My Father's Second Wife

The (long overdue) continuation of My Father's Second Wife.

This story follows immediately after the events in My Father's Second Wife, Ch 02. If you haven't read the first two chapters, I would strongly encourage you to begin there. This is not a short read; those seeking instant gratification might be better served elsewhere.

Special thanks go to kjplotts for her invaluable editing contributions.

Enjoy.

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My alarm erupted with an incessant "beep, beep, beep" that told me Tuesday had arrived. If I was going to make a habit of getting up before noon, I must get a better alarm clock. I made sure the alarm button felt my displeasure.

I took a moment to force my eyes open. I rolled my naked body out of bed and stared at the time.

7:01

It seemed like a harsh hour to be awake. Even in college, I scheduled my classes so I wouldn't have to face the day before 9:00. Yet, my father had gotten up, exercised, checked the news, had breakfast, driven to work, and was probably sitting behind his desk already. Why did I have to be the daughter of an overachiever?

A shower helped clear the cobwebs. I felt much less irritation towards 7:20 than I had towards 7:00.

I dropped the towel in the hamper and surveyed my new wardrobe. I settled on a black, tailored, button front, sleeveless top, paired with a cream tulip skirt. The soft drape of the skirt nicely offset the severe tailoring of the blouse. The tiny row of buttons on the blouse—there must have been thirty—went all the way to the collar, but I left about half undone so I had some cleavage. To call further attention to my favorite body part, I put on a silver thread necklace that dangled a tiny lightning bolt between my breasts.

The skirt was shorter than it was when I tried it on the other day, thanks to Margo's alterations. I had thought about putting on some thigh-high stockings, but it was too short for that. The loose silk of the skirt teased my bare pussy as I moved. I was still getting used to being without underwear or pubic hair—a torturous combination. The length of the skirt would also mean I'd have to be very careful about how I sit down. I slid my feet into a pair of low, white, wedge shoes.

Makeup, and a brief wrestling match with my hair, consumed another fifteen minutes. I checked my email, Twitter, and a few websites, before heading down to the kitchen.

I found some leftover pizza in the fridge. I think most "breakfast" foods are an atrocious way to start the day. Cold pizza and coffee is the breakfast of champions—and a decent hangover cure. I scarfed down a slice and checked the time.

8:23

I had plenty of time. I high-tailed it to the garage, tossing my purse into the passenger side of my candy-red Miata, and headed to work for the second day in a row. Going to work still felt weird.

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Margo looked up from her desk, smiled, and said, "You're early. Are you trying to impress someone?"

Margo pushed away from her desk and stood up. She was wearing a dress that I can only describe as "a little crazy." The top was vaguely Victorian, a pink and white—think candy striper—cotton shirt, with mutton sleeves that ended at her elbows. It had a high, wide, collar with tails that trailed down the front and tied into a ridiculously large bow, right in the middle of her bosom. The ears of the bow strategically hid her nipples behind the thin fabric.

The bottom half was a white double skirt. The inner one was a high-waisted pencil skirt, starting from just under her ribs and ending a few inches above her knees. It was very tight, like girdle tight, clearly defining her toned abs and thighs. Sown into it, right at her hip, was a second skirt. This one was short, flouncy, in the same fabric, with an asymmetric, ruffled, hemline. The faux skirt cleverly obscured any evidence of her panties, or lack thereof, which the skin-tight inner skirt would have made very evident.

The jumble of gaudy vintage top, body conscious skirt, and Caribbean affectation, was both stylish and flirtatious, and Margo had the attitude to pull it off.

Margo said, "We might as well get started. We have a full day today," as she marched out the door. I followed.

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Margo punched the first floor button as the elevator doors closed. She asked, "Have you decided where you want your RFID chip?"

I had to think a second, trying to decipher what "RFID" meant, and then I remembered. "Oh," I said, "the door lock thingy."

With a bemused look, Margo parroted, "Yes, the door lock thingy."

I hadn't given it any thought. "How about my cell?" I asked. "I carry it just about everywhere." In reality, it was the only thing I could think of.

"Good choice," Margo replied. "If you change your mind, it's easy to get another one."

The doors opened onto the first floor lobby. Instead of walking into the lobby, Margo made a sharp right turn. Past the elevators, there were two innocuous looking doors. The one furthest away had a plaque that read "102 Information Services." Margo waved her bracelet over the doorknob, waited for the barely audible click, and opened the door.

We entered a cave of technology. The large open room was packed to the brim with shelves full of equipment and cable, computers in various stages of assembly, desks overflowing with tools, keyboards, monitors, and Sci-Fi figurines. Superhero movie posters filled what little empty wall space there was. The place smelled of plastic and stale potato chips.

The five guys present—and I assumed this was an all-male enclave—nearly crawled over their desks to be the first ones to greet us. A bearded, slightly overweight man with an unnaturally pale complexion was the long shot in this race, but managed to beat the others to Margo.

"Hello Margo, how can I help you?" he asked, trying to act casual, while awkwardly twisting his doughy features into a stance that he probably meant to convey aloofness. The four runner ups, visibly disappointed, ambled back to their desks.

"Hello, Eddie," Margo replied. "Charlotte here needs an access chip attached to her cell phone." She indicated, with her head, that I was the aforementioned Charlotte.

It was clear that Eddie didn't want to stop looking at Margo, but he managed to shift his gaze towards me. His eyes started at my hand, which was now holding my phone, traveled up my torso, and settled on the silver lightning bolt pendent suspended in the valley between my breasts. His visual exploration ended there.

While Eddie ogled my cleavage, I looked over his head to the other four desks. Each occupant was trying to give the impression of being productive, while surreptitiously watching our every move.

Margo let Eddie enjoy the rare occasion of having real, live, boobies in his office for a few seconds, before interrupting his revelry.

"Do you think you could have that ready today?" she asked him.

Eddie snapped out of his trance and returned his attention to Margo. "Of course," he said, his voice a little dry. "I'll have it ready before noon," he finished eagerly, no doubt thinking that the sooner he completed the task, the sooner my breasts would reappear in his lair.

Eddie reached out and took the cell phone from my hand, cradling it like it was precious jewel. He took one more look at my breasts, turned, and trotted back to his desk. He called out, "I'll email you when it's ready."

He never once looked at my face.

Margo said, "I hope you can do without it for a few hours," as she turned to leave. I followed after her, certain that five pairs of eyes were glued to our asses. I tried to put a little extra wiggle in my hips. It was the least I could do.

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We returned to Margo's office in time to catch my father on his way out.

"Hello, honeysuckle," he said and gave me a quick peck on the lips. "I'm glad you're here for the meeting. Margo will fill you in on the details." The door closed behind him.

I turned to Margo, who explained, in an unusually businesslike tone, "The Middleton Group is a potential new client. They're a Midwestern interior decor company that has recently expanded into kitchenware and they're looking for a manufacturer. This would be a significant new client, and"—she dropped her voice to a low whisper—"we are very much in need of new clients."

Margo resumed speaking aloud, saying, "Your father thinks you have some natural talent in courting clients, and he'd like you to sit in on this meeting. This is just an introductory meeting, just so the two parties can feel each other out, nothing formal."

So much has happened in the past week, I had forgotten this whole thing started with my offer to help dad entertain clients. I felt butterflies in my stomach. I swallowed. I don't know why I was nervous, I was nothing but charming. Fuck, I could charm the scales off a snake. This time, however, the stakes felt much higher—and that gave me pause.

"Earth to Charlotte," Margo said, waving her hand in front of my face. I blinked and refocused on her face.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, tugging the hem of my skirt straight.

Margo went to her desk and produced a small yellow note pad. She scribbled a few lines, tore off the page, and handed it to me.

Margo said, "We need these promotional and new customer packets, along with a standard set of non-disclosure agreements. You'll find all of that in the cabinet behind the reception desk on this floor. Get those and meet me in the Southwest conference room."

I took the note. Margo returned to her desk. I turned and headed towards the Amazon.

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The "Amazon," as I'd come to nickname her, was the sixth floor receptionist. I never learned her name. All I know is that she's impossibly tall, fawning to me when she thinks I'm the boss' daughter, and indifferent when she thinks I'm a lowly intern.

I was hoping I wouldn't need her help in finding the material, and I didn't. I managed to find everything and headed towards the conference room. The Amazon never looked up from her magazine.

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When I arrived, Margo was already setting up. I was distributing the packages around the table, when Margo came up and turned me to face her.

"As much as I love seeing these," she said, placing her hands over my breasts, gently stroking the exposed portion with her fingertips, "for this group, let's put them under wraps."

With that, she began buttoning up my blouse, gently tucking the lightning bolt inside. She buttoned about a third of them, cutting my sex appeal in half.

"Sorry," she said, "this lot leans towards the conservative." I considered that this was the motivation for the high-collar steam punk style she was sporting.

No sooner had she finished making wardrobe alterations, the parties began to arrive. The Middleton Group consisted of four gentleman—well, three gentleman and one gentleboy. The obvious head of the party was a distinguished man with silver hair, tall and gaunt. He wore a dark, almost funereal, suit, which matched his piercing black eyes. He could have been a stand-in for Vincent Price.

Number two and three were generic middle manager types with boring haircuts, wearing off-the-rack suits that had probably once fit them, before they put on another ten pounds. The last member was an eager young buck in his early twenties, clearly a freshly-minted business grad, or (more likely) somebody's son or nephew. He had short blond hair, spiked up a little, and eager blue eyes.

Introductions were made. I learned the patriarch was Richard Middleton, and the young man was Kyle something. I forgot the other two names almost immediately. My father and a matronly-looking women I'd never met entered the room and introductions started over. I missed the other two names the second time too.

As people started settling into chairs, I decided to take some initiative. No one was more surprised than I was.

"Would anyone like something to drink?" I asked the room at large. "Coffee, tea, soda, water?"

The response was an enthusiastic, and almost universal, "Coffee, please." The woman with my dad wanted "tea, with a twist of lemon, if that isn't too much trouble." There's always one of those.

I busied myself at the break station, just outside the conference room, pouring coffee cups and looking for a lemon. There wasn't one. Margo joined me, procured a tray, and we managed to ferry the coffee cups, creamers, other paraphernalia, and one tea pot into the room.

I leaned back, sipped my coffee, and watched the meeting unfold. It was like watching any first date. Each side on their best behavior, cautiously probing the other, looking for strengths, likes, dislikes, and most of all, trying to determine if they were the "kind of people" they wanted to be with. This went on for the better part of an hour.

I noticed that Richard had finished his coffee and was idly toying with his cup. I waited for a lull in the discussion and asked him, "Would you like a refill, sir?"

He smiled, and said, "Yes, that would be lovely, miss."

I stood up and reached across the table to retrieve his cup. As I pulled back, the unthinkable happened. I knocked over my own cup with my elbow, splashing half a cup of coffee straight into my skirt.

"Fucking shit!" I cursed, as the coffee splashed across the silk and dripped down one leg. I dropped Richard's cup with a clatter and fumbled with mine in a vane attempt to stem the deluge. It was futile. The coffee was now dripping over the edge of the table; my skirt was soaked and was rapidly becoming transparent.

I instinctively grabbed the hem of the skirt and pulled it away from me, all the while cursing my clumsiness. "Shit, this is ruined," I muttered. The coffee wasn't scalding, but I wanted to keep the translucent fabric from clinging to my naked pussy. Wouldn't that be a disaster?

It was at that moment I realized just how stupid I was. In my attempt to keep everyone from seeing my crotch through the wet material, I had grabbed the hem of the skirt and was holding it away from me. I WAS HOLDING IT STRAIGHT, FUCKING, AWAY FROM ME!

I held the skirt high enough that I was probably giving everyone a delightful, and unfettered, view of my privates. Inside my head, I was screamed at myself, "Hey dumb shit, why make them wonder if you're not wearing panties, just lift up your skirt and show them!"

I slowly lowered the hem a couple of inches, as if nothing had happened. "OK, calm down," I told myself. "Maybe they didn't see anything."

Wrong. My worse fears were confirmed by the stunned silence that replaced the earlier babble of surprise and concern.

When faced with overwhelmingly embarrassing circumstances, the brain can do odd things. Mine retreats to humor. In the split second that I was doing the "can-can sans culottes" for everyone, I thought how entertaining this could be. Maybe we could publish a calendar, call it "Office Girls Gone Wild." June could be me, leaning back on the conference table, pouring cold coffee between my legs.

If this nonsense had stayed in my head, the day might have turned out very differently. It didn't stay in my head; I compounded the tragedy by opening my mouth.

"Well, at least I didn't ruin a pair of panties too," I said, trying to save face with a lame joke. I thought it was funny. No one laughed. This was a tough crowd.

If a completely silent room could be stunned into silence, I had just accomplished that. Richard looked distressed. The two nothings were nonplussed. Kyle, on the other hand, really wanted to work with this new company.

I couldn't think of what to do next, or move, or speak. I had gone from charming hostess, to graceless klutz, to swearing dock worker, to pole dancer—all within five seconds.

I felt a vice clamp onto my upper arm. It was my father's hand.

"Are you all right, Charlotte?" my father asked. His voice was low and even. I managed to nod that I was.

"Why don't you get cleaned up," he said calmly, as he pulled me from the room, gripping my arm so tightly that I was sure it was cutting off my circulation. I somehow managed to walk out of the room—I would have been dragged otherwise—while keeping my skirt from revealing anything more than it already had. The scurry of activity I heard behind me was probably Margo attending to the spilled coffee.

Father marched me out of the conference room and around the corner, where he turned me to face him.

"Get yourself straightened up and then come back and apologize," he said, sternly.

My jaw moved a few times before it actually formed words. "I ... I don't know what ..." I began.

Father's eyes narrowed as he intensified his stare. I knew what that stare meant: I'd been told what to do, and he wasn't going to repeat himself. I would have to figure out what I was going to say on my own.

He released his grip and I felt the blood rush back into my arm. Father returned to the conference room. Almost the moment he disappeared around the corner, Margo appeared to take his place.

Margo stood and assessed my predicament before she broke out that quirky grin of hers and said, "And just to think, I was worried that you were showing too much cleavage."

It was both a scathing reprimand and a compassionate attempt to defuse the situation with humor—the funny kind, not the kind that had me standing in a hall about to burst into tears.

Margo was dialing her phone as she spoke to me, "You'd better take that off," she said, indicating the skirt.

Bringing the phone to her ear, she said, "Brooke, have you got a minute? We could use you outside the Southwest conference room. Thanks."

I struggled to get the wet skirt off. I was standing, naked from the waist down, in the hall when a young woman I'd never met turned the corner. She saw my coffee-soaked skirt, bare butt, and defeated demeanor. Her only comment was, "Oh, dear."

Turning to her, Margo said, "Brooke, would you mind if we borrow your dress?"

Nodding that she instantly understood the situation, Brooke reached behind her and began unzipping her dress. I also knew why Margo called Brooke. She was about my height and had a similar build.

The dress Brooke was pulling off her shoulders was a simple, fitted, turquoise number with cap sleeves. Brooke, like everyone else I'd met here, wore nothing underneath. When her breasts emerged, I could see that she was just a little more busty than I was, and the effort she was expending pulling the waist over her ass told me she had wider hips than I do. Then again, what woman doesn't have wider hips than I do?

In no time, Brooke was naked, politely holding her dress until I was ready for it. Margo had been busy unbuttoning my blouse, which was also wet, while I tried to dab coffee off myself with the part of the skirt that was still dry.

Margo took my wet clothes from me. I took the dress from Brooke. As I stepped into it, I admired Brooke's neatly-trimmed pubic hair. Unlike the bald pussies I'd seen on the other girls—well, at least on Margo and Tina—Brooke maintained a tiny wisp of a landing strip, maybe the width of a pencil. It was so narrow that it looked lighter than her black hair, almost as if someone had sketched in where her landing strip would be when she grew one.

Brooke helped me zip up the back. It wasn't a bad fit, but the dress did hang on me a little, slightly deflated, much like my ego. I faced Margo.

Margo asked, "Are you ready?" as she brushed stray hair out of my face.

My heart was racing. "I have no fucking idea," I replied, and walked back to the room.

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I quietly opened the door and stuck my head inside the conference room. One of Richard's lackeys and my father were in an animated discussion about supply chains. I tried to slip into the room unnoticed, but I was today's star attraction, and all conversation stopped the moment I was inside.