Interlude Three

Looking at my reflection in the mirror I hold the dress up to my body and let out a long frustrated sigh. It’s not going to work. Even my smallest, tightest, least visible sports bra shows in the damned plunging neckline. Tossing the shiny satin green dress on the bed I let out another huff and simply accept that I’m going to go without a bra for the party. I’ll just have to hope and pray that the built-in cups will hold up the top of the dress since there aren’t even any shoulder straps. From the top of the excessive amount of cleavage this little tart of a dress will show off, to the top of my head, there is no fabric whatsoever. Boobs, shoulders, throat, face, and that long silky smooth bleached blonde hair.

I take another moment to simply curse what could have been. The long dress would still have been over the top sexually appealing, but while it was body conformingly tight, it at least had shoulder straps to ensure the girls wouldn’t pop out and make a surprise appearance. Hell, as much as I cried about it at the time Mal let me pick it out, I’d even accept the fact that it was so tight that it hobbled me below the knees compared to this wet dream of Santa’s helper dress.

Knowing there was no reason to cry about it now, I move back to my vanity and work at brushing my hair. Ever since that trip and all the time on the beach, my hair has needed so much more work. I should have paid more attention, but I thought getting a little sun would help my skin. Nope, my pale skin just got a slight burn while my hair noticeably faded. Oh sure, I could blame Mal or Trixie for setting it up, but it was the stylist that chose to go this ****. And now I’m stuck with an even more **** hair routine. That’s what I get when they bleach all the color out of my hair… hair that gets brittle and split ends unless I brush it twice a day and work in the conditioner at every opportunity.

I let my mind wander as I keep working at my hair since I have plenty of time before the limo picks us up. It’s been such a strange ride. We’re coming on almost a year since I agreed to help **** Mal. What was I doing last Christmas? I had that little get together in my studio… now a place I’ll never be able to work again, but that’s something I don’t want to think about now… and I think I spent all of a hundred bucks on the spread, including the beer. Now I’m going to be at a holiday party that cost K Edison Global just over fifty thousand dollars to host. That’s not even including Mal’s custom Santa outfit or my tiny piece of satin cloth masquerading as a dress. And it’s certainly not including the office Christmas bonuses that Mal and I will be handing out to everybody. That number will undoubtedly top a million dollars.

But it’s not like I can compare my tiny photography business to K Edison Global’s empire. Especially not with the McGregor deal all but in the books. I start working on my makeup and can’t help but remember my contribution to that deal. Sure, Mal set up the plan, Darnell got the lynch pin contact that we’d all been missing, but it I was the one that secured the financing. At the time I thought Mal wanted me to date Art just to keep an expensive client happy. I never would have guessed that dating me could secure a billionaire’s backing.

I put down the lipstick for a moment and look closely at my half-painted lips. Every time I apply lipstick or gloss, I can’t help but inspect my sexy, puffy, pouty lips. I know damned well that Janessa was just a stupid, air headed, simpleton, bimbo secretary. But she sounded so damned confident when she told me that giving head made your lips sexier. Poutier. Ever since then, I can’t get that thought out of my head. With as many blow jobs as I’m giving now… eight? Nine? Ten a week?... I can’t help but check and see if my lips are getting puffier. Poutier. Sexier.

With an absentminded shake of my head, I push the thought out of my head and return to painting my face. This party is just too important to lose myself in thoughts like that. After that disastrous Halloween party, I need to be on my best behavior. I’ve never been so scared in my life and I’ve never ever seen Mal so angry. I knew he could be indifferent and cold and downright mean at times, but that’s the first time I ever saw him violent. Truly violent. And it was my fault. Nope, can’t have that happen again.

When the phone rings I pick it up without thinking, assuming it’s an update on the limo’s arrival. Her voice, however, makes my blood run cold, “Good evening Miss Beaufort. I trust you’re getting ready for the big party?”

I close my eyes and count to ten. And then count to ten again. I can’t let her get under my skin. “Of course I am Ma’am. I’m adjusting the hairstyle I had in mind to better match the dress you picked. I was going to go for a civilized smoldering look but I believe it’s safe to assume you want me in more of a slutty bimbo role?”

What makes her words so much worse than everybody else’s is that they don’t sound condescending. She’s not trying to put me down or put me ‘in my place’ by saying what she does. She speaks as though she’s reciting simple facts that has no reason to be doubted. “Of course that’s what I’m after. It’s what you are. This is a big celebration for the company, and you are the entertainment. Mal gets to give out the Christmas bonuses this year so you, his wanton secretary, have to give out just as much pleasure. That dress alone should be pleasing enough for all the men in the office. And as it’s so over the top, even the women will get a kick out of seeing you tarted up. That’s a win, win in my book.”

Each phrase stated matter of factly, strike like an arrow to my heart. It’s what you are. You are the entertainment. Wanton secretary. Give out pleasure. Pleasing for the men. Over the top. Tarted up.

While I try to push the self-recriminating thoughts out of my mind, I evidently take too much time as she continues. “Don’t worry your little air brained head over it, Miss Beaufort. This dress is exactly the type that Malachi will enjoy seeing you in. Just tell him you thought it’d be more fun and he’ll love you all the more for it. It will get you even closer to being the next Mrs. Orpheus. Now while I’d love to discuss in further detail how to seduce Mr. Orpheus into putting a big fat diamond ring on your finger, I called for a specific reason. Mr. Orpheus was held up at the tailor. It seems you gave the wrong instructions and they’re having to adjust his Santa pants. He’ll meet you at the party. Understood?”

My stomach twists again as she tells me that I gave the wrong instructions. It now goes unsaid between us that she sabotages almost all of my work. Mal, for everything good about him, is more attracted to flawed women. He love my intelligence, he’s made that very clear, but it intimidated him that I was doing everything right. Then she came in and started going behind my back and making little mistakes for me. Emails left unfiled that I ‘could have sworn’ were filed. Paperwork lost that I know I’d organized. Notes from a meeting that mysteriously went missing only to be found in my purse a few days later. Each and every time Mal would respond with that roll of his eyes that said silently said “what more could I expect from this silly girl?”. Each and every time Mal fell a little more in love with me.

All according to her plan.

I take in a breath and **** a smile on my face, knowing full well that my voice transmits my smiles through the phone and she just hates it when she can’t get under my skin, “I apologize for that ma’am, I’ll make it right to Mr. Orpheus at the party. If there isn’t anything more, I really should be getting ready.”

She only hesitates for a second or two but it’s enough for me to know I got her. I pushed her buttons. “No, that’s all. Have fun at the party Miss Beaufort.”

And just like that, the line went dead. Tossing my cute iPhone across the vanity I return to putting my face on. At this point in my life, I’m good enough at my makeup that I can multitask while doing it. I can organize my day, plan out Mal’s appointments, and even mentally set up a meal plan to shop for. But when I’m feeling like this, a mixture of dread, fear, and anger, I find it best to just concentrate on the moment.

An hour later I’m standing in front of the three way mirror and doing a final check. The boots are a nice touch. Velvety over the knee boots that fit my shapely legs like a glove. It took me almost ten minutes to squeeze into them and I’ll probably need help to get out of them. The fact that they end in stiletto heels adds to my curves and keeps my ass high and tight. Which of course with this short of a dress, will be on display all night. If I were to stand ramrod straight and not move at all, and there was no breeze to push the skirt of the dress around, you could still see the bottom curve of my shapely behind. Walking? Bending over? Crouching? Talking, laughing, or God forbid dancing? Yeah, I’ll be flashing my ass all night.

The skirt of the dress is the only part that doesn’t hug me tightly and look like it was painted on. From my hips up to the cups holding my tits, I look like someone wrapped very thin, very shiny green paper onto me. With the play of light over the shimmery satiny material every curve and shape I have will be flaunted off more than any other outfit I’ve ever worn or even tried on. And I have to be thankful for that as if it weren’t that tight, it’d likely fall off since there isn’t much support in it. I mean, it barely covers the small of my back before going backless the rest of the way up. In a way, I feel like I’m exposing more skin than any of my bikinis ever did at the beach.

The red bedazzled thong is as much a part of the outfit as everything else since it’ll be flashed to everybody and their brother all night. And all of that just builds up to the crown jewel of the outfit. To everybody’s eyes it’ll look like I’m just wearing a set of white fuzzy cuffs around my upper arms. Only if they notice my arms never leave my side, notice that I don’t ever seem to make a motion to cover myself, might they think to look and find out that the cuffs are attached to the dress. Oh, I can move my forearms just fine, but my arms will remain by my side from my shoulders to my elbows.

With my long platinum blonde hair styled to be wavy and constantly moving, with my breasts almost fully on display and jiggling about practically unsupported, and with my makeup having that perfect bimbo combination of street whore and evening sophisticate, no one is going to notice my arms. No one.

I take an extra moment to make sure no one is going to notice the extra layer I always have on. First, I lean forward and with a roll of my eyes aggressively shake my breasts from side to side. When they don’t pop free, I add a few little hops to see if they even try to sneak further out of the dress’s cups. Thankfully my girls stay put under the dress and don’t peek out, making sure the nipple stimulators will stay hidden from view. Next, I turn around and do a similar dance, this time shaking and shimmying my ass far more than I hope to be doing at the party. Yes, the skirt bounces and glitters and shines. Yes, the skirt flips and flaunts and shows off almost my entire ass which looks bare with the thong hidden between my cheeks. But with only a little concentration I’m able to hold my cheeks steady and they don’t separate enough to show what’s under that little bit of bedazzled thong. The remote-controlled vibrating butt plug with its large overt red jewel on the end.

Satisfied, I put the last few things into my purse and prepare to leave. I’d love nothing more than to go without a purse, but nearly a year of habit has become a trap and I don’t know if I could leave home without at least my touch-up cosmetics. So with my matching green satin clutch in my hand I head down to the lobby.

After giving a wave and a smile to Hudson the concierge I head toward Weston the doorman. Thankfully they’re all pros and don’t even blink at seeing me dressed up like this. I don’t know if they’d show shock if I were nude. Weston chats me up about the weather and asks about the Christmas party before I see Regie drive up. At first, I don’t recognize him as he’s not in the normal slick black G-Wagon that Mal has me driven around in. But like everything else, tonight is special and even my chariot to the Christmas Ball is turned up to eleven.

I’m used to going along with what Mal wants now. In the end, he gets whatever he desires, but I had to at least try and object to this. We’ll be having employees driving up in their perfectly fine four-year-old leased BMWs and they’re going to see a secretary being dropped off in a brand-new custom-built half-a-million-dollar Cadillac Celestiq. No one is going to be able to look away when Regie stops at the red carpet and opens the door for and puts me on display.