My Father's Second Wife Ch. 03

Walking out of the store and ducked behind the mall directory at a quiet entrance. I tore open the package and stepped into the panties. They felt doubly strange. I hadn't worn any kind of underwear in over a week, so this felt foreign and constricting. Second, I don't think I'd ever worn "full" panties in my life; even when I was a child, mother bought me cute little briefs or tap pants, and by fifteen I was wearing thongs and G-strings.

Collecting my trash, I emerged from behind the kiosk, almost crashing into a family of four who where consulting the mall directory. They were all smiles. All they could see was a charmingly-dressed young lady that could have been on her way to church. I apologized and headed for my car.

On the way, I spotted a party dress in one of the stores "good girls" most definitely do not shop in. It was a black lace mini-dress with spaghetti straps. If the neckline was any lower, the hem any higher, or the lace any more see-through, it would have gotten you arrested just for standing. My only thought was "perfect."

Ten minutes later, I had two bags and was headed to meet the Middletons.

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The Middleton group was staying at the Raddison. We were meeting them at the hotel restaurant. Could they be any duller?

The grey sky had started to drizzle when I found Father and the matronly woman from yesterday's meeting. Richard was pleased to see me. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee were too embarrassed to make eye contact. Kyle practically jumped over furniture to greet me.

Kyle was glued to me most of the time. I was right on all counts; Kyle was a recently minted MBA, and the nephew of the company's vice president. He had a "bright future," he said, parroting his elders.

The only time Kyle shut up was when Richard was around. Richard chatted with me about the weather, life in middle America, and other light pleasantries. Whenever Richard moved away, Kyle regaled me with his snow-boarding obsession. I smiled, nodded, and occasionally agreed whenever he seemed particularly adamant about something. Boys are so easy.

And then my moment came. The waitress had brought a second round of wine and was setting the glasses down at a nearby table. I brightly volunteered to get Richard and my father their drinks. As I bent over the table to pick up their glasses, anyone who wasn't legally blind would see my, oh so very white, panties through the thin material of the skirt—big, plain, high-waisted, panties.

As I turned around, I caught them looking away. "Score!" I thought. I pondered the absurdity of proving myself to be a "proper" young lady by intentionally showing some old guy my panties. This truly was a crazy, fucked up, career choice. Pleased with myself, nonetheless, I returned with their wine glasses. Father winked at me. Mission accomplished.

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The one advantage of the Raddison was that it was downtown, only three blocks from Ambrosia. As their dinner time approached, I said my goodbyes to Richard, Kyle, and the rest of the party. Dad kissed me on the forehead. He said, "Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."

I returned to parking garage, looked to see if anyone was around, and began the process of removing my corset. It's a lot easier getting out of a corset, but that's not to say it's easy. After several minutes, I managed to loosen it enough to pull it over my head and escape. Tossing the dress into the back seat, I pushed down my panties and threw them across the garage. I never wanted to see those again as long as I lived.

I stood naked, except for my pumps, in the parking garage. The drizzle had been replaced by a steady light rain. I would have never guessed that standing naked in a parking garage would feel comfortable, but it did. The rain laden air on my skin was such a relief from the confines of the dress and that awful underwear. Even in the garage, the air smelled clean.

It wasn't long before I heard footsteps, and I elected not to become another spectacle. I plucked my little black dress from the bag and slipped it over my head. "Now this is a comfortable dress," I said to myself, smoothing the thin lace over my hips. I switched back to my heels and put on some real lipstick. Poking around father's car, I was relieved to find a collapsible umbrella in the glove compartment. "My dad, the Boy Scout," I said to the rain.

I walked to the valet stand and left my dad's keys with the valet. The guy who took them only nodded. If his tongue had been hanging any further out, he would have stepped on it.

I walked the three blocks to Ambrosia. The rain was really starting to kick up. I held the umbrella low. It kept most of the rain off, but did nothing to hide my cleavage, dress, or the mile of leg I was showing. The mist was making the dress even more transparent. Every pair of eyeballs, male and female, stared as I walked by. I looked like Mary Poppins, if Mary Poppins were a prostitute. I half expected cars to pull over and ask how much I charge for an hour.

Crossing Seventh Avenue, I thought about how the old Charlotte wouldn't think twice about shocking some bystanders. So was the old Charlotte back? I didn't know. Even the old Charlotte wouldn't have strolled down a rain swept street in nothing more than a nighty and heels. In fact, the old Charlotte would be at some rave already, or getting her freak on with a boy, not dashing from a business meeting to see coworkers.

These past few days were making me think about who I was, and I didn't like it. That is, I didn't like thinking about my future or my place in the world. I like thinking about me. I'm fabulous. Fact.

What was so unsettling was my perspective had changed. Father had lifted a veil, showing me a life that I never knew existed, a life with a career, where I could look hot as hell, have mind-blowing sex, and make real friends—professional friends, not the kind you collect after a wet T-shirt contest. This was all making my head hurt. For the first time, my future looked both prosperous and exciting.

I shook my head to clear it of thoughts. "Less philosophy, more drinking," I told myself firmly.

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Ambrosia was an upscale meat rack where young professionals picked up other young professionals. It was decorated in the modern "Starbucks" decor of stained woods and retro lines. It had a hip cocktail menu, soft lighting, and comfortable seating, which didn't make it feel tawdry at all.

I shook off the umbrella and stepped inside. My legs and shoes were a little wet, but I'd managed to escape the worse of it. I spotted Margo at the bar. She waved me over, gave a hand signal to the bartender, and pulled out a stool for me.

"Is that what you wore to meet the Middletons?" Margo asked, pulling out her cell phone. "Do I need to call an ambulance, because I'm sure Richard and your dad are having heart attacks right now," she said mockingly.

"No," I said, slapping her arm playfully. "I spotted this in the mall and thought I'd spice it up a little tonight. As far as Richard is concerned, I'm a virgin majoring in accounting."

Margo said, "If this is what you call 'a little spicy,' I'd hate to see what you think racy is."

We shared a laugh as a frosty Cosmopolitan I hadn't ordered appeared before me. We raised our glasses and Margo toasted, "Here's to spicy." The Cosmo was perfect. The slightly sweet nectar felt good in my throat. I'd already had one glass of wine, and I was already starting to feel uninhibited.

"So who's this Diane person everyone keeps talking about, and how often does she fuck my dad?" I asked.

Margo almost shot her Martini through her nose. "Damn, child, you have to stop doing that!" Margo said, once she'd recovered from choking. "Diane has never slept with your father. As far as I know, he's never even asked."

I had a surprised and puzzled look on my face.

Margo sat her drink down, where it would be safe, and said, "Diane is a died-in-the-wool, 100%, card-carrying lesbian. She has about as much interest in dicks as I do in drywall. Diane wouldn't 'fuck your dad,' as you so elegantly put it, if you paid her."

Puzzled, I said, "OK, I still don't get it. You said my dad only hires people 'of like mind?' If that's doesn't mean prancing around pantyless and taking it up the ass, what does it mean?"

Replaying what I'd just said in my head, I held up the Cosmo and stared at it. "Whoa, this Cosmo was hitting me hard," I thought to myself.

Thankfully, Margo was in a good mood. Instead of taking offense, she patiently explained, "Your dad, and the people you work with, don't judge or pry. You do your job, work as a team, and otherwise let people be themselves. Nobody cares if your dad had sex with Tina in his office. She's not getting a promotion. She's not going to be fired. You're not going to be shunned because you ended up naked in the office. Diane is not going to be passed over for promotion because she's gay. If Brian bangs Brooke against the water cooler—which actually happened once—no one will file a sexual harassment suit. The CEO of the company could have sex with his own daughter and it won't end up in the newspapers. Sex is fun. It's a perk. Whatever happens between two—or seven—consenting adults around here is a delightful event, and that's the end of it."

I took another big swig of my drink. "So that's it?" I asked, still a bit incredulous. "Fuck and let fuck?"

"That's it, kiddo," Margo confirmed, cocking her head and taking another sip of her martini.

We sat in silence while Margo let me digest this.

After considering the possibilities, I turned back to Margo and said, "OK, fine, I think I get it. But you didn't answer my first question."

"Which was?" Margo asked.

"What's this Diane person like?" I said.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Margo said, winking to someone behind me.

I turned around to see a well tanned brunette walking towards us. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft looping curls. She was tall, easily a few inches taller than me. I'd guess she was in her thirties. Her face was long and elegant—regal, almost. She wore a soft, tropical print, wraparound dress that tied in the front. It was sleeveless with a handkerchief hem that floated around her knees. Immediately below were knee-high burgundy leather boots, splattered with rain, that fit snuggly over her shapely calves. She wore a necklace of large wooden beads that looked like it came from South America or Africa, and two silver loop earrings, each with a small diamond at the bottom. As she walked, her ample breasts swayed gently beneath the soft drape of fabric.

She smiled at Margo, and then shifted her gaze to me. She examined me with an expression what was part bemusement and part wonderment, like someone who happened upon a particularly pretty butterfly. She came to a stand right in front of me. After a moment, she put out her hand and said, "You must be Charlotte. I'm Diane."

I shook her hand and said, "Yep, that's me. Nice to meet you, finally."

"The feeling is mutual," she said, turning to Margo. "So this is the firebrand that's causing all the commotion?" she asked, rhetorically. "She looks harmless enough to me."

Squinting at Margo, I said, "Hey, what have you been telling people?"

Margo just laughed, and said, "Let's find a more comfortable place to sit."

With that, we all moved towards the back of the club. The back half was a clutter of small, intimate, sitting areas. Margo found a couch and two big chairs surrounding a small table. She and Diane each took a chair. I sat opposite on the couch.

Diane snagged a waitress and ordered a drink. The waitress gave me an odd look, like she wanted to say something but not in front of the other two. When she left, Diane took to grinning at me.

I finally said, "What?"

Diane and Margo both stifled a giggle. Diane said, "Are you always this ... airy?"

"What's that mean?" I asked, totally oblivious to whatever it was they were referring to.

Diane then made a show of taking the hem of her dress lightly between her fingers, lifting it up, and then slowly uncrossing and crossing her legs. "Oh my God," I thought to myself, "she just pulled a 'Basic Instinct' on me!" For a moment, I saw Diane's bald pussy. It was just long enough to see her third "earring" dangling over her clit, an exact match to the other two.

Dreading what I'd see, I looked down to find that my own pussy was on open display. That must have been what the waitress was staring at. "I guess this dress is really fucking short," I muttered to myself. I crossed my legs as nonchalantly as I could.

Trying to deflect attention from my crotch, I said to Margo, "So what's this 'commotion' I'm supposed to have caused?"

Just then, Margo's cell phone rang. She held up a finger while reached for her purse. As she pulled out her phone, she nodded to Diane, who answered for her.

"'Commotion,' indeed" Diane said. "I go away for a couple of weeks and find out people are getting up to all manner of shenanigans."

Margo was saying, "Hello? Yes. No, I can hear you. Go ahead." She clutched her phone to her face.

Diane ignored Margo and continued, saying, "First I hear that a new intern was interviewed. And by that, I mean she was in the 'intern position,' over a desk. Next I hear this same intern sat and rang Tina's doorbell while she was accepting a package through her backdoor—the boss' package, no less. Next thing I hear, she's flashing her charms to important new clients, and then prancing around the office in her birthday suit, and it wasn't her birthday. And that's just this week. Did I miss anything Margo?"

"Did this woman major in euphemisms?" I asked myself.

Margo had finished and was putting her cell away. Margo replied, "You missed the security footage from the parking garage this morning."

Diane opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Don't worry," Margo said, in her impish way. "I emailed you a copy of the video."

I picked up a peanut from the bowl of snacks and threw it at Margo. She feigned a mortal wound, all while laughing hysterically.

I turned back to Diane and said, defiantly, "And I wasn't prancing!"

This caused Margo and Diane to laugh even harder. I fumed a little and tried to ignore them by concentrating on my cocktail.

After they recovered, Margo said to Diane, "You don't even know the half of it." She leaned towards Diane to impart her dark secret. "Charlotte is Mr. Grant's daughter." Margo pressed her finger to he lips, to make sure Diane knew this was a secret. You know, the kind of secret you tell everyone in the fucking office.

Diane's eyes got very big. Her mouth hung open. She looked at me, looked at Margo, and looked back at me. She managed to close her mouth. Looking around the room she got the attention of a waitress and said, urgently, "We need more drinks,"

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I remembered to keep my legs crossed as I reached for my third Cosmo. I hoped the waitress appreciated my effort. Margo was on the phone again. I'd learned a little about Diane, but mostly about her spelunking trip to Mexico, followed by a week in the Virgin Islands.

As Margo hung up for the third time, Diane asked, "So who else is coming?"

"No one, because Brian was driving," Margo said with one of her infuriating I-know-something-you-don't-know looks.

Diane was, apparently, familiar with this look. "Let's have it," Diane commanded.

Margo was all too happy to comply. She said, "You missed the fireworks in the office today." Diane immediately looked at me.

"No," Margo said, "it didn't involve this one." I gave Margo the best I-hate-you face I had.

Margo ignored me and continued, "Brooke and her sister when out with Brian and ..." she trailed off.

Diane finished her sentence, saying, "Being Brian, he totally screwed it up."

Margo nodded and said, "Screwed her sister, to be specific, and left Brooke stranded at a club."

Diane picked up her drink again and said, "Typical. So what happened?"

"Well," Margo said, dramatically, "Brooke waltzed in today and tried to get Brian to apologize."

"Let me guess," Diane interrupted, "he didn't."

"Of course not," Margo said, "this is Brian we're talking about. But during the conversation, Brooke somehow managed to grab Brian's car keys. You remember that BMW convertible he's so proud of?"

Diane, nodding, said, "Who doesn't know about it, it's all he talks about."

"Well, before Brooke hands his keys back, she stands next to the window, directly across from the parking lot, and presses the button to open the convertible top," Margo finished and intently watched Diane's reaction.

Diane first looked puzzled, and then incredulous, and then she burst out laughing. Margo joined her.

Diane was screaming, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" while flapping one hand.

I finally had to ask, "I don't get it."

Diane was shaking her hand and trying to stop laughing long enough to explain, saying, "Brian's fancy new Beamer has been sitting all afternoon in the rain with the top down."

I couldn't help but laugh too. It was tragic, but so funny at the same time.

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The evening drifted on. No one else showed up, and I didn't mind. I liked Diane, a lot. She was mature, self-possessed, worldly, with a great sense of humor, and an endless number of stories.

After another rounds of drinks and two more phone calls, Margo excused herself. "Back to the salt mines," she said as she waltzed out the door, leaving me alone with Diane.

The drinks were taking their toll. I remember the conversation getting really slow. Then I was outside in the cold, leaning on Diane for support. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"I'm taking you home, little girl," she said.

I remember streaks of rain on the Jeep's windshield. I remember the elevator ride to her condominium. I remember my leg feeling wet while I watched her dig through her purse for the door key.

I remembered stumbling into her apartment. It was lavishly decorated. It spoke of someone who'd traveled the world, and brought little pieces of it back with her. Her living room was filled with a big, comfortable couch in earthy colors. There was wicker furniture and well-worn leather chairs. Tropical prints draped the windows. An antique ceiling fan rotated slowly.

Everywhere, there was evidence of her travels. African spears leaned against a corner. Sea shells from faraway tropical islands dotted the room. A tall wooden statue of a goddess with wide hips and even wider boobs was placed prominently on its own shelf. A Scottish tartan sash draped over one corner of a bookshelf, filled with old books. Between these tokens were pictures of Diane and another woman. Some in bikinis on beaches or waterskis, some in climbing gear hanging on the side of a cliff, some in orange saris in an Indian marketplace. The other girl was about the same height as Diane, a little paler, a little younger, blonder hair, just a touch skinnier; in other words, just a little less "Diane" than Diane.

My fuzzy brain and rubbery legs managed to get me to the couch. I lay on my back. "That's better," I thought to myself.

I felt an unexpected breeze against my inner thighs. I looked down to see Diane gently blowing on my skin. She smiled and said, "I hope you don't mind, it just looked so inviting."

I saw that my dress had ridden up to my waist, exposing everything from there to my ankles. I could see how hiking your dress up, dropping onto one's couch, and parting your legs could be construed as "inviting." I idly wondered at what point my dress had crawled above my ass, and hoping it wasn't before the elevator ride.

The soft vice of alcohol was still wrapped around my head, discouraged any further conversation, so I just let my head drop back against the throw pillow. Diane took this as consent to continue.

I felt her warm breath on my mound. Soft hands drifted up my inner thighs, and soon fingers were teasing apart my outer lips. A tongue touched my inner folds. Briefly at first, tentatively, just for a moment, as if to see if I would object. I didn't, and it returned, lingering this time. Her mouth lazily traced the outline of my sex, slowly and languidly. There was no hurry. I heard her inhale through her nose, relishing my intimate perfume. She kissed me down there, like a lover. Her tongue returned, this time rolling my clit around like a sea lion lazily playing with a beach ball.