Continued from MEETING CHARLOTTE - PART I: HE COMPLIMENTED MY APPEARANCE
MEETING CHARLOTTE PART II - I BOUGHT HER MOTHER CHAMPAGNE
About the time I get comfortable with where I am, poof---we're now down to 75 days before I get re-assigned. Work is great, I've caught on quickly thanks to Georgia Tech and eight years as a cog in the supply chain; my bank accounts are very healthy; Mom has finally accepted my biweekly gifts without worrying; and I even have a small fan base that roots for me to turn the tables on Mia.
Which was granted last night. I got to wear the Domme jumpsuit for the first time. Black and shiny and flexible. Dark eyes, dark lips, black nails, jet black wig. Victor had agreed the Villainess gets her comeuppance so to speak. She threw a classic hissy fit, screaming---loudly and a lot. But money talks. Victor offered double for the indignity to her Diva-ness. And she could pick the size of the dildo. Me? I just enjoyed the reversal even though she warned of severe repercussions if I got too out of line. Oh, to rub salt in it, viewership increased during both broadcasts. Victor was very pleased which meant he was in a generous mood. So I had hung around longer than usual straightening up and of course stealing glances at Charlotte. I'm such a 12 year-old.
Anyway, today's my birthday. The weather was crisp and clear with a light wind, so I pushed 60 miles hard. Back by 11, cleaned up nicely: white shirt, creased jeans, blazer, loafers, and underneath it all, a pair of Paris lace black split briefs and seamed thigh-highs. Kinky? Succumbing to the evil siren's seductive call to become a full time cross-dresser? Nah, it was my birthday, and I was in a good mood. A very good mood, actually. Good ride, nice weather, Gamecocks won. And so I and my frequent date -- Ms. Kindle - are off to the Hilton for the Sunday Brunch.
Start with salmon and shrimp, next is a salmon omelet, and then back for prime rib. For fun, I add a couple of waffle segments. The South has chicken and waffles, so here in Colorado I've got prime rib and waffles. I'm walking back to the table but come to stop as a party of three is following the Hostess to be seated.
At which point our Director yells 'Action' as the first scene of the second act plot twist in the movie titled 'How I Spent Six Months as a Cross-Dressing Porn Actress in Colorado' gets underway. The Hostess seats the lady first and then moves aside to pull the chair for the gentleman as he steps up.
OhhhhKaaaayyyy. What do you know?
It's the Senior Ops VP at the Company. I mean THE, not A, but THE guy in charge of Operations. Mr. Jordan. To be sure, we are somewhat acquainted as he hosts an hour session with the new hires every Wednesday morning and the program is his brainchild. He nods, then double takes.
"Charles, right? Charles Rone -- Air Force -- Georgia Tech -- got it. Uhmmm, how are you?" he asks.
"Fine sir," I say. "And you?" Then turning to the lady, I greet her, "Good afternoon ma'am"
At that moment, the third person steps out to the left moving to the other side of the table.
It's Charlotte.
"Good," he says, to which the lady - his wife? - adds, "I'm fine, thank you. Robert, is this one of your people?"
Meanwhile, the events of the last 15 seconds are dawning on the young lady -- their daughter? In slow motion, Charlotte's eyes widen, flare, and she freezes in mid-stride with a gasp, subtle but still a gasp.
At which point the conversation jumbles: Mr. Jordan says yes he is, one of the 2023 class; as I say yes ma'am, I joined in June; as she says how nice, is your wife nearby; as I say no ma'am, it's just me; to which she responds, oh, interesting, waffles and prime rib; as I look down and back up shrugging, yes, ma'am it's my birthday, I'm being extravagant; which she follows with no need to call me ma'am; and I say sorry but I'm Southern and you are Mr. Jordan's wife; at which point she dimples and the conversation pauses.
She rises and presents her hand advising it is her birthday too; at which I assiduously avoid over reacting as I gently shake it and wish her a very happy birthday; whereupon she switches hands as she turns toward Charlotte and introduces her as 'our daughter'; who is now gripping the chair so hard her knuckles are white but manages to give the slightest nod and a flicker of a smile.
I occasionally got to airlift what were affectionately known as special weapons. 'Handle like eggs' did not begin to describe how careful you had to be. I knew if I did not get the hell out of there in the next three seconds, that chair was coming across the table.
I smiled, looked straight at her and said, "Oh hello." I was hoping against hope that I would not blush, which I always do. And of course, the adrenaline pump was already flowing wide open. Maybe they would pass it off to the impromptu meeting.
Mrs. Jordan, unaware of the pending catastrophe (the chair), then said she'd ask me to join them but it appeared I had a head start; to which I noted I indeed had a substantial one and was on the next to last lap; to which she replied I seemed fit enough to go a couple more times at which point Mr. Jordan, sensing a conversation was about to get under way cleared his throat, and I gave him the slightest of nods, stepping back and retrieving my hand, re-wishing her a very happy birthday, then turning to Charlotte I took two giant steps out on very thin ice, and said it was very nice to meet her, then turning to Mr. Jordan, I extended my hand and apologized for the intrusion. His grip was firm, and he smiled. And I faded.
There's a Grateful Dead lyric that goes:
Well, I ain't always right, but I've never been wrong / Seldom turns out, the way it does in a song / Once in a while, you get shown the light / In the strangest of places, if you look at it right.
Walking back to my table, an idea flickered, then coalesced and became alive. I waved to the first wait staff I saw, asked for the wine list, and then ordered champagne for their table. Second most expensive bottle, on purpose. $300 bill. But as Deadpool noted when he wasted two of his bullets on the guy who shot him in a tender place, "Worth It!!!"
I did not linger over the prime rib and then got some desserts to go; intent on disappearing before someone could no longer control her homicidal urges. There were lots of steak knives in the room. I walked around the Mall for a bit replaying the encounter over and over. Then as I headed to the car, I actually began hyperventilating while laughing out loud. The adrenaline depleted, I headed to the house.
And now I appreciated what she and Victor tried to accomplish. Don't complicate an efficient operation enjoying rising profits with a significant case of puppy love. Especially with me working, even if remotely, for her Father and time running out on my stay. My business risk professor would applaud them.
Speaking of risk, a quick calculation said she'd be perturbed but with only 10 weeks or so left in my time here, why upset the balance. If she's anything, she's a serious, CPA trained, practical business woman, with killer legs and as cute as a button. OK, secrets out, now let's be adults and plan the next show.
----------
About 3:30, I got the second bill for the champagne. So I miscalculated. I'm still young and naive.
I had crashed on the couch, mindlessly watching the Broncos. A long ride, several buffet plates, and then the "encounter" meant I was moderately sedated.
The phone buzzed with an anonymous text message to "open the door right now", followed by a three-rap knock, then a pound.
Check the peep hole. Yep, it's her.
Deep breath. I crack the door.
She shoulders through, knocking me to the side.
"Charlotte," I exclaim in mock surprise. "How was the Brunch? Mom enjoy herself? You know she is just so very charming!" The thought crossed my mind to tell her she was very beautiful when she was angry, but then she might have a Glock in her bag.
She tossed it on the chair and let loose without drawing a breath. I lost count of all the profanities, but there were more m-f's and g-d's and c-s's and gay slurs than there were actual words. The screed culminated in a kick aimed at my nethers, which I blocked.
I was holding her foot in the air as she was hopping, trying to keep her balance, gasping.
"Truce?" I asked.
She hopped a little more, but the adrenaline started draining. She nodded and fell back in the chair.
"Water? Drink?" I asked. "Bourbon? Scotch? I have some of each."
"Bourbon, a triple. Better yet, bring the bottle," she replied.
And so I did.
Just like the Cowboys in the old Westerns, she drained two fingers then poured one more and swallowed half.
"Easy Missy. It's Sunday afternoon sure, but that just means there are fewer cars on the road with the Broncos on the tube and you don't need to stand out as a DUI," I counseled.
"First don't ever call me that again, and second who said I was going home," she shot back as she drained the rest. She started to pour another but then flopped back as the 1-2-3 ounces landed in sequence.
"Seriously, your Mom have a good time?" I asked again while 90% of my brain was dissecting the reference to not going home--a bar somewhere, boyfriend, Mom's?
"Oh don't you know it Mr. Little Well Dressed Veteran Yes Ma'am Fawning Obsequious Suck-Up," she growled. Yeah ---- literally growled.
"At least we're now using our big words instead of the dirty ones," I said. "Look, it was complete happenstance. It could have gone any one of 12 ways. You arrive two minutes later, I walk a different way, we don't know each other, yada-yada-yada. But then shazam, there you were and well, I just did it."
"Yeah, goody for you. Now she wants to invite you for Thanksgiving. And Mr. Big SVP of course had to tell her your resume and service record and how you were the most mature, hardworking, experienced new hire they'd had in like forever. Fucking teacher's pet -- Mr. Boy Scout," she snapped.
"Now, now, there's those immature words again. Boy Scouts are generally good people," I chuckled.
She sighed and reached for the bottle. I reached over and held it.
"Are we going to sip now?" I asked.
She glared and nodded. I poured one finger.
She fiddled with her purse and pulled out the lighter and pack.
"Not in here; this is your Dad's place; strict rules; so outside," I advised. I went and grabbed a dish and my napping of the couch afghan -- Mom knit it and it's Air Force Blue -- and opened the door.
Recalling the old movies from the 40's, I took the lighter from her. And of course, as these things go, it took me four strikes to get a flame. She snickered. I shrugged.
She took two hard inhales, offered it to me, I declined noting I wasn't in character. Two more hard ones with marvelous nose exhales and then a large sip. She settled back, and I put the afghan around her.
"You know, the prior "actors" (she made air quotes) we hired for your role - Mia's foil if you hadn't already guessed by now - are usually not the cuddly, soft core porn types. What we do has just enough hardness to it to attract certain viewers but not be way out there where there is more risk and more freaks and then even more risk. Which means we go through a lot of them - -the money always ends up in their nose or veins or liver. You on the other hand, are the nice little boy next door who happens to give great head according to Mia, takes the bondage and the slaps and the anal assaults in stride and then wants to carry my books. I mean damn, you're supposed to suggest we go fuck in the supply closet or the back seat of my car. Everyone else has."
"Sorry, Miss," I replied. "I was indeed a Boy Scout and Mother always expected the utmost courtesy and respect towards others, especially ladies.
She snorted. "Eagle? Right?"
I shrugged, "And as I further recall there was this clear message from HR not to look in your direction, much less carry your books. So----Naah."
She humphed.
Suddenly, this seemed the time to come clean. "By the way, your and Victor's efforts to launder my memory quit working a couple of months ago."
