

Anxiously, I asked, "Did I totally screw things up?"

He paused for a second before he replied, "Disastrous move, but a nice recovery. Have lunch with me and we'll talk about it." With that, he disappeared into his office.

I turned back to Margo and said, a bit perturbed, "Sometimes my dad isn't that helpful."

"He's a man of mystery," Margo intoned. "I'm sure he'll explain at lunch. You'll probably get the 'Street Where We Live' speech."

"What's that?" I asked.

"It's one of his parables for dealing with people," Margo said. "It explains how difficult it can be to assess what people's values are. It goes something like this," and she sat down to tell the story.

"Pretend you live on an idyllic suburban street: sidewalks, trees, white picket fences, the whole shebang. In one house lives a family, the kids are playing in the yard. In a second is a pair of newlyweds, who just moved in. Next to them lives a single woman with her dog."

"The challenge is, what are their attitudes towards sex? Some clues are obvious. You can assume that the first family must have had sex at least a couple of times, because the results are playing in the front yard. It's a safe bet that the newlyweds are, but there's no proof. It's most likely that the dog lady isn't getting any."

"But it's also possible that the parents of the family haven't had sex in years. It's possible that our new bride wants to swing, her husband is paying prostitutes to piss on him, and the dog lady is doing it with her dog. Each is successfully more unlikely, but none are impossible."

"Now comes the conundrum. You invite them all over and want to get to know them, intimately. After dinner, do you bring out the Monopoly game, the lube, or a dog leash? Working with clients is like that. This business requires a very intimate relationship with our clients, and you have to figure out what their proclivities are before you can approach them with offers. If you guess wrong, you could alienate them forever."

I was trying to figure out what this had to do with the Middleton group, when Eddie pushed his pudgy self through the door. He approached Margo, my cellphone in hand, with all the deference one would show the Queen of England. Eddie was clearly in awe of Margo.

Eddie presented the phone to Margo and said, "All ready to go." He turned his head to look at me. His blank expression told me he had no idea who I was.

"Of course he doesn't know who I am," I thought to myself, "he only remembers my tits!"

I reached up and started to unbutton the coat. I had every intention of flinging it open and demanding, "Do you recognize these, Eddie?"

Alas, there were too many buttons and not enough time. Margo had accepted the phone and Eddie was backing away, careful not to turn his back on her majesty.

Margo read my intention and gave me a withering look. As soon as Eddie was gone, she said, "Don't be mean to Eddie. He just becomes a little flustered in the presence of overwhelming beauty." When put that way, I kind of felt like a jerk. Margo had a way of defusing my moods.

Margo handed me my purse, a shopping bag that looked like it contained my clothes, and my phone. Indicating the phone, she said, "Let's try it out," and headed for the door.

----------

Standing outside the elevator, I kept my hands behind my back, hoping it would encourage the coat to conceal most of my ass. The Amazon was looking at me suspiciously.

When the car finally arrived, we entered, and Margo pressed the fifth floor button. I was hoping for a secluded ride, but at the last moment five people rushed the elevator. I stepped all the way to the back, ostensibly to make room for the latecomers, but really to put my butt as close to the wall as possible.

When the doors opened on the fifth floor, I realized that I was going to have to push through the crowd as Margo and I were the only ones getting off. As we exited, I could feel their eyes traveling up my legs, enjoying how high the view went. Margo, for her part, could barely keep from laughing.

There was no reception area on this floor. The elevators opened directly into Spartan foyer. The only exits were the elevator we just stepped out of and a set of double doors labeled, innocuously, "501 - ES."

"Welcome to the inner sanctum," Margo said dramatically. "Try your open sesame." She gestured towards the door handle.

I approached the door and waved my phone over the handle, as if I was performing some Wiccan incantation. It worked! The light on the door turned green, I pressed down on the handle, and the door gave way.

Margo and I stepped into another world. I found myself in a large, circular, room. The light was soft and subdued. In contrast, the light spilling in from the hallway was bright and intrusive. The walls and ceiling were paneled in dark wood. The floor was wood, but not solid. It was tightly spaced slats. Between the slats, I could see round river rocks underneath, as if I was standing on bridge built over a stream bed. In the center of the room, a circular hole in the floor made way for a cairn of rocks. Water, flowing gently over the rocks, made quiet burbling sounds as it cascaded over the stones and disappearing beneath the floor.

Spaced along the perimeter were deck chairs and some beautician stations. In between, and everywhere else, were plants: bamboo, bird of paradise, ferns, you name it. It looked like someone had set up a beauty salon in a jungle. Nature sounds wafted through the room. I heard the door click shut behind me, snuffing out the harsh world outside.

There was one other occupant. A frightfully short Asian girl was sitting at one of the stations, packing up a carry bag. Upon seeing us, she smiled and softly said, "Hello."

Margo said to me, "This is the executive spa. It's our offices's little secret."

I just stood and stared. It was astounding, a tiny jungle oasis hidden inside an industrial wasteland.

Margo continued, "You can get pedicures, manicures, waxing, a haircut, or"—Margo paused to examine my hairline—"have your roots touched, up if you like. There are therapy rooms in the back for facials, wraps, and massages. There's no permanent staff; just call Amber and schedule what you want. Mr. Grant picks up the tab."

I was barely listening. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. OMG, had I died and gone to heaven?

My ecstasy was interrupted by the Asian girl, who was on her way out.

Margo made the introductions. "Charlotte, this is Yin Li, one of our beauticians. Yin Li, this is Charlotte, our newest intern. I hope to get Charlotte in for a waxing soon."

Yin Li was even shorter than I guessed. She barely came up to my shoulders. She bowed forward, in a solemn gesture of greeting, and said, "Of course, I would be happy to serve you. What kind of waxing do you want?"

Margo, being her ever-so-helpful self, answered the question by reaching over and lifting up the front of my coat. Despite the liberal approach Margo takes to my nudity, there was no point in complaining. Your gynecologist and the person who waxes your hoo-ha are two people you can't be modest with.

Yin Li tilted her head and leaned to one side to get a better look—not that she needed to lean very far. After a thorough, and no doubt professional, evaluation, she straightened up and said, "I would be happy to do that for you. You make an appointment for next week." She bowed again to me, then to Margo, and departed.

Margo said, "Let me show you around." She led me around the circular path that surrounded the fountain in the middle. At the back of the room were double doors, opening to wide hall that led to several rooms on either side. Most of the rice-paper doors were open. All the rooms appeared empty, until we got to the last one.

Inside a man was getting a massage. Margo pressed her finger to her lips to indicate I should be quiet. We both peeked in.

The doorway was open, giving us an unobstructed view of the room. In the center was a massage table. The man laying on it was naked, face up, with his eyes closed. There was no sheet or modesty towel. The masseuse was a large, muscular, man in white tennis shorts and a polo shirt. He had his back towards us, intently massaging one foot.

The masseuse was classically masculine—chiseled features, muscular arms and legs, firm ass. He could have been a Chippendale dancer.

In contrast, the man on the table, was ... well ... beautiful. He wasn't hunky handsome, like he-man are always portrayed. He had a subtly Latin appearance, possibly from South America. His skin had a golden tone that wasn't dark or pale. Except for a mop of light brown hair on his head, he was completely hairless. His muscles were toned and well defined, but smooth, as if lovingly shaped by a master sculptor. If I were to imagine an Aztec god, this is what he would look like. I couldn't help admiring his cock. (Hey! I'm a girl, it's allowed.) It was smooth, curved, uncircumcised, and of a pleasant length.

Margo pointed to the front, signaling that we should retreat before being discovered. We tiptoed gingerly back to the fountain.

Margo whispered, "That's Peter."

With an expression of utter astonishment, I said, "My God, he is soooo fucking pretty!" raising my voice more than I should have.

Margo just grinned and said, "I know, right?"

We quietly slipped back out through the door.

----------

As the elevator doors opened to the ground floor, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the walk to the parking structure. I had to get through the lobby, out the door, across the entrance plaza, and into the parking garage. I just knew people could see my ass beneath my coat.

"So what?" I told myself. "Like no one here has seen a girl's naked bottom before! Hell, I show more of my ass at the beach, and I'm certainly not embarrassed there." I stepped resolutely into the lobby, eyes front, confident, determined. "Besides, I have a nice ass!"

I strode confidently, or at least my best impression of it, across the lobby, avoiding all eye contact. I was about to push through the front door, when I heard Margo's voice call out behind me.

"Charlotte, you forgot something," Margo yelled.

I turned around in time to catch no less than a dozen people, wide-eyed and slack jawed, suddenly trying to find something else, anything else, to look at. Sighing, I spotted Margo across the lobby. She was holding up my purse and bag of clothes. She stood there, making no effort to bring them to me.

Shit.

I stomped back across the lobby, only realizing half way that I was causing the bottom of the coat to bounce even higher. I calmed my gate. When I got to Margo, I snatched the items from her, and angrily said, "You did that on purpose!"

Margo smiled, her innocent, evil, angelic, infuriating, smile, and said, "I'll see you after lunch."

With a huff, I turned around to see a dozen people that had suddenly found marble floors, ball point pens, and product brochures to be the most interesting things in the world.

"Fuck," I muttered out loud, "can this day get any worse?" My question was answered by the distinctive "click" of a cell phone camera.

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As I pulled into our garage and turned off the engine, my phone chimed that I had a message. I examined the phone as the garage door descended. Margo had texted me the place and time to meet my father for lunch.

I opened the door and slowly peeled my bare ass off the leather seat. It had become glued to it on the ride home, having nothing to cover my butt. "Fahrvergnügen, my ass," I said to myself, and then laughed at my own joke.

I'd have to return Margo's coat, so I took it off and left it, along with my purse, in the car. I grabbed my bag of soiled clothes and headed towards my room at the other end of the house.

I was either becoming comfortable with walking around in nothing but heels, or I was so pissed at the day I really didn't give shit who else sees my tits and ass. You decide; I was beyond caring.

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I eased my Miata up to the valet podium in front of the restaurant. After rinsing off the coffee and humiliation from this morning, I had changed into a collarless cream blouse with a black pinstripe blazer and matching skirt. This was probably the most conservative outfit that Margo had picked out for me, but that's not to say it was conservative.

The blouse was very sheer—as in transparent. Without a bra, slip, or camisole, I was essentially topless without the jacket. The jacket was sharply tailored, with a deep, plunging, neckline that joined a little above my belly button, resulting in a generous exhibition of my (obviously) unconstrained breasts. This was another example of Margo showcasing my tits. The only thing missing was a name tag that read "Hello, My Name is Charlotte. Ask Me About My Boobies."

The matching skirt was a similar story. When I tried it on in the store, it came almost to my knees. It now stopped above mid-thigh, having been altered into a miniskirt, only a couple of inches longer than the jacket. I completed the ensemble with solid black high heels.

I got out of my car, trying not do a "Lindsay Lohan" on the valet, giving the guy a boner he'd have to wear the rest of his shift. The valet liked what he could see (if only he knew the whole story!), and I realized I liked my outfit too.

They say, "The suit makes the man," and they're right. Sure, the outfit was risky, but isn't that what wildly successful businesswomen do, take risks? In this pinstriped suit, I felt like a super-sexy, don't-you-wish-you-could-touch-this, take-charge, damn-the-torpedoes, crush-you-under-my-(high)-heel, businesswomen—and it felt great. Somehow, the faux pas and embarrassments of this morning were already forgotten. "Don't look back; keep moving forward," I said to myself, "like a shark."

The restaurant was a trendy wood-fired pizza place. Normally packed at night, the lunch crowd was sparse. I spotted my dad at a corner table not far from the show kitchen where two Italian-looking guys in white chef coats were tossing dough into the air.

Father sat down his wine and rose as I approached the table. He met me with a light kiss on the lips. A clutch of moms at a nearby table clucked disapprovingly. They assumed, I'm sure, that I was some office tart, spreading my legs for the boss. If they'd known I was his daughter, they probably would have been perfectly fine with us, even approving. I wondered what sounds they'd make if they knew I was both?