My Father's Second Wife Ch. 03

I settled into my chair. Dad ordered a second glass of wine for me. "Wine's good," I thought to myself. "Either I'm not in big trouble, or I am in big trouble and the wine will come in handy."

We both ordered individual-sized pizzas, and I leaned back while my dad launched into his lecture. Margo was right; here came the "Street Where You Live" speech. Apparently, I wasn't in trouble.

I tried to focus on what dad was saying, but my mind kept drifting off. So many things had happened this week, I was getting dizzy just thinking about them. Fucking my dad in every way I could image seemed the least of it. Having him just sit and talk with me was weird enough, but I'd watched other women have sex with him, I was working in a Fortune 1000 executive office, I had a new wardrobe, I was trying to learn new skills, I'd stopped wearing underwear, and apparently there were ways of having sex I hadn't even considered.

The words "ice fishing" caught my attention.

"Sorry, dad," I said. "Ice fishing?" I really should have been listening.

Father rewound, and said, "I said, Richard is a deacon of his church, has two adult boys and a girl, and I've been ice fishing with him. He's an honest guy, and a great father, but he's very conservative. When you deal with him, you have to adapt yourself to his values."

"Richard. Church guy. Check," I said.

"Don't be flip," father said, in a cautionary tone.

"I'm not, I swear!" I pleaded. "I'm just trying to keep all of this straight and make you proud of me."

My father beamed. He actually, fucking, beamed at me. He took my hand in his and said, "I know you are, and the fact that you're trying makes me prouder than you can know."

I was saved from this awkward, excessively emotional, moment by our pizzas arriving.

With the after school special behind us, we tucked into our lunch. After a second slice, dad picked up where he'd left off, saying, "The Russians are the polar opposite of Richard and his group. The region they come from has a long history of bribery, corruption, and crime families. When they sit down at the table, they expect to have Vodka on their lips, bribe money in their hand, and a hooker in their lap—and that's just to begin the negotiations."

I wondered if the busybody mom table heard all of that.

I teased my father by saying, "Russians. Hookers. Check." Father tried to give me a stern look, but couldn't stop himself from smiling a little.

"Working with the Russian makes me sick to my stomach, sometimes," Dad went on. "The upside is, if we can sign them, they'll be worth three Richards. And," he paused for effect, "if we can talk them into a five year contract, they'll be worth ten Richards."

"Wow, so this is a really important deal then," I said. My father nodded. "So what are you going to do?" I asked. "Ply them with booze and blowjobs until they sign?"

Father said, "There's the rub, no pun intended. You can't just say to them 'Sign this and I'll get you laid.' Anything you explicitly offer, they'll take that and ask for more. You have to hint at the bribe you're offering, just enough to make them understand, but never state it outright. It's a subtle and tedious game."

"So what's our strategy?" I asked.

"'Our' strategy is to soften up the Russians," my dad said, mocking me a little. "We're not even close on terms yet, so that's a few more days of wining and dining. And believe me, these guys party hard."

I love it when my dad tries to be hip and use "party hard" in a sentence. Having been to more than one over-the-top fraternity bashes, I wasn't scared of any sort of partying, especially the "hard" variety.

Dad continued, saying, "Once the terms are settled, we need to push them for a long-term contract. That's where the money is."

"As for the Middleton Group, we need to get you back in the game. If they leave without seeing you again, you'll forever be 'that intern who flashed the boss.' I'd like for them to remember you in a more favorable light." He arched eyebrows and tilted his head to make sure I understood what he was saying.

"I'm sure I can present a better impression," I said, sincerely. What I didn't say was "I couldn't possibly make a worse one."

Satisfied, my dad folded up his napkin and said, "This has been good. I have to get back to the office. You can have the rest of my pizza. The bill has been taken care of."

He got up, leaned across the table, and kissed me again on the forehead. My dad has been kissing me every time we meet, sometimes twice, like he's making up for lost time.

"See you later, honey bear," he said, and with that he was gone.

I had the waiter box up the remaining pizza and I finished my wine. OK, I finished Dad's wine too. I hate to see perfectly good wine go to waste.

I collected my purse, the pizza, winked at the soccer moms trying to divide their bill, and drove back to work.

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I poured a cup of coffee and eavesdropped on a conversation between Brian and Brooke. I was in the break room on my own, my first time not shadowing Margo. She asked me do some research as a way of learning the business.

From what I could hear, Brian was weaseling his way into "entertaining" Brooke and her sister, who was visiting from out of town. I'm sure Brian's idea of entertainment consisted mostly of having his hand up one sister's skirt while he pumped his dick into the other. Poor Brooke was beginning to give in.

Tina and I exchanged smiles as we passed in the hall. Tina had helped me find a desk, access the research material on the computer, and generally made me welcome.

It was after four o'clock when a message for me popped up on my computer screen. It was from Margo. I thought, "That's fucking creepy, how does she know where I am?"

I returned to her office and said, "Hey, that was fucking creepy, how did you know where I was?"

Margo looked up. "I didn't," she said, holding up her bracelet, "but the computer does. I send you a message, and if you're logged into a workstation, the message goes there. There's an option somewhere to disable that feature." Realizing what she just said, Margo pointed her finger at me and warned, "Don't ever turn it off."

She returned to the schedule on her screen and said, "We're taking the Middletons to a dinner show." I waited expectantly to be included. Margo shook her head, saying, "Sorry, but that naughty girl who couldn't find any clean panties to wear wasn't invited."

I was crestfallen. I really wanted to prove to my dad I could entertain Richard without embarrassing myself—or the company.

Margo continued, saying, "It turns out our bare-bottomed intern has a special assignment." My dejection was short-lived. A special assignment? What could that be? And how long was Margo going to milk this joke?

Margo explained, without really explaining, "You're going to hell." Margo smiled and enjoyed my confusion for a moment. "You are to meet your father at club Boca del Infierno tonight around eight. He wants you to meet the Russians."

This was exciting. This was the big one. I practically jumped up and down. Margo slowly shook her head, with an exasperated expression that said, "You have no idea what you're getting into." Margo simply said, with more than a little sarcasm, "Lucky you."

"Is that all?" I asked, eager to get going.

"One more thing," Margo said, quite friendly again. "Diane is coming back from vacation tomorrow and a few of us are getting together at Ambrosia for drinks. Would you like to come along?"

"I'd love to!" I squealed. Two clubs in two days! This week was starting to look up again.

"Good, I'll let the others know," Margo said, vicariously enjoying my enthusiasm. "We're cutting you loose early so you can get ready. I'll see you here tomorrow."

I was almost out the door, when the importance of my assignment caught up to me. I stopped, turned back to Margo and asked, "Any advice?"

Margo was both surprised, gratified, and impressed that I would ask. She thought about it for a moment and answered, saying, "Wear something slinky, eat something before you go, and"—she paused—"bring mace," she finished, with a straight face.

As I drove home, I kept wondering if Margo was kidding or not. "Oh, how bad could it be?" I asked.

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The remaining pizza from lunch became my dinner. I'd now had pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and was pretty pleased with my dietary choices.

Taking Margo's suggestion of "slinky" to heart, I dug deep into my closet and found the metallic blue party dress I wanted. It had a wide, ring collar. The dress attached to the collar, forming shiny blue triangle in the front which wrapped around and joined at my waist, leaving my shoulders, sides, and back completely bare.

In the dress, my totally adorable, perky, breasts stood straight out, pushing the front of the dress even further away from my body.

I stood in front of my full-length mirror and slipped my hands inside, grabbing my girls. "Oh, these little things," I intoned coyly. "I got these for my fourteenth birthday."

I turned to the side and bent forward. "Oh, Mr. Russian sir, I think you dropped your pen," I said, in my best schoolgirl voice. The front of the dress fell forward; I might as well have been wearing nothing at all.

I turned farther around so I could now see my butt in the mirror. The hem ended a scant inch below my ass cheeks, and the matching metallic panties that came with it were still in the drawer. Bent forward, with my legs slightly spread, half of my ass and all of my pussy were on display.

"Uh oh," I said, putting my hand over my mouth, continuing the charade, "did I forgot to wear something important?"

I practiced sitting down a few times to see how easy it was to expose myself. It wasn't difficult. I had to keep my torso upright and my legs together, or something—breasts, nipples, ass, or kitty—would make an appearance.

I took time away from this peep show to complete my outfit. I went with silver high heels—really high, like 6" high—silver nail polish, and silver eyeliner. I unpinned my hair and teased it a little so it was loose and wild. I was dressed to kill.

I also had some time to kill. I dug out a long, thin, purple metal vibrator out of my dresser. The metal went well with the dress.

I stood in front of the mirror and began a conversation with myself. "Are you the office slut now?" I asked. I pulled the front of my dress together and bunched it up between my breasts, baring both. "Do you flash your titties to get customers excited?"

I turned the vibrator on and pressed it against my pussy though the fabric. "Does being your dad's plaything get you excited?" I asked myself.

"Oh, yes," I answered myself.

"If Daddy asked to you lift up your skirt, would you do it?" I asked. "Just reach down, and pull it up, just an inch. Just think, you little tart, there's only an inch of skirt between everyone and your bare pussy."

I reached down and pulled the dress up so it was no longer between the vibrator and my clit. I flinched as the cold metal connected with bare skin. For a moment, it was almost painful.

"What's the matter, doesn't your daddy let you wear panties?"

Switching to my little girl voice again, I said, "Daddy doesn't let me wear panties. He says a father and daughter should be close. There should never be anything between them."

"Does your daddy make you show off your sweet, tight, little girl pussy?" I asked in a faux baritone. I poised the tip of the vibrator at my vaginal opening.

"I, I, I don't know," my girl voice stammered. "He's never asked me to show anyone my, you know (giggle) my naughty parts."

"Is he going to tonight?" the deep voice demanded. "Is he going to put you on display? Sit you down and make you spread your legs for other men? Foreign men? Let them touch your ass, pinch your tiny nipples, stick their fingers up your cunt?"

I steadily pumped the vibrator in and out, making little circles as I went, trying to hit my G-spot.

"Answer me, baby slut!" I yelled at myself. "Is that what your father's going to do with you?"

"I, I, don't know," I whimpered. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so. Do you hope so?" I practically spit the words. "Do you wish your daddy treated you like the piece of slut meat that you are, give you away like a party favor?"

I didn't answer. I leaned against the mirror and pistoned the vibrator as fast as I could. With my other hand, I reached behind me, slipped a finger between my butt cheeks, and placed one fingertip on my asshole. I pressed against it, but didn't push inside.

"Does your daddy know you play with your ass? Do you want your father's cock in that tight little hole?"

"I don't know," I whimpered.

"You don't know! European men like to fuck girls in the ass, did you know that? Do you want the Russians to fuck you in the ass? Answer me!" I yelled.

"No, I don't," I cried. "I'm afraid."

"Of course you're afraid. Getting fucked in the ass by strangers is scary. But you do want to get fucked, don't you?" the inquisitor voice asked insistently.

"Yes," I responded.

"You wish that vibrator was your father's cock, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Your father's cock is bigger than your vibrator, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, my father's cock is bigger!"

"You can feel it stretching out your tight cunt when he pushes it in."

"Yes, I feel it."

"And your father is strong, isn't he?"

"Yes, my father is very strong."

"How strong is he?"

"He's really strong. He holds me while he fucks me. He holds me while he drives his cock deep, deep, inside me."

"And it's hot, your father's cock, isn't it? How hot is it?"

"Yes, my daddy's cock is hot, and it's thick, and it fills me up when he ... when he ..."

I climaxed, my face pressed against the glass of the mirror, my breath fogging the surface. I stayed there, holding onto the feeling as long as I could. I held the vibrator lightly, making small strokes now.

I pulled my hand out of my butt and pushed myself upright again. I stood, legs apart, milking the afterglow.

I very slowly pulled the vibrator all the way out, my nether lips folding shut behind it. I turned it off and held it up, admiring its glistening surface, and told it, "You're good, but you're not my father."

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I found the parking lot for Boca del Infierno. It was a poorly lit, trash-filled affair that desperately needed resurfacing. I parked underneath one of the few working lights and got out, being careful to avoid the broken glass and whatever-the-fuck was in the greasy paper bag next to my car.

The only decoration on the squat cinderblock building was the peeling paint of a yellow arrow indicating the entrance was in the rear.

The night air slipped inside my dress and blew across my breasts. I hadn't thought to bring a coat. My nipples, shocked by the cold wind, poked through the shiny material. I hugged myself, trying to keep the dress closed to the wind. In retaliation, the wind snaked its way between my legs; the wind was winning this one.

As I rounded the corner of the building, I was blinded by the headlights of a limousine. The club had no valet. Instead, cars were creeping up the alley and stopping in front of the entrance door to let people out. The limo disgorged two girls in their twenties, already stupid drunk. One was wearing a pink fringe top, white miniskirt, and a black thong, which I could see even from this distance. The other was in an orange baby doll dress and white panties, also obvious. The octogenarian that slowly emerged after them was dressed in a suit and looked like he needed a walker.

The girls literally carried the old geezer into the club. By the time I arrived, they were inside. With mounting trepidation, I walked towards the dark red door.

A wall of meat, dressed in a black shirt and combat pants, stepped between me and the entrance.

"I'd like to go inside," I said, in my most annoyed voice. Being a privileged girl, just out of her teens, I did "annoyed" really well.

The meat wall was unimpressed. "Name?" he asked.

I sighed in exasperation. "Charlotte," I said, still annoyed.

He looked at me like I was the idiot here. "Full name?" he said.

"Charlotte Fucking Grant," I said, knowing my full name would instantly get me into any club in the city.

Except this one. The meat wall pulled out a dingy, repeatedly-folded, list of names. He thumbed through the list, his lips moving as he read. Finding what he was looking for, he stuffed it back in his pocket, pulled a plastic card from his other one, and handed it to me. It was black with a cartoon devil's head on one side. There were no other markings.

"Your membership card," he said, and stepped aside to let me enter.

----------

I walked through the door and almost choked to death. An acrid cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air, like some villainous entity. It was dark inside, even darker than the night I just stepped in from. I coughed again and let my eyes adjust.

I knew what the card in my hand was. This wasn't a night club, it was a "private club"—a sleazy ploy to skirt the state's non-smoking laws. By paying some token amount to become a "member," it afforded you the privilege of sitting around with other cancer candidates, puffing yourself into an early grave.

I was in a foyer. There was a hall to the right, possibly leading to bathrooms, and an unattended coat check station on the left. I walked further in and emerged into a cavernous space. I was at the mezzanine level, looking down through the haze into a large pit of padded seating. At my level, small cocktail tables fanned out to the right and left. Few were occupied. Most of the people were in the pit, filled with overstuffed, curved, couches, each wrapped around a table, creating a maze of C's with dots in the middle. The color scheme was red and black: black walls, red carpet, black tables, red seats, black floor, red couches. Beyond the pit were curtained doorways, which I assume were private rooms. Canned jazz was playing, someone's idea of a classy touch. A wide stairway invited me to descend.

I started down the stairs. The carpet was threadbare. The pattern was either abstract or the accumulated stains of spilled drinks, vomit, and God knows what else. I avoided touching the railing. I was hoping there was breathable air at the bottom.

As I got close to the main floor, I could see the bar. It flanked both sides of the staircase. The bar was staffed by a handful of bartenders dressed in tuxedoes. The waitresses were also dressed in tuxedoes. Well, almost. They wore everything—patent leather shoes, tuxedo slacks, bow ties, white shirt cuffs—except for the shirt and jacket, leaving them all topless.

Arriving at the bottom, I now had the task of trolling through this wasteland looking for my father. I started to wander between the booths, and soon wish I hadn't. Most were occupied by one or two men, middle-aged or older. Paired with each was one, two, and occasionally three, women of negotiable virtue. Everyone was smoking something: cigarettes, cigars, pipes, or hookahs. There was probably some weed in there too.

The women were varied. All were high-milage, if you know what I mean. Some, I assume, were hookers. Others could simply be desperate for a sugar daddy and were past discriminating. They were all dressed in clothes that looked like they either came from a low-rent lingerie store or wherever strippers buy their outfits.

I passed a booth with a woman in her forties and a smarmy wise guy want-a-be, complete with gold chains, playing a drinking game. The woman's strapless dress was around her waist. She was holding her sizable breasts in both hands, steading a shot glass of some colorless liquor that was jammed into her ample cleavage. The guy was trying to extract it with his lips, laughing hysterically at his own failure.